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A New Regency Romance!

Two enemies pretending to get along—only their hearts forgot the “pretending” part.

Miss Daphne Dearborn has been wishing Lord Brimley to the devil ever since an embarrassing incident involving a clothespress, a scandalous letter, and Brimley himself wearing not a stitch. No need to speak of it. It was years ago. She is no longer that mischievous young lady.

Well… perhaps still a little mischievous.

Because when she learns Brimley will be in Bath during her well-earned holiday with her dearest friend, May Allen, she must act. Knowing that man is lurking about would ruin everything. And what is a little harmless mischief if it keeps him far, far away?

Being an exotically handsome rake, war hero, and single man in possession of an alarmingly good fortune, Brimley is accustomed to women tossing themselves at him. But nothing prepared him for that cracked chit from the clothespress incident suddenly appearing at his table in a coaching inn, proclaiming her undying love and naming their future children. He was icily polite then, but should he see her in Bath, he intends to show her no civility. Whatsoever.

But then…

He discovers that his closest friend, Colonel Louis Fielding, has fallen secretly in love with Miss Allen—just as, to Daphne’s shock, she learns May quietly yearns for the colonel in return.

Dear God! To bring their two hopeless friends together, must Daphne and Brimley do the unspeakable, pretend to get along?

All their holiday aspirations for rest and happiness shatter into chaos, comedy, and confused feelings. (Love. They fall in love. It’s not pretty.)

Excerpt

Chapter One

June 1815 — When Daphne was fresh out of the schoolroom and quite giggly.

High-spirited Daphne was always up for a jolly prank, but even she—despite what her former headmistress claimed—had a jot of sense. And that minuscule amount of wits now screamed, Nooooo. Have you cracked your nut?

Unfortunately, this sentiment wasn’t making its way to her lips, which, at the moment, hung agape.

In the darkened corridor, with only a single candle to illuminate the two young women, Lady Sophie must have mistaken Daphne’s dropped jaw as a sign of confusion. So, she repeated, “I want us to sneak into Lord Brimley’s room and find the perfumed stationery that arrived today. All the female servants were in a flutter about it. I must know what lady wrote to him!”

Lady Sophie’s eyes glittered with the bright, enthusiastic light of someone who enjoyed such a lofty societal position that the words “No” or “Are you mad?” had never penetrated her delicate ears. And Daphne dared not be the first to deny her friend. Friend! Daphne inwardly squealed that Lady Sophie had invited her to her family’s house party. Elegant Lady Sophie! The third daughter of the Marquis of Fromingham and, therefore, related to most of England who styled themselves as Lord or Lady. Whereas Daphne was a “country bumpkin” in Lady Sophie’s words, and whose late father had signed his correspondence with a lowly esquire.

Also, there was the matter of Sophie’s cousin Sir Colin Fenby, whom Sophie had introduced to Daphne last summer and had since caused tiny butterflies to flutter in Daphne’s chest whenever she thought of him.

Sophie pulled a hairpin from her perfectly styled curls.

“Lord Brimley keeps his door locked because the Duke of Wellington sends him important letters from the front. That’s what my father says. Do you remember how you picked the lock to the headmistress’s room?”

Daphne wanted to say that was an entirely different matter. She had taken Lottie’s book—the one her mother had given her before she died. That was a Robin Hood situation. But reading a gentleman’s private correspondence—and not just any regular sort of gent—an earl, war hero, and a man considered by all the ladies, well, except for me—the most dashing in England is rather immoral, even by my dubious standards.

Daphne stammered, “Umm, err.”

It was a consensus among the female set that his reserved, terse manner concealed a secret brooding, passionate nature that only a special lady could unlock. But to Daphne, it seemed as though everyone preyed upon his nerves, particularly her.

For example, like the day before yesterday, when she’d accidentally hit him in the chest with a shuttlecock. She’d tried to apologize, but it had been difficult under the blast of those scorching black suns for eyes. “My God, you silly girl, do you ever stop giggling?” he had barked in a militaristic way. To which Daphne had nervously giggled even more to keep from crying … or clubbing him with her racquet.

She didn’t know what about her made the man so disapproving—she was popular enough back at the young ladies’ academy. But she had felt his burning contempt from their very introduction. As though she had concealed some diabolical intent behind the words, “Pleased to meet you.”

He made her feel silly and bothersome, as if she were a pesky fly buzzing about. And she detested him.

The sentimental novels she had hidden under her mattress at school wrote of fated love. An extension of such romantic logic would mean there was also fated hate, which would seem to describe her and Lord Brimley.

“You are ever so clever about naughty things.”Sophie’s mental hairpin glinted in the candlelight, waiting.

Daphne slowly took it and gave the candle to Sophie.

Once again, those few fibers of sense in her brain told her to pretend she couldn’t open the lock, but she wanted Lady Sophie to adore her. She wanted to dwell in Sophie’s golden world, so different from her remote, lonely life of sheep and fields. If she married Colin, she and Sophie could call each other sisters and spend the season in London, basking in the beautiful world of balls, promenades, and plays.

Daphne knelt and inserted the hairpin. She put her ear close to the lock until she heard the click. Then she turned the knob, opening the door to Lord Brimley’s private quarters.

Sophie rushed in and turned in circles. “Oh, fudge, I can’t believe I’m actually in his bedchamber!”

Daphne practiced a bit of uncharacteristic caution and locked them inside, using just her fingers as guides, for Sophie had taken the candle.

Only after the lock slid back in place did that sweet rushing sensation of doing something naughty fill her. She had sneaked into the headmistress’s room and private parlor so many times it had become almost boring. But this was the first time in a man’s chamber! Not just any man, but a notorious rake! What wonders would she find?

