The Marquess’s Hand_A Regency Romance Novel Read online

  The Marquess’s Hand

  A Regency Romance Novel

  Rosie Wynter

  Copyright © Rosie Wynter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fictitious and are in no way meant to represent real people or places.

  ISBN-13: 978-1717154057

  ISBN-10: 1717154050

  About this Novel

  Two Men. One Choice.

  When the handsome and charming Marquess of Oakham, Julian Wareham, turns his dark-blue eyes her way, Rosalie Curtis cannot believe her luck. Wealthy, titled and well loved, the marquess is a man who could secure not only her future but also that of her family. It seems impossible that he would look at her, a shy and insecure woman, quickly approaching her prime, but here he is, the answer to her family’s prayers.

  Yet no matter how handsome the man or how decent the match… there is another who also stirs her heart.

  Peter Farrell was the first real friend Rosalie made when she came to live with her widowed and well-connected aunt, Lady Lynch. Handsome, broad shouldered and kind, Peter is the type of man that inspires her trust, even as rumours swirl of a dark and sordid past. Yet Peter lacks a title and the prestige that would catch a lady’s eye, leaving Rosalie dancing between two men with very different futures.

  Caught between society’s expectations and the needs of her family, Rosalie must make a choice, even if it means breaking her own heart…

  Contents

  PART 1: Chapter 1-6

  The Would-Be Spinster

  PART 2: Chapter 7-12

  A Good Man

  PART 3: Chapter 13-26

  A Man to Marry

  Epilogue:

  A Letter

  ~

  The Author

  PART 1:

  The Would-Be Spinster

  CHAPTER 1

  “It is absurd to believe that a year can pass in London with no man willing to bat his eye at a young and comely woman of some means. That two such years have passed, in succession, is not only absurd, it is insupportable.”

  There were several things wrong with Mrs Curtis’s statement, as far as Rosalie saw it. Still, she had no inclination to correct her mother. The woman viewed the world as she wanted it to be, and no neighbour or friend had ever been able to alter her vision to see things as they truly were. It was a trait that was shared by both of Rosalie’s parents and which, she suspected, was the glue that held their marriage, and their fragile pride, together.

  The weather was hot and stifling. In the fields, grass grew in tattered clumps in the dry, cracked earth. The leaves on the trees wilted from the heat, and all the beasts of the field were lying under the awnings of those trees, as if dead. Here and there, farmers and labourers went about their daily toil, each moving with a sluggishness that betrayed their suffering. Rosalie’s heart might have gone out to them, except she was more preoccupied with the conditions in the compact carriage that bore her down the dirt road.

  The Curtis family’s carriage was old and battered, a hand-me-down from a neighbour who might otherwise have had the vehicle hacked up for firewood had Mr Curtis not shown such an interest in it. The seats were uncomfortable. The cushioning on them had worn away to nothing but fabric over the years, and somehow there was never the time to have them re-padded. The windows were dull and dirty. They always provided a grey view of the outer world, and there was no way to open them. To travel in the thing for any length of time was to surrender oneself to the misery of whatever elements the world threw at one. In winter, the carriage seats were colder than an iced-over stream. During the rains of autumn and spring, hidden cracks in the woodwork let the damp seep in. Now, in the height of summer, the carriage trapped in the heat of the sun and caused Rosalie to bake.

  “I do not know what your father is going to say when we return home.” Mrs Curtis shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the window, but she did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. She seemed lost in her own world of dissatisfaction. Her chest heaved as she drew in a deep breath then let it out in a long sigh. “To think that there is not a single decent young man left in London who might consider the daughter of a gentleman in possession of a growing trade.” Another shake of her head followed, and she seemed ready to let out another sigh when her eyes suddenly moved to her daughter. The woman leaned forward and swatted Rosalie’s arm, forcing her to pay full attention. “Have you even been listening to a word I have been saying?”

  Rosalie shifted her weight on her seat and blinked several times. “Of course I have, Mother.” A powerful need to yawn passed through her. Rosalie clamped her mouth shut to resist giving in to that urge. The last thing she needed was to have her mother’s foul mood exacerbate the situation. She straightened her back and looked at Mrs Curtis with a practiced expression of polite neutrality. It was the same face she had adopted when listening to many of the men she had been forced to meet over the last few months of parties, balls and social gatherings in London.

  Mrs Curtis’s eyes lingered on her daughter for a moment, her lips curling. It did not matter whether Rosalie was listening or not. She folded her arms and shook her head yet again. “I just know your father is going to be so disappointed to see us return like this, again. Goodness knows, it was hard enough for him to bear the first time around. It seems cruel to put him through it all again.”

  Rosalie’s lips drew thin, and she kept her thoughts private. She would have liked to note that she was hardly thrilled, herself, to have spent two useless seasons in London in search of a husband. She would have liked to remind her mother that she did not relish returning to her friends in Bradford-on-Avon and telling them that her plain personality, plain face and plain hair had once again failed to gain the notice of any man in London. She would have liked to tell her mother that she was tired of the constant pressure put on her to find a husband of means. That she was tired of being saddled with the responsibility of increasing their family’s wealth and prestige for the sake of her father’s business. She had many, many things she would have liked to have said, but there was no point in saying anything. The road ahead was long, and it was better to suffer the ongoing cycle of her mother’s grumblings than to risk a real argument breaking out between them.

