Lord Runthorne's Dilemma: A Regency Romance Read online

  “Captain Maybourne has promised me my own maid for my come out,” Mary said. “If you wish, we can share her.”

  Elizabeth gave her a quick hug. “My dear, you are so sweet, but I have no intention of accompanying you to London. You have waited far too long for your Season and I will not ruin it for you. It will do you no good to be seen with me.”

  “I do wish you would tell me what you did that was so awful, Elizabeth.” Her friend’s lower lip protruded.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I am sorry, my dear.” She kept her voice light. “Just accept that I disgraced myself beyond saving and that, despite your undoubted eligibility, my presence will only ruin your chances.”

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “I do not believe you could do anything so terrible that it would hurt me.”

  “And yet, were you so foolish to ask, there is no-one in Society who would agree with you.” Elizabeth smiled. “Come, my love let us not quarrel over what is done. I made my choice and I do not regret it.”

  She closed her eyes briefly against the memory of Sir James’ face. Lord Runthorne as she must now call him. What was done was done. There was no benefit in repining.

  Mary looked thoughtful, but asked no more questions, something for which Elizabeth was extremely grateful. She did not think she was strong enough to fend off her young friend’s curiosity.

  Elizabeth pulled her long gloves up over her elbows so they ran smooth, almost to the edge of her puff sleeves.

  “Would you be a dear and fasten my ribbons?”

  “Oh no, Elizabeth, you mustn’t wear your gloves like that,” Mary said. Her own gloves were artfully crumpled along her forearms, leaving her upper arms bare. “Only really old ladies wear their gloves like that. I read it in Le Beau Monde,” she added as though that clinched the matter.

  “Well, I am old,” Elizabeth said. She sighed at her reflection, wishing she dared to flout convention.

  For a moment she wondered how Lord Runthorne would react if he saw her with her arms bare like a young girl rather than a spinster of twenty-seven. “You can hardly expect an old maid like me to dress like a green girl.”

  “If I did not know you better, I would think you did not wish to be noticed at all.”

  Elizabeth chose not to answer this.

  “You used to be the toast of Society,” Mary continued, “why are you hiding from a little company?”

  Elizabeth spread her hands.

  Explain to her, her conscience whispered. Explain how James made your heart race, how his very touch made you melt and how you yearned for his love.

  Elizabeth shook her head. She had thought she had banished him from her heart, but one glimpse of him and it was as though the last seven years had vanished. He may be ‘Lord Runthorne’ now, but he would always be ‘Sir James’ in her heart.

  She could not say any of this.

  “I was the toast of Society for my wealth and nothing more,” she said, instead. “Now that is gone.”

  “You are afraid?” Mary’s voice was full of doubt, as though she did not quite believe her own words.

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. “No, I am not afraid,” she said. She pushed her gloves down her arms and felt her courage grow.

  It did not matter what Lord Runthorne made her feel. It was irrelevant that the sight of him made her want to curl her fingers through his black hair or that his smile could light his dark eyes and make her knees weak. He would not know it. She would not let him hurt her, not any more. She would not let him confuse her.

  And if she found the chance to wipe that smile from his mouth, she would take it.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, dragging her thoughts back.

  “I beg your pardon, my love. I was wool gathering, again.”

  With the dignity of a warrior arming herself Elizabeth clasped a string of pearls around her throat and slipped the ribbon of her fan over her wrist. Then she took a simple bracelet from her jewellery box. Silver links separated tiny pearls and it slid as supple as cloth through her fingers. It had been James’ gift to her, many years ago, and the one gift she had not returned. If she wore it would he see it as a sign that she remembered, or that it meant nothing to her? For a moment she hesitated then she passed it to Mary.

  “Would you fasten this for me, please?”

  ***

  Runthorne made one last, minute, adjustment to the snowy fall of his cravat. Next to him Manton nodded and eased Runthorne’s coat over his shoulders, careful as always not to disarrange his master’s work.

  “It will do,” the valet said.

  “Your enthusiasm unmans me, Manton.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Manton turned away and took a clothes brush from the dressing case.

