One Moonlit Night (Moonlight Square: A Prequel Novella)

Moonlight Square: A Prequel Novella

One Moonlit Night

Gaelen Foley

Chapter 1

Star-Crossed

I
t was battle royal in the Beresford household, and eldest daughter Lady Katrina Glendon felt herself under attack from all sides.

All five of her younger sisters were hollering at her at once, some in tears, others wailing that they’d all end up spinsters because of her.

“Papa, she’s ruining my life!”

“Mine too!”

“
And
she wrecked my favorite hat!” Lady Betsy screeched, while the youngest, Lady Jane, aged thirteen, kicked the wall because nobody ever listened to her.

The purest rage, however, came from Lady Abigail, sister number two, aged twenty: the prettiest. “How long do you expect Freddie to wait for me, Trinny?” she demanded, taking an angry step toward her. “If I lose him just because you’re too much of an odd duck to land a husband—”

“Now, Abby, that is taking it much too far,” Papa interjected, appearing in the drawing room doorway with a vexed frown when the volume of the noise had overcome even his will to ignore his chaotic household. “Your sister is not an odd
duck
.”

“Oh, yes, she is Papa!” Abby ground out. “That’s why none of her suitors ever asked to marry her! You have to
do
something about her before Freddie gives up on me! Are we supposed to wait forever before we can marry?”

“He’s not going to give up on you, Abby. That boy would walk through fire for you,” Trinny answered, head down, her breath nearly stolen by the pain of her sister’s cruel-but-true summation.

She wrapped her arms around her middle. Her own disappointed shock at the news that her supposed suitor, Cecil Cooper, had just got engaged to Miss Dawson did not seem to signify to anyone. But for her part, Trinny was reeling.

What did I do wrong this time?

Her eyes filled with tears as a hot whirlwind of confusion churned in her heart and promptly turned to despair.
I really think he was my last hope.

The reality sank in that having arrived at twenty-two, maybe she really
was
at her last prayer.
But why? I don’t understand. I’m not that bad.
Why
doesn’t anyone ever pick me?

“George, Abigail is right. You really must do something,” Mama insisted, her face etched with her permanent look of weary exasperation. She paused. “There’s always Lord Tuttle,” she said meaningfully to her husband.

“Oh, Papa, no!” Trinny gasped in revulsion and looked sharply at her mother.

“Yes, Papa! Do it, do it!” her younger sisters cheered. “Make her marry Tuttle the Tortoise!”

If the eligible bachelors of Moonlight Square only knew the designations the Glendon girls had dreamed up to keep them all straight…

“Oh, please keep your voices down, you mad tribe of Amazons. You’re giving me a headache,” Papa huffed.

“Girls, the neighbors will hear you!” Mama agreed.

But there was no quieting five opinionated young ladies when they felt the world had wronged them.

“It’s a perfect match! The Tortoise is even odder than Trinny!” Gwendolyn said with a snicker.

“Then she can be Trinny,
Lady
Tortoise!” Jane burst out, pointing at her, rousing uproarious laughter from Betsy and titters from the rest.

Lord Beresford heaved a sigh and looked regretfully at his firstborn.

Trinny’s eyes widened at his
I give up
glance. “Oh, Papa, you wouldn’t!” she cried, while Abigail folded her arms across her chest and gave her a smug look.

Trinny threw up her hands. “The man takes a year to speak a sentence!”

“
And
he’s bald,” Betsy pointed out with a vengeful grin, as though it were only Trinny’s rightful comeuppance for inconveniencing them all by driving her suitors away time after time with her impertinent remarks and odd topics of conversation.

Betsy turned to Mama. “Can I have her room once she’s married off?”

Their dam ignored the little opportunist and endeavored to set her eldest straight. “Katrina, you’ve already had
four
Seasons, and now we’re onto the fifth? This is getting a little ridiculous! What of all your sisters?”

The beautiful red-haired countess gestured at the rest of her brood, three of whom had already made their debuts. “Are they all to have the same? You’ll put your father in the poor house!”

“I’d hardly say that,” the earl muttered, then glanced grimly at his lady. “But if that is your wish, I will drop a hint to the baron tomorrow at the club.”

Trinny swept the lot of them with an overwhelmed glance—and fled.

“Get back here this instant, young lady!” Mama ordered.

“Oh, leave her alone, Alice,” Papa muttered.

“Girls, go to your rooms,” was the last thing Trinny heard her mother say as she snatched the park key off its peg near the door before bursting out of the house.

Outside, the night’s satin darkness blanketed Moonlight Square, hiding the tears that leaped into her eyes; she gulped for air as the late-April breeze tried to cool her burning cheeks.

The stars danced overhead and the plane trees swayed in the park across the street, but nothing could soothe away the sting of failing yet again to be chosen, wanted, desired…

Loved.

Wiping two tears quickly off her cheeks, she glanced up and down the street, but thankfully, none of her neighbors were out. She could not have borne to exchange niceties right now or answer questions like:
Wasn’t Cecil Cooper courting you for a while there, dear?

Oh, yes, ma’am!
she would have barked at any nosy matron who might’ve asked the question of her right now. Which just went to show what a socially incompetent quiz she really was.

Her chin trembled and fresh tears jumped up into her eyes, exasperating her.
Blast it!

