Lord Runthorne's Dilemma: A Regency Romance Read online

  Lord Runthorne’s Dilemma

  Copyright © Sarah-Jane Steele 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  The right of Sarah-Jane Steele to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Copyright © Christopher Twydell

  With thanks, as always, to my long suffering family

  Jo Nayler for deciding on the title

  Christopher Twydell for his cover art

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The Most Honourable James, Marquess of Runthorne.” Baines, resplendent in his formal livery, swung open the carriage door.

  There was a pause.

  “Lord Runthorne,” Baines said. “My lord?” Then he lowered his voice “Sir James, my lord.”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Runthorne put aside The Board of Agriculture’s fascinating treatise and stepped down the carriage steps. He grimaced. “You might think I would have grown used to that damned title after two years, wouldn't you?”

  “That I cannot say, my lord.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Runthorne straightened his cravat. “Very well, I am ready.”

  Baines closed the carriage door but Runthorne sensed he was worried. He was not surprised. Baines, along with all his personal servants who had known him as ‘Sir James’, had been worried about him for some time now. Seven years, two months and thirteen days to be precise.

  It did not matter. Nothing did.

  Runthorne gazed up at the house. It was a fine building, built of mellow stone and elegantly proportioned with windows that glinted in the bright sunshine. It reminded him a little of his childhood home in Northumberland.

  There was the heady scent of sun warmed roses in the air and somewhere a flock of doves crooned to each other. Altogether it seemed a pleasant and hospitable place.

  “Remind me, Baines, why did I agree to come here?”

  His groom coughed. “I believe it was at Mrs Lacey’s insistence, my lord.”

  Runthorne shook his head. “Devil take it, man. Do not, if you value your life, call her ‘Mrs Lacey’. Her father was the Duke of Hormsley. And even though she married a commoner, she is and will remain ‘Lady Delphine’.”

  “My apologies, my lord. Lady Delphine is, I believe, a friend of the lady of the house.”

  Runthorne nodded. Lady Delphine professed herself everybody's friend. But only while it suited her.

  “And whatever Lady Delphine wants, Lady Delphine shall have,” he said, instead.

  “Quite so, my lord.”

  Runthorne glanced up and narrowed his eyes against the bright sun. “Take the carriage to the stables. Walk the horses to cool them and then see that they are settled. Would you discover if my curricle has arrived?”

  “Very good, my lord, I will attend to my duties as always.”

  “And I am justly chastised. My apologies, Baines. Am I prevaricating, do you think?”

  “That I cannot say, my lord.”

  “And yet, once you would have done so.” Runthorne sighed. “Never mind, Baines. You do your duty and I shall do mine.”

  Runthorne took one last look at the wide, blue sky then mounted the wide sweep of stairs leading up to the open double doors.

  “Good afternoon, my lord.” The butler who bowed him into the house looked like a younger, slimmer version of his own steward. Not for the first time Runthorne wondered whether all upper servants were as interrelated as the aristocracy.

  “Lord Runthorne.” It was not, quite, a question but there was an element of doubt in the man’s voice.

  “Indeed.” Runthorne stripped his gloves from his hands, calloused from many hours managing the horses on his estate. He forgave the butler’s hesitation. It was understandable given that his busy, outdoor life had given him a deep tan that no idle gentleman would tolerate. Well, he had always been active in managing his land when he had been mere ‘Sir James’. He saw no reason to change now he was the Marquess of Runthorne.

  He passed his gloves to a footman. “Thank you,” he said.

  “My lord,” the footman bowed as though he had received a great prize. Runthorne still could not get used to the way people grovelled before him, just because he had inherited a title, but he had given up objecting to the behaviour.

  Instead he looked around. The interior of the house was cool in contrast to the heat outside, and was furnished with taste. Matched chairs flanked the large fireplace. A large floral arrangement stood on the flagged hearth, the elegant display mimicking flames. A smaller arrangement graced one of the side tables and the scent of roses perfumed the air.

  Gilt framed mirrors alternated with painted seascapes, the polished glass reflecting the sunshine streaming through the windows, filling the hall with light. The only shadows pooled to the side of the majestic staircase to his left.

  “I am Berenger, my lord,” the butler said and Runthorne turned his attention back to the man. “If there is anything you require, please do not hesitate to inform me. Captain and Mrs Maybourne will be greeting their guests in the Yellow drawing room before dinner which will be served at six o’clock.”

  Runthorne raised a brow. “So early?”

  “The Captain keeps shipboard hours, my lord.” Berenger said. “You are the last of the party to arrive. Lady Delphine, Mr and Miss Lacey arrived just after noon and Captain Fitzalan has just gone up to his rooms. Your man arrived a little over an hour ago.

  “If you would care to follow Grant, he will conduct you to your suite so you can refresh yourself, my lord.” Berenger bowed himself away.

  Runthorne smiled and followed Grant to the stairs. A crash stopped him.

  Standing in a doorway, half hidden by the shadow of the stairs was a young woman. A shattered vase lay at her feet. Shards of glass mingled with broken blooms and a slowly expanding pool of water.

