To Love a Lord

  Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Pennington

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Michelle Pennington

  P.O. Box 54

  Hartford, AR 72764

  www.michelle-pennington.com

  Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locals is completely coincidental.

  If you want more sweet romances in multiple genres, join my newsletter at www.michelle-pennington.com and get the latest on all upcoming releases.

  Dedication

  This book, my first full-length Regency Romance, can only be dedicated to:

  Georgette Heyer

  I shall not attempt to write like you, for that would be a great impertinence.

  I shall, however, continually be inspired by you.

  And to my mother, Lynn, for introducing me to my hero at a young and impressionable age!

  Chapter One

  Patience Wendover’s heartbeat pounded in her ears as she went quickly down the stairs of her uncle’s lavish townhome on Upper Brook Street just as the clock in the gallery above gave seven clear, sonorous chimes. Already the sun was going down and no further calls would be expected, so it was the perfect time to slip away to the drawing room for a stolen hour practicing at the pianoforte.

  But as she passed her aunt’s sitting room on the first floor, she paused, hearing her name spoken. She turned her head, but no one was in sight. Then her uncle’s voice carried down the hall to her. Normally her aunt retired to her room at this time of the day to rest before the evening’s entertainments, so this was unexpected.

  Patience’s heart thudded as she realized she might not be able to play today, if her aunt was awake to possibly hear her. She crept closer to the sitting-room door.

  Her uncle’s voice came clearly through the narrow crack in the doorway. “Eliza, dear, you cannot expect me to believe that Patience has not even one suitor. Not with her pretty face and pleasing manner, she’s exactly as I remember her mother at that age.”

  The admiration in her uncle’s voice touched her heart. Her mother was still a lovely kind woman and Patience hated that she’d been forgotten by the world that had once admired her so, simply due to her change in fortune after her husband’s death. At least Uncle Wendover had always looked after them.

  Her aunt’s harsh voice broke through her thoughts and shattered her momentary happiness. “Your fondness for her mother is blinding you to Patience’s situation. She has very little dowry, no connections beyond ourselves, and is turned twenty.”

  “Surely you can find at least one man who will consider her. I cannot think you are trying hard enough. Amelia has swarms of suitors. There are flowers and cards all over this house. I hate to speak ill of my own flesh and blood, but our daughter doesn’t possess half the charm or beauty of her cousin.”

  “Amelia is very well, in her way. And she’s an heiress, don’t forget.”

  “Yes, and I’ve had nothing but fortune hunters on my doorstep for the last three years.”

  “Perhaps if you put yourself out in the interest of your own daughter as much as you have your niece, we might have secured a worthy match for her.”

  “Emily, what would you have me do that I have not done? Have I so much as blinked at the bills that flood this household every week? Gowns and jewels and dancing slippers and gloves and shawls, and I know not what else. Yes, and how many of them have been for Patience?”

  “You would have me dress Patience better than Amelia?”

  “You’re impossible to talk to. You aren’t rational. Of course not. But why not make a push toward presenting Patience in a better light? The season is almost over.”

  “Even with new gowns in the latest styles, I couldn’t make gentlemen interested in a poor mouse like Patience.”

  “That is just the thing. I don’t believe she is a poor mouse. You have made her into one, with the way you quell her with your frowns and keep her in the background. And she’s unhappy too. You’ve taken away the two things that made her happy—and that on top of losing her father. It’s no wonder the girl has no spark about her.”

  “The time that girl spent in her father’s stables may have made her a splendid rider, but it did not prepare for a mixing with the haut ton. Without my tutelage, she would even now be nothing more than a mad romp of a girl instead of a proper lady. And as for her playing on the pianoforte, if she would limit herself to modest pieces of music, I would not take issue. However, she plays as if she were performing for paying audiences on a public stage, and I won’t have it. It isn’t becoming for her to seek so much attention.”

  “It cannot be as bad as all that, my dear.”

  “It is far worse, I assure you. Fortunately, I believe she has finally given up her wayward urges.”

  “I fully intend to. I have accepted an invitation to Lady Blakemore’s house party when the Season ends in two weeks. I expect to find a suitable match for both of the girls. Leave it to me.”

  “I will, of course, do so. But as for Amelia, if that fortune hunter Viceroy comes next or nigh her—"

  “He knows we’ll have none of his sort about our gem, no matter who his family is. And I have a few gentlemen in mind who would be anxious to wed Patience for her youth alone.”

  “Who?”

  Aunt Wendover was quiet for a moment and when she spoke at last, her voice held a note of bravado. “Lady Blakemore informed me that Sir George Hallister will be attending and that he’s looking for a new wife.”

  “Sir George? You cannot be serious. No doubt he is looking for a new wife. He wore his last bride out in less than five years. You cannot have any notion of his reputation if you think to tie my niece to him.”

  “Patience would be doing very well for herself with such an alliance. He’s got a fine fortune as well as the title, and no doubt he’ll leave her comfortably settled when he dies—which will surely be in near future at his age and with his habits.”