  “Remind me, Manton, why exactly do I tolerate you?”

  “If I may be so bold, my lord, I seem to remember you saying that it is because I am not a ‘damned toadeater’. Please stand still just one more moment, my lord.”

  Manton swept the brush across Runthorne’s broad shoulders, leaving him to his thoughts.

  Those thoughts were not comfortable. Seeing Elizabeth again had disturbed him more than he wished to admit. The skin of her cheek was as soft as he remembered and his fingers twitched as though they longed to cup her face again.

  “Damnit!”

  “My lord?”

  “It is nothing.” Runthorne rubbed his fingers together, trying to remove the memory of Elizabeth’s silky skin.

  Manton coughed. “Your signet ring, my lord,” he said.

  Runthorne took the heavy ring and held it up so that it glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. It was a thick, gold band. The bezel surrounded an engraved image of a boar.

  It was a ring that had passed from one Marquess of Runthorne to the next until it had come to him, the scion of an obscure branch of the family. There was no more potent symbol of duty and honour.

  He weighed the ring in his hand and for one, mad moment he wished he could throw it into the deepest lake in England. Instead he slipped it on his finger and felt the weight drag him down.

  Somewhere a gong sounded, summoning the guests. “Do not wait up,” he said, as he always did.

  Manton bowed before opening the door. “I will be here,” the man replied, as he always did.

  Runthorne barely heard him. Finding Elizabeth here, where he had least expected to see her had shaken him more than it should. If he had realised for one moment that his hostess was Elizabeth’s aunt he would never have come.

  No matter what Lady Delphine wanted.

  He frowned. What was that woman thinking of? She, at least knew what he had suffered and how intolerable this situation was.

  When Elizabeth had disappeared from his life he had been in agony. Sleepless night had followed sleepless night and meals had gone uneaten replaced by far too much drink. But all the time duty and responsibility had forced him to show a smiling face to the world. He did not think he would survive that again.

  Lady Delphine was one of the few who had known how devastated he had been and how hard he had fought to forget Elizabeth. He had thought he had been successful, he had thought he had banished her from his heart. His lips twisted.

  What a fool he was.

  Within a heartbeat of seeing Elizabeth again, all the old feelings had surged back. He felt a twist of anger. How dare she?

  As though his thoughts had conjured her, he saw Elizabeth walking towards him. Her arm was around the waist of a younger girl, her head tilted to listen to her companion.

  She seemed absurdly youthful, her soft brown hair, no longer drawn back in an austere coil, was thrown into relief against the fairer head. Her soft curls glowed in the sunbeams gliding through the windows. She was not pretty, he knew, not in the admired, doll-like, manner of most young women, but she had a presence and an attractiveness that those porcelain dolls could never match.

  Her silky, amber gown was perfectly modest, he knew, yet it seemed
to slide tantalisingly around her long limbs in a way that made him realise that he had tied his cravat a little too tightly.

  ***

  Elizabeth kept her head tilted towards Mary, murmuring agreement although she could not remember what her friend had just said. All her attention was on Lord Runthorne who appeared to be waiting for them. He was watching her with an expression that gave her a treacherous thrill of excitement.

  “Ladies,” he said, bowing. His voice was cool but his eyes were warm. Next to her, Mary gave a nervous giggle and dropped a schoolgirl curtsey.

  “My lord.” Elizabeth matched him tone for tone and pressed her friend towards the stairs. As she passed him, he caught her hand in his strong fingers. His lips brushed her hair and his warm breath sent shivers down her spine.

  “Cold, sweet Elizabeth?” His voice was low and intimate, bringing a warm flush to her cheeks. “That dress is positively indecent.”

  Elizabeth pulled her fingers free and glanced down at her demure gown. She bit her lip, annoyed. “Why, my lord, I did not realise that you tended towards the puritanical.” She raked him with what she hoped was a scathing glare. “Should I ever require your good opinion, I shall endeavour to bear that in mind.”

  “I wonder if my opinion ever carried any weight with you, Elizabeth.”