  She wore a simple, slightly outmoded gown but, to Runthorne’s experienced eye, it was of good quality. He suspected it would normally be extremely modest, but now water made her skirts cling indecently to her long legs.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Runthorne frowned. There was a quality to her voice, a certain timbre that conjured up forbidden memories. The woman stepped forward, avoiding the mess on the floor, and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “My God. Elizabeth.” The shock was almost a physical blow. Seven years, two months and thirteen days vanished in the blink of an eye. Her hair was a shade darker now. It was pulled starkly back and confined at the crown of her head, leaving her all too familiar face bare and vulnerable, and strangely appealing.

  Little else had changed.

  Runthorne had not been conscious of moving, but he now towered above her. Her full lips tightened.

  “I ask you again,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Runthorne felt the numbness he had been living with for too long begin to fade. “So unwelcoming, sweet Elizabeth?” He took another step closer but, instead of retreating, Elizabeth held her ground and tilted her head, keeping eye contact.

  “Surely, I have the right to ask you the same. Although it would appear you have fallen on hard times indeed. Are you a ser
vant here?”

  Her eyes narrowed at this deliberate insult. “I hardly think you have a right to ask me anything,” she said, “and I would thank you not be so familiar with my name.”

  Runthorne lowered his head so that his lips brushed against her soft hair. “How fickle you are, dear heart. I remember soft endearments falling from those same sweet lips that rebuff me now.”

  Now she did take a quick step backwards and glass crunched under her foot. But the shock in her eyes was nothing compared to the blow Runthorne felt from the mere touch of her hair. He forced a chuckle, deep and low in his throat.

  “It amuses you to mock me, Sir James.”

  “Not ‘Sir James’, Elizabeth. It is the Marquess of Runthorne now.” He smiled at her expression.

  “How pleasant for you, my lord.” Despite being a head shorter than him, she still managed to look down her nose at him. “I trust this means that your financial difficulties are at an end.”

  “I admit I live in quite a different style now.”

  “Indeed? That must be most agreeable,” she said. Her fingers trembled a little as she smoothed her gown. “I, however, live here, with my aunt,” she said, after a moment.

  Runthorne placed a hand over his heart and bowed low. “And so, my dear Elizabeth, I must answer your charming question, I am a guest of that self-same aunt and her husband.”

  She still chewed her lip when upset, he thought and for a fleeting moment, Runthorne was a touch ashamed of his behaviour. Then he hardened his heart. She deserved far more than discomfort.

  “So you make your home with your aunt,” he said. “I had thought you would be too grand to live on charity.”

  Her eyes flashed with what seemed like pain. “My aunt gave me a home when my own was barred to me,” she said, her voice tight. “My brother was kind enough to inform me that he feared my youthful mistakes would taint his own daughters’ prospects.” There was just a trace of bitterness in her voice, but then she gave a careless shrug.

  “Indeed, I appreciate his candour. I have been happier here with my aunt than I consider I ever was in my old home.” She glared at him.

  Runthorne remembered her brother. “I have no doubt of that,” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Everybody makes mistakes when they are young, Elizabeth,” he said. “At least we have not been forced to live with ours.”

  She paled, but her eyes were steady. “How fortunate we are, my lord,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “How sad it would be to harbour regrets.” He reached forward and brushed his fingers against her cheek. She flinched as though he had branded her, but her reaction was nothing to the affect her soft skin had on him. “Do you ever wonder what might have been, sweet Elizabeth? Would you have enjoyed being a marchioness?”

  He saw her fingers curl. She hesitated for a moment and then lifted her chin, her eyes steady. “I have no regrets and nothing you can say, no consideration, will change that.”

  Runthorne bowed a correct inch. “Then you are truly blessed, Elizabeth, for there are many things in my youth that I would wish undone.”

  Elizabeth gasped and he smiled at the sound. “I am, however, fortunate that you helped me avoid my worst error of judgement,” he added.

  Her cheeks flushed then paled again. Her eyes narrowed. “Trust me, my lord, you cannot be happier than I am.”

  Before he could say anything further, she turned on her heel and strode away, crushing the red roses beneath her heel, leaving nothing but broken glass and damaged blooms in her wake.

  ***

  “Love’s sure to find

  Welcome from me.”

  “Elizabeth, that is lovely, what is it called?”

  The pearl button slipped through Elizabeth’s fingers. “It is just a silly song.” It seemed like there were a hundred buttons up the back of Mary’s new dress. “It is called ‘When Love is Kind’, I had not realised I was singing it.” She rubbed her hands together. “Now, do keep still, my dear, or I will never be done.”

  “I am sorry.” Mary twisted. “The bodice seems too tight.”

  Elizabeth patted her young friend’s shoulder. “No, I am the one who should be sorry, my dear. I am a little tired. That is all. There, you look delightful. You will charm my aunt’s noble guests.”

  The younger girl was successfully diverted. “Just think, Elizabeth, we have a real marquess in the house.” She clasped her hands. “Do you think he will be handsome? What if he speaks to me? I am sure I will die.”