A massive, curved bed anchored the room, its curtains drawn back. A dark robe, perhaps set out by a valet, waited atop the covers. A table and chairs had been placed by the fire. A book had been left open and resting on the armrest. Surely it must be a twisted, dark, forbidden novel!

She lifted the cover gingerly. A Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons.

What!

“I think I like him even less, if that’s possible,” Daphne murmured to herself.

“Ah, here are his letters!” Sophie nodded to the mantel where his letters were neatly stacked. She set the candle and grabbed the correspondence. “Check for perfume,” she ordered, handing some to Daphne.

Daphne sniffed the first letter. Paper and wax. The second letter smelled of pipe smoke. The third … sneeze!

“Found it!” Daphne choked.

Sophie snatched the correspondence from Daphne’s fingers and opened it in a rather voracious manner.

“It’s from Miss Simpson! I can’t believe it!”

“Who is Miss Simpson?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “La! The actress, stoopid!”

Daphne, despite being in her very best dress, felt as dull as a milk cow.

Sophie proceeded to read. “My Dearest Lord Brimley, surely you must miss our tender kisses and embraces—” Sophie squealed, bouncing on her toes.

Is Brimley capable of something tender?

Maybe he was concealing a tender romantic nature after all. Daphne took over reading as Sophie was lost in the infatuation. “I told you I wasn’t like the others. You couldn’t leave me as coldly as you did all the others, for they couldn’t fulfill you as I have. I can soothe your wild ways like no lady there can. Those ugly, vapid society wives with their cold, chaste kisses. Hurry back to my warm bed, my dearest. Let my beauty comfort you.”

As Sophie continued dancing in ecstasy, Daphne studied the embellished handwriting, feeling none of Sophie’s rapture. It hardly seemed like a love letter—at least, not like the ones in the sentimental novels she consumed. 

A man’s footfalls echoed from the corridor.

“Do you require any assistance, my lord?” a young male voice said. A footman?

“No. Good night to you.” Brimley’s rasped, clipped voice shot down the hall.

Zounds! Daphne’s gaze flew to the clock on the mantel. In the shadows, she could make out the hour hand near eleven. The gentlemen guests usually drank until the early hours.

Daphne turned to her friend.

Sophie was frozen. Her eyes were dilated with terror.

The lock rattled as a key was inserted.

Despite her poor marks in mathematics, Daphne carried out a lightning-fast calculation in her head involving time and distance. She grabbed the letter from Sophie, shoved all the correspondence back into a haphazard pile, and tossed them onto the mantel. Then she seized her friend’s arm and pulled.

Only then did Sophie inconveniently find her wits. “What if my father finds—”

“Shhh!” Daphne yanked open the clothespress and shoved Sophie inside. Daphne was about to jump in after her, but—

The candle!

Daphne seized it, quickly blew it out, and leaped in behind her friend just as she heard the chamber door open. She was stuck holding the clothespress door just beside the latch.

All was quiet except his footsteps, her friend’s breathing, and Daphne’s heart, which beat like a bass drum.

What if Brimley opened the clothespress—What would she say? What if he didn’t, leaving them trapped until he fell asleep?

She heard the bed frame creak, then two thuds, like shoes hitting the floor. Brimley groaned as if in pain and released a sigh-like curse, “Damn it all.”

On that score, Daphne could wholeheartedly agree.

***

It was in Britain’s best interest that Ambrose retire to his chamber instead of smashing his dainty glass of brandy against the wall and shouting, You old, blustery fools! You cannot arrange the globe as though it were your bloody flower garden!

Wellington would not be amused.

However, Ambrose hadn’t been amused for several months now, since he assumed a wretched title. That and having a musket ball lodged in his abdomen damned him to an endless diplomatic mission. Ambrose could sneak behind enemy lines and blend into the local villages to gather intelligence. But bloody hell, the insipid chatter and stiff gentility of an English house party would undo him.

His wounds ached like the devil. He desired to drink but not brandy from a crystal decanter. He wanted Spanish wine, lush and intoxicating as the Portuguese courtesans who soothed him in their beds after the smoke and chaos.

Alas, romancing a married lady was potentially perilous because her husband might challenge Ambrose to a duel. And although Ambrose would certainly enjoy such a scenario—at least, peril was interesting—Wellington might need the man’s influence in Parliament.

And Ambrose never considered the unmarried ladies, whose entire beings were set on dragging some poor puppy to the place where Ambrose would never venture: the altar.

Such as that intolerable, cracked chit—what was her name again?

Ah, yes, Daphne Dearborn.

That inane totty managed to elevate the misery of a house party to abject torture. Had she been a man, Wellington could have put her to excellent use breaking French informants with the powers of her giggles and vapid conversation.

He unlocked his door and then slammed it shut. He tore off his cuffs and collar and then shucked off his trousers, exposing the scarred crater on his left side. The musket had done considerable damage, and the resulting infection did the rest.

He groaned. His friend Louis should have left Ambrose on the field to die, so he could have gone to hell instead of this polite, vile heaven.

“Damn it all.”

He released a long sigh, sinking into his preferred state—alone. His breath slowed, coming and going like the waves on the luscious beaches of Madeira.

Then he sensed it, his soldier’s intuition sending a warning shot. A faint scent of smoke, like a candle had been recently extinguished. He bolted up and scanned the room. His gaze landed on the letters stacked haphazardly on the mantel.

What the bloody hell?

Then, as if his very eyes had the power to move objects, the letters fell onto the floor.

Had the servants been nosing about in his letters? He wouldn’t keep any sensitive correspondence out in the open. But it still irritated him to have his things rifled through, even when he locked his door.

