A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance
Sensible Lady
By Judith
Lown
Copyright © 2012 Judith
Lown
Published by
eFrog
Press
With appreciation to Vincent
Jassak
and Angeles de Castro for their expertise in 19
th
Century Spanish.
And to Nora
Jassack
for expertise in speech disorders of early childhood.
Any errors are my own.
Cover design by Teri Rider of Teri Rider and Associates.
To anyone who has rescued, cared for, or adopted a homeless dog. Especially to the volunteers and staff of Pet Orphans of Southern California, alma mater of Daphne; and Greyhound Adoption Center, alma mater of Zephyr, Portia, Bingley and Magic.
Katherine stood at the edge of the lake, fingering two stones. Her serviceable straw hat lay discarded beside her on the grass. She loved the solitude of this place. Although it was little more than a mile from Dracott Hall, the woods separating the Hall from the lake lent an aura of isolation. She came here to gather her thoughts, skipping stones just as Richard had taught her. She watched the ripples spread in overlapping circles as a stone touched the lake two, three, even four times—if her technique was good enough.
She swallowed and blinked back tears. Just three months since Richard’s death, and her life would never be the same.
Across the water, the multipaned windows of the Dower House reflected sunlight. The old house was now her home. Thank heavens Lord Cecil Dracott had been willing to let it to her and Aunt
Prunella
when Cousin Clive had succeeded Richard to the baronetcy. Katherine took a deep breath and banished the thought of Sir Clive Brampton.
Selecting the smoother of the two stones she held, Katherine imagined it skipping five, six, seven times, right to the center of the lake. She raised her arm…
A stone thrown from behind skipped one, two, three times.
She turned to confront a stranger.
At first she thought he was a common vagrant, tall and large boned, but without an extra ounce of flesh. Shaggy brown hair curled on his coat collar. He obviously had not shaved for days. His face was tanned with white streaks around his eyes, betraying months – or years – of squinting into the Spanish sun.
His coat was too filthy to be certain of its original color.
Brown?
No, green.
A Rifleman.
The sword in the scabbard slung just below his waist corrected her first impression. The man was an officer, apparently fallen on hard times. Not long returned from the fighting, if the rusty stains on his coat were what she guessed them to be. Perhaps he was hungry and had been poaching.
“Sweet
Jesu
!
A flame-haired goddess to welcome me home.”
Katherine scarcely had time to register his cultivated accent before she was in his embrace, being kissed as she had never before been kissed. She knew a moment of confusion, a second or two of the sheer joy of being held by strong arms and feeling the warmth of a body, firm where she was soft, pressed tightly against hers. She had not been held since she was a child in her mother’s loving, gentle embrace. But there was nothing loving or gentle in
this
embrace.
The vision of a gentleman pressing a maid against a pantry wall brought her back to reality and gave her the will and strength to push the soldier away.
“Stop!”
He loosened his grip, but did not let her go.
“Stop?
Why stop when things were just beginning? And quite satisfactorily, too, I must say.”
His golden-brown eyes framed by straight black lashes twinkled in appreciation of his own wit. His strong mouth, so recently playing havoc with her senses, twisted in a half smile.
“Ah, sweetheart…”
Katherine lowered her head to avoid his kiss and found herself addressing his throat.
“I am most certainly not your sweetheart,” she managed through clenched teeth, her voice husky with fear. “And I am not your personal reward for valor!”
Apparently she had chosen the right words, because the soldier released her and stepped back. Hands on hips, he regarded her through narrowed eyes.
“You are being tiresome, sweetheart. And where, by the way, did you learn the speech of a lady?”
“From my mother, sir!”
Anger threatened to swamp Katherine. She blinked back tears and bit her lower lip to stop it from quivering.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to. I bid you good day. And I advise you that you are trespassing on Dracott lands.”
Katherine turned to leave.
“Your hat, sweetheart.
A lady does not go gallivanting across the countryside without her hat.”
Katherine snatched her hat from the soldier. As she began to put it on, her hair, never easy to keep in place, fell loose from its knot at the top of her head. While her tormentor gazed down in amusement, she hastily jammed her tumbling locks under the crown and tied the ribbons with such force that one ribbon almost pulled away from its fraying anchor.
“Perhaps if you continue on to your own home, sir, heaven will arrange the welcome you wish.”
The soldier turned and made a clicking sound. From the trees behind him a horse emerged, one of the most remarkable that Katherine—no mean judge of horseflesh—had ever seen. Shades of gray, it was of sufficient height and girth to carry a large man with ease. But it moved with quiet grace.
The soldier mounted swiftly and sketched a lazy salute.
“Count to one hundred before you leave. I cannot imagine either of us is eager for anyone to know of our interlude here.”
Katherine was left gazing at the powerful rump of the horse.
Count to one hundred before she left? Indeed. Who did he think he was, giving her orders?
She started off immediately at a brisk pace,
feeling
a need for the shelter of the Dower House. What was the scruffy officer doing in England? There had been no news that the war was over. Was he a deserter?
Or…
Katherine’s footsteps gradually slowed as a nagging doubt grew into a sense of foreboding.
If the officer was not a deserter, he had left Spain with the blessing of his superiors. To sell his commission and take up the responsibilities of a newly inherited title, for example.
One kiss had paralyzed her brain. Otherwise, how could she not have guessed?
By the time she approached the Dower House, she had resigned herself to the certainty: altered though he was, the war worn soldier she had encountered was the new baron, Lord Henry Dracott.
Her landlord.
