Lord Darlington's Darling

Lord Darlington’s Darling

Gayle Buck

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 © Gayle Buck

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Lord Darlington, the Marquess of Darlington, Earl of Thursgood, the Viscount Hart, contem
plated the gray wet day outside the lead-paned
window with resignation. The gentle rain that was fall
ing meant another afternoon spent inside. He’d had
hopes of being able to take his gun and the spaniels
out for a few hours of tramping in the home woods.

Instead, he supposed, he would while away the
hours with the estate ledgers. Once such a prospect
would have filled him with acute foreboding, but now
he felt only boredom. There would not be much to
sustain his interest in such drudgery; gone were
the days when it had taken all of his fortitude and determination to figure yet another way to avoid ruin.
His saving grace during those nightmarish years had
been his man of business, a trustworthy and competent fellow who had been delighted that the new marquess
had no desire to follow in his sire’s footsteps and
plunge the family further into the yawning abyss of
debt. Years of struggle and discipline had finally re
tired the mortgages and made the young marquess into an
excellent steward of his estate.

Lord Darlington allowed a seldom-seen smile to touch
his handsome aquiline face. The smile merely pointed up
the weariness in his brown eyes, startling in one so young
. Life had dealt him a harsh hand, but he had
played it to the best of his ability. He had been all of fifteen when his father had been killed driving in an
ill-fated curricle race. Desperate, still wet behind the
ears, and not knowing where to turn, he had felt fear
twisting his gut each and every day. The family had
been on the verge of losing the roof over their heads,
and he had been unable to turn to his mother for
support and advice. The Dowager Lady Darlington, widowed with
six children younger than her eldest son, with no
knowledge of mortgages or other worldly concerns,
had been helpless in the circumstances with which her
husband’s death had left the family.

At too young an age, Lord Darlington had inherited his father’s debts and responsibilities, including pro
viding for his younger siblings. Now, at twenty-five, he
could justifiably look back at his accomplishments with
satisfaction. The mortgages that had encumbered the
estate had been retired, so that his mother, sisters, and brothers were free of the fear of losing their home,
Darlington Hall. In addition, most of his siblings were in a
fair way to being established in the world. The sister closest in age to him, Lady Cleo Hart, had been married the pre
ceding year and another, Lady Sybil Hart, was betrothed, both
having accepted offers from solid gentlemen of worth.
One of his brothers, Lord Evan Hart, was up at Oxford, and the
twins, Lord Daniel Hart and Lord Lionel Hart, were at Eton. That left
only his youngest sister yet to provide for, and Lady Bethany Hart
, at seventeen, was a budding beauty so there
would be no lack of suitors.

However, Lord Darlington’s reflections did not lead him to a feeling of satisfaction. Under the exquisitely cut frock coat he wore, he moved his well-made shoulders
in a restless fashion. For too long he had been tied to
the estate.

Not that he did not make a practice of occasionally
showing his face in London, he thought, but it was never with the intent of simple enjoyment. He understood how
important it was to establish and maintain social connections. His siblings needed him to be able to curry favors and provide social introductions to secure their
futures. He had never regarded the Season and its
round of entertainments with anticipation, but rather,
with world-weary cynicism.

The estate, duty, responsibility. How tired he had
grown of it all. His boyhood had been suppressed and
fettered until there was nothing left of youth. He had
become staid and old long before his time. But now,
when he could finally look around and draw a breath,
something was happening to his outlook. Something
was stirring to life inside him. There was something in
him that yearned for some slight liberty, a loosening
of the tight rein that had governed his life for the past
ten years.

The door behind him was pushed open with a whis
per of well-oiled hinges. “Sylvan?”

Lord Darlington turned quickly. His half-formed
thoughts were thrust away to oblivion as he greeted
his mother. For her alone did his expression ever
truly warm. “Mama!” He stepped around the end of
the massive dark mahogany desk, which was a
potent symbol of all that had dominated his life,
and met his surviving parent midway across the
study. Reaching for one of her hands, he bent slightly
to kiss her.

Lady Darlington accepted her son’s salute upon her
powdered cheek and pressed the well-shaped hand
that he had held out to her between both of her own.
She smiled at him, scarcely tipping up her head to meet his gaze since she was almost on eye level with her son. She had
always privately thought it a shame that he was of no more than medium stature. She blamed herself since his
father had been of a fair height. “You are too good
to me, Sylvan.”

“Not nearly as good as you deserve,” said Lord
Darlington. Though his mother had not been able to
lend him practical support during the hellish years just
past, she had always given him an unconditional love
that had gone far in shoring up a young boy’s determi
nation to succeed. He recognized the fact and was
grateful to her to a depth that he had never articu
lated.

Lady Darlington laughed and shook her head. She
glanced over at the neatly arranged desktop. There
was a ledger lying open. “Am I interrupting, dearest?
Shall I come back later?”

“Of course not, Mama. Truth to tell, I was bored
with my own company. Pray sit down,” said Lord Dar
lington, drawing his mother over to one of the wing
chairs situated in front of the crackling fire. The chill
in the air was scarcely noticeable in the welcoming
heat.

