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
Two Excerpt 7 continued…
Some years ago, Georgina’s
parents had hired a house in Claremont Square for the London Season. They had
taken her to London with the intention of presenting her to society so that she
might find a suitable man to make a match with and marry. Georgina had done all
the things a debutante should do. She’d gone to balls, danced the night away,
and she’d made lots of new friends.
It was whilst paying a morning
visit to one of her friends―Clarissa Davenport―that Georgina first encountered “Cousin
Giles.” He had been known as the Marquis of Glentworth,
and her encounter with him was anything but pleasant.
At the time, Georgina hadn’t
known who the Marquis of Glentworth was, and it was only later in the season when someone pointed him out as being
none other than the next Duke of Westbury, that she discovered his true
identity.
Having called upon Clarissa to
indulge in a delightful tête-à-tête about a ball they attended the night before,
Georgina left her friend’s house and was making her way back to Claremont
Square on foot when the Marquis of Glentworth almost knocked her down with his
phaeton.
He was considered London’s most
eligible bachelor and thought of by the
ladies of the ton as the
undisputed dandy of the Season. But that didn’t matter to Georgina. All she
remembered about the Marquis was that he was the most arrogant, high-handed man
she’d ever met, and he’d behaved
atrociously toward her.
Whether he’d seen her crossing the
road or whether she’d stepped off the curb
too quickly was irrelevant. It was the fact that he’d chosen to give her a
dressing down in public that riled her.
There was no doubt the Marquis
veered his horses away to the side of the road with great skill. And his
competence in avoiding an accident was excellent. But she felt there was no need for him to have shouted her down in
such an ungentlemanly fashion in front of passers-by. He’d been completely and
utterly discourteous.
His displeasure with her was apparent,
and people at the roadside, witnessing their altercation, had been thoroughly
entertained by her discomfort. For her it was an excruciatingly painful and
embarrassing event. And she’d been disconcertingly mortified.
“You there,” the Marquis had called
out. “Where are you bound in such a hurry? I assume you know you have crossed
the road with unseeming recklessness?”
The Marquis was a fine figure of
a man. Handsome enough, with a crop of thick, raven-black hair swept back from
his brow in the style known as a Brutus. His features, although not rugged,
were strong and compelling. And his penetrating eyes, by startling contrast,
were of a cool steely grey that was mesmerising. But his good looks and manly attractiveness did not
sway her from the fact that his gentleman-like
behaviour wasn’t up to scratch or that he was shouting, giving her a dressing
down in public.
Flustered and on the point of
apologising for her hasty action, Georgina remained silent. When she heard his
angry words and the tone of voice in which he spoke, she pointedly ignored his
outburst and concentrated solely on straightening her lopsided bonnet. But when
his horses moved, restlessly shaking their manes for attention, her bonnet,
which had by now fallen from her head and dangled by its ribbons down her back,
was completely forgotten.
Drawing near to where the
high-perch phaeton stood, and with total
disregard for her safety, she’d gone to the front of the carriage, taken the
horses’ bridles in her gloved hands, and tried to calm them. Stroking their
forelocks, she’d spoken soothing words before fixing a steely glare of disdain
upon their owner.
Never before had she been more
thankful for all the hours she’d spent in her bedchamber as a young girl,
standing in front of the mirror, practising
and perfecting the art of delivering the harshest
of stares imaginable. Any lesser man than the Marquis would have baulked at her
glower, but her unflinching look seemed
not to affect him.
“Had you been more attentive,
sir, there would have been no need for you to have pulled so harshly on these
reins. You might have ruined their sensitive mouths.”
“Let me tell you, young Miss, no
one has ever dared question me on the treatment of my horses before. You are
the first person to do so.”
Georgina was surprised by the
incensed and irate reaction of the Marquis. She’d ruffled his feathers.
“Really? You astonish me, sir.
Perhaps someone ought to have done so before.”
He adjusted his grip on the
reins. “I pride myself on giving my thoroughbreds only the finest. Nothing is
of more importance to me than my horses’ wellbeing. They always have the best
of everything. The best stables, the best grooms, the best fodder, and I never
leave them standing outside in the cold waiting on my pleasure. Never. How dare
you say I might have ruined their mouths?”
Bravely ignoring his outburst,
Georgina began gingerly inspecting the horses, searching for any damage that
might have been caused. There was none. But that was of no account.
Although the Marquis had
skilfully handled his animals as any Corinthian, it was of no consequence to
her. Her hackles were raised, and she was on the warpath. Given half the chance, she was ready to accuse him of
anything and everything because of the way he made her feel and because of the
telling off he’d given her.
“Had I not been vigilant, madam,
my greys could have floored you, and the world would be minus your beauty.”
Georgina thought she detected a
hint of tightly control sarcasm about this man, but giving him the benefit of
the doubt, she decided she might be wrong. There was such an air of
condemnation about him that she doubted he would ever have the inclination or
the ability to stoop so low in order that he might indulge himself in something
as meaningless and trivial as cynicism.
“I’m realistic enough to know I’m
not a beauty, sir. I agree I may have momentarily lost my wits when
crossing this road and that I might have
been quite inconsiderate to these magnificent horses, but I’m not so stupid as
to believe you when you call me a beauty.” Georgina tilted her head proudly in
the air. “I must inform you that on more than one occasion I’ve been told my
looks are passable, but a beauty I’m not. And never shall be.”
