The Willful Miss Winthrop

by Wilma Counts

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

After joining her father, Colonel Charles Winthrop, in Portugal, an independent lady fights her attraction to a soldier whom she believes to be a rogue.

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

“You did what?” The Viscountess Renfrow fairly sputtered at the young woman seated across from her in the elegant drawing room of the Renfrow townhouse.

“I refused Lord Taraton’s offer.” Miss Cymberly Winthrop looked her godmother in the eye, noting the other lady’s posture, rigid with frustrated anger and genuine alarm. “We would not suit, you know.”

“It matters not whether you would suit. The damage has been done. Your reputation will be in shreds. ’Twas commendable of Taraton to do the right thing by you, considering your lack of dowry and that you are not precisely in the first bloom of youth. Renfrow did not even have to pressure him.”

After a year in the other woman’s household, Cymberly scarcely noticed her godmother’s bluntness. “Lord Taraton and I were stranded at a country inn for a few hours while his curricle was being repaired. I do not see that as a basis for marriage.”

“During which time the two of you were sequestered in a private parlor. You had no suitable chaperon, not even a maid. It simply will not do, my dear.”

“The entire event was an unfortunate accident! The rest of our party had gone ahead. It took much longer to repair the wheel than anyone might have anticipated.”

“And you were alone together all that time.”

“The innkeeper and his wife could not spare a maid for us. Heavens! They barely managed a simple meal. We were lucky they had a private parlor. The taproom was overflowing with farmers and tradesmen.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Lady Renfrow said dismissively. “You have been compromised. You must marry him. You will send round a note telling him you have reconsidered. He is a gentleman. He understands that girls often say no when they mean yes.”

Cymberly sighed. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, trying to think how she might make her godmother understand. Then she raised her clear-eyed gaze to Lady Renfrow’s and spoke firmly, but softly.

“No, madam, I will not send round such a note. At three and twenty, I am hardly a green girl who knows little of her own wishes. Lord Taraton is an amiable man, but I will not condemn us both to a life of misery by accepting his suit because of an accident.”

“A life of misery? How can you speak so? Taraton is one of the richest young men of the ton. He is a very good catch. You should deem yourself lucky.”

“Did I love him, I should certainly feel lucky. But I do not, nor is he especially enamored of me. He partnered me for a few dances. We enjoyed a few outings in the park and the picnic. But I repeat, madam, that is no basis for marriage.”

Cymberly did not add that David Taraton had sought her company for the picnic precisely because—as he told her in his joking but honest manner—he knew she, at least, was not seeking to ensnare him in matrimony. He was a friend. Period. Now society would spoil their friendship by springing the very trap the viscount sought to avoid. Cymberly Winthrop was not going to allow it. Her hazel eyes snapped with determination.

Her godmother considered her silently for a moment, then tried a different tack. “Have you any idea how your selfishness will affect the rest of this household once the scandal really breaks? So far there are only whispers.”

“Selfishness? I cannot consider it selfish to refuse the suit of one who would never have offered under ordinary circumstances.”

“I was not thinking of you or Lord Taraton. I was thinking of Amabel. Her father and I have gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure her come-out is a success. Now your behavior will spoil her chances at a suitable match.”

“Oh, I do hope not.”

Lady Renfrow went right on as though Cymberly had not spoken. “Is this how you are to repay our hospitality? With your grandmother off digging into old Egyptian graves, it was my duty to take you in when your mama died—a duty I was glad to perform. When your time of mourning was over, I was happy to bring you out along with Amabel. Indeed, I was convinced—and rightly so!—that your dark good looks and outgoing personality would be the perfect complement to my fair Amabel. But now . . .” She finally wound down.

“I am not unmindful of all you and Lord Renfrow have done for me, and I am deeply grateful. Mama would have been also.”

“Well then . . .”

“But I cannot do as you wish.”

“Surely you can. Think of the scandal. And Amabel.”

“Amabel is a lovely, conformable girl. She is very sweet, not to mention that she will have a generous dowry. I cannot doubt she will survive any talk about her parents’ houseguest, especially if that houseguest is no longer in England.”

“No longer in—why, whatever can you mean by that?”

“I plan to join my father in the Peninsula.”

“You would follow the drum? Oh, my heavens!” Lady Renfrow drew back in shock and put her hand to her ample breast. “It was bad enough when your mother took her baby and went off to India with Captain Winthrop, but at least she was married. Trailing behind the army is no place for an unmarried young woman—not a respectable one.”

