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  A Season for Love

  Cynthia Breeding

  England, 1814

  “Umph!” Elizabeth Townsend landed on her backside in a patch of mud and melting snow that made the winding road through the forests of Northhamptonshire treacherous. She grimaced as her horse galloped off toward home without her. Her uncle, the Earl of Dewberry, wouldn’t be happy to see one of his prize Andalusians arrive at the stables frothed up and riderless. She probably shouldn’t have taken the mare out, but it was such a beautifully warm day with the hint of spring around the corner.

  And it was also rutting season. The big, many-pronged buck had leapt out of the trees, startling the horse into rearing while Elizabeth wool-gathered. Now here she was, in a wet puddle with her brown velvet riding habit no doubt ruined.

  She bit her lip. Uncle James and Aunt Catherine had been kind to take her in when her parents were killed in a carriage accident shortly before Yule. They’d been generous in supplying her wardrobe—the countess said the simple woolen dresses Elizabeth had worn as a vicar’s daughter simply wouldn’t do—still, the earl had two daughters who would need numerous gowns and day-dresses when they moved to Town for the Season. Elizabeth didn’t want to be a further burden.

  Hoof beats of a cantering horse sounded from the direction she’d come. Elizabeth pushed to her feet, thinking to seek cover behind a tree and then cried out as she tried to put weight on her right foot.

  The horse careened around the bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, splaying mud as the startled rider slid down from the saddle.

  “Are you all right? What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  “I’m— Ouch!” She winced as she gingerly tried to put her foot down again.

  “What a cad I am!” With three long strides, he was at her side, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, leaning her weight against his thigh and relieving her foot of any pressure.

  Elizabeth gasped. Never had a man been this close to her—well, Papa, of course, but— She looked up into eyes nearly as green as the pines behind her. Eyes fringed with sooty black lashes that matched the raven hair worn rather unfashionably long, curling over the open collar of his cravat-less shirt. She glimpsed a dusting of chest hair and stone-chiseled muscles that seemed to extend beneath his cloak to very broad shoulders. His leg, tightly encased in buff-colored breeches, seemed equally hard.

  She was pressed against his thigh. In fact, her whole body was nestled alongside his in the most improper way…and it felt good. Dear Lord, what was she thinking? Did she have attics to let? Elizabeth pushed away.

  He looked amused, but released his hold enough to create some space between them. Before she could take a full breath, however, he was down on bended knee, hiking her riding skirt up to her knee.

  “Sirrah!” She tried brushing her skirt down, but he just pushed it back up and began removing her half-boot. “This is most indecent!”

  He glanced up, his full mouth curving into a smile. “I am only checking your ankle to make sure it is not broken. Put your hands on my shoulders to steady yourself.”

  Elizabeth hesitated and then, tentatively placed her hand on one of them—to keep from falling, of course—and inhaled sharply. His shoulder was as hard as granite. She hadn’t imagined it. As tan as he was, he must be used to a lot of outdoor work. She glanced at his clothes. Simply cut, but clean; his cloak worsted wool.

  His warm hand closed over her foot, his long fingers gently pressing around her ankle. Tiny prickles of heat coursed up her leg and her breath hitched.