Lady Darlington seated herself, looking up with an
other of her warm smiles. “Thank you, Sylvan. It is
so comfortable here. I always feel quite, quite peaceful
when I join you in your study.”

“You are always welcome, Mama. You know that,”
said Lord Darlington. Many, many nights when he
had wrestled with the books, she had sat in this chair
with her knitting or mending and offered, by her
very presence, reassurance. The bond was deep be
tween them, and if Lady Darlington regarded her eldest son as the bedrock of the family’s existence,
he in turn regarded her with a depth of affection
that would have astonished his acquaintances if they
had known of it. Lord Darlington’s rather cold
demeanor did not allow many to become his inti
mates.

With his own peculiar grace, Lord Darlington seated
himself across from his mother in the other wing chair.
The chair’s upholstery was faded, making a startling con
trast to the marquess’s sartorial elegance. He was attired
in the usual frock coat and breeches of a gentleman of
substance, but the close tailoring of his coat, the
elegance of his striped silk waistcoat, and the fobs dan
gling from black ribbons at his pocket, betokened one most
conscious of the impression he made upon others. Lord
Darlington smoothed a minute wrinkle in his coat sleeve,
crossing his immaculate boots at the ankle in a relaxed
pose.

“Yes, I know, and it is particularly gratifying to
me,” said Lady Darlington. Her smile faded a little.
“However, I have not just come to visit with you for
a few idle minutes, Sylvan. I have a particular reason
for seeking you out this afternoon.”

Lord Darlington’s nonchalant posture remained un
changed, but he had tensed. He was peculiarly sensitive to every nuance of his mother’s voice and he
unerringly detected a thread of unease. His brown
eyes studied her ladyship’s face with the same keen
ness that had often discomfited his younger siblings.
“What has overset you, ma’am?”

Lady Darlington frowned slightly. “I am not over
set, precisely. I think anxious is more like it. Sylvan,
have you noticed anything . . . anything different
about Bethany?”

At mention of his youngest sister’s name, Lord Dar
lington’s attention became fully engaged. His dark
eyes intent, he said, “Bethany? Why, she seems the
same as she has always been, ma’am. Flighty, frivo
lous, thoughtless—is that what concerns you, Mama?
Had you hoped to see her to have grown steadier
during this past year? I wish I might believe that my
sister shall ever be aught else but a pretty butterfly.” He smiled and a
teasing note entered his voice. “Has Bethany fa
tigued you beyond all bearing with her foolishness?
Shall I pack her back to the stern headmistress before
her holiday is up?”

“Oh, no,
that
will not do at all,” said Lady Darling
ton decisively.

Lord Darlington was disconcerted by his mother’s
pithy reply. All levity vanished from his expression.
“Just what do you mean, Mama?”

“Forgive me, dearest. I can see I have alarmed
you without explaining anything to the purpose.”
Lady Darlington was silent a moment, seeming
to choose her words with care. “Sylvan, I very much
fear that Bethany may have formed an ineligible con
nection during these last several months.”

“I see.” Lord Darlington was silent in his turn and
his mouth hardened. “What leads
you to think so, Mama?”

Lady Darlington smiled and held out her hand
toward him. “Now pray do not look so grave, Sylvan,
or I shall be afraid to tell you the whole.”

He took her hand and pressed it briefly, reassur
ingly. “Believe me, if I appear grave, it is because of
the responsibility I feel toward Bethany. Tell me what
Bethany has done. I promise you, I shall take her
firmly to task for upsetting you.”

“You must first realize, Sylvan, the notion occurred to me months past, and I dismissed it as foolish
imagination. But since then, I began to realize that
there
was
something, for there began to be scattered
references in Bethany’s letters—you know, little innocent remarks—about ‘Mr. Farnham this’ and ‘Mr. Far
nham that.’ At first I paid scant attention. And then
all of a sudden, there was not another syllable about the gentleman.”

“Perhaps it was merely a schoolgirl’s fancy, and
Bethany realized swiftly enough that she was heart-
whole,” suggested Lord Darlington.

Lady Darlington nodded. “So I thought and would
have continued to do so, if it had not been for a singu
lar circumstance. You see, Sylvan, in my letters I
asked Bethany about this Mr. Farnham. She re
plied that he was a mere acquaintance, one of a respectable house party whom she had met at a private
supper. She said that he was attentive and charming
and, indeed, all of the girls thought him very person
able but a bit old. Well! Naturally I thought no more
about it, especially since Bethany did not mention him
again in her correspondence.”

“What has happened to change your mind?”

Lady Darlington drew a letter, much creased, from
her pocket. “I received this in yesterday’s post. I have
read and reread it. It is from my bosom bow, Mrs. Clara
Montague. We attended seminary together and came out the same Season. We have known one another all
of our lives and I trust Clara implicitly.” She looked
up at her son, the trouble clear in her blue eyes.
“Mrs. Montague took a house in Bath several months ago. She
has met Mr. Farnham, and believes him to be a for
tune hunter of the worst kind. She naturally knows who Bethany is and how Bethany is situated, for I
wrote her at the time of the behest from Bethany’s
godmother. I doubt Bethany realizes that Mrs. Montague is a
friend of mine, for she and I have not visited many
times through the years and not at all since Bethany
went away to seminary.”