Wyndcross, p.1
Wyndcross, page 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Other titles by Martha Keyes
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Wyndcross: A Regency Romance © 2019 by Martha Keyes. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover design by Martha Keyes.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Martha Keyes
http://www.marthakeyes.com
First Printing: July 2019
Dedicated to Mom and Dad—the two people who have seen and encouraged me to reach my potential since the beginning.
Chapter One
Kate Matcham thumbed the threadbare crimson reticule sitting on her lap, feeling the reassuring presence of the letter inside. Her eyes shifted to the numerous ball guests surrounding her and her aunt Fanny.
“For heaven's sake, Fanny,” she pleaded, “keep your voice down.”
Nearby, Charlotte Thorpe whispered to the woman next to her, and Kate’s jaw clenched. If Charlotte Thorpe overheard, all of London would know in a matter of days. Kate was already regretting telling Fanny of the letter.
Lady Fanny Hammond covered her mouth with a hand, but she couldn’t dampen the excitement in her eyes. “Do you even know your stepfather’s worth?” she half-whispered, leaning over in her seat toward Kate.
“No,” Kate admitted, rushing on before Fanny could enlighten her, “but it is immaterial. His brother stands to inherit, and I am certain he will be found alive and well.”
It was certainly what Kate hoped would occur. It would be much easier if the choice not to accept the fortune was made for her. She smiled and inclined her head at a passing acquaintance.
“But he might well be dead,” Fanny said optimistically, smiling at the same person. “People die in the West Indies quite frequently, I believe.”
Kate looked down at her young aunt with a mixture of consternation and amusement. “How very morbid you are.”
“Perhaps,” Fanny said, her wide, blue eyes scanning the room, “but a little morbidity might not be uncalled for when twenty thousand pounds are at stake.”
“Twenty thou—” Kate’s eyes widened. She took a steadying breath.
Whether it was twenty pounds or twenty thousand pounds, she could never accept money from her stepfather, Mr. Dimmock. Nor did she believe he would give her the chance.
“It is neither here nor there,” she said. “My stepfather detests me and always has. I have no doubt he would find a way to ensure his fortune didn’t pass to me.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t see why. How could anyone detest you? Hateful man.”
Kate smiled at Fanny’s offense on her behalf. She had long since ceased trying to curry favor with her stepfather. Nor did she waste energy trying to understand the dislike for her he took no pains to hide.
Fanny continued, “I’m sure you are the most unassuming and pleasant stepdaughter one could wish for.”
Kate leaned over to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “And you are the most wonderful chaperone one could wish for—not to mention the most beautiful and young and charitable and long-suffering.”
“The most beautiful?” Fanny said, ignoring the other epithets in favor of the one she most prized. “Do you really think so?” She touched her honey curls with a cupped hand in the gesture Kate had come to know well.
“Without question,” Kate said, glad to distract Fanny from the letter. “In truth, you are more in need of a chaperone than I.”
Fanny scoffed. “I am a widow, besides being fully two years older than you, my dear.” She stretched herself high in her seat, though Kate’s tall figure still eclipsed her.
Kate smiled as she looked off into the groups of people dancing and conversing. The brightly lit ballroom was peppered with Fanny’s admirers. “I have tried my best to keep the fortune-hunters at bay, but one can only do so much, you know.” She sighed dramatically, then winked at her aunt.
Fanny collapsed her fan and rapped Kate’s knuckles with it. “Nonsense,” she said, but her blush-tinged cheeks betrayed the pleasure she took in flattery.
Kate spotted Mr. Walmsley on the other side of the room, making his way over to them in his characteristic waddle. “Not all of them are fortune-hunters, thankfully,” Kate said pointedly.
The portly but kind-hearted aspirant to Fanny’s hand sweated profusely as he tried to navigate his way through the crowd holding two drinks. His plump figure made him look all at once older and younger than his thirty-three years.
“No,” Fanny said. “Walmsley is decidedly not a fortune-hunter. He is more likely to be hunted for his own fortune, but I am not at all sure if I shall accept his offer.” Fanny’s gaze tracked his movement toward them. She turned to Kate with a conscience-stricken expression. “The truth is, I have so much enjoyed being widowed.”
Kate’s eyes lit with laughter, and Fanny rushed on, “I know it is an awful thing to say, but I married so young. I never had a real Season. Naturally, Lord Hammond was very good to me,” she added quickly, “and I had no reason to complain of my treatment at his hands. But he preferred spending most of the year in the country.” She said the last word with a touch of revulsion, then looked around the room with an air of melancholy. “London is my home, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to sacrifice this life all over again.”