He crossed the room, picked up the letters, and re-stacked them. All the while, his flesh prickled with the sense that he wasn’t alone.

The faintest creak echoed in his ears.

He spun around and narrowed his gaze on the clothespress. The door was slightly ajar, but even so, he made out the slightest movement from within.

“You there!” he said. “Make yourself known.”

Silence.

“I know you’re in there,” he barked. “Present yourself immediately.”

“Oh, hang it!” The door cracked further open and out sprang that shambled-brained chit of his nightmares, Daphne Dearborn.

She gasped and leaped back against the clothespress door. Her eyes widened as her gaze landed on his sex.

What a silly totty.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. He didn’t think his poor opinion of Dearborn could sink lower. But now she was on level with malaria.

“I … uh …” she senselessly yammered, her darting eyes looking everywhere but at his sex.

“Answer me!” he commanded as though she were a green soldier. He stalked to his bed and took up his robe.

“There was a letter and … um …”

“You snuck into my chamber to read it,” he intuited as he slid his arms through the sleeves.

“It … it had perfume on it,” she offered up in her defense.

He released a put-upon sigh while shaking his head.

“Were you interested in the particular perfume scent or the letter’s contents?”

Her blush ripened from fresh tomato red to rotten crimson. Between finding him naked and the salacious letter, she must have gleaned a bit of education tonight.

He tilted his head. “I keep my door locked. How did you get in here?”

“I … rather … picked the lock.”

“You what?” he cried, outraged—and a little flummoxed that she possessed such knowledge.

“With a hairpin.” She performed a little nervous pantomime to demonstrate.

“Please stop.” He held up his palm. “At any point did it cross your ramshackle mind that breaking into a man’s chamber and reading his mail is wrong?”

“Yes, but—er—you see …” Her brows furrowed like a soldier reeking of alcohol, scrambling for an excuse why he had missed patrol duty.

Then she raised her head, looking at him dead in the eye. “I love you.”

“What?!”

“Yes, I adore you, and I am quite jealous of the woman who sent you the perfumed letter. I simply had to know who she was.”

“You think I …” He drummed his chest with his fingers. “I,” he further emphasized, “would possibly care for you?”

“M-maybe?”

 “You witless, ridiculous little ninny!” He rubbed his temples, trying to compose himself. If she were a soldier, he would have had her running around the camp until she collapsed from exhaustion.

“Here is some sorely needed advice, my girl. Gentlemen are not enamored by reckless young ladies who sneak into their chambers and read their letters. I will further add—and this is my personal experience—men of sense are further disgusted by endless giggling and insipid conversation. I’m sorry, but your love for me will remain determinedly unrequited.”

She said nothing, but continued to look expectantly at him, as though she was patiently waiting through a lecture. No doubt, she heard a great many of them. Sadly, none must have left an impression on her.

At length, she said, “I’m very sad then. I shall endeavor to stay away from you and not to giggle within your earshot.”

And having just said that, a tiny, high-pitched giggle escaped her mouth. She slammed her hand to her lips. “Sorry,” she said against her fingers.

“If you leave my chamber immediately, I won’t utter a word of this shameful visit.” He held up a finger before her nose. “But I want you to stay far away from me for the rest of the party. Do not get within twelve feet of me or giggle anywhere near me.”

She nodded but remained against the clothespress.

“Off with you, then.” He made a shooing gesture. “Go sob out your broken heart in your own chamber.”

“I-I can’t sob in your chamber?” she asked, swaying on her feet.

“Nor giggle.”

“I don’t have many options, d-do I?”

“Only leaving.”

She nodded. Then, in a quick motion, she rushed past him, snatched the letters, and fled out the door.

 “What the devil, you addled chit!” He started after her.

***

Lord Brimley, a human cheetah, quickly closed the distance between them, seizing her arm. His expression was rabid with rage.

Could cheetahs be rabid?

Further down the hall, she saw Sophie quietly peer out the door. Honestly, could Sophie make haste? Daphne kept going, pulling Brimley along with her.

“Watch herself!” he shouted.

 Daphne collided with a doughy, corpulent wall.

“Miss Dearborn,” an authoritative male voice boomed.

Her world began slowing down, akin to the time she fell off the second-floor trellis while trying to sneak into her schoolmate’s room after midnight. The journey to the ground had been a leisurely one, giving her plenty of time to think about how much trouble she was in. Then, she had fallen upon soft grass.

Now she thudded upon hard marble, toppling Lord Brimley on top of her. For an excruciatingly long second, she was aware of his heavy man part pressing against her thighs. The surprise in his obsidian eyes transformed to horror, and he leapt off her as if he had landed in manure.

Daphne gazed upwards at the man’s pudgy face, all his jowls and red cheeks quivering with outrage.

Lord Fromingham! Lady Sophie’s father.

She’d have soon smashed against the Prince Regent, whom by all accounts was a jolly sort, unlike Lord Fromingham, who would never be described as “jolly” or a “sort.”

“Oh, fudge!”

“Stand up, Miss Dearborn,” he ordered.

She obeyed.

He leaned so close that she could see the red threads in his watery eyes. “What did you just say, young lady?”

What did she just say?

“I-I don’t think I said anything?”

“I heard you!” He raised a bulbous finger. “You said fudge. I have excellent hearing.”

“It probably merely slipped out.”

“Slipped out! Such low language reflects a vulgarity of mind. If you were my daughter, I would have you spanked.”

Daphne giggled. She couldn’t help it. It was what she did when she dared not utter what she really thought. And, in this instance, it was, Oh, fudge, if I were your daughter, I would join a remote, silent convent just to get away from you. But she couldn’t say that. So, she giggled on.

“Miss Dearborn, what letters are in your hand? And why is Lord Brimley following you in a roiled, dishabille state?”

