Not Quite Darcy (29 page)

But Mrs. McLaughlin had arrived at the door by that point, rendering the power of speech quite beyond her capacities. She stopped dead in her tracks in the doorway, amidst the rubble of the ruined door.

Eliza was wrapped around William, one hand firmly on his ass. One of William's hands gripped her waist and the other cupped her breast.

Mrs. McLaughlin's mouth fell open and her face turned as red as a raspberry.

The three of them simply froze for a moment, too stunned for speech.

“Oh, hey there Mrs. McLaughlin,” Eliza managed at last, trying to sound pleasantly conversational. She casually removed her hands from his butt. William dropped his hands as though Eliza had suddenly turned scalding hot.

Mrs. McLaughlin slumped against the attic wall.

“Do you need some help?” Eliza stepped toward her, concerned.

Mrs. McLaughlin opened her mouth as if to speak, then gave Eliza a murderous glare and closed it again. She took in a great, heaving gulp of breath. “I…never,” was all she said.

“Can I help you downstairs?” Eliza suggested. “Maybe get you a drink of water?”

“I can get my own drink of water,
thank you very much
.” A look of indignation was beginning to eclipse her earlier fruit color, which was a relief. She shot Eliza a withering glare and turned to walk down the stairs.

When she reached the second floor landing, Eliza called down to her. “You might not want to come back up here any time soon. William kicked the door down and it doesn't lock anymore. I have a feeling that he and I are about to get busy on the old feather bed up here. You have been warned.”

Before Mrs. McLaughlin had a chance to respond, Eliza turned toward him. She was horrified to see he wore a very serious expression. Mortifying Mrs. McLaughlin was nothing to her, but she cringed at the thought of embarrassing William.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I owe you an apology, my love.” He looked down at the mirror shards scattered on the floor. “Your tale about traveling from the future. You've been telling the truth all along and I was a cad for not—”

She silenced him with a kiss.

“Save your apologies. I think we're even.” She glanced toward the splintered door. “I've just scandalized the shit out of your housekeeper.”

His smile was so bright that it was almost painful to look at directly.

“It seems fair enough. I dispatched Uncle Thomas and you've defeated Mrs. McLaughlin. Together, we're laying the world at our feet.” He reached out for her hand and together they walked to the feather bed in the corner of the room.

Eliza smoothed out the quilt. “And look how bold you are, William. That whole, difficult scene with Mrs. McLaughlin and you didn't tug on your hair once.”

He trailed his hand along her hip. “I told you, darling, you've changed me completely. Besides, I was rather hoping that you could tug on it for me.”

Epilogue

A crumpled letter lay on the floor of the attic. The nearby couple was on an old feather bed, making enthusiastic love to one another and paid no attention to it at all.

My Dearest Eliza:

Forgive me for resorting to pen and paper. I had rather hoped the events of the day would proceed in such a way that we could have some time alone for this conversation. If you are reading this, it means that this is the only manner in which I am able to convey my intentions to you.

I have had a rather unpleasant altercation with Uncle Thomas and we have parted ways. In anticipation of the loss of my inheritance, I have spent the last several days making arrangements for everyone under my care and have secured placement for the household staff. You will be pleased to know that Davy and Dora have offers of employment in the household of my friend Edward Perry. I should have hated to force them to part.

Rest assured, my darling, that although I am without my family fortune, I am far from penniless. I have sold my home at a tidy profit and liquidated my private investments, which were not insubstantial.

Since falling in love with you, I've grown increasingly dissatisfied with my life here. You have brought out in me a more adventurous side, and to that end, I am moving to California. Through connections at my club, I've been in correspondence with a gentleman, who has established a winery in Napa Valley, California. It's a very promising venture and, even with my modest investment, I would have the privileges of a full partner.

I have purchased a first-class cabin on the Oceanic. It's terribly modern and ridiculously extravagant. Our tickets are in the names of William and Eliza Brown. It would be more convenient to have a wedding prior to our voyage so that we would be able to copulate like hares on our journey. In addition, I must confess that I have no more patience for keeping such a distance from you. Our entire acquaintance has been a series of lurking about doorways and I, for one, am quite eager to be done with it. Once we are wed, it will be far more convenient to simply roll over in bed and tell you these kinds of things before we begin doing decadent things to one another.

