The Squire's Daughter

Book 4: The Regency Collection

by Deborah Simmons

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Romantic Suspense; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

The Worthington Curse...

Is the Marquess of Worthington doomed like his ancestors? The notorious rogue doesn't believe in that old legend. But he trusts his instincts, and they're telling him the squire's daughter he once befriended is in danger.

Clare Cummings believed in curses, fairy tale castles, and happy endings—until Worthington broke her heart. But if he's determined to rescue her from a bad betrothal, she might rescue him right back.

Can she save him from the history that haunts him, or will the curse destroy them both?

 

The Regency Collection: Witty Regencies with a Touch of Mystery

Release date: January 4, 2021

Publisher: Bennett Street Books

Print pages: 233

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Clare Cummings gazed about the room, her yawn of boredom cut off as an ivory fan suddenly poked her in the ribs. Its owner, an elderly lady wearing a purple turban, appeared to be gouging her way through the crowd. Now Clare knew why the most successful London balls were called squeezes.

Squeeze they did, a mass of brilliantly colored silks and satins dwarfed by marble columns that rose to the vaulted ceiling. Rows of candles in sparkling chandeliers and candelabras lit the scene and the priceless gems worn by the ladies. But fans weren't the only dangers lurking beneath the glittering surface, and Clare wondered how she would ever grow accustomed to London.

Shaking her head, she moved, weaving in and out of the mob until she reached one of the tall windows. She hoped that some fresh air might rouse her from the dismals, but even here, she caught the scent of sewage and smoke. Turning away from the windows, Clare was struck with a sudden longing for the clean breezes and rolling hills of home.

“There you are,” a voice warbled at her elbow. “Where have you been? Now don't be difficult tonight, my dear. You know how that confuses me.”

Aunt Eugenia always seemed to be confused. She had pale yellow hair that frizzed about her white face as though she had lost her comb. And since she was farsighted but refused to wear her spectacles in public, she was perpetually squinting her watery blue eyes. A full head shorter than Clare, Eugenia disdained to look up, contributing to her air of bewilderment by rarely meeting her niece's gaze.

“With Mr. Farnham absent tonight, you have the perfect opportunity to catch the eye of all the other eligible gentlemen,” Eugenia said. “I called upon the good graces of some old friends to procure this invitation, and I would not wish my efforts to go to waste.”

When Clare said nothing, Eugenia frowned. “I don't see how you can look so blue-deviled. Every girl dreams of a London season! I admit I'm a bit on in years for such doings, but when your father asked me to usher you into society, even I looked forward to all the excitement.”

Eugenia sighed, as though exhausted by trying to comprehend her niece. “Yawning like a country bumpkin is not going to bring you favorable attention!” Her aunt's hair was sent flying with the strength of her vehemence. “You simply must present yourself well, if you are to make a propitious match. I might remind you of your duty to wed advantageously.”

Clare was reminded of her duty often enough, but she smiled and placed a hand on her aunt's arm. “Excuse me, dear, I'm going to get an ice. Would you like one?”

“Oh, heavens yes, but child, you can't fetch it yourself!” Eugenia’s words were lost on her niece, who walked away heedless of the warning. The promise of refreshment was purely an excuse to escape, and she moved as best she could through the crowd, watching the scenes that played out around her.

Clare paused to admire the swirl of the ladies' skirts and the grace of the gentlemen as they stepped to the minuet or whirled across the room in a waltz. Perhaps a turn about the floor would cheer her, Clare thought with a brief surge of interest. But she had made few acquaintances yet, so stood little chance of receiving an invitation. And having spent too much time at similar functions standing at the side, awkward and alone, she continued on.

In the card room, the play was pretty tame, limited mostly to elderly guests and a few young couples flirting over their hands. A lovely rendering of a hunt graced most of one wall, drawing Clare's attention. Her gaze followed the length of the artwork to one of the marble mantelpieces and stopped there, arrested by what she saw in front of the fireplace.

