Read A Duke's son to the rescue (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 4) Online
Authors: Regina Darcy
The young woman who was briskly walking to her destination did not notice the interest of the men—not all of them gentlemen—who paused in their labours and conversations to admire her impeccable posture, resplendent hair the colour of cinnamon, and her straightforward gaze which did not employ the coy habits of other women of marriageable age. Had any of them wished to engage her interest, they would have failed in their attempts if they chose to praise her for her beauty, or to strike a sonnet in tribute to her carriage. But if any of them had the inspiration to talk of ships, of ports in other countries or the products that sailed upon the ships populating the oceans of the world, or the unassailable legacy of seafaring London, they would have had no trouble in attracting her attention.
Unlike others of her sex, who had been reared to regard themselves as matrimonial quarry, Elizabeth Hargrave had been raised by a widowed father who, a novice in the upbringing of daughters, had treated his only child like a beloved apprentice. Henry Hargrave was a merchant, a very successful one, and his faith in the East India Company was unswerving. The bustle of the docks, the crowds made up of merchants, ship-owners and shipbuilders in many ways had been her formal schooling. Her father had become a widower and a father in the same moment Elizabeth’s mother died in childbirth. But he had accepted God’s will and brought up his daughter with a reverence for England’s commerce that probably, if he considered it at all, rivalled his sense of duty to the Almighty. He was proud of his reputation and his business prowess and his daughter was an integral part of what he had built.
There was always something new to discover on the docks and Elizabeth had grown up with London as her classroom. To see London through its ships was to witness the true England, the nation which had become an empire because its fleet was bold, its sailors experienced, and its seafaring identity one which had been constant throughout the country’s existence. The new century that was just two years old seemed so very modern compared to the previous one. While it was true that Great Britain’s King George III was regrettably mad, English eyes kept their focus on the goings-on across the Channel. There, the French bloodbath of the previous years had seemingly been staunched by the rise to power of a man named Napoleon; his ambitions kept politicians and military leaders throughout Europe and Russia vigilant. She thought of Napoleon often, as did most British, but Great Britain itself seemed to go on as it always had. Napoleon had been heard to dismiss the British as a nation of shopkeepers, but Elizabeth’s father, instead of being insulted by the reputed remark, had applauded it. Britain, he told Elizabeth, would continue to thrive as long as its shopkeepers, merchants, and the East India Company continued to be the backbone of the Empire.
It seemed to Elizabeth that surely all the world passed through London by way of the docks. When she was a child, she had thought of the docks as London’s doors, opening wide to let in the ships of all nations and their products. She remembered her father laughing at her words, but with pride, as if she had happened upon knowledge beyond her years.
As she made her way to her father’s office, it was the building, not the eyes of male admirers, along the dock that held her in rapt attention. The West India docks, now nearing the end of their construction, would soon be bearing the wealth of the world as it was unloaded from the ships; the docks would showcase the sugar, tea, grain and the other products of other places. They were a new mercantile adventure, one which bore close observation. Her father was a vigorous supporter of the enterprise and his hard work and advocacy were poised to enrich the commercial fortunes of London and also make Henry Hargrave a wealthy man.
Having reached her father’s office, a three-storey building located in the pulsing heart of the commercial sector of the docks, Elizabeth opened the door and disappeared from view, unaware that one keen pair of eyes in particular had been following her closely. The gentleman looked at the sign above the entrance way. His eyebrows rose. Hargrave and Daughter, East India Company, was neatly lettered, boldly announcing to all who passed by that here, on England’s newest docks, was a man of business who apparently did not know that women’s brains were not suited for the intricate workings of commerce. The Earl of Strathmore, intrigued by this revelation, bade farewell to his companions and continued on his way, his thoughts spinning like the silken strands of a spider’s web as he pondered the potential of this development.
Inside the office, Elizabeth went directly to her desk. Mr George had already arrived and had brewed tea.
“Good morning, Miss Hargrave,” he said, formal as always as he poured her a cup.
“Good morning, Mr George,” she replied. Mr George was her father’s right-hand man, assisting him in the many aspects of his work as a merchant. There was nothing that Henry Hargrave could request of him that Mr George would not accede to and her father trusted his assistant completely. Mr George had come into the business by a most curious process. Henry Hargrave regarded slavery as an abomination; he was a vigorous supporter of Wilberforce’s campaign to abolish the institution but for a few days in the late 1790s, he had been a slave-owner. That was when he had seen Mr George on the auction block, the proud black man with the accent of Jamaica, bearing the scars of past whippings, offered for sale to whomever had the price. Offended by the practice, Henry Hargrave had outbid every man there. He had brought Mr George to his place of business and offered him his freedom and a job. The dignified young man had been wary at first but he soon realised, when his manumission papers were in his hand, that Henry Hargrave had been serious.