Furthermore, I should point out that my intention was to propose in a far more romantic fashion. When our future fat grandchildren inquire as to my romantic overtures, I will hardly seem a very dashing figure to be proposing to the love of my life in a letter. Though, to be very clear, that is precisely what I am doing.

Please, if you would simply accept my love, I promise to make you the happiest woman on earth, as you have remade my life into more than I'd ever dared to hope for. Since the first night I met you there, I've belonged to you—heart, mind and body. You've quite spoiled me for any other purpose, and I couldn't be more delighted. Quite simply, I shall never be able to be anything other than yours, William.

Author's Note

Although this is fiction, there are a few factual bits you might be interested in.

The Society for the Prevention of Vice was a real deal. You can Google them. They were all about returning England to the Dark Ages (except for the upper class). Oscar Wilde formed a club in response called The Society for the Prevention of Virtue. Who would join such a thing? His mom.

Male chastity devices? Also real, but Googling them is a little dicey. Spoiler alert: they are still being manufactured and are safe for airport scanners. Now you know! And they said reading romance novels wouldn't broaden your world.

The book Eliza quoted was written by Alexander Walker, a well known physiologist and textbook author. The full title is:
Woman Physiologically Considered As To Mind, Morals, Marriage, Matrimonial Slavery, Infidelity and Divorce
(published by J & H G Langely, New York, 1839).

While we're on the topic of unusual Victorian notions, the “cold air treatment” truly did exist, though my doctor is fictional. As far as pneumonia is concerned, bleeding had been the go-to remedy for 2,500 years. Though the practice was challenged by the mid-nineteenth century, many London doctors still followed Dr. Hill's practices. They carried around very complicated bleeding kits with lots of modern-looking doohickeys.

Jennie Jerome was as rich and badass as portrayed. And she really did become engaged to Lord Randolph Churchill after only knowing him for three days. The Heimlich maneuver played no part in this—
as far as I know
. While the families argued out the details of the wedding, the couple got busy and Jennie became pregnant with Winston. This sped up the marriage negotiations considerably.

Finally, I have it on good authority that it is preferable to dump rice pudding on unwanted houseguests than to actually consume the stuff.

Other works cited or referenced include, but aren't limited to:

The Book of Household Management
by S. O. Beeton (Published by her in bound form, 1861)

Community-Acquired Pneumonia
 Edited by Thomas J. Marrie (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers, 2001)

What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew
by Daniel Poole (Touchstone, 1994)

Inside the Victorian Home: A Portrait of Domestic Life in Victorian England
by Judith Flanders (W. W. Norton & Company, 2005)

Life in a Victorian Household
by Pamela Horn (The History Press, 2011)

Prof. Koch's Method to Cure Tuberculosis
(Hartman Printing Co, 1890)

Wuthering Heights
by Emily Bronte (Thomas Cautley Newby, 1847)

About the Author

Terri Meeker is supposed to write her author blurb in the third person. It's just how things are done. She shouldn't question it, but then she's always been difficult. Even in high school, her best friend's mother described her as “eccentric” before urging her daughter to make friends with a nice, normal girl.

Terri considers the Pacific NW her home, though she was born in Wyoming and currently lives in Missouri. It's complicated. She's loved history since childhood and has been fortunate to live in lots of places with fascinating pasts, including: Washington DC, Philadelphia, Virginia Beach, Albuquerque, Fidalgo Island in Washington and Mons, Belgium. She's an ex-history teacher, a mom, a Joss Whedon fanatic, a gamer and a ginormous nerd. She also loves to write.

Terri is really getting into this third-person thing and thinks it will give her a lot of gravitas during future dinner conversations. She thinks you should probably start doing it as well.

Grand Passion…or epic disaster?

In for a Penny

© 2014 Rose Lerner

Lord Nevinstoke revels in acting the young wastrel, until his father is killed in a drunken duel. Never one to do anything halfway, Nev throws off his wild ways to shoulder a mountain of responsibility—and debt—vowing to marry a rich girl and act the respectable lord of the manor.