  She lifted her chin, drawing the shreds of her dignity around her. “Come, my love,” she said, linking arms with Mary.

  “I do not know how you dare,” her friend whispered as they descended the stairs together. “Who is he?”

  “This conceited gentleman is the Marquess of Runthorne,” Elizabeth said. “Please pay him no attention, it just encourages him.”

  “Elizabeth has always been daring,” Lord Runthorne said from behind and only Elizabeth’s arm prevented the younger girl from tripping.

  “And you, my lord, have always been impudent,” Elizabeth said over her shoulder.

  Lord Runthorne’s wicked grin did strange things to Elizabeth’s insides, conjuring forbidden memories. “I do not remember you objecting before, Elizabeth,” he said.

  “How sad to have such a faulty memory and at such a young age, too.”

  Mary’s shocked gasp recalled Elizabeth to her situation and she blushed. She was no longer the wealthy Miss Hampton whose sharp tongue was indulged. She was now a poor relation and must watch her words. “Forgive me,” she said. Her voice sounded stiff to her own ears, “I should not have spoken so.”

  The drawing room where they were to gather had never seemed so distant and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief when they finally arrived. She glanced at her friend.

  “Are you ready?”

  Mary gave her a shy little smile. “I think so.”

  The room was well lit and heavy with the scent of beeswax candles, despite the warm sun still streaming through the large windows. A group of young ladies, guarded by their chaperones, chatted with animated fervour. The young men in attendance laughed in appreciation. Mature matrons sat on the various couches and ignored their husbands.

  But it was a young woman who drew Elizabeth’s eye. She stood alone, framed by a window, gazing pensively at the view. Sunlight glowed in the golden curls tumbling artlessly around her perfect, heart-shaped face.

  “Who is she?” Mary looked at her with something akin to awe on her face. “She is an angel.”

  A smile flittered across the Beauty’s lips.

  “I do not recognise her,” Elizabeth said. “Yet there is something about her that seems familiar.”

  The Beauty slowly raised her eyes. They were a deep pansy blue, edged by impossibly long and dark lashes, and passed uninterestedly over Elizabeth, leaving her feeling like a scullery maid intruding on a queen.

  A smile curved the Beauty’s perfect cupid-bow mouth. “At last,” she breathed. Her voice was childish and sweet. She seemed to dance forward her hands held before her.

  She passed Elizabeth and Mary as though they did not exist and placed her hands in Lord Runthorne’s. Elizabeth could not help noticing how soft and white her arms were, like the curved necks of swans.

  “Runthorne,” the girl said, softly, “you have been an age. I had quite given up on you.” She pouted a little.

  “I am utterly, irredeemably, inconsolable, Aurelia,” he said.

  He dropped the girl’s fluttering fingers. “May I present Miss Hampton, your hostess’ niece? I have yet to be introduced to her charming companion.”

  “Miss Granger,” Elizabeth supplied.

  “Charmed,” the girl murmured, intent on one of the ribbons edging her bodice.

  “Ladies,” Lord Runthorne continued, “may I present Miss Lacey.” His smile twisted.

  “My betrothed.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lacey? Aurelia Lacey?

  The room seemed to narrow and darken. Elizabeth’s face froze and there was an odd, rushing noise in her ears.

  It was strange, she thought, that no-one else seemed aware of it. Mary’s mouth moved as though she spoke, but there was no sound.

  Suddenly everything snapped back into focus and sound came flooding back.

  “Betrothed?” Miss Lacey’s giggle grated on Elizabeth’s nerves. “Oh, Runthorne, you are impetuous. Dear Papa has yet to send the announcement to The Times.” Miss Lacey’s dulcet tones hardened marginally at the mention of her father’s lapse but, Elizabeth noticed, she continued to bat her lashes in innocent wonder.

  “I have no doubt your mother will prevail upon him to send it directly,” Lord Runthorne said.

  “And as her mother, I shall,” a voice said from the doorway.

  Elizabeth turned and met the cold eyes of the matron standing in the doorway.