Kate could readily believe Fanny would be loath to abandon her current lifestyle. Her schedule consisted of one social engagement after another, and her wealth and widowhood made her an object of gallantry.
Mr. Walmsley came before them, handing one drink to Fanny and the other to Kate. “Too many people here, I tell you.” The skin under his chin trembled as he shook his head. “I could barely get my hands on these drinks. Was nearly obliged to call a fellow out! The jackanapes tried to cut in front of me for these last two.”
“Oh dear,” breathed Kate. She lowered her head and turned it to the side, hunching her shoulders and hoping to avoid the attention of the gentleman heading in their direction.
“Not to worry, Miss Matcham,” Walmsley reassured her in ignorant bliss. “I didn’t actually call him out. Only tempted me for a moment. I’m afraid my dueling days are long past. My circumference, you see, provides much too wide a target for my taste.” He looked down at his belly and rubbed it with fondness.
“No, not that,” Kate hissed, biting her lip to keep from laughing at Mr. Walmsley’s words. But it was too late. She had been recognized. She straightened hastily in her chair, pretending she had been picking something up, and contrived a smile at the man approaching them.
Sir Lewis Gording stopped and bowed. His thin lips were stretched in a smile, though the lines above them betrayed the slight contempt they most often wore. Had Kate been standing, she would have come eye to eye with Sir Lewis. Despite their matched height, he always managed to make her feel as though he was looking down upon her.
Unlike so many of the young women who tolerated his aggressive flirting to placate their hopeful mothers, Kate had always found his company uncomfortable and paid him only the attention civility required. Unfortunately for her, Sir Lewis seemed to find her company more desirable as a result. He was impervious to her subtle snubs.
“Good evening, your ladyship. Walmsley.” He bowed and turned toward Kate. “Miss Matcham, might I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
She groaned inside but maintained the same contrived smile of civility. Out of politeness and the desire to be a credit to Fanny, she would not refuse him, but the feeling of obligation chafed her.
“Of course,” she replied with a bow of her head.
Helping her from her seat and tucking her hand into his arm, Sir Lewis led her away from Fanny and Mr. Walmsley. Kate turned her head back toward Fanny with a look of helplessness. Fanny smiled at her and bobbed her head up and down in encouragement, failing to recognize the distress signal.
“I have changed my mind,” Sir Lewis said, and Kate whipped her head back around, afraid he had witnessed her attempted call for help. “Let us instead take a turn about the room.”
Before she could respond , he had guided her away from the dance floor. They passed through two groups of chatting women, the sound of organdy, muslin, and silk skirts brushing against one another. Kate envied the merry voices of the women they passed. If only she could disappear into one of their circles. Instead, she was being guided firmly toward the brocade-draped windows lining the room.
Sir Lewis was used to being in control. It was part of what she so disliked in him.
“As you please, sir.” She clenched her teeth behind her smile and felt his eyes studying her.
“You are the picture of perfection this evening, if I may say so.” His eyes moved from her head down to her slippers.
Where other ladies might blush at such a high compliment, or at least at his unabashed scrutiny, Kate felt no such impulse. “I would prefer you did not say such things, Sir Lewis, as you well know that I am not fond of exaggerated compliments. Or of such compliments in general.”
“Every woman loves compliments,” he said with his characteristic certainty.
The retort which rose to Kate’s lips was cut off as she felt a tap on her shoulder and heard a man clear his throat. She turned.
The gentleman she faced bowed slightly. When he rose to his full height, he was a few inches taller than she. His brown hair was long enough to curl but had been brushed away from his face, though a few waves seemed to be attempting a revolt. Small lines at the corners of his eyes revealed a tendency to laugh, but as he met eyes with Sir Lewis, his pleasant expression flickered.
“Sir Lewis.”
“Good evening,” Sir Lewis said, raising his brows in a gesture both questioning and dismissive.
“Forgive the interruption,” the gentleman said, his gaze fixing on Kate. “I believe this belongs to you, miss.”
He held her crimson reticule in his outstretched hand. One of the strings had finally broken. “You dropped it a moment ago back there.”
Her eyes widened. Had he seen its contents? Her arm shot out for the bag. Only when her hand reached his did she realize how peculiar her behavior must seem.
She looked at him with warm cheeks and a sheepish smile.
His brows were slightly raised, his head tilted to one side, and his eyes twinkling as he watched her reaction.
“It is indeed mine,” she said, taking it from him gently with a relieved smile. “Thank you for returning it.”
A smile played at his lips. “I was hard-pressed to give it up. Crimson is particularly good with my complexion, I am told. But alas, it was not to be. My conscience won out in the end.”
