Brette sailed across the study, her slate-blue gingham dress the only one of the quartet’s fashionably long enough. Repeated laundering had turned the garment a peculiar greenish color, much like tarnished copper. She looped her arm through Brooke’s.
“Look, dearest.” Brette pointed to the tray. “I splurged and made a half-batch of shortbread biscuits. It’s been so long since we’ve indulged, and today is your birthday. To celebrate, I insisted on fresh tea leaves as well.”
Brooke would have preferred to ignore the day.
Three and twenty.
On the shelf. Past her prime. Long in the tooth. Spinster. Old maid.
She’d relinquished her one chance at love. In order to nurse her ailing father and assume the care of her young sister and three orphaned cousins, she’d refused Humphrey Benbridge’s proposal. She couldn’t have put her happiness before their welfare and deserted them when they needed her most. Who would’ve cared for them if she hadn’t?
No one.
Mr. Benbridge controlled the purse strings, and Humphrey had neither offered nor been in a position to take on their care. Devastated, or so he’d claimed, he’d departed to the continent five years ago.
She’d not seen him since.
Nonetheless, his sister, Josephina, remained a friend and occasionally remarked on Humphrey’s travels abroad. Burying the pieces of her broken heart beneath hard work and devotion to her family, Brooke had rolled up her sleeves and plunged into her forced role as breadwinner, determined that sacrificing her love not be in vain.
Yes, it grieved her that she wouldn’t experience a man’s passion or bear children, but to wallow in doldrums was a waste of energy and emotion. Instead, she focused on building a future for her sister and cousins—so they might have what she never would—and allowed her dreams to fade into obscurity.
“Happy birthday.” Brette squeezed her hand.
Brooke offered her sister a rueful half-smile. “Ah, I’d hoped you’d forgotten.”
“Don’t be silly, Brooke. We couldn’t forget your special day.” Twenty-year-old Blythe—standing with her hands behind her—grinned and pulled a small, neatly-wrapped gift tied with a cheerful yellow ribbon from behind her. Sweet dear. She’d used the trimming from her gown to adorn the package.
“Hmph. Need seedcake an’ champagne to celebrate a birthday properly.” The contents of the tray rattled and clanked when Duffen scuffed his way to the table between the sofa and chairs. After depositing the tea service, he lifted a letter from the surface. Tea dripped from one stained corner. “This arrived for you yesterday, Miss Brooke. I forgot where I’d put it until just now.”
If I can read it with the ink running to London and back.
He shook the letter, oblivious to the tawny droplets spraying every which way.
Mabry raised a bushy gray eyebrow, and the twins hid giggles by concealing their faces in the cat’s striped coats.
Brette set about pouring the tea, although her lips twitched suspiciously.
Freddy sat on his haunches and barked, his button eyes fixed on the paper, evidently mistaking it for a tasty morsel he would’ve liked to sample. He licked his chops, a testament to his waning eyesight.
“Thank you, Duffen.” Brooke took the letter by one soggy corner. Holding it gingerly, she flipped it over. No return address.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Blythe set the gift on the table before settling on the sofa and smoothing her skirt. They didn’t get a whole lot of post at Esherton. Truth be known, this was the first letter in months. Blythe’s gaze roved to the other girls and the equally eager expressions on their faces. “We’re on pins and needles,” she quipped, fluttering her hands and winking.
Brooke smiled and cracked the brownish wax seal with her fingernail. Their lives had become rather monotonous, so much so that a simple, soggy, correspondence sent the girls into a dither of anticipation.
My Dearest Cousin...
Brooke glanced up. “It’s from Sheridan.
Purchase BROOKE: WAGERS GONE AWRY
Enjoy the first chapter of A KISS FOR MISS KINGSLEY
A Waltz with a Rogue, Book One
Can a beautiful spinster trust love again? Especially if the same man asks?
Olivia Kingsley didn’t expect to fall in love and receive a secret marriage proposal two weeks into her first Season. However, one dance with Allen Wimpleton and her fate is sealed. Or so she thinks until her eccentric and ailing father announces he’s moving the family to the Caribbean for a year. Distraught at her leaving, and unaware of her father’s ill health, Allen demands she choose—him or her father.
Heartbroken at Allen's callousness, but thankful he’s revealed his true nature before she married him, Olivia turns her back on their love. The year becomes three, enough time for her broken heart to heal, and after her father dies, Olivia returns to England. Coming face to face with an embittered Allen, she realizes she never purged him from her heart, and once again the flames of passion ignite. But is it too late for their love?
Caution: This humorous historical Regency romance contains a dashing, pessimistic rogue, a strong-minded heroine with a temperament as fiery as her red hair, an audacious aunt who says precisely what she thinks, and an uppity villainess who gets her comeuppance at last.
Read the 1st installment in the Waltz with a Rogue historical Regency romance series for a rousing, emotional, and romantic adventure you can't put down.
A lady must never forget her manners nor lose her composure.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
London, England
Late May, 1818
“This is a monumental mistake.”
God’s toenails. What were you thinking, Olivia Kingsley, agreeing to Auntie Muriel’s addlepated scheme?
Why had she ever agreed to this farce?
Fingering the heavy ruby pendant hanging at the hollow of her neck, Olivia peeked out the window as the conveyance rounded the corner onto Berkeley Square. Good God. Carriage upon carriage, like great shiny beetles, lined the street beside an ostentatious manor. Her heart skipped a long beat, and she ducked out of sight.
Braving another glance from the window’s corner, her stomach pitched worse than a ship amid a hurricane. The full moon’s milky light, along with the mansion’s rows of glowing diamond-shaped panes, illuminated the street. Dignified guests in their evening finery swarmed before the grand entrance and on the granite stairs as they waited their turn to enter Viscount and Viscountess Wimpleton’s home.
The manor had acquired a new coat of paint since she had seen it last. She didn’t care for the pale lead shade, preferring the previous color, a pleasant, welcoming bronze green. Why anyone living in Town would choose to wrap their home in such a chilly color was beyond her. With its enshrouding fog and perpetually overcast skies, London boasted every shade of gray already.
Three years in the tropics, surrounded by vibrant flowers, pristine powdery beaches, a turquoise sea, and balmy temperatures had rather spoiled her against London’s grime and stench. How long before she grew accustomed to the dank again? The gloom? The smell?