No fire burned there, but heat rose in her cheeks as she recognized the figure who stood before the empty grate. She stiffened, her breath lodging in her throat, as she stared. And who wouldn’t?

He was taller than those around him with wide shoulders and perfectly tailored clothes that he wore with careless ease. He leaned casually against the mantelpiece, a wayward shock of dark hair falling over one eye to make him look a bit disreputable. Dressed all in black, he wore a perfectly arranged white cravat that set off his handsome face. That face...

Blinking at the sight of it, changed and yet so familiar, Clare was transported back in time. She’d been younger then and so eager to ride on a soggy spring day that held the first promise of warmth. When her father’s groom warned her against the weather, Clare refused both his advice and his company.

The boy had been right, of course, and soon a thick mist rolled in, obscuring all landmarks and making it hard to find her way. She knew she had wandered far beyond her father's fields when she crested a hill and below her, tucked into a valley, towers rose out of the fog like something from the fairy stories she loved so well.

The narrow world she knew as the local squire’s daughter did not include enchanted castles. Where was she, and why hadn’t she heard of this mystical place? Clare glanced behind her, but there was no one to ask and nothing recognizable to be seen. And below the vision beckoned, its center square tower standing proudly over the adjacent roofs, some of them sporting ancient battlements.

Drawing in a deep draught of air, Clare urged her horse down the slope, half fearing the place would disappear before she could reach it. And soon she was so deep in the mist that she could see and hear nothing, blanketed as she was in an eerie white silence. She told herself she was too old to believe in mystery and magic, and yet...

She breathed easier when she caught a glimpse of old stone walls and a massive door looming ahead. Still, no barking dogs marked her arrival, no groundskeeper shouted a greeting, and she saw no signs of inhabitants.

At the huge, arched entrance, Clare slid off Princess and tied the reins to an ancient iron post. The heavy door remained shut, but when she knocked, the worn wood swung open as if by some unseen hand.

Was it bewitched? No butler or maid stood welcoming her, and no horns sounded a greeting as in days of old. The only sound was that of her footsteps as she made her way across the tiled floor of the cavernous hall. Light spilled in from tall, mullioned windows that rose to a vaulted, timbered ceiling lost in the darkness above her.

High-backed Tudor cupboards, seats, and side tables lined walls hung with faded tapestries, and in the center of the room a massive dining table was surrounded by heavy chairs, the largest of which sat at the head like a shadowy sentinel. Clare paused, hardly daring to breath, lest she was dreaming.

“Good God,” said a voice. “It's a pixie!”

Clare’s heart pounded as she glanced around for the source and discovered a pair of legs sprawling from the chair at the head of the table. Hoping to meet a denizen appropriate to such a fairy tale realm, Clare was a little disappointed to see an ordinary man. Or perhaps not so ordinary...

“Well, come closer, pixie,” he drawled, and Clare stepped forward, her gaze taking in the empty bottle on the table and the disheveled state of the speaker. Not only was he a mere man, but a drunken one. He seemed young, although a stubble of beard lent a rakish cast to his boyish features. A lock of dark hair fell over eyes that watched her from an extremely handsome face.

He held out his hand to her, and too entranced to be afraid, Clare took it without hesitation, surprised by the pleasant feel of his firm clasp. She realized how much she’d missed the touch of another in the years since her mother’s death, for her father was not given to displays of affection.

“Have I imagined you, my lovely little sprite?” the man asked, rubbing his thumb absently along her hand. The gesture imbued her with such warmth that Clare thought perhaps she wasn't dreaming after all.

“I must have drunk more than usual,” the young man said, peering into his glass with a melancholy air, his grip on her fingers tightening.

Perhaps it was that subtle pressure or the trace of melancholy about him, but Clare felt as though he were reaching out to her for help. Was the castle enchanted and the prince—her prince—under an evil spell? Clare knew with the certainty of a lonely, romantic young girl, that she, and only she, could save him...