What would he think of the lease and its generous terms? Lord Cecil Dracott had insisted that Katherine was doing him a favor, living in and caring for the old Dower House.
“Actually, my dear, I should pay you to live there. A dwelling needs a dweller. And the old place will be blessed to have you and Miss Summersville in residence. I am quite embarrassed to accept anything from you. But I suppose ten pounds annually would be fair. To be renewed at your pleasure. No need to bother
Simkins
with the matter. I shall write the lease myself.”
And resting in the top drawer of Katherine’s desk was the document Lord Cecil Dracott had written. Katherine was to have the use of the Dower House for as long as she wished for the sum of ten pounds to be paid annually on the tenth day of July each year. Katherine suspected Lord Henry Dracott was not going to be pleased that she was his tenant, and would be even less pleased that the rent she paid was not sufficient to cover the upkeep of the old house.
What was she to do? She had been certain the Dower House was a godsend, shelter she could share with her aging great-aunt, and then live out her own days in the parish of her birth, if not on the estate of her birth. While the new baron could not legally evict her from his property, the prospect of being his resented and unwelcome tenant galled Katherine. Pride urged her to look for a new home without delay. But she couldn’t think of a way to broach the subject with Aunt
Prunella
. The naïve old lady might die of shock if told about Katherine’s encounter with the new Lord Dracott.
Katherine entered the welcoming main hall of the old house. Perhaps she was making a piece of work of nothing. Lord Henry Dracott had said he wanted no one to know of their meeting. She could certainly keep their secret to her last breath. And if the new baron demonstrated any antipathy toward his Dower House tenants, he would look ungenerous in contrast with his father. Not an impression Lord Henry would want to give so early in his tenure. Furthermore, Katherine reminded herself, pride was costly, and she had already paid to save her pride with Sir Clive. She could not afford the cost of rescuing her pride with Lord Henry Dracott. A rundown cottage would cost more than ten pounds a year.
Katherine caught her image in the hall looking glass, twisted her unruly locks into the semblance of a topknot, and jabbed the few remaining hairpins into her scalp to secure it. She smiled wryly at her reflection. Flyaway red hair, an old gown of severest black—who was she to be concerned about the luxury of pride?
But as she entered the front parlor, she knew that her real concern was to preserve the dignity of the old lady who sat in the morning light, working diligently on a piece of needlepoint.
Katherine’s great-aunt,
Prunella
Summersville, looked up from her task.
“Katherine, my dear, I was becoming a trifle concerned, but clearly your walk did you good. The fresh air has restored some color to your complexion.”
Katherine bent to kiss her aunt’s paper-thin cheek.
“You must not worry about me, Aunt
Prunella
,” she murmured. “And what are you creating here?” Katherine deflected the topic of conversation from her morning walk to her aunt’s project.
“A lily?”
“I mentioned it to you, I am certain, my love.
Hortense
Sythe
-Burton and I are making new kneelers for St. Chrysostom’s. We had promised them to dear Mr.
Tramell
, God rest his soul. It is so sad that he will never see them. When we mentioned our project to Mr. Wharton, he simply thanked us and said to use any design we liked. We decided on flowers mentioned in the Bible. What do you think of our new vicar?”
Katherine smiled indulgently at her great-aunt.
Prunella
Summersville was incapable of subterfuge.
“I am sure he is a very capable priest, Aunt
Prunella
.
Though it is difficult to adjust to anyone new after knowing no one but Mr.
Tramell
in that office for one’s entire life.”
“Quite young for such
responsibilities,
and unmarried.” Aunt
Prunella
left her work in her lap in order to concentrate her attention on Katherine.
“Mr.
Tramell
was unmarried, too,” Katherine reminded her aunt.
“He was a widower, my dear.” Aunt
Prunella
was warming to one of her favorite topics, the value of married priests, which to her mind was the most important distinction between the Church of Rome and the Church of England. “My dear papa believed emphatically that a priest needed a wife.
Particularly a priest such as Mr. Wharton.”
Aunt
Prunella
was the daughter of Archdeacon Leo Summersville, a fact that recurred in her conversation at least daily.
“Mr. Wharton appears to me to be quite capable of deciding whether or not he wishes to marry, Aunt. And I imagine he would prefer that you concentrate your energies on needlework rather than matchmaking.” Katherine smiled indulgently, knowing that
Prunella
Summersville and
Hortense
Sythe
-Burton would do precisely as they wished.
“Mrs.
Clarence
Brampton,” Sally, the new maid, announced, sparing Katherine further hints that the new vicar might very well make her a suitable husband.
Katherine’s spirits sank. Dorothea Brampton—Aunt Brampton—was not Katherine’s aunt, but insisted on the title. She was the widow of Clarence Brampton, cousin of Katherine’s late father, Sir Alfred.
And mother of Sir Clive Brampton—Katherine’s former fiancé.
The thought—much less the presence—of Aunt Brampton brought with it memories of Katherine’s disastrous London season when she was an awkward seventeen, too young and inexperienced to be thrown to the mercies of the
ton
. But Aunt Brampton’s daughter, Rosaline, had been making her bow, and Sir Alfred had been persuaded that Katherine could find a husband with the assistance of Aunt Brampton as her chaperone.
Katherine now understood that her flaming hair and natural diffidence had provided a perfect foil to Rosaline’s confident prettiness. Rosaline wed the son of a viscount at the end of the season. Katherine returned to Sussex a failure, having spent countless evenings sitting with chaperones, praying her trembling hands would not cause her to spill
orangeat
on her white muslin gown.