Mr George soon learned the business of the docks and he had an advantage that another assistant would have lacked. Mr George knew commerce from its seamy underbelly. He was aware of the graft and corruption, the evil and greed that ruled many of London’s merchants and nowhere was this side of the city more visible than in the transactions that took place within the naval outposts of Great Britain. If Mr George regarded his former owner as naïve, he never said so, but Elizabeth knew that Mr George, unlike her father, had no illusions about his fellow man. He had seen too much.
“Is Papa already out?” she asked, sipping her tea and appreciating the generous serving of sugar which Mr George had added. Sugar was not merely a sweetener that added flavour to the beverage; it was another of the products of the docks which travelled from ship to port to customer, expanding the profits of the canny merchants who sold it. Elizabeth had learned to her sums upon receipts and bills of lading; geography had been a lesson taught according to the flags under which the world’s ships sailed; she perfected her French, mastered German, and acquired Spanish as a result of the business which passed through her father’s office. She was less adept at embroidery, watercolours, and playing the harp than other young ladies of genteel upbringing who sought to impress their prospective suitors with their feminine accomplishments, but adding a column of numbers in her head, arguing costs in a merchant’s native tongue, and knowing which ship carried which cargo were attributes prized by her father. Henry Hargrave had no notion of how he should rear a marriageable daughter, and there was no woman at home to guide him in these arcane concepts, so he did the best he could.
Her father did not know that there were times when Elizabeth wondered if her zeal for business should have been muted in favour of the quest for a husband. At twenty-five, well past the age when most Englishwomen were married and had started a family, she was aware that she was decidedly a spinster in the ‘old maid’ category, on the shelf and unlikely to entice matrimonial prospects. Any young gentlemen she knew, such as Nathaniel Woodstock, she counted as friends or colleagues in business, wholly separate from the work of Love. But it was not something she could discuss with her father, who saw her as the heir to his business, and not as someone’s potential wife.
The door opened. Elizabeth looked up from her ledger and Mr George’s head turned from the teapot.
“Good day to you both,” said the gentleman who had entered. He brought with him a sense of action rather than leisure and his complexion gave evidence of an active life spent outdoors that seemed at odds with his exquisitely-tailored garments, the cut of his coat, and his aristocratic bearing, which bespoke, even before he gave his name, of a lineage that was familiar to
Debrett’s New Peerage
. “Might I have a word with Mr Hargrave?”
Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, cleared his throat nervously, wishing he were anywhere but here, in the assembly rooms of the Bookman Arms. He had come to visit Nathaniel Hughes, Viscount of Wiltshire, his dearest friend since boyhood. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire.
Lord Wiltshire had invited him to attend the annual Mariners’ Ball. Whilst their views on the fairer sex differed wildly, since the Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Lord Wiltshire’s recent string of heartbroken mistresses, a night in the Viscount’s company always proved anything but boring. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
The Viscount was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
One woman in particular made this infirmity even more pronounced, because he did more than find her eye-catching. The Earl was completely enamoured with her.
As he had watched her blossom into an accomplished young woman, he found himself incapable of either declaring his intentions or commencing a courtship.
Yes, Phoebe Alexander had stolen his heart even before her very first debutant ball.
Ever since her outing, he had been dreading that her affections would soon belong to another. He sighed deeply and sipped on his drink.
No doubt, he should be looking for Wiltshire, whom he now suspected had brought him here because he knew of Beckton’s affections for Miss Alexander and was playing Cupid.
It had been four years since he had first become smitten by the lovely Phoebe, and a year since he had been informed by his father, on his deathbed, of the agreement which he had reached with Phoebe’s father, Mr Percival Alexander. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, betrothing him to Phoebe. And if his father were to be believed, this arrangement had been made when several years ago. Both parents had hoped that their children would naturally gravitate towards each other, eventually.
He sidestepped a tipsy gentleman who was arguing rather loudly with a friend as they walked by. The man stumbled, jostling the Earl’s hand and spilling the drink he held in it. Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to put down the now almost empty glass and wipe himself off with his kerchief. He did not want to reek like a drunkard. In a few minutes, the dancing would begin, and he would hold the woman he loved in his arms for the first time.