  There was a long tense silence between them. Listening with her heart in her throat, Patience felt as if the floor beneath her feet was tipping sideways. Sir George? He aunt could not be so cruel.”

  Her uncle spoke again. “Emily, I will be blunt. I do not like that match for her, and I cannot help but question your affection for Patience in hearing that you are considering it.”

  When her aunt spoke again, her voice was softer, more placating. “Well, perhaps it is not just the thing. There will be others there as well. And who knows, perhaps Patience would not think as poorly of Sir George as you do.”

  Patience clenched her teeth. Aunt Wendover wouldn’t care a penny for her wishes. She hadn’t since the day Uncle Wendover had brought her to London three months ago and commanded her to present her to Society. And ever since, she had been made to feel her aunt’s animosity in mean, petty ways. If not for the sure knowledge that she had to marry to ease the financial burden on her beloved mother, she would have fled ages ago.

  But now, hearing her aunts plans, a new desperation surged through her. Blind with rage and despair, Patience turned and ran.

  The greatest tragedy of i
t all was that she had fallen in love with a very unsuitable man. A rake, in fact. And not just any rake, but Lord Aston. So handsome that he was almost beautiful and with more than his fair share of charm and wit, he was the darling of society despite the fact that he was a poor prospect for marriage.

  From the first time she’d seen him, she’d been swept away in daydreams of capturing his attention. When they had been introduced and had danced for the first time, she’d fallen hopelessly under his spell. They had only danced a few times throughout the season, but each burning glance, each thrilling touch of their hands, and every compliment he’d murmured in her ear had convinced her that he felt the same magical reaction to her.

  If only his fortune had been more intact than his reputation, she might have had some hope. Sadly, his debts made him more ineligible than any scandalous dalliance could. Even if Lord Aston were to ask for her hand, her uncle would never permit such a marriage.

  Her only hope rested on the hope that her uncle would stand firm against his wife. Well, and she could always return home to her mother—where she would live a life of impoverished gentility with no hope of improving her situation and without the means to indulge in the two past times that brought her peace. Without the ability to ride and play the pianoforte, she was very sure she might go mad.

  The thought of such a future made her more determined than ever to steal away to the ground-floor drawing room and find release for her pent-up emotions in her music. With her aunt and uncle caught up in their discussion upstairs, they’d be less likely to hear her and perhaps her aunt would soon go to her room after all. Deciding it was worth the risk, she rushed down the last few steps.

  In the hallway, she raised her eyebrows at Henry, the footman. He knew the ebb and flow of the household better than anyone else and had become her secret ally in this daily scheme.

  His eyes flicked around. After a moment, he smiled and nodded, letting her know it was safe to proceed. With a sigh of relief, Patience hurried down the hall to the small drawing room at the back of the house. She closed the door behind her, careful to let the latch click quietly, and went to the pianoforte.

  Candles were already lit on a candelabra on the pianoforte—another of Henry’s thoughtful kindnesses. As she settled on the bench, she thought of how little time she had before she must go change her dress. She was to go to Almack’s with Aunt Wendover and Amelia—a fate so unpleasant that all her repressed restlessness and rebellion surged to the surface. Her aunt’s words ran through her memory as she placed her fingers on the keys and unleashed the storm inside her.

  But even after playing through the first two movements of Beethoven’s Sonata quasi una fantasi, a masterpiece she had long ago committed to memory, she felt as if the spark had been fanned into a flame instead of burning itself out. Her uncle was very right. She was not a mouse. A world of emotions seethed within her.

  Her fingers danced as she moved into the third movement of the sonata, the quick, agitated tempo reflecting the racing of her pulse. As the final chord crashed around her, she pulled back her fingers and clenched them into fists as she fought to calm her quickened breath.

  “Pardon me, Miss Wendover, but these flowers have arrived for you.”

  Patience turned, letting out a small gasp of surprise. Henry stood just behind her shoulder, holding a large bouquet of pink peonies. It was wrapped in tissue and was so large as to be positively extravagant.

  “But who…” Then, realizing that she hardly wished to admit her astonishment to a servant, she closed her mouth firmly and rose to take the bouquet from him. He smiled oddly, as if he knew a secret, turned, and shut the door softly behind him.

  She examined the flowers, tracing their velvet petals with her finger. Lifting them to her face, she breathed in their consuming sweetness and saw something tucked inside. She pulled out an intricately folded note, well hidden beneath the fully open blooms. With her heart pounding, she read the words, written in a carelessly masculine hand,

  Darling girl,

  I can no longer restrain the confessions of my heart. I am yours, fair one, in whatever way you will accept me. Do I dare hope you feel this same torment of passion? I must know. Trust me to find a chance to steal you away at a certain house party we are both invited to, and you may tell me with your own sweet lips.

  Patience gasped as her face flooded with color. It was so…shocking. So forward. So romantic.

  There was no signature, but it must be from Lord Aston. It could be from no other.