  A Season for Love

  Cynthia Breeding

  A Regency Romance

  ~~~

  Highland Press Publishing

  Florida

  A Season for Love

  Copyright ©2012 Cynthia Breeding

  Cover Copyright ©2012 Amber Dawn Bell

  Produced in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information, please contact

  Highland Press Publishing,

  PO Box 2292, High Springs, FL 32655.

  www.highlandpress.org

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, save actual historical figures. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  PRINT ISBN: 978-0-9833960-5-5 (Court of Love)

  HIGHLAND PRESS PUBLISHING

  Tea Time

  A Season for Love

  England, 1814

  Chapter One

  “Umph!” Elizabeth Townsend landed on her backside in a patch of mud and melting snow that made the winding road through the forests of Northhamptonshire treacherous. She grimaced as her horse galloped off toward home without her. Her uncle, the Earl of Dewberry, wouldn’t be happy to see one of his prize Andalusians arrive at the stables frothed up and riderless. She probably shouldn’t have taken the mare out, but it was such a beautifully warm day with the hint of spring around the corner.

  And it was also rutting season. The big, many-pronged buck had leapt out of the trees, startling the horse into rearing while Elizabeth wool-gathered. Now here she was, in a wet puddle with her brown velvet riding habit no doubt ruined.

  She bit her lip. Uncle James and Aunt Catherine had been kind to take her in when her parents were killed in a carriage accident shortly before Yule. They’d been generous in supplying her wardrobe—the countess said the simple woolen dresses Elizabeth had worn as a vicar’s daughter simply wouldn’t do—still, the earl had two daughters who would need numerous gowns and day-dresses when they moved to Town for the Season. Elizabeth didn’t want to be a further burden.

  Hoofbeats of a cantering horse sounded from the direction she’d come. Elizabeth pushed to her feet, thinking to seek cover behind a tree and then cried out as she tried to put weight on her right foot.

  The horse careened around the bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, splaying mud as the startled rider slid down from the saddle.

  “Are you all right? What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  “I am— Ouch!” She winced as she gingerly tried to put her foot down again.

  “What a cad I am!” With three long strides, he was at her side, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, leaning her weight against his thigh and relieving her foot of any pressure.

  Elizabeth gasped. Never had a man been this close to her—well, Papa, of course, but… She looked up into eyes nearly as green as the pines behind her. Eyes fringed with sooty black lashes that matched the raven hair worn rather unfashionably long, curling over the open collar of his cravat-less shirt. She glimpsed a dusting of chest hair and stone-chiseled muscles that seemed to extend beneath his cloak to very broad shoulders. His leg, tightly encased in buff-colored breeches, seemed equally hard.

  She was pressed against his thigh. In fact, her whole body was nestled alongside his in the most improper way…and it felt good. Dear Lord, what was she thinking? Did she have attics to let? Elizabeth pushed away.

  He looked amused, but released his hold enough to create some space between them. Before she could take a full breath, however, he was down on bended knee, hiking her riding skirt up to her knee.

  “Sirrah!” She tried brushing her skirt down, but he just pushed it back up and began removing her half-boot. “This is most indecent!”<
br />
  He glanced up, his full mouth curving into a smile. “I am only checking your ankle to make sure it is not broken. Put your hands on my shoulders to steady yourself.”

  Elizabeth hesitated and then, tentatively placed her hand on one of them—to keep from falling, of course—and inhaled sharply. His shoulder was as hard as granite. She hadn’t imagined it. As tan as he was, he must be used to a lot of outdoor work. She glanced at his clothes. Simply cut, but clean; his cloak worsted wool.

  His warm hand closed over her foot, his long fingers gently pressing around her ankle. Tiny prickles of heat coursed up her leg and her breath hitched.

  He appeared not to notice as he slipped her boot carefully back on. “It looks like a sprain. You will need to stay off it for a few days.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head. Having done volunteer work at a London hospital, she agreed with him. “Pray tell, are you a physician, sirrah?”

  “No. Just a soldier who has tended more wounded men than I care to count.” He placed one arm behind her knees, the other under her arms and stood in one easy motion.

  “What are you doing? Put me down!”

  “You cannot walk, Miss…what is your name, by the way? You do not look familiar.”

  She was sitting sideways on his saddle before she could answer. “Elizabeth Townsend,” she said as he swung up behind her. “I just arrived here two months ago. My uncle is the Earl of Dewberry.” She hoped that wouldn’t intimidate him, but he merely nodded.

  “Then you are not far from home.” He cradled her with one arm and turned his horse in that direction. “My name is Darian. My parents live on the next estate over.”

  Elizabeth felt her eyes grow round. “You live on the Duke of Stafford’s property? What do your parents do?”

  “Mostly, they manage the property.”

  His mother must be the chatelaine then, and his father probably the majordomo. That would explain his manners and good speech. But it really wasn’t polite to pry.

  He grinned and changed the subject. “If I am going to get you home before sunset, we will have to pick up the pace. Wrap your arms around me and hold tight.”

  She really shouldn’t. It was terribly scandalous…but who would see out here in the country? She slipped one arm half-way around his narrow waist.

  His grin widened and he took her other arm, pulling it around him until she was pressed firmly against the hard wall of his chest. She inhaled the clean, male scent of him, slightly soapy, with a hint of spice as well. He felt…good.

  “Now hold on,” he said and the horse lurched into a gallop, heading home.

  * * * *

  “Oooh! An invitation to the duke’s ball!” Julianna’s golden curls shook as she grabbed the ivory parchment envelope the doorman had just delivered. “Will we have time to have gowns made?”

  Isabella tossed her mane of pale blonde hair behind her and snatched away the envelope. “It depends on when it is, goose.” She scanned the invitation quickly and her violet eyes widened. “It is a week from this Saturday.”