Giles had regarded her with a
measuring look and then he’d laughed in disbelief. “Never before have I paid a
woman a compliment and had it thrown back at me. I’m intrigued to know what
kind of modest, self-effacing woman I’m talking to.”
“I’m not self-effacing, sir. I’m
only truthful.”
“Then if you tell me you are not
a beauty and inform me that my judgement is to be questioned, I must insist on
having a closer look―for my eyes must be deceiving me. Come, step up into the
carriage and allow me to inspect you.”
Giles drew off his gloves and
tossed them onto the seat beside him. He reached down a hand to help her up,
but with a shake of her head, she refused.
“Sir, I will not,” she said,
affronted. “And you cannot make me.”
“Don’t fly into high fidgets. If
you will not come to me then I shall have to come to you.”
With great agility, the Marquis tossed the reins of his
phaeton to his tiger, the small groom who rode behind the carriage, and
springing down, approached.
Even though Georgina trembled at
his unexpected nearness, she stood her ground. Squaring her shoulders, she
faced him full on, unafraid.
“I stand corrected,” he said,
containing his merriment. “Allow me to revise my assessment.” Placing his
fingers beneath her chin, he had tilted her head first sideways then up and down as he inspected her features.
“You’re quite right. And I must with great reluctance agree with you. You do
indeed have indifferent eyes, and your nose―it is only just passable. But I shall stand by my first
impression concerning your lips. They are truly beautiful. So beautiful, that I
deem they must be kissed. But perhaps we must save that for another time.
Instead, I shall…”
And before Georgina realised what
was happening, the Marquis had captured her hand in his and had raised it to
his lips.
There had been no chance for her
to move away or resist.
Someone amid the crowd of
onlookers let out a loud roar of approval, but Georgina, ignoring the shouts of
encouragement, began to struggle against the Marquis’s determined grip.
Her heart beat furiously in her
chest. “Unhand me, sir,” she’d said. But the Marquis had paid no heed to her
protests.
Instead, his hold
had tightened further, and lifting her into his arms and tossing her carelessly
onto the high perch of his phaeton, he’d
climbed the steps of the carriage and positioned himself beside her.
Once again taking control of the
reins, he’d asked, “Where to?”
“I don’t know what you mean,”
she’d said, quite vexed.
“Where are you living? For I’m
sure, that if I were to leave you here, you would soon be knocked over again.
Or worse. Next time you might manage to get yourself killed.”
“Thank you,” she’d said between
gritted teeth as she tried to maintain her countenance. “But I believe I can
find my way home without your assistance.”
Wriggling on the seat, she
removed the gloves upon which she’d been sitting and offered them to him but he
completely ignored her activities and comments. With an adroit, dexterous flick
of the wrist, he whipped the reins on high and set the horses in motion.
Georgina couldn’t help but admire his skill with the ribbons as he controlled
the high-steppers. His hands, adorned only with an elaborately embellished
sardonyx signet ring on his left hand, were set off to perfection by the brown,
white and tan bands of the precious stone, but they looked too soft to have the
ability to control such powerful animals. But he could handle them well, and he
did―with great expertise.
“This is not about you being able
to find your way, madam. It is about the
fact that you’re on the streets of London, unaccompanied.
I trust you realise that I might not be available to save your reputation on
another occasion such as this.”
Georgina couldn’t help herself.
She scoffed at his remarks.
“Guff, sir!” she’d said crossly.
“That is flimflam and nonsense. You think walking these streets unaccompanied
and without my maid has done me harm? Let me inform you that by taking me up in
your phaeton, you’ve placed me in a far worse position. I’m here with you―alone. More than likely this jaunt will be the ruin of me.”
“On the contrary, madam. It’s not
every day I permit a female to ride beside me, and I suspect being seen in my
company is going to do you a great deal of good.”
And so it was, that in great
style, and accompanied by the Marquis of Glentworth, who was indeed a complete
stranger to her, Miss Georgina Morton was dropped unceremoniously at the door
of the hired house her parents had leased in Claremont Square.
Throughout the remainder of her
London Season, occasionally, and through no doing of her own, she caught
fleeting glimpses of the Marquis. She also heard ample gossip linking his name
to that of Charlotte Bambridge. There had been rumours of a wedding, but that
was all it must have been―rumours—because Abigail had said that Charlotte
Bambridge was now Lady Thornton.
And as for the Marquis of
Glentworth, all Georgina knew from what her father once read aloud from the
public declarations in his much-valued
journals, was that the Fifth Duke of Westbury had died, and that his son,
Glentworth, had inherited the title.
The Marquis of Glentworth was now
the Sixth Duke of Westbury.
Could ‘Cousin Giles’ be
the Sixth Duke of Westbury? And if so, Georgina believed the difficulty of
finding Abigail’s next-of-kin might be solved.
Georgina was going to have to
make a difficult choice: to betray Abigail’s trust and contact the Duke or to
wait until Abigail was discovered by her relatives, as she must eventually be.
After great deliberation, a
difficult decision was made, and having
sent off a letter informing the Duke of his cousin’s stay at Rose Hill House,
Georgina didn’t anticipate a reply for at least a se’nnight―if not longer. She knew titled people such as Dukes and
Earls were notorious for being constantly away from their estates, and she
assumed the present Duke of Westbury was no exception.
Georgina felt the only course of
action open to her was to sit and wait
and see what happened. But meanwhile, there was the urgent problem of how to
engage and entertain the Duke’s ward so that Abigail willingly remained at Rose
Hill until the Duke arrived.
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 |
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.
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