Sharon Sobel
Authors: Lady Larkspur Declines (v5.0) (epub)
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LADY LARKSPUR DECLINES
A Signet Regency Romance
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Signet edition / March 2005
InterMix eBook edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2001 by Sharon Sobel.
Excerpt from
Miss Clarkson’s Classmate
copyright © by Sharon Sobel.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56809-5
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SIGNET LOGO REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
To Allison, Jason and Elizabeth
For whom I helped to develop the first chapters,
but whose stories are entirely their own to write.
With love.
Chapter One
O
ver the plump white shoulder of her oldest and dearest friend, Lady Larkspur noted the entrance of yet another single gentleman into their lofty company. Too tall for her taste and tanned beyond what might be called fashionable, the stranger nevertheless looked like the sort of man who would have once intrigued her sufficiently to require an introduction.
But no longer. Happily, Lark was beyond such girlish concerns now, and on this evening required only the presence of her own dear Hindley Moore.
“He is very late, Lark,” whispered Miss Janet Tavish into her ear, “but he will not come any sooner by your watching for him.”
“You are right, of course,” Lady Larkspur answered, even as she remained vigilant. The newcomer passed off his greatcoat to one of the waiting servants and ran long, thin fingers through his dark hair. He turned, and as he scanned the festive crush, Lark imagined his eyes lingered a moment too long upon herself. They were very light, almost certainly blue, and seemed a little out of character with his saturnine features.
She quickly looked away, only to meet the bemused, knowing expression on Janet’s own sweet face.
“Who is it, then?” Janet smiled.
“Who might it be but Mr. Moore?” Lark shot back, more irritably than her good friend deserved. “I thought I saw him enter, but it appears I am mistaken.”
“Of course,” Janet agreed, as always. She reached up to straighten the lace at Lark’s breast, an act of intimacy surely forgivable among old friends. “But in all these months, I never saw you look upon your beloved with such an expression on your face.”
Lark glanced back at the stranger, silently ordering her lips and eyes to feign perfect indifference. Lord Southard, her brother-in-law and host of this evening’s ball, had already engaged
him in conversation. They laughed at some private joke, and the stranger clapped John companionably on the shoulder. Really, this was impossible! Who was he?
“I surely do not know what you mean, Janet. Between Hindley and myself there are special—”
“Is he already arrived, Lark?” interrupted a voice at her shoulder. Lady Larkspur did not have to turn to know her oldest sister now joined them, and she did not have to ask who “he” might be. Truly, this began to prove very tiresome.
“He is not yet here, Del,” Janet answered for her. “And I fear if he does not come soon to claim his lady, she will likely be seduced into dancing with another.”
“How can you say such a thing!” Lark protested. “Hindley and I have an understanding so perfect and delightful, I would never be induced to look upon another. To dance with someone else would be a punishment.”
“Your loyalty is admirable, dear sister. I only hope the gentleman deserves it.”
Several moments passed in silence, as each of the women managed to look upon anything but the face of one of the others. They all knew of Hindley Moore’s long association with a certain Miss Eleanor Davenport of Oxford, and of how that lady had disappointed him when her betrothal to another was announced six months ago. Almost immediately, Mr. Moore turned his attention to Lady Larkspur, the only remaining unattached daughter of Lord and Lady Leicester’s five children and one possessed of a very persuasive dowry. Lark, who at twenty-four had already stood as bridesmaid to three younger sisters, welcomed Mr. Moore’s advances with a happiness that might have been born from a certain desperation.
“I believe he does,” Lark said quietly, finally meeting her sister Delphinium’s interested gaze.
“I am happy for you, dear Lark. I wish you happiness ever equal to what I share with John.” Del smiled as she looked across the company to her husband and raised her hand in a sign of greeting. “But I fear my guests have become impatient for the music to begin, and we ought not wait any longer. Father intended to announce your betrothal to Mr. Moore before you stepped out for the first dance, but it must be deferred until his arrival. I am sure he
will be along soon. Shall we plan to raise a toast when we break for dinner?”
“I am sure the announcement will be as well received then as now,” Lark said graciously, though she truly would have preferred to stand up with Hindley for every set. Now, in his absence, she would be obliged to remain against the wall with the matrons and the girls unlucky enough to have no partner.
“I am sure of it,” repeated Del with an air of finality. “And now I see John signaling for me to join him. I hope I have the endurance for this long evening.”
Lark glanced down at the smooth, flowing lines of Del’s pale blue gown, doubting if anyone present, save their immediate family and a few close friends, knew she was increasing. Two little girls already slept upstairs, and John and Del entertained high hopes for the birth of an heir—as surely as Lark’s own parents once had before the births of their five daughters.
With a knowing smile, Lark followed Del’s gaze in John’s direction. He still stood with the dark stranger, their heads bowed together in some serious discussion. The newcomer broke away first, raising his brow in a gesture of surprise and looking over the company. Before his eyes could once again settle upon her, Lark reclaimed her sister’s attention.
“But first—name the gentleman who engages John so completely. I am sure I have never seen him before.”
Janet started to laugh, but was quickly stopped by Lark’s deft little kick to her ankle.
Del stood silently, perhaps asking herself the same question.
“Why, he is very handsome, is he not?” she asked.
“It cannot possibly matter, unless we wish to direct him to our good friend Janet Tavish.”
“I am not at all—” Janet began, undoubtedly to remind the sisters of her affection for the local curate.
But Del interrupted. “He must be Mr. Queensman. He and John were in the Americas together during one of the conflicts, but I do not believe they have seen each other in many years.”
“He is a soldier, then?” Lark asked a little too readily.
“No, he is not—at least not in the usual sense. He is a physician, and he accompanied the troops on their campaign. When
John went down near the fort at Lake Champlain, I believe Mr. Queensman attended him. They became friends at that time.”
“How fortuitous for John. Must we thank Mr. Queensman for saving his life?” asked Lark, a little tartly.
Del looked at her in surprise. “I most certainly shall. But it will not be my only reason for greeting the gentleman with warmth. Quite by coincidence, he is also somewhat related to us.”
Now it was Lark who was surprised. Surely she had never heard his name before, and she was often admired for her remarkable memory. But soon she nodded her head with a growing sense of recognition.
“Is he yet another beggar?” she asked disdainfully. “Someone who imagines he stands in line to Father’s title if none of us manage to produce a son?”
Such hopefuls occasionally presented themselves at Leicester Park, full of mighty expectations and little thread on which to hang them.
