An Earl for the desperate bride (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 1) (2 page)

Stephen had asked her to trust him. It was a bold request from a man of his station, but, as Eliza and her belongings were moved to Savile House before the end of the week, she realized that she had no one else to trust. Her parents were deaf to her entreaties; in fact, her father was practically invisible. It seemed to Eliza that he was avoiding her, but she could not fathom why. Her mother adopted a tone of forced cheer as if she and Eliza were eagerly anticipating her coming nuptials. Eliza refused to behave as if she were an eager bride awaiting her wedding day. She maintained her composure in her mother’s company, which only incited Lady Stanton to more extravagant predictions of marital bliss for her daughter.

Lord Savile took her reserve as proof of her maidenly comportment and seemed to see nothing amiss. His sister, a pinched-face widow who, it was obvious, did not relish having her position as the lady of the household usurped by a country girl barely out of the schoolroom, had coldly informed her that His Lordship preferred to have his sister continue to manage the household.

“My brother expects to rule over a home that is orderly,” Mrs. Clemens told her after leading her to the room that she would occupy until her wedding, when she would share Lord Sevile’s quarters. “You cannot be expected to assume that responsibility at your age and with your background.”

Eliza had no wish to insert herself into the running of the household but she was puzzled by Mrs. Clemens’ reference to her background. It wasn’t as if she had come to London under a cloud of scandal; she was an unknown presence in a city that was strange to her after her country upbringing. She decided that Mrs. Clemens was merely the cantankerous sister of an overbearing man and that was all there was to it.

Lord Savile was away for dinner, sending his regrets in a note which explained that he had numerous business affairs to attend to and would not be able to join her and his sister for the evening meal. However, he would return to Savile House soon and was looking forward, he wrote, to wooing her in the manner befitting an ardent bridegroom.

Tossing the note aside, Eliza dressed for dinner with a heavy heart. Ardour from a man she already despised was unwelcome. She felt imprisoned in the huge house. Although it was vastly more fashionable than the unpretentious country home where she had grown up, she found herself missing the faded rugs and worn draperies that now represented what was familiar and reassuring. It was obvious that Lord Savile could afford the very latest in European styles. His house was a display of everything that followed the fashions of the Prince Regent.

Mrs. Clemens had delighted in showing her the ostentatious trappings of wealth with which her brother had decorated his house, her mood alternatively gloating over the opulence and showing a sullen resentment that Eliza would benefit from the splendour. For her part, Eliza thought the styles excessive. The couch in the morning room was supported by lion’s legs bearing the head of the Sphinx. Mythological creatures adorned every chair and table; the furniture itself an admittedly gorgeous array of ebony, mahogany and rosewood. It made her family’s oaken dining table, from which the family had eaten since the days of the Tudors, seem shabby and out of date.

Mrs. Clemens recited the price of each item as she pointed it out to Eliza, who realized that she must have received the information from her brother. It was a pity to buy for the sake of the price tag as opposed to beauty, Eliza thought that night, the day thankfully over and the evening meal mercifully ended. She supposed the food was very elegant but it was nothing like what Mrs. Kent, who had been the cook since Eliza was young, could do with a partridge.

It was a pity, Eliza thought crossly as she sat by the window, that with all of Lord Sevile’s vast wealth, he could do nothing to ease the oppressive summer temperatures, which seemed to wrap her bedchamber in layers of stale, stuffy heat. Boldly, even though she was in her nightgown, Eliza opened the window so that if, by chance a stray breeze passed by, it would find its way to her.  The tree outside her window was leafy and many-branched, and surely, she reasoned, the night air would spare her a breeze or two.

And if the stories about the night air being harbingers of disease and maladies were true, then she would simply die and be spared this horrible marriage, Eliza decided. She’d rather perish from a fatal ague than die in childbirth as Lord Sevile’s previous wives had done. Would she come to envy those women in time, she pondered as her eyelids grew heavy. Had they welcomed death? They could not possibly have loved the man who was their husband. Were there ghosts in this house, the unquiet, unhappy spirits of the women who had expired here from the doomed burden of the Savile heir?

She should not be thinking this way. She’d heard of girls who had fallen into a decline because of fancies which had overtaken them. True, she did not know of any such girls, but novels were filled with them and Eliza was very fond of novels. Although she had spied an elegantly crafted, slim-legged bookcase in one of the rooms, with a metal grill in front of the books, the titles had not been inviting and she suspected that the books had been purchased for their elegant leather covers and not for the contents within. 

Sleep would not come. The night was too hot and her thoughts too occupied by her fate for her to drift into slumber, although she was weary from the events of the day.