Kate suppressed a smile as his eyes danced.
“And now that you have returned it,” Sir Lewis said, “we will trouble you no longer.”
The gentleman’s smile tightened, and he looked at Sir Lewis as if he had a rejoinder on his lips. Kate wished he would say whatever it was, but he bowed, shot another glance of shared enjoyment at her, and walked away.
Kate took a deep breath as she watched him walk off, feeling she had been undeservedly lucky. If he—(who was he? Sir Lewis had been disobliging enough not to introduce him)—had not seen her drop the reticule, who might have happened upon it? The person would have been obliged to look inside to determine its owner, and who knows what they might have seen, how much they would have read, or what information from the letter they would have decided to pass along to their acquaintances?
The last thing Kate wanted was for anyone else to take the letter’s contents as seriously as Fanny had done. Gossip was rampant enough in London without adding such fuel to the fire. And fuel it would assuredly be, for nothing engrossed the ton as much as the poor catapulting to wealth or the rich descending into poverty.
“Where were we?” Sir Lewis said. “Ah, yes. I had just complimented your ever-increasing beauty.”
Kate gripped her lips together, wishing the interlude with the handsome stranger could have lasted longer. Any reprieve from Sir Lewis's attentions was a welcome one.
“Please don’t,” she said, feeling fatigued at the thought of continuing to fend off Sir Lewis.
His lopsided smile appeared again. “Would you deprive me the opportunity of expressing the thoughts that fill my head?” His eyes were at odds with his words, almost mocking her. How many women had he flattered in the same way?
“Perhaps,” said Kate, striving for a light tone, “if the thoughts are kept within they will diminish altogether in time.”
“I disagree.” He stood in front of her, blocking her way. “They demand to be given expression, Kate.” He said her name slowly, looking into her wary green eyes with his cynical gray ones.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, maintaining a civil tongue with effort, “but I have not given you leave to call me by my given name.” She moved to walk around him, but he caught her arm. She stopped but didn’t turn her head to look at him. She had, in the past, done her best to put him in his place with gentle civility, but with each meeting, he seemed to grow more aggressive.
“No, perhaps you have not,” he acknowledged, looking at her profile and gripping her arm with his teeth bared in a false smile. “But you will do so shortly, I feel confident.”
“Your confidence is misplaced, sir,” she said. She glanced at the group of people nearest them. The gentleman who had returned her reticule stood between two women. His gaze was fixed on Kate, intent.
She tore her arm from Sir Lewis's grasp, feeling a pressing need to make it plain she was not a willing recipient of Sir Lewis's attentions. She looked back to Sir Lewis, her gaze hard and direct. “If you will excuse me.”
He grabbed her by the wrist and leaned toward her, his lip turned up on one side. The smirk made her hair stand on edge. “You would have everything you could want living under my protection, you know.”
Her nostrils flared as she tried to wrest her hand from his grasp without drawing attention. “You dare offer such a thing to a lady?”
His smirk morphed into contempt, and the grip on her wrist tightened uncomfortably. “You are the daughter of an overambitious upstart and the stepdaughter of an unscrupulous tradesman. A woman with connections such as yours cannot be so particular about whom she accepts and on what terms, Kate.” He drew out her name, as if to mock her.
Blood rushed into her cheeks, but before she could think of a suitable reply, they were interrupted again.
“Excuse me.”
Kate turned with a suppressed sigh of relief, meeting eyes with the same gentleman who had brought her reticule just minutes before. She was conscious of her red cheeks, and she tried to control the way her chest heaved with furious breaths.
“I hesitate to deprive you,” the man said, “of the exalted company you somehow find yourself in, Sir Lewis, but I come to claim a promised dance.” He wore a congenial grin, but his eyes challenged Sir Lewis.
Sir Lewis dropped Kate’s wrist and looked at her as if to verify the man’s claims.
She raised her brows at him in a similarly challenging gesture. She was more than happy to disregard that she had never promised the stranger a dance.
The gentleman shifted his eyes to Kate, the challenging glint gone. He wore a soft, reassuring smile as he offered her his arm.
She smiled at him gratefully, made a quick, icy apology to Sir Lewis, and walked away on the arm of her deliverer. She looked up at his profile beside her. The man’s expression was unreadable, and he looked straight ahead as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Kate drew in a deep breath, willing her cheeks to cool.
“Thank you,” she said. Her brow creased. “Or my apologies. I am not sure which is appropriate.”
He looked down at her with an amused tilt to his mouth. “Why should you assume either is necessary?”
