Marriage to a Mister (A Daughters of Regency #1) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  - The Devoted Daughter

  - Matchmaking Fathers

  - A Love Requited

  - Every Girl's Dream

  - Marriage Offers & Swear Words

  - Ball Gowns & Gold Buckled Shoes

  - Dastardly Meetings

  - Dangers of Blasted Flower Pots

  - Wolves In London

  - Overdue Conversation

  - Will You Have Him?

  - Dearly Beloved

  - Broken Carriages & Marriages

  - Billiards & Wedding Nights

  - Ladies & Non-existant Earls

  - Good Friends

  - Wooing A Wife

  - Interventions

  - Good Intentions & Interference

  - House Without A Name

  - The Weasel

  - The Chicken

  - A Matter Of Time

  - Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To Randy, simply because

  you are everything.

  Copyright © 2016 DeAnne Cherry

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design: Wicked Cool Studios

  Editor: Becky Slemons

  THE DEVOTED DAUGHTER

  Close of The Season ~ London, England, 1814

  Lady Fleur Osborne watched as fine white powder slid off the spoon and into the glass. The drink foamed and crackled, misting her hand as it reacted violently when she began to stir.

  "To see you standing there mixing that awful drink, one would think you were trying to poison someone." Fleur looked up to see the cook, Mrs. Davis, canter into the kitchen with a bag of flour in one arm and jar of spice in the other.

  "With the way my father feels this morning, he may very well wish it were poison," said Fleur.

  "Morning? It's past noon just, not a bite of breakfast. Sent back both trays I sent to the library. Yelled at poor Mary, he did, before she ran off crying who knows where." Cook slammed the sack of flour down onto the table, and a plume of white engulfed them both. "Oh! Forgive me, milady."

  Fleur laughed between her coughs, waving her hand to clear the air. "It's fine, Mrs. Davis, and don't worry over Mary, I will speak to her. You know how my father can be, especially when he's been out all night with the earl."

  She ran her hands over her dark hair, careful not to disturb the curls her lady's maid so painstakingly set that morning, but frowned when a few loosened and fell. Looking down, she sighed at the state of her mint green day dress and patted herself to remove the dusting of flour.

  Once she was righted, Fleur placed the drink onto a small tray, nearly dropping it when a loud noise from above stairs echoed. Muffled shouts and booming footsteps preceded the slamming of the front door. She glanced upwards towards the ceiling, beyond which, her father sat in his library.

  Fleur winced. "Oh, dear."

  "There goes another," said Mrs. Davis, shaking her head as she waved her hands in the air, more flour flinging from her fingers. "You'd think your father would agree to one o' them matches — at this rate he'll have refused every suitable man in London. Old and young!"

  Fleur blinked hard, still feeling the flour on her face and long lashes. Her cheeks puffed and she blew out the air, sending a tendril of hair flying, wondering if this time the suitor offered for her or for her younger sister Julia.

  "I trust my father has his reasons," said Fleur, smiling at Mrs. Davis. "Seeing as how we young ladies are not to know half of what the men in this town do or say when we are not present."

  Mrs. Davis looked her straight in the eye with a mischievous grin on her face, one that said she knew precisely what the men were about.

  Fleur decided a change of subject was in order. "I cannot believe we finally leave for the country in only two days. Oh, how I have missed Norfield."

  "Always so eager to return to Hampshire, you are," Mrs. Davis said, still cleaning flour off the table tops. "One would think you did not like all these fancy balls and invitations to parties."

  Fleur could not help but laugh. It was a well-known fact that she disliked town life, even more so during the season.

  "You know me only too well, Mrs. Davis. I live for the town life, every night another ball or musicale. Every day another visitor with news of who will marry whom or, more importantly, who has refused whom. It isn't monotonous at all," said Fleur with a wave of her hand while the tray and drink in the other rattled dangerously.

  Cook laughed. "That will be enough dramatics for one day, milady, run along with you now and take that to your father, but be mindful, he's bound to be in a foul mood."

  Fleur nodded and made her way out of the kitchen, up the small staircase and onto the main floor towards the library. She tried not think of tonight's ball, where she and Julia would be food for the hounds, once they found out — and they always found out — that her father had yet again refused another gentleman's offer.

  It did not help that she was three and twenty, her fourth season winding to a close. An utter disgrace some would call her in hushed tones meant for no-one, and yet everyone, to hear. Having failed her only duty as a daughter of the ton it seemed her saving grace was not that she was considered comely, her fine blue eyes and dark raven hair attracted many a suitor on their own merits, she knew. But no, her grace fell to her connections and dowry. Both of which, in her case, were considerable.

  Being the daughter of a duke had not saved her, however, from the gossip and melee of the marriage mart. It seemed to only increase their interest in her failed offers. Her father, well known for rejecting every match to cross his doorstep, did not seem to sympathize with her plight. His only concern was her health and happiness, and in his mind there was not one man in all of England that could secure it, unless that man was named Viscount Ravenbrook, heir to the Blackburn Earldom and son to his oldest friend, the Earl of Blackburn.