Cymberly laughed. “My dear godmama, have you not just suggested that my refusing to marry Lord Taraton will make me less than respectable in London society? And,” she added in a very firm tone, “I do assure you I shall not change my mind on that question.”

“Ohhh.” Unaccustomed to having her wishes ignored, Lady Renfrow wailed her frustration. “Where on earth did I ever get the idea you were a biddable young woman?”

Although it was clearly a rhetorical question, Cymberly responded. “I truly regret that I cannot please you, ma’am. Nor would I willingly hurt Amabel. The gossip will prove a nine days’ wonder once I have gone.”

“That is probably correct,” Lady Renfrow admitted grudgingly. “Well, if you absolutely refuse to marry Taraton, I wash my hands of the situation. I cannot say I will be happy to see you go, but . . .”

For the next few days Cymberly avoided social outings, in part to spare her godmother’s having to deflect gossip, but also because she was caught up in arranging the details of her removal to Portugal. Viscount Renfrow offered to check on ships challenging the French blockade of British sea traffic. He would try to determine which ships—and which captains—would stand the greater chance of success. As it happened, Mrs. Horton, a bosom friend of Lady Renfrow, was traveling to Portugal to meet her colonel husband.

Mrs. Horton was reluctant to allow her own consequence to lend an air of respectability to a young woman who was currently the talk of the town. However, Lady Renfrow, with little regard for subtlety, reminded her old friend of a nearly forgotten social debt, and Mrs. Horton was persuaded to accept Miss Winthrop as a cabin mate.

Cymberly made one important morning call on Lady Suzanne Allenby, the Earl of Kirkwood’s countess. Within weeks of confinement with her first child, Lady Kirkwood received very few visitors, but she welcomed Cymberly with an eager hug.

Greetings over, Cymberly asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Fat and clumsy.” The normally lithe and slender blond woman lowered herself awkwardly into a chair and waved her visitor to a seat. “Three more weeks, the doctor says.”

“I am truly sorry I will not be here to welcome the Kirkwood heir properly.”

“I heard. Oh, Cymberly, I shall miss you so.” There was genuine distress in Suzanne’s tone, and tears filled her eyes.

“And I you.” Cymberly smiled sadly and then said more lightly, “Amazing, is it not, that we became such close friends?”

“Amazing,” Suzanne agreed. “You seemed so standoffish—so superior—when we met in the common room of Miss Sutherby’s Select School for Girls.”

“I know. I was miserable. I desperately missed my parents.

I had quite made up my mind to hate the school and the teachers and the other girls. I was especially determined to hate you.”

“Me?”

“You. You may recall you were late returning to school that year.”

Suzanne nodded. “Because of my sister’s wedding.”

“Prior to your arrival I heard ‘Lady Suzanne this’ and ‘Lady Suzanne, that’ until I was heartily sick of the name. In my infinite wisdom, I knew full well no real person could live up to such a picture of perfection.”

“Oh, dear. You must have thought me insufferable.”

“I did, at first. You seemed entirely preoccupied with your own circle of friends, none of whom had time for a provincial like me.”

“Girls of twelve and thirteen years can be so cruel,” Suzanne said regretfully. “Actually, we envied your having lived an exotic life in India. We were the provincials. You intimidated us because you knew so much.”

“ ‘The Bluestocking.’ Barbara Frankton used to whisper it so I would hear. Reading and learning had always been such a joy to me. They still are, actually.”

“I know. And I am glad we did not kill that in you.”

Cymberly laughed. “There was little danger of that. I took refuge in my books and envied the popular Lady Suzanne.”

“Thank goodness for the insight of Miss Kilby.”

“Or for her sensitivity—which is probably the same thing. Her pairing us for extra study was quite simply the best thing that happened to me at school.”

“I learned to conjugate French verbs,” Suzanne said, “and that you were more lonely than snobbish.”

“I learned to read music properly, and that you were not only as shy and vulnerable as I, but you really did live up to that picture of perfection!”

Suzanne looked embarrassed. “You hear that, young sir?” She patted her protruding stomach. “Your mama is the picture of perfection.”

“She is clairvoyant, too, I surmise.” Cymberly’s voice held a gurgle of laughter.

“How so?”

“You seem certain this child is a ‘young sir’!”

“Kirkwood hopes so.”

“And you do, too,” Cymberly teased. “Honestly, Suzanne, you seem more besotted with him than ever.”

