Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) Read online

  With a mother’s shrewd gaze she examined Miss Becket, who sat serenely doing some needlework by the light of a lamp. Was the girl a fortune hunter? Twenty-five or so years of age, she would hazard a guess, and poor as a churchmouse, judging from her tidy but out-of-fashion dresses. Lady Leathorne could see neat darns along the cuff and collar of her gown, where worn spots had been turned under and mended. She was not a real companion; she did not take payment for accompanying the Swinleys, Isabella had explained, or for occasionally visiting them at Swinley Manor. She was not so poor, apparently, that she needed to find work. But for some unfathomable—to Lady Swinley, anyway—reason, Arabella enjoyed Miss Becket’s company, and so the widow had given in this time when her daughter had asked if her cousin could join them.

  Lady Leathorne examined Miss Becket closely. She thought she could understand why the restless and active Arabella enjoyed the young woman’s company. She exuded peace and tranquillity, as though she was completely happy within herself, and those around her absorbed some of that serenity. Perhaps that was why Drake looked calmer, almost rested, after spending the afternoon with her.

  It would not do! Miss Becket was all very well, and likely a nice enough young lady, but she was just not a suitable match for Drake, and it was not good for him to spend so much time in her company, rather than with Arabella. Propinquity could lead to Drake thinking he was in love, or something equally ridiculous, especially in his weakened mental and physical state.

  No, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley was the perfect match for him. Certainly a baron’s daughter was not as high as he could go; with his lineage and his looks, an unencumbered estate of his own and the earldom in his future, he could likely have looked even to a duke’s daughter. But the Swinley barony was very old, older than the Leathorne name, even, existing back in the mythic past from the time just after Norman conquest, in the eleventh century. And it would unite the families of two old friends. She and Isabella had planned this match from the moment Arabella squawked her first cry. Well, perhaps “planned” was too strong a word. They had hoped for it, wished for it, talked of it.

  Perhaps they should have put the two together more as young people, but Drake bought his colors at such a young age that Arabella was still a little child. One did not announce to a headstrong lad of eighteen that he is to marry a little girl who is just learning her ABC’s. If he had in the meantime chosen another young lady of equal birth and fortune, Lady Leathorne would not have objected. After all, Arabella had spent a few Seasons in London, to see if she found someone more to her taste. Nobody knew, then, how long the war would last, or when Drake would come home, so both mothers had agreed it was hardly fair to tie Arabella to a man she had only met once.

  But neither had wed, and so they would make a match of it, if the mothers had anything to say in the matter. He would not wed a nobody. He was a powerful young man, and he needed a girl of equal strength. He and Arabella would make magnificent children together.

  In Lady Leathorne’s imagination a hazy, golden future opened up of tawny-haired Apollos and Athenas, the flower of English youth, her grandchildren. She had waited so long, and she was not getting any younger. She wanted time to enjoy those grandchildren, hold them on her knee, spoil them with sweets, coddle them. But if Drake was not pushed a little he might never make the move that would ensure the Leathorne legacy. Miss Arabella Swinley—young, beautiful, wellborn—was his perfect match in every way.

  She glanced over at her son to see if he was taking proper note of Arabella’s superior performance. He certainly was looking her way, but she knew her boy too well. He was thinking of something—or someone—else. Even as she watched, he glanced over at Miss Becket, and his golden eyes held a soft look, an expression of . . . was it yearning? Not good. Not good at all. When she and Lady Swinley had planned this visit, it had been understood between them that Drake and Arabella would likely be betrothed before two weeks were up. It was over a week already, and though polite to each other, there were no intimate little glances, no rush to be together, no stealing away to be private.

  Arabella appeared to be doing her best. When with him she played the coquette, and found little ways to touch him, or get close to him; Lady Leathorne had seen and approved of her campaign. She was using every trick she had learned through three London Seasons littered with men prostrate at her feet. Drake should be head over ears by now. Lord Conroy certainly appeared to be a fair way in love with her, and she wasn’t even trying with him! And yet Drake remained unmoved.