“’Tis nothing, milord,” Lord Brimley cut in. “A misunderstanding between Miss Dearborn and me.”

“Miss Dearborn is merely a guest at my daughter’s request. A charity, you might say. You shouldn’t be burdened with any misunderstanding she may have caused.”

Lord Fromingham seized Daphne’s arm, hauling her up. Ouch! “Come with me, you slatternly mannered child.”

He dragged her to a dimly lit library, with soaring shelves of heavy leather-bound books and anchored with giant mental globes in its corners.

“It’s merely a spirited prank,” Lord Brimley said, as he followed behind. “You needn’t concern yourself, Lord Fromingham.”

“Young genteel ladies do not perform pranks. But such is her low station, she requires lessons from her betters.”

Fromingham shoved her in front of a massive carved desk and crossed behind it, resting his huge hands on the polished wood. The burning lamp by the inkwell turned his face a fiery red color. It projected his enormous shadow upon the numerous gleaming swords affixed upon the wall.

“Tell me of this little prank of yours, Miss Dearborn?” he asked in measured tones.

Ah, this game.

Her old headmistress played it too. Asking one baiting question after the next, building to a thundering condemnation.

“I snuck into Lord Brimley’s room because I wanted to read a letter he received from a lady,” she readily admitted, robbing Fromingham of his self-righteous performance.

Brimley made a choking sound. Fromingham froze, the next question he had planned dangling unspoken from his lips. “W—what did you do, Miss Dearborn!?”

Daphne squeezed the letters and giggled. I’m not repeating it. You have excellent hearing, after all.

Then came the thundering condemnation. “You uncouth, unthinking, low girl!” He slammed his hand on the desk. “You are no better than a plague-ridden rat! And I will not have rodents in my home.”

The force of his words was like a blow to her face. She was a filthy rodent.

Brimley took her elbow in his warm, powerful grasp. “I’ve already spoken with her. And I assure you that she has learned her lesson. Come, Miss—”

“I should have never let Lady Sophie attend an academy where she would be tainted with such rubbish as yourself,” Fromingham continued, as though Lord Brimley hadn’t said anything. Because Fromingham was a marquis, Brimley an earl, and she a plague-ridden rat. Order of precedence.

“As I say now …” Brimley tugged at Daphne. “There is no need—”

“Who is your father?” Fromingham bellowed.

“My father was a gentleman. He—”

“A gentleman?” Fromingham scoffed. “Poppycock, I say! No gentleman could sire such an ill-bred daughter. What of your mother? What are her connections? Chambermaids? Night soil men?”

Daphne’s high spirits had often landed her in the suds. She had been called almost every polite synonym of hoyden, witless, and reckless. And most times, such as this one, she deserved them. But she wouldn’t stomach insults directed towards her mother or late father. Her fists balled as she growled, “Don’t speak of my parents—”

“You are no one, Miss Dearborn!” Fromingham raged on, enraptured in demeaning her. “A nobody to anyone who matters. Do not confuse accidental wealth with breeding. And I rue you were allowed to stain these revered halls.”

She bit down so hard on her lip that she tasted salty blood. She wouldn’t snitch on Lady Sophie. She wouldn’t. Loyalty was her code of honor.

Again, she felt the steady presence of Brimley’s hand. “You are being too harsh,” he said. “This is clearly her first time in society.”

“And her last time, I tell you. I’ll see to it that you are never accepted anywhere in society. You will go nowhere. No one will recognize you. I want you out of this house immediately.”

She unthinkingly placed her free hand atop Brimley’s and spat, “Thank heavens!”

No! No! Daphne, stop! Keep your mouth shut!

But she couldn’t.

“To think I would have to spend another minute listening to you and your ilk prattle on about your ancestry, your false honor, and your superior breeding. But sadly, wit and honor were bred out of your family years ago.”

Brimley let out a choked, bark-like sound.

Fromingham’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened, as though her words had smacked him hard in the face.

Oh no! No, no, no!

What had she done? What if her mother found out? Mother!

She shoved the letters at Brimley and fled.

“Miss Dearborn, wait!” Brimley called. His rapid footfalls boomed in the corridor.

Was he chasing her again? He had his precious missives.

She blindly dashed into the servants’ staircase. Where was she? She couldn’t even remember what floor her room was on. She heard Brimley beyond the door and fled down the stairs, only to find more corridors and stairs. She could hear him cursing somewhere behind her. Her eyes blurred with tears as she kept descending the innards of the house until, finally, she reached the bottom. A dim, cavern-like place with massive coal stores and barrels of potatoes and onions.

She couldn’t hear him anymore. Everything was silent except for her breathing.

She sank onto the frigid stone floor, rested her head on her knees, and sobbed. What have I done now?

Chapter Two

The Marquis’ carriage was like a resplendent parlor on wheels, but Daphne hardly noticed, curled up on the seat in a sickened ball, her best dress now a wrinkled mess. She hadn’t been given time to change but was instead escorted like a prisoner to the carriage.

What was she going to say to her mother? She had made a mess of everything. Again.

Aside from changing horses, the carriage rattled on through the night and finally reached the winding drive to Blessed Solitude in the late afternoon. Her mother’s front garden was a riot of blooming flowers and climbing vines that framed the windows of their home—a modern castle out of place amid the miles of pastures and moors.

Her older sister, Lily, raced from the house, her retinue of cats running beside her flapping skirts.

“Daphne!” Lily cried when Daphne stepped out of the carriage.