Manufacturing heiress Penelope Brown seems the perfect choice for a wife. She's pretty, proper, and looking for a husband.

Determined to rise above her common birth, Penelope prides herself on her impeccable behavior and good sense. Grand Passion? Vulgar and melodramatic. Yes, agreeing to marry Nev was a rare moment of impulse, yet she's sure they can build a good marriage based on companionship and mutual esteem.

But when they arrive at the manor, they're overwhelmed with half-starved tenants, a menacing neighbor, and the family propensity for scandal. As the situation deteriorates, the newlyweds have nowhere to turn but to each other. To Penelope's surprise, she begins to fervently hope that her first taste of Grand Passion in her husband's arms won't be her last.

Originally published Dorchester 2010.

Warning: Contains kisses in the breakfast room, account books in the bedroom...and murder in the garden. Featuring a heroine who's used to settling, a hero who's used to getting what he wants without trying, and a love for which they'll both have to fight tooth and nail.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
In for a Penny:

His image rose again before her eyes. There was, to be sure, nothing out of the common way about him.
A perfectly ordinary-looking young man
, Penelope insisted to herself. He was of middling height, his shoulders neither slim nor broad. His hands were not aristocratically slender—there was nothing to set them apart from the hands of any other gentleman of her acquaintance.

His hair was a little too long, and she thought its tousled appearance more the result of inattention than any attempt at fashion. It was neither dark nor fair, but merely brown, utterly nondescript but for a hint of cinnamon. His face, too, would have been unmemorable if it were not for a slight crookedness in his nose, suggesting it had been broken. His eyes were an ordinary blue, of an ordinary shape and size.

So why could she picture him so clearly, and why did the memory of his smile still make her feel—hot, and strange inside?

But it was his voice that stayed with her the strongest. The timbre of it was imprinted on her ear, and there was nothing ordinary about it. It was rich and mellow, and there was something graceful in the careless rhythm of his speech.

So strongly had she conjured up Lord Nevinstoke's image that when the door opened, Evans spoke, and that same gentleman entered the room, it was a moment before she was quite convinced he was real.

He was in every particular as she remembered him, save that he was dressed from head to toe in black, and his blue eyes were anxious and grave. She realized that Evans had not announced him as Lord Nevinstoke, but as Lord Bedlow.

She stood without thinking, and her book fell to the floor. In an instant he had stepped forward, bent down and returned it to her. She was conscious that her fingers closed too tightly on the book; he was very close, an odd expression in his eyes. His nearness affected her, alas, just as she remembered.

“Has something happened to your father, my lord?”

He looked away and stepped back. “You are very perceptive. My father was killed Wednesday before last.”

“You mean—the day after I saw you at Vauxhall?”

He smiled. “You remembered me.”

She had been so shocked by his news that at first she had forgotten to listen to his voice. Now she experienced the full effect of the pure vowels and husky overtones; her pulse sped up. “I am so sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” he said, then stood silent. “Dash it, this is awkward.”

“I own I am a little surprised to see you.”

“I suppose I had better out with it. My father had run into debt before he died. A great deal of debt.”

Penelope's heart plummeted into her boots. She struggled for composure. “I see.”

“The long and short of it is, I've come to ask you to marry me.”

Though she had been half expecting it, the world seemed to stand still a moment. Then it started again, with a stutter. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me correctly, I assure you.” He ran a hand through his hair, confirming her impression that its disorder was unfeigned, then took a few steps back. “Do you—do you think we might be seated?”

She chastised herself for a poor hostess. “Of course.” Resuming her seat, she gestured to him to take the chair placed conveniently a few feet off.

Misreading her intention, he seated himself beside her on the window seat and leaned forward, his elbows on his spread knees and his hands clasped.

“I've no intention of offering you Spanish coin. I need your money, very much—oh, how much! I don't know how I'm to manage without it.” His mouth twisted. “I never thought about money till I hadn't got it, you know. And now there's candles and black gloves and ink and my sister's dowry…”

He had begun to tick these off on his fingers as he went; it had the air of a familiar pattern of thought. But he caught himself and shook his hands. “Oh, and a thousand other things I never gave a moment's thought to. How do people contrive who haven't money?”

