Chapter 1
WESTON MANOR SAT SERENELY AND QUIETLY IN THE MIDST of two acres of garden. It was a small house, unpretentious, looking like what it was—an English gentleman’s lodging in 1797. Only the keenest observer would notice that two of the gutters had fallen somewhat or that a corner of one of the chimneys was broken away or even that some of the painted trim was beginning to peel.
Inside, the only room that was fully lit was the dining room, but here, too, could be seen evidence of neglect. In the shadows, the Georgian chairs’ upholstery was frayed and faded. Tiny bits of the plaster decorations on the tall ceiling had started to chip, and on one wall there was a lighter space where a painting had once hung.
But the young girl sitting on one side of the table was oblivious to any imperfections in the room, for her eyes were glued to the man across from her.
Farrell Batsford curved his wrist in such a manner that the ruffled silk at his cuff would not be stained by the juices from the roast. Taking only a bit of the meat onto his plate, he gave a thin smile to the girl across from him.
“Stop gawking and eat your dinner,” Jonathan Northland commanded his niece, before looking away from her. “Now, Farrell, what were you saying about the shooting at your country place?”
Regan Weston tried to look at her food, even to eat a few bites, but she couldn’t manage to swallow any of it. How anyone expected her to be calm and eat at a time like this, when the man she loved was sitting so near her, she couldn’t begin to understand. She stole another glance at Farrell, looking up at him through her long, dark lashes. He was aristocratic-looking with his long, thin nose and his almond-shaped blue eyes. The velvet coat he wore with the gold brocaded vest perfectly suited his looks and his slim, elegant body. Blond hair was arranged artfully around his narrow head, waving just a bit at the edge of his pure white cravat.
As Regan uttered a deep sigh, her uncle gave her another quelling look. Farrell wiped the corners of his thin lips delicately.
“Perhaps my bride-to-be would like to take a walk in the moonlight?” Farrell asked quietly, pronouncing each word carefully.
Bride! Regan thought. This time next week she would be his wife, and she’d have him all to herself to love and cherish, to hold, to belong only to her. Overwhelmed by emotion, she could not speak; she could only nod in acceptance. As she tossed her napkin on the table, she was aware of her uncle’s disapproval. Once again she wasn’t acting as a lady should. From now on, she reminded herself for the thousandth time, she must remember who she was—and who she was to become: Mrs. Farrell Batsford.
As Farrell held out his arm for her, Regan tried not to clutch it. She wanted to dance with delight, laugh with her happiness, throw her arms around the man she loved. But, instead, she followed him sedately from the dining room into the cool spring garden.
“Perhaps you should have worn a shawl,” Farrell said once they were a short way from the house.
“Oh no,” she said breathlessly, leaning a little closer to him. “I wouldn’t have wanted to take a minute away from our time together.”
Farrell started to say something but seemed to change his mind as he looked away from her. “The wind is off the sea tonight, and it is cooler than last night.”
“Oh Farrell,” she sighed. “Only six more days and we’ll be married. I’m sure I’m the happiest girl alive.”
“Yes, well perhaps,” Farrell said quickly as he disengaged her fingers from his arm. “Sit here, Regan.” The tone of his voice was much like the one her uncle always used with her, one of impatience and exasperation.
“I would rather walk with you.”
“Are you going to start being disobedient before we’re even married?” he demanded, gazing down into her wide-set, trusting eyes. Everything she thought and felt showed in those eyes. She was pretty, in a childish sort of way, in her high-necked muslin dress, but she had about as much appeal to him as a puppy begging for affection.
He took a few steps away from her before beginning to talk. “Is everything ready for the wedding?”
“Uncle Jonathan planned it all.”
“Of course—he would,” Farrell said under his breath. “Then I’ll return next week for the ceremony.”
“Next week!” Regan jumped to her feet. “Not before? But Farrell…we…I….”
He ignored her outburst as he held out his arm for her. “I think we should return to the house now, and perhaps you should reconsider the whole idea of marriage if everything I do displeases you.”
One look from Farrell stopped her protest. She told herself again to remember her manners and be quiet, that she must never give her beloved any reason to find fault with her.
Once they were back inside the dining room, Farrell and her uncle quickly dismissed her to her upstairs bedchamber. She didn’t dare protest; she was too afraid that Farrell would again suggest calling off the wedding.
Inside her bedroom, she could release her pent-up emotions. “Isn’t he wonderful, Matta?” she gushed to her maid. “Did you ever see such brocade as he wore? Only a real gentleman
could choose such fabric. And his manners! He does everything correctly, everything perfectly. Oh, how I wish I could be like him, to always be so sure of myself, to know even my slightest movement was correct.”
Matta’s coarse, ugly face frowned. “It seems to me there should be more to a man than just pretty manners,” she said in her West Country accent. “Now stand still and get out of that dress. It’s past time for you to be in bed.”
Regan did as she was told; she always obeyed people. Someday, she thought, she’d be a person of importance. She had money from her father, and she’d have the man she loved for her husband. Together the two of them would keep an elegant house in London where they would give the most fashionable parties, and a house in the country where she could be alone with her perfect husband.
“Stop your dreamin’,” Matta commanded, “and get into bed. Someday you’re gonna wake up, Regan Weston, and find out the world ain’t made of sugarplums and silk brocade.”
“Oh Matta,” Regan laughed. “I’m not as silly as you think. I had enough sense to get Farrell, didn’t I? What other girl could do that?”