  “Lady Delphine,” Elizabeth said and dropped a stiff curtsey.

  “Elizabeth.” Lady Delphine inclined a regal head and extravagant plumes, dyed green to match the expanse of satin barely containing her magnificent bosom, bobbed in sympathy. “I had not thought you would be present.”

  “It is my home, my lady, why should I not be here?”

  Lady Delphine laughed. “Why, no reason at all my dear,” she said. She tossed her head and her suspiciously yellow hair glinted. “I had, perhaps foolishly, assumed that certain company would have proved unpalatable, that is all.”

  “Aunt Edina asked me to be here and, after her great care of me, no company would be too distasteful, Lady Delphine.”

  Lady Delphine laughed again as though Elizabeth had made a great joke. “I seem to remember that you used to call me ‘Aunt Delphine’,” she said.

  “So I did, but that was a long time ago and I have grown wiser, I hope.”

  Lady Delphine’s smile remained in place, never reaching her eyes. “It would seem, however, that your exile from Town has taught you neither manners, nor humility.” She turned her attention to Lord Runthorne. “I rely on you, my lord,” she cooed in quite a different tone, “to make the introductions.” She pointed with her fan. “I do not believe I have met this young lady before.”

  Lord Runthorne raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Lady Delphine, may I present Miss Granger?”

  “Granger? One of the Hampshire Grangers?”

  Mary shrank into Elizabeth’s side. “No, my lady,” she whispered.

  “Speak up, child, who is your father?”

  “Captain John Granger, madam.”

  A small smile flickered, ghostlike, across Lady Delphine’s lips and Elizabeth wondered what she was thinking. “Captain Granger? Of what regiment, my dear?”

  Mary gave a tentative smile and Elizabeth felt her relax a little. “Oh, he was not an army captain, Lady Delphine.”

  “You mean he was a sea captain?” Mrs Lacey turned her shoulder. “Oh dear.”

  Elizabeth felt her friend stiffen and she placed a hand on the younger girls arm. “Lady Delphine feels that those who wage war at sea are not true gentlemen,” Elizabeth said, “which is an unfortunate prejudice given both the sterling victories of our navy and that her host is
himself a navy captain.”

  “Elizabeth, this is not the time,” Lord Runthorne said.

  She ignored his warning. He had long ago lost that privilege.

  “I have to say, Lady Delphine, that I did not like the arrogance of the ton when I was part of that select group. I find that I like it even less when that disdain is directed at one of my friends.”

  Lord Runthorne gripped her wrist in his strong fingers.

  “I said that this is not the time.”

  There was sufficient controlled anger in his voice to make her pause. Lady Delphine’s face was red beneath her powder.

  “Your pardon, my lady, if I caused offence,” Elizabeth said, forcing the words past her unwilling lips.

  Lady Delphine’s glare might have frozen fire. “Come Aurelia,” she said, at last. “I do not wish for acquaintance here. Runthorne, when you care to seek genteel company, you may join us.”

  With a last, withering, glare, she swept Miss Lacey before her looking like a galleon in full sail. Then Lady Delphine descended on a delicate settee which gave a tiny groan under the weight.

  Elizabeth wrenched her wrist from Lord Runthorne’s fingers. “How dare you,” she began but he would not let her finish.

  “You are many things, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, “but you are not a fool. What were you thinking of, insulting your aunt’s guest?”

  Elizabeth clenched her fists, but she did not turn away. She would not, could not, admit that she knew she had been in the wrong. “My behaviour is not your concern,” she said.

  “I rather think it is. Lady Delphine, despite her faults, is my future mother-in-law, and I will not have her embarrassed.” He may not have chosen those words to deliberately wound her, but they did, nonetheless.

  Elizabeth would not allow him to see how she hurt inside. Instead she raised her chin.

  “For goodness sake, Elizabeth, what is wrong with you?” Lord Runthorne shook his head “You used to be so close to Lady Delphine, she was like a second mother to you. I remember you told me that.” He paused, as though he truly expected an answer but, as Elizabeth remained silent, he gave a careless shrug and turned away.