Desperate to escape her own irksome life, Trinny ran down the few front steps of the Beresfords’ elegant Town house, dashed across the quaint cobbled street, and fumbled to unlock the wrought iron gate to the private park that sat in the center of the garden square.

It would no doubt be deserted at this hour. It was open to the public during the day, but only the square’s residents had keys to enjoy the park at night.

Whirling through the gate, she slammed it shut behind her with a satisfying bang and heard the lock click.

Ha.
At least now her maddening family could not follow.

Legs still trembling beneath her, stomach in knots, she strode down the winding graveled path, the night breeze rippling through the tall, graceful branches overhead. A nightingale’s lonely warbling and the perfume of the huge, mounded lilacs offered comfort, but when she came to the picturesque garden folly, she rushed up the few steps into it, crossed it, and paced twice back and forth, hands clenching and unclenching in dread and futile rage.

Then she leaned her back against one of the posts, buried her face in her hands…

And bawled.

# # #

Across the street from the garden square, the Grand Albion was lit up with its usual elegance—though not the famed Assembly Rooms on the upper floor, for it was merely Tuesday, not yet time for the essential Thursday night ball. Likewise, the few exclusive apartments on the top floor of the hotel were also quiet. But down on the ground level, the gentlemen’s club in the back was lively with all the usual card games and billiards matches underway.

Gable Winston-McCray, Viscount Roland, heir to the Sefton earldom, smoked his cheroot and sipped his single malt Scotch, idly waiting for his turn to show his cards.

All the while, he listened in amusement to the banter among his club mates seated around the green baize table.

“But how the hell do you do it, Netherford? How does he always end up snaring every luscious new actress that prances onto the stage?”

“It’s because he’s a duke.”

“And filthy rich.”

“Oh, that has nothing to do with it, I assure you,” Netherford drawled with a wicked smirk, then won another hand.

“Bastard,” Gable muttered good-naturedly, shoving his chips toward the dark-haired duke yet again.

Just then, one of the club’s liveried footmen came speeding over to Gable with a silver tray. “Lord Roland. This just came for you, sir.”

Gable looked at the note lying there on the tray and heaved a sigh. “If this is from my father, I am going to scream. Fair warning, lads.”

He did not scream, as it turned out. He read the brief note, arched a brow, and murmured, “Hmm.”

“Something wrong, Rollo?” his friend Lord Sidney asked.

“Ah, I have to go. Something I need to take care of.”

“For Papa?” Netherford goaded him.

“For a lady,” he replied with an equally wicked smile.

“Aha. Now that’s the kind of summons I like getting at this hour,” Netherford said.

Lord Tuttle huffed. “You good-looking bastards annoy the rest of us to no end,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Gable said dryly. He rose, then downed the last of his Scotch. “Evening, lads.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Netherford called.

Sidney scoffed. “And what might that leave out, exactly?”

Their banter faded as Gable marched off on his mission. It wasn’t quite what his friends had assumed, but the frantic note from Lady Hayworth did touch upon their assignation of earlier that day.

You must find it at once and get it back to me! My husband gave me those earrings. If one turns up missing, he’ll fly into a rage!

Unconcerned about old Hayworth or his drunken temper, Gable strolled out of the club into the agreeable spring night, then narrowed his eyes as he gazed across the street at the garden square. He walked over to the shoulder-high wrought iron fence around the park.

He did not feel like running home to get his park key, so he clenched his cheroot between his teeth, took off his tailcoat, and vaulted over the fence, landing in the park. Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he tucked a hand in his pocket and strolled back to the scene of his tryst with the infamously willing Lady Hayworth that afternoon. A quick romp in the garden folly had taken quite the edge off.

He was bemused to hear she had lost the earring, for that matter, since they had barely undressed. There had been no need, with her sitting on his lap, both of them swept up in the cheap thrill of maybe getting caught. The only real surprise was that he hadn’t accidentally swallowed the thing.

Gable suddenly stopped short when he stepped around a bend in the winding path and the gazebo came into view.

Occupied.

His eyes narrowed, and his brow slowly furrowed as his gaze homed in on some poor female sobbing her heart out there.

Bloody hell.

Gingerly venturing closer, he softened his steps so the gravel wouldn’t crunch. It felt wrong to invade her grief, whoever she was.

I could wait,
he thought.
Finish my cheroot. Maybe she’s almost done.

But future earls didn’t like waiting, as a rule.

He took another drag, frowned to note that his cheroot was down to a nub anyway, then tossed it down and crushed it out under the heel of his new boot, unsure how to proceed.

Wonder what’s so wrong,
he thought. Then it occurred to him that if the woman accidentally found the diamond first, she might try to claim it. He had no intention of buying his paramour another, so he concluded,
I’ll just try not to disturb her.

As he walked on, her crying grew louder. Her shoulders shook, and he felt a tug of amused sympathy.
Poor thing.
As he neared, the moonlight gleamed off her smooth, shiny, pale-red hair, alerting him that she must be one of Lord Beresford’s daughters.

How many of them there were exactly, Gable did not know. He could not tell the lot of pretty little redheads apart. Nor had he tried.

It was not wise for a dedicated rakehell to stare overlong at the daughters of a neighboring lord, unless he wished to have a bride thrust upon him.

Which Gable wanted like a hole in the head, so he kept his eyes to himself whenever he saw them.