  She and Isabella would have to put their heads together and come up with something. They must be doing something wrong, or maybe it was just that they were letting the young people alone too much. Maybe they should take a firmer hand on the reins and steer a course to matrimony for Drake and Miss Swinley. She wanted what was best for her son, and marriage and family were what was right and proper at this point of his life.

  His life!

  Once more, she sent up a prayer of thanks that his life had been spared, because if Drake had died, she would have, too. Her body might have lived on for years, but her soul would have been buried on that awful battlefield alongside her beloved son.

  He was alive, and he would have the life he deserved with the wife he deserved! She motioned to her bosom bow, Isabella, and the two women slipped out of the room for a council of war.

  • • •

  September melted away, an unusual string of hot, sunny days and warm evenings filled with visiting, picnics, a fête champêtre dinner for the neighbors on the lawn, games of battledore and shuttlecock, impromptu dances for the young people of the neighboring town, all manner of social activities. It did not seem to Drake that he had a single moment to himself. Wherever he went, Arabella Swinley was there, his partner in whist, on his arm as they walked, alone with him in the garden . . . everywhere. He saw his mother’s controlling hand in it but was helpless in the face of her and Lady Swinley’s clever maneuvering. And really, was it so bad? he wondered. He had gotten over his initial distaste for Miss Swinley’s company and conversation and found that all things considered, she was an entertaining companion for an afternoon.

  She might be a little spoiled, she might be high-handed and demanding, but she was more clever than she let on, and her conversation, when she forgot to be coquettish, was intelligent. She played games with vigor and good sportsmanship and was a spirited competitor when her mother was not there to dampen her vivacity. Lady Swinley appeared to have the idea that gentlemen preferred a spiritless widgeon to an intelligent women, and perhaps that was true of many. Conroy, for example, looked rather put out when Miss Swinley bested him in battledore and shuttlecock, despite the impediment of her long skirts.

  Miss Swinley, in other words, had every potential to be a charming wife for some lucky gentleman. If his mother had her way, it would be him. But was he the gentleman who would say his vows with Miss Swinley and mean them? He could do worse. It was not as if he really thought he could “wait for love,” as Truelove put it.

  Truelove. Though they had spent little time together for that week, he had been aware of her always, strolling with Conroy or talking with the ladies. Sometimes there was a pensive look on her pretty face, an abstracted air of indecision about her. He was not good usually at reading people’s expressions, especially ladies, but he rather thought she was thinking about her offer of marriage. Had she made up her mind? Would she marry her earnest, good vicar and move away to the north? It would be a life of toil, but he could see that she would not mind that. Did she perhaps love her Mr. Bottleby just a little? He didn’t know, and he shouldn’t care. But he did.

  The days wore on, the heat and humidity in their valley building. The relentless activity his mother enforced among the company was meant to keep his mind off his troubles, no doubt, but it was wearing him down, with no sleep at night to give him back his strength. How could he sleep when he was straining every nerve and sinew in the attempt to awaken himself before he entere
d the hideous dreams? It was too humiliating to think that everyone in the household might know about his affliction. Most nights he was successful and snatched a couple of hours sleep, but there had been once or twice when Horace had had to awaken him in the throes of his agony.

  And he was longing for some solitude. Doing the pretty to the ladies had never been his strongest suit even when they had been stationed in England and there were balls and parties and dinners held for the officers every night, or so it seemed, in the town nearest their encampment. Someone like Conroy would have been in his element, but Drake was a sore disappointment even to Wellington. The duke himself was a gracious and gallant guest at balls and dinners, and Drake had tried to emulate the great man, even altering his habitual relaxed manner of dress to conform with the expectations that every officer would be perfectly attired. When he had come back to stay at Lea Park during Napoleon’s incarceration on Elba, he had tried his best with his mother’s guests, Lady Swinley and her daughter. Apparently he had been more successful than he had given himself credit for, as was evidenced by his mother’s persuasion that he and Miss Swinley would suit as marriage partners.