Daphne’s feet had hardly touched the ground before Lily threw her arms around her sister in violent affection. “I found a new kitten and named it Pretty Paws, like in the story you read to me. It has orange stripes. I drew so many pictures of it. Did you receive my pictures?” Lily gazed at her with eyes as clear and beautiful as cloudless skies. Poor Lily would forever possess a child’s mind. Daphne was the one who was supposed to ascend society’s ladder and make her family proud.

“Oh-oh yes, they were lovely pictures,” Daphne said weakly, “They made me quite happy.”

Lily’s proud grin took over half her face. “I want you to always be happy.”

Daphne had to close her eyes to keep back the tears. When she opened them again, her mother was coming through the great front door.

She looked at Daphne, and then at the crested carriage. Small lines appeared between Magda Dearborn’s brows. Daphne’s stomach knotted.

“I expected you in another fortnight,” her mother said. “Has something happened?”

 “I—um—well …” Daphne’s fabricated story began drying out before her mother’s scorching gaze. Honestly, her eyes were as fierce and sharp as Brimley’s.

“Ma’am.” The groom tipped his hat and then held out an envelope. “Milord requested that I personally deliver this letter to you.”

A letter!

Daphne didn’t know about a letter.

Egad! My life is over.

Her mother slowly took the missive, broke the seal with a quiet crack, and began to read. She swallowed, her eyes widening. At length, she finished the letter and calmly folded it.

She turned to the groom. “Thank you for delivering my daughter safely home,” she said in a controlled, polite tone.

Daphne knew that voice, and it shattered her heart.

Mrs. Dearborn continued to wait with a rigid smile as Daphne’s trunk was removed, and the carriage lumbered off after the groom had refused tea.

Then she turned to Lily and continued to speak in that unsettling, composed tone. “My dear, I need you to go inside and ask Cook about tonight’s meal.” Magda already knew what Cook was serving, just as she knew all the accrued interest on their late husband’s numerous business accounts, as well as when the rugs had last been aired.

“I hope we have apricot pudding.” Lily smiled, not perceiving anything was wrong, and skipped off, taking her adoring cats with her.

 Once she and the cats were safely inside, Mrs. Dearborn’s rigid smile dropped. She held up the letter with a shaking gloved hand. “Daphne! How could you do something so horrid? Is this how I taught you to behave? Is this what you learned in that expensive academy?”

“I’m so—”

“I sent you to school to give you opportunities that I never had. That your sister can never have. I gave you so much. And this is how you repay my generosity?”

“I made a small mistake,” Daphne choked through the tears coming down.

“You stole the Earl of Brimley’s private correspondence to find a letter from his lady friend and then said unthinkable things to your host, a marquis,” she shouted and held up the letter. “A peer has condemned you from all society. Do you understand the dire implications of your small mistake?”

Daphne’s throat constricted. She shook her head, even as she knew the answer.

“No gentleman of any consequence will have you now. You have destroyed your future and your father’s good name, you foolish, silly girl.”

Tears dripped off Daphne’s chin. “It just happened so quickly. And I was helping a friend.”

“What friend would ask you to do something so incredibly reckless and unthinkingly stupid?”

Now tears were coming down her mother’s face too. Daphne felt as though a sword had been run through her heart.

She had only seen her mother weep once. After Daphne’s father died. Otherwise, Mrs. Dearborn was a dry-eyed bulwark who nursed her husband through cancer, oversaw house and land, contended with the servants, and yet still had the gentlest patience with Lily.

“You always complained about how backwards your home is here.” Her mother’s voice cracked. “Well, you’ve lost your chance to leave.” She covered her face, her hands still shaking. “I wanted so much for you.”

Daphne rushed to embrace her. “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make it better. Anything!”

Her mother pulled away and smoothed her skirt. “Go to your chamber and stay there. If you insist on acting like a silly child, then you shall be treated as one.” She raised her gaze to meet Daphne’s. “You have eternally disappointed me.” She turned and walked back to the house.

Daphne remained beside her trunk, tears flowing from her eyes. She wasn’t the daughter her mother had doted on all these years. The one who would achieve great heights in society. A gentleman of high station, perhaps even a minor title. Daphne was a failure. And worse, she had utterly ruined everything by her own hand. As if taking scissors to her future, leaving it in shreds.

***

Daphne’s chamber door remained unlocked, yet her shame kept her from sneaking away. Now whenever she had wayward thoughts, Brimley’s voice boomed in her head: You witless, ridiculous little ninny!

Sweet Lily visited several times a day and, through the door, inquired if Daphne was still naughty. She kept Daphne abreast on all matters concerning the servants, cats, chickens, and stable animals. Three times a day, the kitchen maid brought a tray with food that Daphne was too upset to eat.

Otherwise, Daphne was alone. No books, letters, stationery, or pens to distract her.

Just hours of stomach-sickening rumination and regret. And if just to prove how wicked she was, the unwanted image of Brimley’s naked body kept popping into her mind.

He appeared on her wall, in her mirror, and on her ceiling at night as she turned and turned, trying to sleep. She would beat her head on the pillow, trying to unstick the unwanted image, but he wouldn’t budge.

And then on the fourth night of her exile, she lay in bed, thinking that if she hadn’t been so dreadful, she could be dancing with Colin now. She would probably never see him again. Her eyes began burning again. More wretched tears. She turned in the bed, but it did nothing to stop the guilt and sadness from gushing in. Somehow in the night, her relentless mind let go, and she drifted into a sweet dream of dancing with Colin. They were back at the house party, as if none of the unpleasantness had happened. He gazed at her, a tender light glowing in his eyes. “Meet me in the garden,” he whispered when the set was over. “I desire to ask you a question that quivers in my heart.”

He was going to ask her to marry him!

Her heart raced as she tiptoed into the night.

The luscious moon glowed overhead, casting shadows over the flowering shrubs. Colin turned as she entered, love shining on his handsome face. She closed her eyes, letting her lips brush his.

