Westbury
A
Traditional Regency Romance
Arabella
Sheen
Can Miss Georgina Morton surrender her independence and accept the
Duke’s love?
Miss Georgina Morton,
at the age of four-and-twenty, with a modest annual income of four hundred
pounds, believes she has no need of a husband and can manage quite nicely
without one. Yet within a matter of weeks, she’s betrothed to Giles
Glentworth, the Sixth Duke of Westbury, and bound for Regency London.
Set in rural Wiltshire and elegant, fast-paced London...a
runaway ward, a shooting at midnight, and a visit to fashionable Almack’s, are
only a few of the adventures Georgina enjoys while falling for the Corinthian
charms of the Duke.
Chapter One Excerpt 1
March
1814 – The Runaway Ward
Avebury,
Wiltshire, England
Miss Georgina Morton placed
the basket of eggs she carried on the boundary wall and paused in the act of
walking to the vicarage. It was noon, and the south-bound stagecoach, with its
heavy load of luggage and boisterous passengers, was arriving at The Red Lion
Inn.
Enthralled by the commotion
unfolding before her, Georgina watched with interest as the drama evolved.
The coach
slowed to enter the inn’s cobblestoned courtyard, and with a sharp tug on the
horses’ reins, the coachman brought the vehicle to an abrupt standstill. A
swirling veil of dust was left in the stage’s wake,
and when the cloud of dry dirt settled, the inn came alive with the sound of
bustling people.
Without ceremony, the door to the
coach was flung open, and as it slammed hard against the side of the vehicle, a
young man, irate with temper and shouting his protests, leapt from the
carriage, demanding the postilion’s attention.
“Why have we stopped?” he said.
“We must leave…now. I’ve travelled
from Bath and it’s essential I reach Marlborough before noon. I must catch the
next stage to London and insist we depart from here at once.”
The weary postilion shrugged his
shoulders in an uncaring way, and in a broad West Country accent, said, “Young
sir, I’m afraid that can’t be done. We’re obliged to stop and rest the horses.
We also have to wait for these good people to finish inside the inn.”
With much speed and eagerness,
the other travellers on the stage hurriedly disembarked, and vanished through
an arched doorway into the tavern.
The postilion, ignoring the young
man and his grievances, walked to the horses’ heads and checked the bridles and
tack, before inspecting the thick leather straps on the heavy luggage. He was
ensuring the passengers trunks and baggage were securely buckled in place prior
to the coach’s departure.
The incensed youngster, with his
fair curls awry and his attire askew, paced back and forth with impatience.
His annoyance at his unfortunate
situation was made known, and it was clear he was in a hurry to be on his way.
He demanded of anyone within earshot that the stage changed its route to
accommodate the urgency of his journey, but none of his fellow passengers were
listening.
Georgina looked on with amusement
as the young person flayed his hands in the air and stamped a foot with
frustration. All his efforts for a speedy departure were futile. And the
postilion, unconcerned for the young traveller’s plight, continued tending the
horses.
From where Georgina stood, she
could see, through large casement windows, travellers
busily eating what they could, before having to leave the turnpike inn. The
stage was to stop briefly, and people had only a fleeting chance to benefit
from a tankard of ale or a glass of wine before continuing on their travels.
For some,
breaking their journey at The Red Lion Inn was a welcome chance to stretch
their legs and rest from travelling, but the young sir paid no heed to the
needs of his fellow travellers. His concern was wholly for himself and his
desire to be on his way.
“I
tell you, we must proceed at once,” he again berated the postilion. “There is
no time for delay.”
His
argument created a commotion, and Georgina, along with several passing
villagers, watched on with interest as the furore unfolded.
Another
coachman, who was somewhat older and had a mass of curling whiskers, wandered
over and joined in with the discussion.
With
legs astride and arms akimbo, the coachman, taking matters in hand, said, “Now
you listen here, little breeches. Seems my friend, the postilion, ain’t
getting his message across. We’re waiting for everyone inside to finish.”
“But―”
“And
I be takin’ no orders from the likes of you. You’re nout but a young ‘un.”
“Fustian!
I’m old enough to know what I’m doing, and old enough to know I have to be on
my way. I’ve a right to―”
“And
I’ve the right to throw anyone from the stage I think might cause trouble. If
you ain’t careful, you’ll find yourself stranded.”
“Not if I have any say in the
matter,” said the young sir.
Gripping the handle on the
carriage door, the young man flung the door open and clambered hastily inside.
He then sat with his nose haughtily in the air, and looked out of the carriage
window at the affronted faces of the coachman and postilion.
A large crowd had gathered, drawn
by the noise the men were making. Curiosity had taken hold and people wanted to
know what had happened.
“Out,” said the coachman with
rage in his voice. “I said, out!”
Then from the postilion, warning
shouts of imminent departure were called. “Stagecoach leaving! Stagecoach
leaving!”
Chaos was in the air.
Although curious
to know the outcome of the heated discussion, Georgina, with places to be and
things to do, lifted her basket off the wall and walked on. It was only on her
return journey, having delivered the freshly laid eggs to the vicarage and
collected a package for her father from the post-office that she discovered the
young man from earlier was still stood outside the inn. He’d not, as she first
supposed, continued on his journey.
She
also noticed he was not of an age to be called a man, but was in fact, a mere
slip of a boy: a young whippersnapper, as her Papa would say.
What
little luggage he had was at his feet, and he was alone.
All
signs of the stagecoach and its passengers having stopped at the turnpike inn
were gone; and there was now a strange, disconcerting silence about the place. The
frenzied activity of earlier was no longer.
Even
though the young man was dressed in clothes of excellent quality, it was
obvious that what he wore, including the tasselled Hessian boots on his feet
and the pristine white neckcloth tied stylishly beneath his shirt points, could
not belong to him. Everything he wore was several sizes too large and his
attire had clearly not been tailored to fit his petite frame.
The
young man gingerly approached.
“Excuse
me for being so bold.” His eyes were wide with panic. “I find myself to be in
somewhat of a predicament.”
The
young man was scared and trembled visibly. Something had alarmed him, and he
appeared quite distressed.
“And
what might that predicament be?” Georgina asked. She wondered what was to come.
Disclaimer, Copyrights
and Publishing
Any
names or characters have no existence outside the imagination of the
author
or are used fictitiously, and actual events are purely coincidental.
No
part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, copied,
stored
in a retrieval system known or hereinafter invented, without
written
permission of the publisher.
Copyright
© 2019 by – Arabella Sheen
Published
by priceplacebooks
All
rights reserved.
ISBN
978-0-9575698-4-3
About
Arabella Sheen
Arabella Sheen is a British author of contemporary romance and likes
nothing more than the challenge of starting a new novel with fresh ideas and
inspiring characters.
One of the many things Arabella
loves to do is to read. And when she’s not researching or writing about
romance, she is either on her allotment sowing and planting with the seasons or
she is curled on the sofa with a book, while pandering to the demands of her
attention-seeking cat.
Having lived and worked in the
Netherlands as a theatre nurse for nearly twenty years, she now lives in the
south-west of England with her family.
Arabella hopes her readers have
as much pleasure from her romance stories as she has in writing them.
Social Media
Website: http://www.arabellasheen.co.uk/
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