  The constant pressure to be charming was becoming more and more difficult, though, in his present state of mind. He needed to escape, at least for a few hours. The sultry weather had reached a peak, finally, ending with a day that was so stultifying that most of the company were spending the day napping or reading in their own rooms.

  Drake took advantage of the quiet house and crept out alone to a shed off the stables, retrieving a beat-up hat and canvas bag. He was going to go fishing, and he was going alone.

  • • •

  True was glad Lady Leathorne had declared a day of inactivity. It was hot and humid, and she did not want to spend the day in enforced games or sports. The sky was lowering and dark after luncheon; Arabella had gone back upstairs to lie down—humidity always gave her a headache—but True needed to get out of the house, needed to be alone for once. She was aware that she still had come to no decision regarding Mr. Bottleby’s proposal, and she must decide soon. He was leaving for the north in a little over a month and a half, and he had wanted to marry before that. They would need three Sundays for the banns to be read, but other than that she did not anticipate much in the way of a wedding celebration.

  Marriage! True slipped from the house with her oldest bonnet—or at least the oldest one she had brought with her—on her head and a basket on her bare arm. She had come to know Lea Park and took a shortcut toward the river where she had promised to gather some cress for the cook. Would she really marry after all these years?

  Mr. Bottleby—Arthur she would have to call him if she accepted his proposal—was a good man. He genuinely felt the call of the church. Her father had been impressed, in the time the young man had been his curate, by his fervor and true devotion to the downtrodden. His methodistical leanings had disturbed Mr. Becket, but still, both father and daughter had agreed that Mr. Bottleby was the best kind of man of God, one who really believed in Him and wanted to do His work.

  And did his proposal mean that she was chosen by God, as he was, to do His work? She didn’t know. She enjoyed helping the people of her village, doctoring the sick when they couldn’t afford medicine, instructing the children when the teacher of the village charity school was sick, visiting the elderly. As her mother had died when True was just twelve, she had taken the duties of the vicar’s wife upon herself, and now it felt like second nature to her. Marrying Mr. Bottleby and going north would mean new challenges, new people to care for, by the side of a man she truly respected, but it was a familiar role, one she knew herself to be capable of and trained for. But in thinking of marriage to Mr. Bottleby she found herself focusing almost entirely on the challenges of the job ahead and ignoring what marriage to the man would mean. She liked him. She esteemed him. She respected him.

  Was it wrong to want love and . . . and passion, too?

  Inevitably, thoughts of passion led her back to Lord Drake. He was everything Mr. Bottleby was not: gallant, handsome, a soldier who had proven his courage on the battlefield. His kiss had left her feeling weak in the knees. She was drawn to him, and wanted so very badly to soothe his troubled brow.

  But it was not her place. Even if, by some miracle, he fell in love with her, they were socially so far apart as to be on opposite sides of a stone wall. Well, perhaps not opposite sides. Her father was a gentleman, an Oxford man, and though not rich was a member of the landed gentry, and her mother had been related to a baron and a marquess. So she was not completely removed from his social sphere, though she was certainly his inferior in standing.

  It did not change her upbringing, though. Wycliffe Prescott, Viscount Drake, needed a wife of breeding, a woman who had been raised to grace the position of countess. He did not need a vicar’s daughter who knew about making preserves, haggling with the butcher, and doctoring villagers with her own herbal remedies. True knew how to run a household—a very small household—but she would be lost if she had to plan a party for two hundred!

  She had been wandering through the meadow on a meandering route toward the river. Her destination was in sight, and she headed down the sloping bank toward the sluggish, winding waterway. From a previous walk she knew there was an old oak tree that overhung the bank, and on the other side of that a narrow rushing stream where the best cress, tender, green and fresh, could be found.