  It did not take long for Mrs Curtis’s complaints and worries to become self-sustaining once again. She spoke in long soliloquies worthy of a Greek drama as she bemoaned their situation. No input or even acknowledgement of her words was required once she was started on her rant. She had always possessed an interesting ability to carry on a conversation by herself, even when no one was listening to her. Meanwhile, Rosalie let her attention slip away, her mind and eyes returning to the passing countryside. Once again, she became aware of the suffocating heat in the carriage, and she squirmed as she felt a film of sweat form over her skin. She looked forward to the prospect of a bath when she returned home.

  Only one thought brought Rosalie any solace as she ignored her mother and tried vainly to ignore the heat: however bad the heat was out here in the open country, it had to be ten times worse in the city they had just quit.

  Unwilling to give up the hunt for a husband for her eldest daughter, Mrs Curtis had delayed their return to Bradford until late in June, well after the more eligible bachelors and connected families had abandoned London for the pleasures of the countryside. As the summer heat had begun to beat down in earnest on the capital, a stench had arisen that was almost intolerable to Rosalie. The sewage and filth that ran through the streets o
f London’s less desirable quarters baked under the sun’s oppressive glare, and the miasma of rotting refuse, waste and worse made Rosalie wonder how anyone could bear to remain in the city all through the year. She felt it was inevitable that any family who could escape the unbearable nightmare of summertime London would do so.

  The more Rosalie reflected on the repugnant horror of a depopulated and reeking summer in London, the more she was able to find peace in the stifling heat of the carriage. However, the more she reflected on the issue, the more she came to accept that it was not just the reeking odour of the capital that she was happy to be leaving behind. More than the bustle of bodies, more than the uncouth language, more than the stench and sewage and the noisome ruck that was London, Rosalie was grateful to be putting the business of looking for a husband behind her for another season.

  Of the three Curtis sisters, Rosalie was the least qualified to be the eldest. If the title of ‘eldest daughter’ could be awarded for some quality other than age, she would happily have passed the mantle on to her middle sister, Grace. Grace was more than qualified to lead the family into the arena of marriage. She had been blessed with soft porcelain skin, perfectly proportioned almond-shaped eyes with irises the colour of the cloudless sky, and flowing golden curls. As her body had begun to grow into that of a woman, her beauty had only intensified. Rosie felt sure that when Grace came of age and made her debut in London next year, her sister would be able to capture the hearts of a dozen men within a week. That was the kind of person needed to lead their family into marriage.

  Rosalie let out her own, quiet sigh as she tried to make out her reflection in the carriage window. She could see only the faintest ghost of herself in the window pane, but it was enough. Truth be told, she knew well enough the various foibles of her physical beauty without having to see them. Her eyes were not the colour of a blue sky in summer. Her eyes were the quiet grey of a rainy autumn afternoon. Her skin had a ruddy hue, and her hair was just brown. Compared to her sister, compared to the elegant women of London’s high society, how was she ever to have caught the eye of a gentleman?

  “Of course, next year we are going to have to change your wardrobe.” Rosalie’s attention flickered momentarily back to her mother. Just how that woman was able to sustain a thread of conversation so long by herself, Rosalie could not even guess. Still, her own mind had provided little positive sustenance, and she begrudgingly returned to listening to what her mother had to say.

  “Did you see the cut of some of the dresses the women were wearing? The décolletage of their gowns… very French. It is not a style I could ever like or approve of, not the kind of thing a woman of modesty should wear of a Sunday. Even so, did you see the attention those women garnered from the men in the room?”

  Rosalie’s face wrinkled as she remembered the sight. Men had gathered like wolves around some of the most audaciously dressed women at London’s many functions and balls. No one dared call such women brazen, though. No, the women who walked about with fully half their chests on display were fashionable, modern and elegant.

  “Over the next few months, we must work to make you some new dresses that accentuate your own assets, dear. I do not want to see you ignored by other men simply because your ball gown rides an inch higher on the collar.”

  “Mother!” Rosalie’s eyes widened, and she sat up straight in her seat. She could scarcely believe what her mother was suggesting. Her own mother was now looking to display her like a piece of meat for men to drool over. She had not minded so much when she was being introduced to men in a polite manner, to make conversation, but Rosalie could not abide the thought of being dressed to provoke a man’s more carnal gaze.

  “Do not act so indignant, dear. We have spent two years, now, trying to find a man of suitable wealth who might accept you. If we are to be forced to tread this path again next year, then we must do more to entice men to consider you as a viable partner.” Mrs Curtis’s eyes suddenly seemed to be roving over her daughter’s figure in a way that Rosalie didn’t like.