Her room was located in the back of the house, out of sight from view. She could see the stables from where she sat; no doubt Lord Savile possessed only the finest horseflesh in London. Poor horse, to have to bear a man of his portly status. Eliza giggled despite herself and then, without knowing why, her giggles turned to tears. She was so alone; Stephen had said to trust him, but what could a stable hand, however gentlemanly he comported himself, do to help her?

“Tears?” asked a familiar voice.

Eliza sat up, startled. She must have fallen asleep after all. She must be dreaming. With trepidation, she opened the window a bit wider. Perched in front of her, holding onto the ledge with ease, was Stephen, his white teeth showing in a grin against his handsome face, his brown eyes merry.

“You promised to trust me,” he reproached.

“How did you get here?” she whispered. She knew that the family members had their rooms on the opposite side of the house. Mrs. Clemens had gone to great pains to make sure that Eliza knew that until she was Lady Sevile, she was merely a guest, and not a guest of note, therefore consigned to the less imposing wing of the manor. It was the side, Mrs. Clemens told her, on the side of the house where the servants were quartered, on the uppermost floor.

Stephen grinned as if delighted by her question. “As the newest stable hand hired by His Lordship, of course I asked the others about the family members and guests who were residing riding. I learned that Lady Elizabeth Stanton is now in residence. After that it was a simple matter to deduce where you had your rooms. A deduction and an hour spent singing the praises of Mrs. Henderson’s mutton stew—she’s the cook—and I soon learned all that I sought to find out.”

Eliza looked at her gentleman caller with surprise and relief. He cared, he had not abandoned her. Her heart summersaulted.

“May I come in?” he asked as if entering a lady’s bedchamber by way of the window was entirely acceptable.

“I—”

“No matter. I will stay here. This tree is quite comfortable, and quite concealing. We are very fortunate that Lord Savile went seeking a wife in the summertime. Had this been winter I’d have had a hard time of it trying to hide myself in the branches.”

She realized that what she was about to do was utterly reckless. If they were discovered, she would be ruined. She was in her nightgown, and ladies did not admit gentlemen to their private quarters in such attire. Actually, they did, but in circumstances quite different, and much less innocent, she realized, from what she intended. But he had come for her. For that alone she would welcome him with open arms.

“Come inside,” she directed, opening the window wider to admit him. “I’ve been so wretchedly fearful since coming here. It’s good to see you, Stephen.”

His grin widened. “And very good to see you as well, Miss Eliza.” As if this was an everyday occurrence, he sat down on her bed.

“Stephen—I don’t understand any of what’s happening. I want to go home. I’m not meant to be here. I don’t want to marry him.” The words rushed out unbidden. Eliza wrapped her arms around herself and continued to lament.

“This house is loathsome to me; Mrs. Clemens, his sister, took me on a tour of the rooms and truly, it’s as if she were a banker. She knows what every piece of furniture, every rug, every painting, every candlestick costs. Why would someone live in a house merely to show it off?”

His eyes were thoughtful. “You’re not like most young ladies of your station,” he commented.

“How many do you know?” she inquired, a trifle jealous at the thought that Stephen had been the stable hand for other houses where young ladies went riding. It was foolish, of course, to feel that way, but she couldn’t help it.

His brown eyes were amused. “When you work in a stable, you learn a lot about ladies and gentlemen.”

“What have you learned?”

“I’ve learned that there’s one lady in London who is true of heart and honest of soul and beautiful, and that no other lady comes close to her,” he said sincerely. His eyes were not merry now. They were dark and intense, ringed with thick lashes that could conceal his thoughts when he lowered his eyelids. As he did now.

She didn’t press him. She knew who he meant; there was no foolery between them. They had declared their affections already; not in the stylized flattery manner of the young bucks and the fashionable set, but from the heart. What would come of it no one could tell and God alone knew, if He had not forsaken her, what would be her fate… Their fate, for she and Stephen were allied in this trial.

She wondered why God seemed closer in the country, where she went to Sunday services in the small parish church and sat in the Stanton family pew where generations of her ancestors had sat, than He did here in this cramped city. She had never given much thought to God before; it was enough for the vicar to join the family for lunch after services were over and to take comfort in the assurance that a divine Father, all-powerful and unseen, was looking out for her. She felt that she had left God behind in the country. He could not be here in this reprehensible house, while every minute ticked away closer to the day when she would be condemned to live here forever as Lord Sevile’s wife.

“I’ve learned other things,” Stephen said, his eyes meeting hers. “I’ve learned from the servants why your parents are set on this marriage.”

Impulsively Eliza took his hands in hers. “You must tell me why,” she begged.