  Yet to her, he was only Edward. The boy who kept a watchful eye on her and her sister while they played with his younger brother, Evan. The boy she had not talked to properly since she was sixteen, the boy who was now a man, though she could not see it, and she wasn't all together sure she wanted to.

  She huffed again, trying to move another stray tendril of hair from her face, her hands full with the tray. She stopped halfway across the hall when she heard yet another commotion coming from the direction of the front entryway.

  "Oh, what now?" she asked herself.

  Hurrying across the hall she saw Lord Blackburn arguing with the new footman, who was failing at refusing the earl entry.

  "I don't care what his grace said. You will admit me at once. Never in my life have I been treated thusly in this home!" The earl punctuated his words with a thump of his cane and a wave of his hand. "I told you before I have important business with the duke, the outcome of which depends greatly upon every minute I stand here waiting."

  Fleur's eyes widened at the urgency of the earl's words and she scurried forward to the door. "Lord Blackburn, do come inside, please." She turned to the footman, her hair swinging in her face once more. "Mr. Craigs, Lord Blackburn is a very close family friend and is to be allowed entry at any time of day, no matter if my father has instructed for no visitors."

  Craigs hesitate
d, but, unwilling to refuse the lady of the house, he stepped aside.

  Lord Blackburn entered slowly, eyeing the young man as he removed his hat and gloves, handing them over to him roughly, his demeanor decidedly cross.

  "Craigs is it? New are you? Where is old Bradly?" He asked, looking around as if to find him hiding somewhere.

  Craigs quickly nodded, unsure if he should answer the rapid-pace questioning.

  Fleur felt pity for the poor man who gained Lord Blackburn's censure and ire and moved to distract him. "Why don't I take you to my father? He's in the library, though I'm afraid he is feeling quite ill."

  "I can only imagine, my dear, after last night's festivities," the earl agreed, noting for the first time the flour that clung to her face.

  "What happened here?" he asked, motioning to her hair and smiling.

  Fleur sighed. "Just a little mishap in the kitchens. I must look a fright."

  Lord Blackburn laughed and took the tray from her grasp, then offered his arm before walking towards the library.

  Fleur looked at him, noting that he also looked a little pale and wondered what important business could provoke such urgency. "Lady Blackburn is well, I trust? Julia and I both look forward to seeing her tonight."

  "Not to worry — my lady is very well, though anxious for this evening. Lady Brockhurst is one of her dearest friends, so she is, of course, overly excited about seeing everyone. Balls are a nuisance at best, but she insists we make an appearance to what seems like every fête of the season. It's all so very tiresome."

  Fleur laughed at his words, his overly put-upon countenance enacted to cheer her, though deep down she could not help but agree. The whirl of the season was exhausting and as tonight was the last ball they would attend before leaving, she felt her decay into spinsterhood exceedingly.

  "Spinster."

  It really was a dirty little word bandied about by men and old matrons to frighten poor girls into marriage with threats of poverty and loneliness. It was a compelling argument for a looming bleak existence that took her breath away with fright of being forever alone, a finality so large it felt like it would swallow her entire future.

  It wasn't that she did not appreciate her father's attention and devotion of turning away men he found unsuitable. She knew she had no intention of marrying any of the suitors that offered for her, so her father could not be faulted, but after four long years was it really so difficult to find someone she could talk to? Someone she could perhaps laugh with? She had that once, she remembered, and she feared it ruined her, not able to forget those feelings, or his memory.

  They arrived at the library and Lord Blackburn stopped and turned to her. "You're fretting, my dear."

  Fleur looked him in the eye, trying to reassure him with a smile. "Forgive me, my lord, for my inattentive company. I have much on my mind before we away to the country."

  "Why don't you run along now to Lady Julia? I'll deliver this to your father," he said, punctuating his words with a lift of the drink tray. "And tell your sister that Lady Blackburn insists you both join her tonight in her carriage."

  Fleur's spirits lifted in an instant. It had been too long since she had a moment to speak with Lady Blackburn, and they would not see her again 'til next season.

  "Please convey to her our acceptance, my lord. We shall look forward to it."

  The earl agreed and raised the tray to her once again, a nod to goodbyes, and with a new spring in her step, she made her way upstairs to find Julia. At least she would enjoy tonight, and then perhaps tomorrow she would tell her father she no longer wished to take part in the season, that this would be her last.

  The thought of making such a declaration soured her mood, but Fleur was determined to find happiness in her decision. She must, or she feared it would follow and haunt her. After all, she had a doting father, a sister who adored her, and a cousin who would see mountains moved to ensure her happiness, not to mention her friends. Could she really ask for more? Truly ask for more? She doubted anyone could be so loved and remain unhappy, and she refused to think herself so selfish that she could not see the light for the clouds.