  “Mama, I would rather wait three more years to find a husband than settle for some man who finds my best feature to be the cut of the neckline on my gown.” Rosalie took a deep breath, suddenly very aware of the way her chest heaved as she breathed in. The whole conversation embarrassed her deeply, and she was forced to return her attention to the world outside the carriage.

  “Now don’t you turn away and make yourself out to be more virtuous than I. Of course, I would not let you marry some cad who can’t keep his eyes straight in conversation. Still, you have to allow that a more daring look for you would not hurt in bringing you a little more attention.”

  Rosalie’s jaw tightened as she tried to rein in her indignation. “Can we not discuss this now, Mother? It will be a full six months before we next return to town. Surely your grand plans to wed me to some young lord or merchant can be put to one side, at least till we return home?”

  Mrs Curtis’s forehead furrowed as her brows drew together. She rolled her eyes in a deliberate manner and let her body slouch. For a few precious moments, silence filled the carriage. It was only for a moment, though.

  “You must promise me not to speak of our time in London to your father, nor answer any questions he may ask you when we return home.” There was a very subtle difference in Mrs Curtis’s face now. The difference between annoyance and serious concern was very slight, and it was the kind of facial cue only a daughter could recognise.

  Rosalie tensed as she thought of her father. “I promise I have no intention of breaking the news to him, Mama.”

  While her mother could be a bother with her endless plans and schemes to see her wed, Rosalie’s father was a different creature altogether. He desired to see Rosalie and all his daughters marry. More than this, he wished to see them marry well above their station, and to bring rich, new relatives into his acquaintance who might help him expand his woollen mill business. It was his driving vision to purchase up all the rival mills in Wiltshire and one day become the principal purveyor of fine woollen goods to London. He had notions of his mills becoming influential in London fashion and clothing. It didn’t matter to him that London fashion had almost no interest in wool; he insisted that fashions would change with the rise of his company. All he needed was an investor who would help fund his dreams. Having been unable to secure such a financial backer from among his friends and neighbours, Mr Curtis had put the burden of his dreams onto his three daughters. Their marriages, he determined, would provide the kind of sons-in-law who would help support his vision and see him become the great man of industry he yearned to be.

  Mrs Curtis sniffed and scratched the corner of her nose. “I do not know how your father will take the news. You had best be prepared for his descending into an intractable mood.” Her mother’s stone-coloured eyes drooped as both travellers fell into a despondent quietude.

  It was late when Rosalie and Mrs Curtis arrived back at their home in Bradford-on-Avon. Though it was the height of summer and the sun clung stubbornly to the sky till long past eight o’clock, the world had gone dark, and the waxen moon cast a silver light on the small, familiar town. As the carriage drew up to the door of their home, Rosalie noted the few lights emanating from inside the house. The only strong light came from Mr Curtis’s office. It was more than likely that Grace and Claire had already retired for the evening. Father would be sitting in the corner of his office. He would not be working. He would have a glass of wine or perhaps a brandy in hand and would be staring at his bookshelf, pretending to be deep in thought. One of the ways in which he tried to present himself as a man of business was by emulating the lifestyles of the very rich merchants. He did not know any such men personally, but he had a very strong idea of how such men lived and was quite certain they would stay up long into the night wasting good money sipping expensive alcohol and staring thoughtfully into space.

  Despite the sound of the carriage wheels crunching over the gravel path outside their home, no
one stirred or came to the door to greet Rosalie or Mrs Curtis. The two women stole into the house like thieves, both hoping that they might avoid a meeting with Mr Curtis or anyone else. Though it was inevitable that Mr Curtis would hear all that occurred in London, both mother and daughter hoped for one restful night in their own beds before they had to deal with the consequences of another failed season in the capital.

  In the entranceway, Mrs Curtis quietly shooed away the maidservant who came to wait on them. In a hushed whisper, she begged her not to disturb Mr Curtis from his work. She bade her give them light and then take their things to the drawing room for sorting in the morning. The maid glanced fretfully towards Rosalie as she nodded her understanding. It seemed even the household staff were aware of what her failure to secure a husband would mean. Rosalie knew she should not put others’ happiness before her own. Even so, she could not help feeling a little guilty knowing how her disappointing second season in London would adversely affect all who lived with her.

  After months away from home, Rosalie was pleasantly surprised by how familiar and safe her own room felt. Despite having only the light of a small candle to guide her, she felt entirely at ease as she wandered the space. The comfort of home was the first truly good feeling she had felt in weeks, and she found her worries and fears ebbing away to a dull ache in the back of her mind as she crawled into her own bed and found sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rosalie’s return home was met without ceremony. It was almost as though she had never left. At breakfast, no mention was made of London or her five-month absence. Both her sisters talked casually of the weather, their plans for the week and the chores to be done. Mrs Curtis gave orders to the servants and attended to matters of housekeeping, and Mr Curtis sat at the head of the table eating his breakfast in loaded silence. His eyes roved listlessly about the room as he ate his toast. Each bite was made with ferocity, his teeth tearing at the food as if he were a fox pulling apart a rabbit’s carcass. Without saying a word, he made his mood clear to everyone. Equally clear to everyone was the result of Rosalie’s second outing to London in search of a husband.