He roughly drew her against him. His body was unyielding as stone. Her eyes shot open to find Brimley’s black, angry orbs glaring at her.

“You’re not Colin,” she stammered.

Brimley laughed and then yanked her to him again, pressing his heated body against hers. She quivered as his soft lips found her ear. His breath was warm, like a steaming cup of tea. “Do you know what I do towitless, ridiculous little ninnies?”

He tossed her into his arms and carried her to his waiting bed and—

Daphne bolted upright! Her heavy breathing echoed in the darkness. Her chemise clung to her perspiring body. She glanced about, making out the edges of her chamber’s furnishings in the shadows—her dresser, lamp, washstand.

Oh, thank goodness!

It was a dream. Simply a hideous, repulsive dream. She clutched her belly, bile rushing to her mouth. She dashed from the bed, making it to the wash bowl just in time to vomit.

Her hands clutched the edges of the porcelain as she waited for her stomach to calm.

You witless, ridiculous little ninny! Brimley whispered.

***

Daphne couldn’t get the horrid nightmare out of her thoughts. It sat on her mind like a raven on a fence. Finally, she resorted to manically tidying her toilette bottles and things, in the hope that it would also tidy her filthy thoughts. She was cleaning her hairbrush when her door flew open.

 Lily rushed in, hair flying. “Mama’s hurt! Mama’s hurt!”

Daphne grabbed her sister’s shoulders, forcing her to look in Daphne’s eyes. “What do you mean, Mama’s hurt?”

Lily began hitting her forehead.

Daphne grabbed her sister’s wrist. “No, no, luv. None of that. What happened to Mama?”

“She fell in the back garden.” Tears streamed down Lily’s face. “Will she die, like Papa?”

“No, no, she’ll be well,” Daphne cried, instinctively trying to soothe her distraught sister. “Don’t worry yourself.” Nonetheless, Daphne rushed down the stairs and outside.

The servants were clustered about her mother. She was slumped against the mossy stone wall, head bent awkwardly to one side. Dark, foamy drool dripped from the edge of her gaping mouth.

“Mama!” Daphne patted her mother’s hand. Mrs. Dearborn tried to lift her head but dropped it against her chest. She made an unintelligible sound.

“Bring the carriage at once!” Daphne ordered the servants. “We must go to Dr. Foster.”

***

The two hours to Dr Foster’s were the longest of Daphne’s life. She held her mother’s head in her lap, tenderly stroking her cheeks as her mother gazed up at Daphne with eyes filled with fear.

Dr. Foster laid Mrs. Dearborn on a bed in his library and covered her with a thick blanket. The physician’s appearance of unruly white curls, unkempt wild eyebrows, and whiskers was at odds with his meticulous methods. “Mrs. Dearborn, you may feel a slight discomfort.” He pinched her left foot and then her right, yet her mother didn’t react. “Mrs. Dearborn, can you say your name?” Only a jumble of sound fell from her lips.

Daphne struggled not to scream at the kindly man, What’s wrong with her? Is she going to die? You have to make her better.

At last, the physician stopped with his poking and questions. “There now, Mrs. Dearborn, you rest for a moment.” He patted the blanket. “My wife will stay with you if you require anything.”

Dr. Foster beckoned Daphne into the adjoining parlor. The somber look in his eyes confirmed Daphne’s fears. 

She obeyed his request to sit, even though she would prefer to dash in circles while screaming.

He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Has anything distressed your mother lately?”

Oh no. “I-I did,” she whispered, scarcely able to voice the words. “I behaved in a horrid manner that embarrassed Mama. D-did I do this?”

He cast her a compassionate look containing the unvoiced Yes.

“I hurt my mama!” Daphne pressed her hand to her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

You witless, ridiculous little ninny!

She covered her face, trying to conceal her crying. All the while, he quietly watched her—the ninny who hurt her mother.

At last, she could gain some semblance of control over herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks.

“No need to apologize, my dear.” The physician leaned forward. “I believe your mother has suffered an apoplexy.”

Wasn’t having apoplexy an amusing thing to say when someone surprised her? You could have given me apoplexy.

But this wasn’t funny at all. “W-what does that mean?” Daphne stammered.

Chapter Three

In the coming days, Daphne learned what it meant to suffer an apoplexy.

Her mother thankfully survived, but the entire right side of her body was incapacitated. It altered almost every aspect of their lives. Mrs. Dearborn couldn’t articulate her needs nor be left alone. So, Daphne moved into her late father’s enjoined bedchamber and awoke to her mother’s every whispery sound. Initially, she tried posting servants in a cot outside her mother’s room. But Daphne felt they weren’t gentle enough with her mother. So, Daphne answered her mother’s calls, spoon-fed, bathed, and dressed her, as well as helped her to the chamber pot.

Then there was the matter of running the household and business. After Mrs. Dearborn’s husband had passed, she assumed his commercial responsibilities on top of her domestic ones. Mrs. Dearborn ran everything, and now that everything fell on Daphne.

She abjectly failed.

Daphne bent over backwards to please the staff because finding servants willing to work at the barren edge of the world was nigh impossible. And the servants knew it. Derision burned in their eyes as she struggled to handle disputes, merely letting her pretend that she was their mistress.

The poultry yard was a wretched mess. Letters from their man of business in London might as well have been written in an obscure language of a long-lost civilization. For goodness’ sake, she knew how to arrange flowers, not read amortization tables.

Most days, she was a few misspoken words away from coming apart. But she still had to smile and be patient with her sister, like her mother was. Lily was so enthusiastic about helping, but she only made any task twice as difficult. Daphne couldn’t distress her mother and bring on another apoplexy, this one perhaps fatal.