  MATCHMAKING FATHERS

  Julian Osborne, the Duke of Norfield, sat in his library, his head in his hands and elbows propped upon his desk. His eyes pinched closed against the glare of the sun as it reflected on polished wood walls. He willed the throbbing to cease, he even demanded it, but his body refused him.

  He groaned in defeat, laying his head upon his desk, deciding he would benefit from a swift beheading, when Baines laid the rest of the day's correspondence in front of him.

  "Your letters, your grace."

  Julian raised his head, his dignity demanding it. "I ordered Craigs to not admit anyone. Is he daft? Letting in that foppish Hamilton. The fool repeatedly asked me if Lady Fleur's engagement was settled like some lovesick puppy, nearly weeping all over me before I tossed him out. I cannot fathom what on earth made him think she was engaged. Damned fool."

  "I believe Craigs will follow your orders from now on, your grace, considering he was almost run over roughshod by the young man when he made his escape. You were less than subtle with your censure."

  "Not the calm and patient whelp I once was, eh, Baines?" Julian asked, raising his hand to smooth down his neatly trimmed beard.

  "I would never say so, your grace," said Baines with a long, amused look.

  Julian grinned and tugged on his shirt sleeves to straighten his appearance. "No, I suppose you wouldn't, lest you find yourself out on your ear."

  "After forty years of loyal service I doubt you would do something so cruel to this old man."

  "Old man," Julian whispered. "Are we really so old, Baines?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir."

  Julian could not fault his answer. His own hair was not so dark as it once was, the grey at his temples and beard glistening in the sunlight, the fine lines around his dark eyes increasing as he smiled at the man who had been his valet, and then his steward, his strongest ally since he inherited his duties at the age of fourteen.

  "You're getting mischievous in your declining years, Baines. Shall I alert Lady Julia that she has another cohort in the household?"

  "I would never presume to give a duke, especially the Duke of Norfield, any sort of mischief, milord. As to the other, please spare both you and I the trouble. Lady Julia has many spies and compatriots in the household. I do not wish to be added to her ranks."

  Julian laughed, running his fingers through his hair before rubbing his eyes. "It's true, instead of using her come-out to find herself a husband, my youngest daughter has been devious as ever, purposely ignoring the entire production of these seasons, to give her a chance to find a suitable match."

  "Was not it you, your grace, who turned down at least two of her suiters in the last week alone?" Baines asked. "And that's two less than you've rejected for Lady Fleur, if my count is correct. The young men about town are beginning to call you 'The Tyrant'."

  "The Tyrant?" Julian shouted, whipping his head to meet Baines' eyes and regretting the action instantly when his head swam and his stomach churned. He supposed he had been a little harsh on the last boy, but really, the man was an idiot. Rambling on and on like that, daring to weep like a child. How could he ever entrust such a man to take over the care of his precious daughter?

  "If having a name such as 'The Tyrant' scares unsuitable young men away from my daughters, so be it. I'll not allow them to marry fortune hunters or useless, brainless young men that can neither provide for nor protect them."

  "Wasn't the last gentleman heir to the Bransford Earldom? I dare say he would have been able to provide for Lady Fleur admirably."

  "Hamilton? No, no, he would never do, complete fool that one. Lord Blackburn would never let me live it down if I acquired a dandy for a son-in-law."

  Baines raised his brow and cleared his throat, an action Julian knew to mean he did not agree. "If you say so, your grace," he replied, simply.

 
Feeling his headache worsen, he gently returned his head to the desk, basking in relief from the cool wood against his brow when an insistent knock came at the door followed by the blustering entrance of his friend Charles Woolf, the Earl of Blackburn.

  "Norfield!" boomed the earl, followed by the crash of a slamming door. "We need to... what in the dickens are you doing?"

  Julian raised his head hastily, trying, for all intents and purposes, to look like he had not been slobbering on his desk only moments before. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked, trying to keep his head still, his voice low and menacing. Which was harder than it looked when it was all he could do not to ask Charles why he was carrying a serving tray. "I'm resting. What do you want?"

  "Resting? I'm absolutely aghast that you could rest at a time like this. And did you know your new man tried to put me off at the door? Fleur had to come to my rescue when he would not allow me to enter." The earl motioned widely with the tray, and the drink overflowed the glass.

  Baines made his way forward from the corner of the room, taking the drink from the earl before he could spill again. He set it on the desk in front of the duke.

  Julian gave him a thankful look and waved him off, gently dismissing him.

  He gaze found Charles as Baines left the room. "Blackburn, you are rambling again. As for the other, that's what servants do, they follow orders," Julian said, his sarcasm evident. "Orders like, 'I do not wish to be disturbed' or 'Let anyone in at your own peril'."

  "Do not wish to be disturbed?" Charles raked his hand through his slightly long, blonde yet graying hair. "Do you expect me to wait around all day while your man finds out if you're home when I know damned well you are?"

  The duke gave a low chuckle and watched his friend drop himself uninvited into the chair across from him. It was true that Charles never waited for anything, especially something as tedious as being announced, though decorum and manners dictated it be so.