  But who was that reclined on the bank under the oak? If it was some local gentleman, a stranger, she did not want to disturb him. And yet, this was Lea Park land. It would not be a stranger unless he was trespassing.

  She swished through the weedy grass, quietly approaching, until she saw that the gentleman dozing on the bank, a fishing rod discarded beside him, was Lord Drake. She crept closer and stood gazing down at him, serene in sleep. Even more casual than usual, he was dressed in a pair of disreputable breeches and a shirt with no cravat, and had a slouchy hat pulled down over his eyes. To her he looked perfectly splendid, stretched out at his ease, his long muscular legs crossed at the ankle. His open shirt exposed a triangle of pale skin with a swirl of golden hair, the most of any gentleman’s body she had ever seen, and she felt a heated flush rise in her cheeks.

  And she had no right to be standing there gawking at him like a lackwit. She longed to join him, to sit down at his side on the peaceful riverbank, watching him sleep and thinking of all the tomorrows she would never have with him, all the tomorrows they could have if their situations were more equal.

  Lord Drake’s hand twitched, and it was as though an electric surge pulsed through him. He cried out and flailed, shouting, “Up the hill, gentlemen, we must take the hill!”

  He thrashed from side to side as True stood wondering what to do.

  And then he stiffened, his whole body arching as though he suffered some incredible pain, and he wailed, a keening so mournful that the small hairs on the back of True’s neck stood up.

  “Dead, I am . . . oh, God! Dead . . . I am gone.”

  With a cry, True dropped her basket and rushed to Drake, horrified to know that he was in the depths of one of his hideous nightmares. What to do? Oh, Lord, what should she do? She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled off his hat, now wildly askew. Drake’s gaunt face was twisted in a grimace and tears rolled down his cheeks as he moaned and thrashed.

  One should be gentle with someone in a nightmare and not awaken them too abruptly, True remembered. Oh, Lord, she prayed, let me help him, let me do the right thing.

  Awkwardly, she put her arms around him, but he savagely fought her. He struggled in a nightmare battle with phantom enemies, clutching at her arms with a powerful, bruising grip. She was suddenly afraid; what did she know about this, about how to bring someone out of this kind of a state? But she would do what she could. She would surround him with her peace, she thought desperately, trying to twist her arms out of his grip. He released her. “Hush, Wy, hush. You are safe,” she murmured as he sett
led somewhat. She stroked his face and talked, pulling him closer as he stilled, cradling him in her arms. It was awkward. He was so very large compared to her, but her arms were long enough and she would let love comfort him.

  With a great sigh, he went limp. And then, as quickly as it started, the nightmare ended and his eyes opened.

  Chapter Eight

  His eyes bleary and clouded, he stared up at her from his place in her arms and the drying tears on his cheek were joined by a fresh stream. He reached up and touched her face, his hand gentle, his touch wondering. True thought that he might not know where he was, or even who she was, his eyes were so unfocused.

  And then he wept, great gusty sobs that wracked his body. He encircled her waist with his powerful arms and laid his head on her bosom and cried, murmuring incoherently at first, mumbling. But then she could make out words, and it was like a prayer for forgiveness, she thought, rocking him and soothing him.

  “I killed him, poor f-fellow,” he cried. “He didn’t even have ammunition but I shot him, watched him die. And . . . and he had a little picture, wife and baby, I think, and she never saw him again. Never saw her poor husband again! Not right! Not fair.”

  A surge of tenderness coursed through her as she held him, rocked him and listened to his confession while she stroked his face and ran her fingers through his golden curls. “But you didn’t know that, didn’t know that he had no ammunition,” she murmured, hazarding a guess.

  “No, but still, he was dead, and his poor wife and fatherless babe . . . not right.” He wept again, his whole body shuddering with a searing pain that had been suppressed for years under the needs of battle, the exterior of a warrior. “And all the others . . . sons, husbands, fathers, all! Dead. I killed them.”