The only thing that soothed her mother was music. So, in the evenings, Daphne played and sang the songs printed in the latest ladies’ journals. Her mother and sister’s happiness bolstered her. And for a short while, Daphne’s guilt quieted in their laughter.

Yet afterwards, she barely had enough energy to wash before falling into bed. And she found no sweet respite in her dreams. That’s when Brimley appeared with scorching eyes.

They had moved beyond the stage of carrying her to his bed. Now they were engaged in sensual carnal relations. How pathetic that the embarrassing clothespress incident would be the most intimate moment she would ever know.

As the months passed, Daphne’s world contracted to only her family, the servants, and all the animals. She sent cheery missives to her old school friends, congratulating them on their marriages and babies. But they were often too wrapped up in their busy worlds to write back. And she dared not complain, for fear of upsetting her fragile mother. So, she found herself pouring out her worries and fears to the animals. The sheep, in particular, were quite sympathetic.

The only news she received was from journals. Lord Brimley remained perched on London’s Mount Olympus. His opinion was lauded on serious military matters. Yet, his libertine behavior was castigated in great detail for the readers’ lurid delight. He won and lost fortunes at gambling, had his name associated with a dozen or so actresses, and was rumored to have fought in several duels. Yet it remained a perennial question each season: was this the year Lord Brimley finally gave up his rakish ways and found a wife? Luckily for the ladies of England, he had not yet chosen a victim.

She never heard from Lady Sophie again. No doubt, she was forbidden to communicate with Daphne. However, two years after the horrid house party, the Ladies Monthly Mirror wrote of Lady Sophie’s upcoming nuptials to none other than Sir Colin Fenby!

What?

No. No. No

She ran out to the sheep and released a long scream she had been holding in for months. Her friends had weddings, babies, balls, theatres, and fashionable dresses. Everything Daphne had yearned for, but instead, she had a thousand responsibilities and empty arms. No husband. No children.

And that’s what she deserved.

Had she behaved at the house party like a sensible lady, she wouldn’t have hurt her mother. She would be the one standing before the altar with Sir Colin.

The wind seemed to carry Brimley’s harsh words. “You witless, ridiculous little ninny!”

“Just you hush, Brimley!” she shouted to the skies. “I know I’ve ruined my life and my mother’s. I don’t need your constant admonishment! Get out of my head. Forever.”

Of course, he didn’t. He came to her bed that night, as usual. It was as though she were in a horrible marriage with his memory.

Relief finally arrived from an unexpected source: her former teacher, Miss May Allen. Theirs had always been a polite correspondence. Daphne had found it difficult to share more than superficial sentiments with her old teacher, even though they were only five years apart in age. Miss Allen had taught at the school until her brother, who joined the East India Company, found enough money to establish his sister in a modest residence in Bath. Daphne skimmed through May’s perfunctory description of Bath’s weather and then replied with a dull recounting of their rainy days. But then, without thinking, she scribbled. I feel so alone, even though I’m around people all day.

She looked at what she had written and cringed. She didn’t share her true feelings with others, just the sheep. She was about to toss the page when the housekeeper bustled in to retrieve the letters for the village. Flustered, Daphne sent it along and then castigated herself for several days.

Why did she send the letter?

What if her words made Miss Allen feel awkward, or worse, pity Daphne?

May’s reply arrived a week later.

I understand your feelings. I dwell in this cozy house with my cousin Bertha as company. I walk the crowded streets, but I feel alone. I keep hoping that the news was wrong and my dear Elijah lives. But he’s gone, and now, years later, I am not resigned. I remember how you always made everyone laugh at school with your droll observations. I still chuckle remembering them. And how kind you were to me that day Elijah died.

Daphne was in her classroom the day Miss Allen received the awful news that her fiancé, Elijah Hale, had died in battle. Daphne would never forget the hollowed-out sorrow in Miss Allen’s eyes, as though she no longer recognized her world.

Daphne understood the feeling now. How the life you knew could be wiped away in seconds.

She immediately wrote back.

Thank you for your compliment. Usually, I feel like I’m failing on all fronts since my mother’s apoplexy— Did I tell you that she had an apoplexy? In any case, I’m not nearly as competent at everything as she was. But, at least, I can make people laugh. So, I’m not utterly useless.

Soon, the letters flew back and forth. Having a true friend made Daphne’s life seem lighter. All the worries and dreams that Daphne had confided in sheep, she could now tell to May. The fodder of her day all became droll stories in her letters. Meanwhile, eloquent May wrote back with lovely descriptions of Bath, bustling with fashionable ladies, assemblies, circulating libraries, and shops. Daphne would read sections to her sister and mother in the evenings. They were like fantastic tales from an exotic land.

***

Over the years, her mother’s life slowly improved. She learned to walk again with the assistance of a cane, and her slurred speech became comprehensible to Daphne, who could now speak for her. Magda Dearborn was still there, trapped in a damaged body, but her vigorous, stubborn spirit burned on.

Meanwhile, life was not improving for Daphne, though she dared not say it. She finally gave up on the romantic notions of having a husband and children. She would remain a lonely spinster, decaying in the wilds, plagued by nightmares of Lord Brimley.

Then, in the early winter of 1821, Magda Dearborn received a letter from one of her sisters, imploring her to take in their youngest sibling, Gladys Singleton. Daphne’s mother had made the most advantageous marriage in her family. Still, she hadn’t taken in her poorer relations. It wasn’t for lack of charity, but that her poorer relations would rather enjoy deprivation in London than the wilds of Blessed Solitude.  

“Dear Lord!” Her mother set her teacup at the breakfast table. “I suppose we must take her in.”