  Elizabeth’s smile twisted a little. “A marquess is a man like any other.”

  “How can you say that?” Mary danced a little. “I have quite made up my mind that he will be the most handsome man here.”

  “A handsome face does not guarantee a handsome heart, my love. Trust me on this.” Elizabeth turned away. “And he is no more than passable,” she added.

  Mary’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Do you mean you have met him? How wonderful. Tell me all.”

  “To be frank, I do not like him and had I realised he was to be invited, I should have removed myself from this house. I assure you, I shall not be socialising with him any more than absolutely necessary. I can only hope there are no more unpleasant surprises.”

  “Good heavens. Whatever is the matter, Elizabeth? What has he done to offend you?” Mary clasped her hand. “If he has insulted you, he will be nothing to me. I swear I will dislike him.”

  Elizabeth smiled a little. “How fierce you are, my love. He has done nothing, trust me.” That was nothing but the truth. She had done it all to herself seven years ago. But she could not tell her young friend that.

  She cast around for an excuse. “I have a headache, my love, so I am a little crotchety today.”

  “Oh, you are not crotchety, Elizabeth. You are not nearly old enough for that. You are a little cranky, perhaps.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Where did you learn that most improper word? Do not let my aunt hear you, she would be mortified. Now do keep still a moment, my love. This gown fits you perfectly,” she said. This time the button slid easily into place and Elizabeth stepped back.

  “You are so lovely.”

  Mary’s face shone with delight. “Do you really think so, Elizabeth?” She twirled, her exuberance bringing an answering smile to Elizabeth’s face.

  “Yes, I do, my love.”

  “It is so good of your aunt to allow me to join you all. Although I am so excited, I am sure I will not eat a single morsel.”

  “Oh, a lady never eats anything,” Elizabeth said, her hands fluttering in faux horror. “So I have asked for a tray to be brought here so we will not starve at dinner.”

  “You are funny, Elizabeth.” She twirled again.

  “And you are growing pink. Do sit down, dearest, so that I can finish your hair.”

  Obediently, Mary sat before the mirror and her gentle grey eyes met Elizabeth’s brown in reflection. Elizabeth gave a very unladylike wink and expertly twisted her fair hair into a pretty knot.

  “I am so excited,” Mary said. “But what if people object to my presence?”

  “Why should they? Had matters turned out otherwise, you would have had your Season last year. You are quite old enough to be in Company,” Elizabeth said. She pinned a spray of white lilac next to the knot and teased some curls to frame Mary’s face.

  “No, my aunt is quite right to allow you to join the house party. If nothing else it will give you some polish before you go to London.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “At the risk of sounding ‘cranky’, that polish is much needed.”

  Mary stuck her tongue out and wrinkled her nose. “Now, you are being mean.”

  Elizabeth tapped her on the nose. “Listen to me. You are a pretty heiress, thanks to Captain Maybourne and much will be forgiven you. But misstep once too often and you will be ruined.”

  She handed Mary her reticule. “There,” Elizabeth said, pleased with the effect. She no longer looked the gauche
child she had been, she was now a young girl poised on the brink of womanhood.

  “Oh, Elizabeth.” Mary’s voice was soft with wonder. “You are so clever. I am almost nice.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, not in denial, but in astonishment. “My love, you always look nice. Now you are beautiful. Do not underestimate yourself.”

  Mary stood and twirled. “Thank you so much for helping me dress in here. It is so much more fun than being in my own room with Simpson. Oh,” her hand flew to her mouth. “Please do not think me ungrateful. Mrs Maybourne is very kind to offer me her own maid but she really is crotchety.”

  Elizabeth folded her hands. “Simpson is a truly good woman,” she said. “And she is not afraid to tell you that.”

  “But she takes no pleasure in anything. The last time she helped me dress she made me feel positively sinful for wanting to look pretty.” Mary sighed. “I would have dressed myself but I could never look like this, not if I practised for years.”

  “As to that,” Elizabeth said, twisting her own brown hair into a sophisticated knot, “I had every opportunity to study. Before she died, Mother always commandeered every maid in the house to help her dress.”

  Elizabeth smiled a sad mile at the memory of her frivolous Mother. She had been beautiful and so full of laughter, but Elizabeth had not really known her. As a child she had been a fragrant, fleeting presence in Elizabeth’s life. She was a light kiss before gliding away to some Ball or disappearing for months to London. Only when Elizabeth herself was presented had she come to have a small window into her Mother’s life. Elizabeth shook her head to dismiss the thoughts.

  “Even during my come out, I had to manage for myself,” she continued, “so I had to learn to dress myself or appear a complete ragamuffin.”

  Elizabeth smoothed the front of her gown and plucked at a loose thread. For a moment she regretted it was not the height of fashion.

  Do not be so shallow, her conscience chided her. The amber silk complimented her face and figure without drawing attention, as was suitable for her position in life. An heiress could flaunt herself and merely draw indulgently raised brows. An ex-heiress had to be more circumspect.