Penelope had never had to contrive without money; she had still been a babe when her father began to make his fortune. But she knew how it was done. “With tallow and small dowries, I'm afraid.”

He flushed. “I daresay I look a regular wastrel to you.”

He did, and Penelope hated insincerity. Nevertheless, the words flew to her lips without her thinking them. “Oh no!”

He gave her a rueful smile. She tried to ignore its effect on her. “You're a sweet girl. And that was what I meant to say. I can't deny I need your money, but I still wouldn't offer for you if I didn't feel we could rub along tolerably well together.”

His words warmed her more than they should, but that didn't mean she had lost all sense. “We've spoken together for all of five minutes in our lives, my lord. How can you possibly know we could rub along well together?”

“I can tell.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he slid closer to her on the window seat, tilted up her face to his, and kissed her.

Penelope had been kissed before, once or twice. (Not by Edward, of course. He had always been all that was respectful, never giving her more than a chaste kiss on the brow or the cheek.) She had found it awkward, wet, and extremely unwelcome. But Lord Bedlow's mouth was warm and coaxing against hers. It was not really one kiss, but several in quick succession, and she found herself instinctively responding. It was clear that Lord Bedlow knew what he was about. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and a feeling that was unfamiliar and hot and uncomfortable—at least, she
thought
it was uncomfortable, but she wasn't sure—began to stir in the depths of her body. She ached in places it wasn't ladylike to think about. For all she still hadn't decided if the new feeling was uncomfortable or not, she was sure she wanted more.

When he raised his head and let go of her chin, she half expected him to smirk or look triumphant. But he only looked pleased and flushed; his blue eyes, when he opened them, sparkled a little. “And you like Arne's arias.”

Penelope liked Arne a great deal. She suspected she had liked the kiss a great deal too, but it was civil of him not to point that out. “Still, that is hardly a basis to be considering matrimony,” she said as severely as she could when her pulse was racing and she was blushing all over.

The pleased light died out of his eyes. Turning, he stared out the bow window. “I know it. But I've tried everything else.”

She pitied him sincerely. “Have you no other way of making money? Surely you needn't rush into a marriage that—that cannot be what you wish.” She looked away, conscious of her folly in fishing for a compliment when he would have had to be an idiot to contradict her. “I know it isn't done, for a gentleman of your class to engage in business, but I remember you told me that you thought it was clever, making money.”

“Well, I am not particularly clever.” His crooked profile was bleak.

She wanted—she hardly knew what, but to touch him, to comfort him.

“And I need money right away, a great deal of it. I've sold off my mother's favorite estate and my father's guns. I've sold half the silver and most of the horses and all the jewels my mother hasn't hidden under her mattress. I'm putting the town house up for sale tomorrow—but it won't cover a tenth of the debts. I've sold everything I can think of, and it isn't enough. The only thing I have left is myself.” His self-mocking smile was out of place on his boyish face. “I know it's not a very good bargain.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was very sorry, but it would be the height of imprudence even to consider, et cetera, et cetera—and heard herself say, “All right then.”

“You mean you'll marry me?” He turned back to her, his face lighting up.

Again her tongue moved without consultation with her brain. “Well—yes.” Even in the midst of her consternation, his smile was contagious; she found herself smiling foolishly back.

“Oh, this is wonderful. Thank you!” With an effort he looked more grave. “I hope I am sensible of—you won't regret it.”

She regretted it already. Had she really consented? Had she lost her mind? Faintly she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She ought to back out, to tell him she'd made a mistake, that she hadn't considered—but she knew she wouldn't. Some part of her didn't want to.

She squared her shoulders. “I shall do my best to be a good wife to you, even if I'm not the wife of your choosing. I see no reason why two people of good sense and amiable dispositions should not find a tolerable measure of conjugal felicity, even if they are not, perhaps, united by those bonds of affection and familiarity which one might wish.”

He looked a little bewildered by this speech, but he said, “Precisely my sentiments.”