“Is there something the matter with her?” Daphne asked, pouring her mother more tea. “No, no, Lily. You mustn’t give the kitten milk from our creamer.”

“No, not precisely,” her mother said. “She’s always been rather … odd. We thought we had foisted her off on Ralph Singleton. But then he up and died fifteen years ago. Since then, she has bounced about, trying everyone’s patience in the family.”

The phrase “trying everyone’s patience” caused Daphne unease. She possessed very little of that virtue, and what she did have was actively employed.

So, two weeks later, her stomach tightened with dread as Cousin Gladys’ coach lumbered up the drive.

A petite figure shrouded in a black mourning veil descended the carriage steps.

Daphne whispered to her mother. “Oh dear! Has a family member died?”

“She is mourning her husband.”

“But he died fifteen years ago.”

Before her mother could further explain, Aunt Gladys dramatically lifted her veil, revealing a delicate woman in her late thirties. Enormous, inky eyes dominated her face, contrasting with her fair skin, further paled by rice powder. “Oh, my dear sister, you have taken me in when I have been abandoned by everyone.”

She kissed Magda Dearborn’s cheeks. “You know my suffering. What it’s like when a part of your heart dies with another and is buried in the frigid ground with him.” She focused her mournful gaze on Daphne. “You must be the beautiful, enchanting Daphne.” She took Daphne’s hand and squeezed it. “Your heart and mine are of the same material. I can sense it. But alas, I’m a frail shadow of the beauty I was. Despair has eaten away at me.”

“How tragic,” Daphne marveled, vastly impressed. She adored peculiar people and things. Already she had begun to mentally compose a letter to May about Aunt Gladys, who would henceforth be Aunt Gloomy in all future correspondence. “Do come in. For it is a most difficult journey here.”

“Endless moors and wind,” she said, soothing her veil. “’Tis barren. As am I inside since I lost dearest Ralph.”

“Right, a spot of tea then?” Daphne asked tartly.

***

The next morning, Daphne trudged down to the kitchens before breakfast to oversee starting the fires and reviewing the day’s menu. Despite having to get up early for her entire life, she could never quite get on with it. She stumbled upon Aunt Gloomy in the dining room, encased in mourning regalia with an ornate silver teapot set before her.

“I slept very poorly,” Aunt Gloomy said, delightedly.

“Sorry,” Daphne mumbled. Until she had consumed half a pot of tea, her vocabulary was severely limited.

Aunt Gloomy tapped the cup she had been drinking from. “Yet, the leaves tell me that I shall find shelter in my final years here in your kindly home.”

Daphne stifled a yawn. “You can divine all that from just a few limp leaves?”

“I shall read yours now.”

“No, thank you. I must see Cook.”

“It won’t be but a minute. Now sit.” Clearly, bossiness was in the female bloodline. Aunt Gloomy poured tea from the grand silver teapot and, without asking, augmented it with milk and sugar. “There now.”

Drinking tea under Aunt Gloomy’s piercing gaze was rather unnerving, but the tea was quite delicious.

“Oh, my poor niece!” Aunt Gloomy cried when Daphne handed back the cup. “Your heart will be utterly shattered and—”

“You may stop reading now.”

“But, my dear, in time you come to know a love so bright, it will illuminate your soul and guide your way out of the darkness.” She reached and took Daphne’s hand. “A love like I knew with my dearest Ralph.”

Daphne politely retracted her hand. “I fear marriage is not in my future,” she said with more diplomacy than she usually possessed in the morning.

“The future is not entirely yours to decide.”

Daphne’s jot of patience was expended. “Oh dear, for this very morning I must decide whether to make additions to the stable or dig drains from the west wing.”

“Fate must have her say.”

Her aunt’s time at Blessed Solitude would be quite short, despite whatever nonsense the limp tea leaves may have foretold.

However, the next morning, Daphne trudged into the kitchens to find Aunt Gloomy pestering Cook with her silver teapot. Aunt Gloomy waved her hand, “Oh, Daphne, we’ve already sorted the menu,” she said as Cook smiled.

Cook knew how to smile?

Later, Aunt Gloomy insisted that Lily introduce her to all her cats, freeing Daphne to handle the budgets. Then, before dinner, a screaming, hair-pulling row broke out between housemaids. Daphne listened to all sides and proposed a sound solution, only to be promptly ignored as usual. Aunt Gloomy consulted the tea leaves, divining the exact resolution—but in flowery language. The housemaids were awed, and sweet peace descended upon the house again.

Very well, Aunt Gloomy was welcome to wallow in melancholy for the remainder of her blissfully sad days at Blessed Solitude. Even if it meant tolerating her bombastic mourning and having every discussion end with, “When you come to love someone as I loved my dear Ralph, you will understand.”

Still, Daphne was grateful for the help.

Three months after Aunt Gloomy’s arrival, Daphne was reading aloud from May’s latest letter after dinner, “the fashionable from London are already arriving and soon our small Season will begin—”

“You must go to her,” Aunt Gloomy interrupted.

Daphne blinked. “Pardon?”

“Miss Allen and you are sisters of the soul,” Aunt Gloomy expounded. “She misses you terribly.”

Daphne would have loved to be with her friend and delight together in all the glories of Bath, but she shook her head. She didn’t dare leave her mother. “I am far too busy.”

Her mother rapped her cane on the floor. “You should go.”

“No, Mama, I want to stay here. And besides, I might not like Bath. It’s safer to read about it in letters. Then it shall remain magical, and I will never be disappointed.”

“You needn’t be afraid,” Aunt Gloomy said with her unnerving perception. “I shall take excellent care of your precious mother and sister.”

“Go,” her mother said, and then delivered the final blow. “It would make me very happy.”