“I know. I am. Unfashionable of me, is it not?”

“I think it is charming.”

“Oh, Cymberly, I do hope you find someone as wonderful as my Richard.”

Cymberly sighed. “Most unlikely.”

Then they talked of other things, promised to write faithfully, and bade each other a tearful farewell.

A few days later, Cymberly boarded a ship, one of a convoy bound for the Iberian Peninsula on a journey that could take as long as six weeks, depending on weather and the captain’s skill in evading the blockade.

She stood at the rail of the ship as it sailed out of Plymouth harbor and loneliness crept over her. She had experienced the same isolation when her parents sent her from India to school in England. Expecting to be reunited with her parents when she finished school, she’d received only half a loaf. Papa was posted to the Peninsula, while Mama, already suffering the wasting sickness, returned to England to share a cottage with her daughter. Mother and daughter had lived quite simply, with only Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett as live-in servants. Her mother lamented the fact that her health would not allow her to provide her daughter a proper come-out.

“There will be time enough for that when you are feeling better, Mama,” Cymberly invariably replied. Both mother and daughter knew this to be a polite fiction.

When her mother died, Cymberly longed to share her grief with her father, but such was not to be. Weeks later the two of them visited Mama’s grave and shed resigned tears, but it was not the same as having his sturdy shoulder to lean on at the time.

She loved her father too much to blame him for her loneliness. Instead, she directed her resentment at that great anomalous entity that kept him from his family—the army. As a soldier, his first duty had ever been to king and country. She understood this, as had her mother. But understanding did little to lessen the feeling of being utterly alone again.

Well, she reassured herself, it would not be for long. She would be joining her father soon, army or no.

She nurtured this thought throughout the voyage, which turned out to be miserable. Summer squalls on the Atlantic and dodging Napoleon’s warships, combined with the judgmental coolness of her cabin mate, intensified the discomfort of the trip.

Cymberly tried to befriend the woman she had known fleetingly in London society, but Mrs. Horton obviously found her position distasteful. She made it clear she resented Lady Renfrow’s bullying her into chaperoning a young woman society had rejected.

Finally, Cymberly gave up, retreated into formal civility, and spent as much time on deck in the fresh air as weather permitted. However, inclement weather often confined passengers to their quarters. Mrs. Horton, prone to seasickness, seemed to resent Cymberly’s robust good health and only reluctantly submitted to the younger woman’s ministering aid.

There were fewer than thirty women on board this ship, which carried nearly four hundred soldiers to augment Wellington’s forces. Two of the other females were wives of army officers and billeted on the same deck, sharing the captain’s table with Cymberly, Mrs. Horton, the ship’s officers, and higher ranking army personnel. Young, newly married Juliana Williams was traveling with her equally young lieutenant husband. Mrs. Gordon-Smythe, whose colonel husband outranked Mrs. Horton’s spouse by a few months, much to the latter’s annoyance, traveled in relative style with two of her servants. She shared Mrs. Horton’s superior demeanor, and the two of them often had their heads together, probably comparing negative opinions of the inferior beings around them, Cymberly thought.

The other women were wives of lower ranks. They, and in some instances their children, shared cramped communal quarters on the lower decks. Feeling isolated by the Williams’ preoccupation with each other and the distinct coolness of her other companions, Cymberly was drawn to these women when she encountered them on deck. She sympathized with their plight, particularly with that of Mrs. Peters, who tried to keep her two-year-old son under control as she suffered with the early stages of another pregnancy. The woman’s husband, always busily engaged in man-talk, never seemed to be available to help. Cymberly occasionally took the little boy, Tommy, from his grateful mother to give the poor woman some respite.

Friendly, talkative Mrs. Peters revealed more of herself than a discreet tongue might willingly have disclosed. Thus, Cymberly learned Mrs. Peters was the daughter of a wealthy cit. Her father had forbidden the marriage, but Mary Beth and her dear Johnny had run off to Gretna Green to be married anyway. They just knew Papa could not withhold his approval once the deed was done. But he had.

“ ‘You made that bed. Now you must lie in it.’ That’s what he told us,” Mary Beth said sadly. “Oh, my. Johnny was that unhappy about it. He had thought to quit the army, don’t you know? But we have managed, mostly because my mama sneaks us funds now and then from her pin money.”