  Worry showed in Julianna’s more cornflower-colored eyes. “We have only one seamstress here at the estate. She will never be able to get two—” her gaze shifted to Elizabeth who was quietly working on her embroidery in the solar window—“or three gowns done in that time.”

  “Well, she will simply have to work her fingers to the bone then,” Isabella answered. “Elizabeth can wear one of my other gowns.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her work. “Does the invitation include me?”

  “It says ‘family’,” Julianna answered. “I am sure Papa is not going to hide you away as a poor relation—oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “I am sorry. I did not mean to imply—”

  “Do you suppose the duke’s son has returned from the Continent?” Isabella interrupted.

  “Which one?” Julianna asked.

  “The duke’s heir, of course, the Marquess of Bingington. I do so wish to see him before we move to Town and the Season starts. Every debutante will be throwing herself at him and Papa thinks we would suit.”

  “I hardly remember him,” Julianna replied, “but I think his brother, Edward, had a tendre for you. I remember several years ago he offered to brush the dust off your skirt at a picnic.”

  “Only because he was an incorrigible scapegrace even then.” Isabella tried to sound haughty, but she blushed a little. “I certainly did not allow it.”

  Julianna’s eyes widened. “Of course not! Papa would have an apoplexy if he had known!”

  “Yes, well. Edward proved himself to be quite the rake two years ago, ruining that Johnson girl’s reputation and then not offering to marry her.”

  Julianna nodded. “Not even when her brother called him out.”

  “Dueling is illegal. The duke did the best thing by sending Edward to Italy.”

  “Are you defending him?”

  “Certainly not!” Isabella snapped. “It is just that the Johnson girl was somewhat of a hoyden. No doubt she thought to entrap Edward into marriage.”

  “Well,” Julianna sighed, “it turned out to be best for her. She managed to marry a viscount a year later. Edward would be safe if he came home.”

  “But he would not have a title.”

  Elizabeth turned back to her embroidery as Isabella prattled on about the accomplishments of the duke’s son, the Marquis of Bingington, who’d distinguished himself in the Peninsular War fighting with Kempt’s Brigade under the command of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington. The girls started giggling as they also exchanged bits of gossip and scandal they’d heard about Edward’s escapades in Italy. Apparently, the duke’s second son was something of a rake wherever he went.

  She smiled, thinking of Darian and how nice and helpful he’d been. The earl had sent a carriage to look for her the day she landed in the puddle and they’d been met on the road. She’d had to take only one look at the coachman’s raised eyebrow to know how totally improper her seating arrangement on the horse was and had hastily slipped down, hopping on one foot until Darian shook his head and carried her to the waiting curricle. Darian offered to escort the buggy home, but Elizabeth thanked him and said it wasn’t necessary. She sighed, wondering if she would get a glimpse of him at the ball. Probably not. Soldiers who were sons of servants—albeit it highly placed ones—wouldn’t be putting in appearances at a peerage ball.

  “Ouch!” She sucked the tiny drop of blood from her fingertip where she’d poked herself. Embroidery was nothing she enjoyed doing, but Aunt Catherine had frowned upon learning she’d taken out one of the horses. In order to avoid being banned from the stables and the horses she loved—since she had to keep off her foot anyhow—she’d quickly volunteered to work on an altar cloth for the church.

  “Are you hurt?” Julianna asked.

  “Do not be silly,” Isabella said. “Elizabeth is hardly going to become a watering pot over a tiny prick in her finger.”

  As the girls turned back to discussing the delicious on-dits concerning the now even more devastating Lord Bingington, she smiled a little. Isabella was ten-and-seven and Julianna a year younger. They were both looking forward to the Season in Town, where a possible suitor might become a betrothed. Both of them were pretty—Isabella, with her pale silvery hair and violet eyes, always attracted attention while Julianna, with bouncy golden curls and bright, blue eyes, quickly became friends with everyone.

  Elizabeth swept back a strand of her own chestnut brown hair. Her uncle had told her she would be attending at the balls as well, but at two-and-twenty, she knew she was almost classified as being put on the shelf as a spinster. She wasn’t looking forward to a Season. Her father’s parish had been on the outskirts of Mayfair and she was familiar with the ton’s unwritten rules and expectations. Even if the earl were to provide a small dowry, which he’d never mentioned, she would hardly be a suitable match for any of the young swains hoping to better themselves through marriage.

  The most she could hope fo
r was to marry a son of a merchant or possibly a tenant farmer…or a soldier? She smiled. Darian would do very nicely. A professional soldier was nothing to be ashamed of and yet, without peerage, he wouldn’t reach too high. Perhaps she should ask her uncle about it.

  If only she could catch a glimpse of Darian when she went to the ball.

  * * * *

  “Now remember,” Isabella said to Juliana as they alighted from the carriage the night of the ball, “a left-hand flutter with your fan means, ‘come here’ and the a right-hand flutter is a flirty, ‘You are too bold.’ And, for Heaven’s sake, do not close your fan and tap your face with it!”

  Julianna rolled her eyes and then giggled. “Lud! I certainly will not tell a man I love him with a fan gesture.”

  “And also remember,” Isabella continued, “do not get coquettish when we are introduced to Lord Bingington. If he is to be my husband, it will not do to have my sister throwing herself at him.” She smoothed the skirt of the watered-silk lavender gown that made her eyes look even more brilliantly purple. “How do I look?”

  “Like a future marchioness.” Julianna stuck out her tongue at her sister. “Maybe Lord Bingington will be gray-headed and balding. He is almost thirty.”

  Elizabeth smiled at that as she followed the girls up the stairs to the massive double-doors of the main entrance. Thirty probably did seem old to them although Isabella had dwelt on Lord Bingington’s title of Marquess—and her future title—once they’d learned the duke’s son was indeed back from the Continent. The earl even made a trip to the duke’s estate—ostensibly to discuss the breeding of one of his Andalusians—but Elizabeth knew from the excited whispers and giggles when he’d returned, that he’d also started the fly buzzing in the duke’s ear about a possible match.