  Setting the flowers down on top of the pianoforte, she laid the note on her lap and began to play again, this time a bright, tripping sonata by Haydn. As she played, the euphoria that had washed over her as she read Aston’s words heightened her connection with the notes. She felt as if she might swell with emotion until she burst like a too-ripe plum. So intense was her focus and so complete her absorption in the music that she did not know anyone had come in until a loud thwack sounded in front of her face.

  Jumping in alarm, she looked at the carved mahogany walking stick still resting on top of the pianoforte. Gasping, she turned and met her aunt’s furious eyes.

  “What do mean by this?” Her aunt’s voice quivered with the force of her anger.

  Knowing there would be no excuse she could give that would appease her, Patience stared back, silent but unrepentant.

  Pulling back her walking stick, Aunt Wendover took a deep breath, testing the strength of her straining corset. “You will go to your room and consider your situation. Let me be direct, Patience. You will not play such vulgar pieces again. And when we go to Lady Blakemore’s house party, you will not play at all except to accompany Amelia. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Patience said, her voice hard and brittle as she fought to control her temper.

  “What is this?” Aunt Wendover asked, reaching for the peonies. “Did you take flowers meant for Amelia?”

  Remembering the note with alarm, Patience slowly moved her hand to cover it, holding her aunt’s eyes as she hid the note in the folds of her skirts. “There was no name, and the footman gave them to me.”

  “Well, he should know better than that. What are you waiting for? Go to your room. I don’t want to see your face again until we leave for Almack’s.”

  Keeping her hand tucked close to her side, she forced herself to walk slowly instead of running from the room. Keeping her aunt from seeing the effect of her tyranny on her feelings was the only victory Patience could claim.

  She would return to her room, but she wouldn’t stay there. Hungry to defy her aunt, she made a rash decision. Finding Henry still at his post, she hurried to his side. Knowing she had only moments to escape upstairs before her aunt saw her, she spoke soft but quickly. “Will you please send a note to the stables to have Miss Wendover’s horse brought round? I’m going for a ride in Hyde Park.” Then she leaned forward. “Discreetly. Please?”

  Henry stood silently for a moment, but then, to her relief, he nodded. “I’ll take care of it, miss.”

  She sighed in relief, thanked him, and ran up the stairs to her room. It was only when her maid, Dora, gasped in alarm that she realized the heat on her cheek was from hot tears spilling down them.

  “Whatever is wrong, miss?” Dora asked.

  “My aunt hates me,” Patience replied, her voice ominously calm.

  “Oh, no, miss. No one could hate you.”

  Patience ran to her and dropped her head on her maid’s sturdy shoulder. “Thank you, Dora. What would I do without you?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure. Let’s bathe your face. You can’t go to Almack’s all tear-stained.”

  “Never mind that, Dora. I need my riding habit and boots.”

  “Now, miss? But you can’t, miss!”

  Since Dora stood as if rooted to the floor, Patience went to the wardrobe herself and took out her habit. “Help me dress, Dora, for I swear, if I don’t ride, I might do something even more shocking.”

  “Yes,
miss. But what are you going to ride?”

  “That’s all taken care of. Now hurry, Dora.”

  Less than an hour later, she rode as sedately as she could manage down Park Lane and through the Stanhope Gate into Hyde Park. Upon entering the park, her swirling emotions calmed. Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension in her neck dissipated. She had needed this for so long. She wished she’d found the courage sooner.

  She set Amelia’s horse into a canter, and then, as her confidence grew, she turned down Rotten Row. Long shadows from ancient trees along the lane seemed to reach for her, inviting her into their shelter. She looked ahead and found it splendidly free of carriages and fashionable riders. She longed to gallop, but if any censorious eyes were to recognize her, her reputation would be in shreds.

  Fortunately, as it was long past the fashionable hour, the whole of society was now at home preparing for the long night ahead. There were still riders about and a few carriages strung out across the gravel path, but surely no one who would recognize her. Thanks to her aunt, her acquaintance was small.

  Her father once said she had a devil in her that only a good gallop could control. She had never before felt the truth of his words as she urged the horse into a gallop. Her heart soared as the air blew over her flushed face. She flew along the wooden fence that bordered the lane, the pillars of shadow from the trees marking her speedy passage.

  Then all at once, she saw another rider approaching her. She made the mistake of looking to see who it was and thereby met their curious gaze. She drew up sharply just as the other rider did, and they stared at each other. They were so close she could have reached out and touched the tall bay stallion with her riding crop.

  Patience was quite used to fate’s cruelty, but did it have to be the very handsome, but very correct Lord Stanton, of all people? He was no more than an acquaintance, but his rigid propriety was legendary.

  With her heart in her throat, she eyed him across their horses’ heads. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her? He’d barely seemed to notice her after their first introduction, though they had often been at the same balls and dinners through the season. He watched her with an impassive countenance, but his eyes gleamed with rays of the setting sun flashing in their depths. And then, he touched the brim of his hat, bowing his head slightly. “Miss Wendover, are you well?”