The basic elements of Mary Beth’s story—young lovers marrying in spite of a disapproving father—paralleled Cymberly’s mother’s story. Though, of course, Papa was the child of the cit and Papa had adequate, if not ample, funds of his own to care for his wife and daughter. The Winthrops had never again seen the Earl of Chadwyck, Mrs. Winthrop’s father. Cymberly remembered once journeying with her mother to the earl’s country seat. She must have been about six years old. The butler had been surprised but pleased to see them at the door. A few minutes later he had returned, looking sad and embarrassed.

“I am sorry, Lady Elise. He will not see you.”

Mama gripped Cymberly’s hand tightly and turned back to their hired carriage. Cymberly twisted around to look again at the imposing house and saw a drapery pulled back on the ground floor. It was quickly dropped, but not before the child glimpsed a shock of white hair. Mama wept silently all the way back to the inn where Papa waited. He had refused to approach the old earl himself and had not encouraged his wife’s doing so, though he could not bring himself to deny her wish to go on her own. Her disappointment saddened him, but in Papa’s arms, Mama soon recovered her good spirits.

Cymberly gave herself a mental shake. Pay attention to business, my girl, she admonished herself. She was observing the frenzied activity of unloading boats ferried to the dock from the ship now anchored in Lisbon’s bay. There had been seven ships in their convoy and Cymberly noted other ships in the harbor as well. The captain of “her” ship had been incensed at the presence of three of them.

“Damned Americans,” he muttered. Then he saw the ladies standing at the rail and apologized for his language.

“I did not know we traded with them now that we are at war with the former colonies,” Cymberly said.

“We don’t,” the captain replied firmly. “But the Portuguese traders do. They sell the goods to us. The Americans know very well where all those goods are going, but where there is a profit . . .”

Later, Cymberly found standing on the firm foundation of the dock after weeks of the motion-filled deck of a ship disconcerting. Mrs. Horton spied her husband immediately and hastily moved off with him, not even bothering to introduce the man to her traveling companion. Aware of the cut, Cymberly felt a twinge of pain, but she refused to let a meanspirited woman dampen her reunion with her father.

Along with the white garb and red sashes of Portuguese dock workers, the busy wharf sported various military uniforms. The blue uniforms of the British navy were overwhelmed by the red tunics of the British army. There was a sprinkling of green among them, which Cymberly recognized as the color of rifle regiments. Other uniforms, she surmised, belonged to the Portuguese and Spanish armies.

Her father’s familiar figure did not appear. She experienced a moment of panic, alone in a whirling sea of humanity. No. He would be here.

As the chaos on the dock thinned, some semblance of order began to appear. A tall man in a rifleman’s uniform seemed to have firm control of his area, issuing crisp orders in what Cymberly took to be Portuguese. It certainly was neither Spanish nor French. His uniform suggested officer status, as did his ordering others about. However, she saw him share one hapless soldier’s burden and leap to the rescue of another who nearly dropped a load.

The Peters family stood on the other side of the dock, near this officer and his crew. As usual, Corporal Peters was laughing and horsing around with other newly arrived soldiers while his wife oversaw their belongings and their son. Mary Beth sat her son on a leather bag and Cymberly saw rather than heard her telling him to “stay put.” The harried mother turned her attention to getting the rest of her family’s belongings together.

Of course the child immediately scrambled down from his perch and toddled on his chubby little legs toward the edge of the dock. Just as Cymberly started toward the Peters group, knowing her voice would not be heard over the din, she saw Tommy reach for the tail of a scruffy stray dog. He tumbled off the dock into the brackish water below.

The sequence of events that followed seemed to move at a maddeningly slow pace. Mary Beth screamed. Her husband looked around in annoyance. Cymberly tried to rush across the dock, but it had suddenly gained the dimensions of a large field filled with people conspiring to impede her movement. The tall officer whisked off his hat and dived in after the child.

As Cymberly reached the edge of the dock, the man’s head popped up from the scummy water. He took a deep breath and his head disappeared. Was he never coming up again?

Finally, the head appeared—no, two heads—and the man began to swim somewhat awkwardly toward a rowboat propelled by another quick-thinking bystander.

The audience on the dock watched as the rescuer worked with the inert child. Finally, the little body twitched. They could not hear his cough, but they did, indeed, hear his howl of protest. They let out a unified sigh of relief.

Cymberly, standing next to Mrs. Peters, put her arms around the crying mother.

“He is all right. He is safe,” Cymberly murmured soothingly.

“Why were you not watching him properly? That’s what I want ta know,” . . .