His skin grew warm as he thought of all that he would like to say to her, because he knew none of it would be said. The very thought of holding her, even at the distance demanded by good manners, and with as little actual touching as there would be, tied him up in knots. He hated that he was so weak in this one respect, the one where he most wished to be strong. He did not wish to drive her away, but long experience had taught him that unless he could find a way to utter more than a few monosyllables, he was doomed to lose her.
She was his betrothed…but he needed to win her affections. What sort of marriage would he otherwise have? The thought of being tied to a woman who despised him made his head hurt.
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and he turned to search the room for Phoebe. He spied her standing with her parents on the other side of the room, looking as uncomfortable and unsure as he felt. Their eyes met, and she offered a polite smile. He did not return it.
He could not make his lips spread, or his cheeks crease, and he saw with a sinking heart that a frown replaced her smile. He looked away for a moment, to gather himself, and then he walked over to where she was standing and extended his hand.
“Miss Alexander, I would be honoured if you were to grace me with your consent to this first dance.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Beckton, however—” she began, but was interrupted by her mother, who spoke effusively.
“It is certainly an honour for our dear Phoebe, my lord,” she said. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a second until Phoebe accepted his extended arm, and walked with the Earl to the dance floor. They danced a set together in almost complete silence, after the required pleasantries had been spoken between them.
Her “How do you do, Lord Beckton?” had been prettily said, her smile gracing the words with an extra touch of beauty.
His “I find myself very well, Miss Alexander,” had been cool, at best, and not seasoned with an answering smile.
Beckton despaired of himself as the set came to an end. Giving himself a mental shake, he tried again, as he escorted her back to where her mother stood anxiously waiting.
“I would be honoured if you would dance the evening’s final set with me, Miss Alexander,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool and even.
Phoebe looked up into his dark brown eyes, and he wished he knew what she saw. Instead, she looked away and said coldly, “If my dance card has not since been filled, my lord, I will happily oblige.”
She walked away then, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor feeling like all kinds of a fool. She was haughty and dismissive, and though it burned in his gut, he could not fault her. He had been no less as they danced, unable to speak even ordinary pleasantries because he was so undone by the fragrance of her that bloomed in his nostrils each time she exhaled. And her beauty took his breath away. Her deep auburn hair fell in endearing ringlets about her face, and down her back, and her green eyes sparkled with animus the longer they had danced together. And when she had dismissed him just now, they had shone with active disdain...and hurt.
He walked out to the balcony, where he knew he would be alone...almost everyone was dancing, or watching the dancing, or playing cards in the adjoining room. He needed to be alone, to get himself in control.
He struggled with anger that a mere chit of a girl could treat him with such barely disguised contempt, while finding himself unable to deny how strongly attracted to that same chit he was. He wished he could overcome this unwelcome weakness that made him clam up in the presence of beautiful women of substance. He knew who he was, what he was worth. He knew that, in the eyes of
the ton
he was considered quite the catch. He knew all this, but found it did nothing to bolster his confidence with the one person in whose company he most needed to be assertive. Where Phoebe Alexander was concerned, he was a total wreak.
“What on earth are you doing out here by yourself, old chap? You’ve been missing for upwards of half an hour.” The Viscount’s voice interrupted his shame and self-castigation, and he turned to him with a frown.
“I think I may have topped myself this evening, Wiltshire,” he said. “It might have been better all round if you hadn’t tried to play Cupid this time.”
The Viscount of Wiltshire, observed the downcast features of his close friend with some concern. “Whatever’s the matter, man?” he asked, moving to stand by the Earl, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“I have managed to affront yet another charming woman,” Lord Beckton replied. “This time, the one I least wish to offend.”
“Are we talking about the delectable morsel that is Phoebe Alexander?”
Lord Wiltshire had lowered his voice to a sultry softness, and the Earl moved away from his side, to prevent himself from punching his friend on the nose.
“She is not a piece of meat!” Lord Beckton hissed at his friend through clenched teeth. “I would prefer it if you would refrain from mentioning her name in the tone of voice you use for talking of the women with whom you normally associate.” He was furious, and paused to acknowledge that a good part of it was jealousy that the Viscount seemed to be able to charm any woman he wanted because he was so amiable and devil-may-care, where he himself was a tongue-tied mass of romantic ineptitude.