“Your father has gambling debts that he owes to Lord Sevile,” Stephen explained slowly. “He cannot pay them. If the debts are not paid, there will be a scandal.”

Eliza stared at Stephen, her blue eyes enormous in the defined features that had caught Lord Sevile’s lecherous eyes. Stephen knew more than he intended to tell Eliza, but it was enough to know that the marriage should not have been countenanced. Eliza was being sacrificed, there was no other way to put it, so that the Stanton’s could maintain their social status and their son and heir, Mr. Harry Stanton, would be able to court an eligible heiress who would be able to restore the family fortune. Eliza’s marriage was to settle the debt.

It was, Stephen thought, monstrous.

Eliza gripped his hands between hers. “Stephen, you’re the only person in the entire city of London who has a thought for what’s to become of me. My family—how can they do this to me? I had nothing to do with my father’s debts.”

Now she understood why her father had been avoiding her of late, even since she had arrived in London. It was shame. Lord Stanton was, like most men of his ilk, a father because nature ordained that a man and a woman should bear children. He had been, in his way, an affectionate father, praising her seat when she was on horseback, nodding approbation at her dance steps when they had guests for Twelfth Night festivities at the manor, and in general seeming to think well of her.

Was it all a farce? Did he care nothing about her except that she was the means by which his debts could be settled? Was he a fool to gamble with money he didn’t have? Would he expect Lord Savile to come to his rescue again when he was unlucky at the tables?

She did not know her future husband well but she suspected that he was unlikely to throw money away where there was no gain, and while he might want to avoid the shame of being connected to a man known to be a pawn of the cards, he would have the clout to order her parents from London and their set if they ran afoul of him.

She began to think that her parents, despite their age, were not as wise as parents were expected to be.

Stephen weighed his words carefully.

“Eliza,” he began. “I love you. I have no right, I know, to declare myself—”

She blushed and shushed him before he spoke further.

“As you know sir, my affections are yours. But I cannot see a way out of this.”

“You must trust me,” Stephen said urgently, “I have a plan. Do not despair.” He watched as dismay took over her expression.

“How can I not despair? I’m to be married to a man who will have complete control over my family. I will count for nothing. I will be forced to live here in this horrid place with no friend.”

“Eliza,” he said firmly, taking her chin in his hand and raising her face to meet his gaze. “I have a plan. Trust me.”

“Stephen . . .” she hesitated. He was so good, and so honourable; how could she confess that she doubted the ability of a mere stable hand to find a solution to this folly?

He might have been able to read her thoughts. His smile returned. “Miss Eliza,” he said, his tone humble, his expression mirthful. “Miss Eliza, will you do me the honour to become my wife?”

All air rushed out of her lungs. Her face burst into a joyous smile until she remembered her situation.

“Stephen, I cannot marry you if I am married to someone else!”

Stephen rose to his feet and helped her to stand, as courtly in manner as if he had escorted ladies of breeding dozens of times.

“No,” he agreed gravely, although she saw an impish mischief dancing in his eyes. “That would be bigamy, which would see us both before the courts. I wonder what the penalty is for bigamists,” he mused.

“Stephen! This is no time for jesting.”

“I apologize. I wanted to ease your thoughts.”

“With talk of bigamy? You have a most uncommon notion of how to put a woman’s mind at ease.”

But in a way, he had done just thought. There was something about Stephen, who had a bearing far beyond his years, that spoke of a man, not a boy, who would accomplish what he set out to do and would not be defeated, no matter what the odds.  She had no idea what it would be like to be the wife of a groomsman, but she was willing to learn, even if it meant doing without in the meantime. Doubtless they would be obliged to eat gruel and bread, but did not Proverbs say
Better is a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than an house full of sacrifices with strife
? She’d seen the truth of that.

“Well, Miss Eliza?” he asked again. Before she knew what he was about, he had dropped to one knee. “Will you do me the heartfelt honour of giving me your hand in marriage?”

“I will,” she whispered.

“Give me your hand.”

She did as he asked. He bent his lips to her palm and kissed her. His kisses were nothing like the pressing of lips that Lord Savile had bestowed upon her, and even though his kiss had been decorous and within the social constraints of an unmarried couple, there had been something repugnant in his touch.

But with Stephen, she felt quite different, in a way which could not be described in words. She did not understand why the sensation of Stephen’s lips against her palm should thrill her, and Lord Sevile’s kiss, imprinted on her hand as if he were branding her with it, should have roused a very different response. But she did not love Lord Savile and never would.

Two days, Stephen told her before he slipped out the window and down the tree, leaving her several hours later.

“I’ll be gone for two days. Trust me. When I return, you’ll be freed.”

He would give her no details. “Trust me,” he repeated.