Damsels watched in envy as the driver of the curricle, Mr. Adam St. Just, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, lifted Miss Knightley into his carriage and drove her home.
Three days later, Miss Knightley and her grandmother, Lady Westwick, relict of the fifth Earl of Westwick, visited Mr. St. Just at his home in Sussex. It was noted by astute observers that this was the ladies’ second sojourn at Roseneath Priory. Thus, the announcement of the engagement of Miss Knightley and Mr. St. Just came as no surprise.
The wedding followed shortly after. The guests included the Marquis of Revelstoke and Mr. and Mrs. Harry Higgs of Whitechapel, London.
Mr. Higgs gave the bride away.
The wedding breakfast was enlivened by an unusual centerpiece: a small stream, complete with lily pads and goldfish, ran down the middle of the table. When the bride saw it, she laughed.
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If you’d like to read the first chapter of The Spinster’s Secret, a Regency romance featuring a secret authoress, a scarred hero, and a darkly gothic backdrop, please turn the page.
If you prefer your romances a little more lighthearted, I invite you to jump ahead a few pages to read the first chapter of The Earl’s Dilemma, a novel about an earl who needs to marry in a hurry.
CHAPTER ONE
HIS LORDSHIP SWIFTLY divested me of my gown, placing hot kisses on the skin he bared. “You are a goddess,” he breathed, as he untrussed my bosom . . .
Matilda Chapple glanced at the window. Outside the overcast sky was darkening towards dusk. If she hurried, she could mail this installment of Chérie’s Confessions before night fell.
Seizing me in his arms, he carried me to the bed, she wrote hastily. He pushed aside the froth of my petticoats with impatience. In less than a minute he had made his entrance and slaked his lust upon my . . .
Mattie halted, the quill held above the page, and squinted at her draft. What was that word? Feverish? Fevered? Fervent?
. . . upon my fevered body.
Mattie continued swiftly copying. Finally, she finished: We lay sated in the sunlight. For my part, I was as pleased by his lordship’s manly vigor as he was so evidently pleased by my feminine charms. I foresaw many pleasant months ahead as his mistress.
And on that note, dear readers, I shall end this latest confession from my pen.
Chérie.
Mattie laid down the quill. She glanced at the window again, hastily blotted the pages, and folded them. She sealed the letter with a wafer and wrote the address of her publisher clearly. Then she folded another letter around it and sealed that, too, writing the address of her friend Anne on it: Mrs. Thos. Brocklesby, Lombard Street, London.
Done.
Mattie bundled up the draft and hid it with the others in the concealed cupboard in the wainscoting. She crammed a bonnet on her head, threw a thick shawl around her shoulders, and grabbed the letter.
There was still an hour of daylight left, but deep shadows gathered in the corridors of Creed Hall. The stairs creaked as she hurried down them. The entrance hall was cave-like, dark and chilly and musty.
“Matilda!”
Mattie swung around, clutching the letter to her breast.
Her uncle stood in the doorway to his study, leaning heavily on a cane. “Where are you going?”
Mattie raised the letter, showing it to him. “A letter to a friend, Uncle Arthur. I’m taking it down to the village.”
Her uncle frowned, his face pleating into sour, disapproving folds. “I sent Durce with the mail an hour ago.”
“Yes, Uncle. I hadn’t quite finished—”
“Durce can take it tomorrow.”
“I should like to send it today, Uncle. If I may.”
Uncle Arthur’s eyebrows pinched together in a scowl. The wispy feathers of white hair ringing his domed skull, the beak-like nose, made him look like a gaunt, bad-tempered bird of prey. “Mr. Kane will be arriving soon.”
“I’ll only be twenty minutes. I promise.” Mattie bowed her head and held her breath. Please, please, please . . .
Her uncle sniffed. “Very well. But don’t be late for our guest. We owe him every courtesy.”
“No, Uncle.” Mattie dipped him a curtsy. “Thank you.”
Outside, the sky was heavy with rain clouds. The air was dank and bracingly cold, scented with the smell of decaying vegetation. Mattie took a deep breath, filling her lungs, feeling her spirits lift, conscious of a delicious sense of freedom. She walked briskly down the long drive, skirting puddles and mud. On either side, trees stretched leafless branches towards the sky. Once she was out of sight of the Hall’s windows, Mattie lengthened her stride into a run. She spread her arms wide, catching the wintry breeze with her shawl. It felt as if she was galloping, as if she was flying, as if she was free.
At the lane, she slowed to a walk and turned right. The village of Soddy Morton was visible in the hollow a mile away.
Mattie crossed the crumbling stone bridge. The brook rushed and churned below, brown and swollen, its banks cloaked in winter-dead weeds. She blew out a breath. It hung fog-like in front of her. Icy mud splashed her half boots and the hem of her gown, but a feeling