“I see I am right. You are more than smitten with the lady. You really must overcome this...this problem you have, my friend. You will not win her affections if you pursue your current course of cold aloofness.”
The Viscount’s smirk was irritating in the extreme, but Lord Beckton knew that despite the amused tone of his words, he was in earnest. And he admitted that his friend was right. How was he to be the kind of man Phoebe would not despise if he couldn’t manage to string two civil words together around her, or to show his very real interest in her person? He sighed and turned back to the drawing room.
“I suppose I had better get back in,” he conceded. “I did ask her to dance the last set with me.”
“Well, try to speak up this time, won’t you? Imagine you’re in the House of Lords, pushing for some cause dear to your heart. After all, she is dear to your heart, isn’t she, old chap?” Lord Wiltshire patted his shoulder in commiseration.
“She is also to be my betrothed,” Beckton muttered. “A childhood arrangement.”
The Viscount stopped walking, and the Earl halted his steps.
“No, you didn’t tell me this. How long have you known?”
Lord Beckton sighed. “Since my father was on his deathbed.”
Lord Wiltshire’s brows rose in astonishment. “It has been a whole year, Beckton. Surely you are able to say something to her after all this time?”
Lord Beckton wrinkled his brow. “I do not know if she is aware of it. She was but a girl of thirteen when it was first agreed upon, if my father is to be believed. And even then, I was not apprised of the agreement until he was at death’s door.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Her parents are excessively ambitious, are they not?” Lord Wiltshire asked. “One must be very careful to pay attention when Percy Alexander is about. One slip, and you’ll find yourself footing the bill for extravagances unnecessary for the pursuit of anyone’s happiness but his own, and no way to extricate yourself. And it has always been clear that he has held high hopes of his daughter making a fortuitous marriage.”
“I cannot imagine that she holds any interest in marrying me,” Lord Beckton said. “So far, I have done nothing to encourage any further connection between us.”
“You will have the chance to redeem yourself in another few minutes. Make good use of the time.”
The two friends walked back into the ballroom, where the final set was about to begin. Lord Beckton made his way hastily over to the young woman who was tying him up in knots and said, “Are you free for this dance, Miss Alexander?”
He watched her school her features into placid acceptance and extend her hand to him. He escorted her onto the floor, and as the music started, he said, “Have you enjoyed your evening?”
“Yes. It has been quite a pleasant diversion, more or less,” she replied. “And you?”
“I’m afraid I am a dullard,” he confessed. “I find little pleasure in balls and the like.”
“Perhaps if you attended them more often you would find much to enjoy.”
The Earl sensed that she had curtailed her comment, possibly censoring the things she might otherwise have said to him. And he found he couldn’t ask her to finish her thought, for fear it would prove derogatory. He searched around for something else to say, and finally lighted on the subject of the Luddites. He chanced to look up, as he was advancing his theory for how to settle the question that was currently causing an uprising among the mill workers, and saw the glaze in her eyes that told him he had lost her.
“Do pardon me, Miss Alexander, if I am boring you,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you would prefer that we discuss the weather?” His tone was sharper than he had intended, and he saw her eyes narrow though she did not immediately respond. When she did, it was to say,
“We are not all as well acquainted with the circumstances as you are, my lord. And in any case, I am not normally expected to have a thought or opinion on such weighty matters.”
Her tone was as sharp as his had been, and he found that he rather liked her feistiness. It warmed him in places he knew would frighten her, were she to be aware of her effect on him.
“Surely you jest! I cannot imagine a situation in which your opinions would not be welcomed.”
She eyed him warily, and he raised a brow, finding himself unable to address her obvious suspicion. He knew he was being genuine, but she clearly didn’t believe him, and his silence only seemed to prove her intuition to be accurate.
The Viscount had often told him that his habit of raising a brow in question was often misconstrued as a sign of arrogance. It seemed that in this instance, at least, his friend was correct. He sighed inwardly. He had bungled the opportunity to make a good impression yet again, and was now so self-conscious that he grew silent, in an attempt to preserve what little was left of his dignity, finishing the dance without uttering another word. As soon as the dance was over, she pulled her hand away from his and said,
“You must excuse me, my lord, but I must needs retire. My parents do not like to linger once the dancing is done.”
She hurried away before he could say a word in response, and he watched her disappear from view around a corner. He sighed...once again he had failed to please.