It Started With a Whisper Page 5

  Tabitha should not have cared what Colin was going through. It should have made no difference to her whether he was out enjoying the ton or wallowing in his mistakes, so why did her heart break all over again? Rather than speak, Tabitha leaned against the cherry wood headboard and closed her eyes in an attempt to chase away Priscilla’s words.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Tabitha spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

  The rustle of Priscilla’s skirts filled her ears a moment before her weight shifted the mattress. “Close me out.”

  Tabitha released a breath and opened her eyes. “I’m not. I simply do not know what to say. My mind is muddled.”

  “Then allow your heart to guide you. You love him. Let that be enough.” Priscilla settled beside her on the bed.

  “I do not wish to make a cake of myself.”

  Priscilla rolled her head toward Tabitha, a smirk playing at her lips. “What do you think you are doing at present? You keep yourself locked away up here while all of society gossips and speculates.”

  “That is not fair.” Tabitha narrowed her eyes. “I will return to society when I am ready. For now, I have the right to mourn the future I have lost.”

  “That is my point, exactly. You have lost nothing. On the contrary, you are throwing it away with both hands. But it is not too late to change your mind.” Priscilla stroked Fuzz’s head. “Why haven’t you formally broken the betrothal?”

  “Because…ugh. I do not want to discuss it.”

  “Why?” Priscilla pushed Tabitha for an answer.

  Annoyance began to build within Tabitha as she turned away from her sister. “I’m tired. You should go.”

  “All you’ve done is sleep. You're not tired, your just trying to avoid answering. It will not work. If you wish for me to leave then you will have to tell me why you haven’t broken the engagement.” Priscilla crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Tabitha.

  Tabitha jumped from the bed causing Fuzz to roll off her lap and stepped across her bedroom. “I love him too much to see him ruined.” She rounded to face her sister with tears in her eyes. “And I keep praying for a miracle. For something to change and make it possible for me to marry him.”

  Priscilla rose from the bed and went to Tabitha, pulling her sister into her embrace. “Be your own miracle.”

  Colin could not believe his eyes when Tabitha strolled into his library. Swirling the whiskey in his tumbler, he blinked once, twice, then rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, she remained, still standing in the doorway. His heart beat rapidly as he placed the tumbler on the table and stood. “Tabitha.”

  She came closer, her gaze never faltering. “Yes.”

  With cautious steps, he began walking toward her. His mind raced. Should he speak? Declare his love once again? Perhaps it would be best to remain quiet. Allow her to guide the conversation. Fighting the urge to pull her into his arms, he said, “I am sorry.”

  She ran to him, throwing her arms around him. “As am I.”

  He nuzzled his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her, still not quite believing she was there. “I am a mess without you, sweet. I love you too much to bear being apart from you.”

  She began to pull away and he pressed her closer. “Bloody hell, Tabitha. Tell me what I can do to fix things between us. I will do anything, just name it and it shall be done.”

  “Colin.”

  Her voice was muffled by his chest. He forced himself to loosen his hold on her so she could speak without impediment, but he kept his arms firmly around her.

  Tabitha tipped her chin up, her gaze catching his. “You’ve already done all you can.”

  A fresh stab of pain pierced his heart and he released her, turning to face the fireplace. “Very well. I suppose you will publicly break the engagement on the morrow. That is why you have come, correct? To make me aware of your intentions?”

  “Not at all. The opposite is true. I came to forgive you.” She stepped around him, shaking her head. “I want to be your wife. The past does not matter and I was wrong to put such weight on things that happened before me.”

  “On my honor, I will never give my affection to another woman. All of me belongs to you.” He reached out and brushed a rogue tear from her cheek. “You are all I ever want and all I shall ever need, sweet.”

  Tabitha wrapped her arms around him and rose on her tiptoes, bringing her face level with his. “I love you, I was just too foolish to admit it.”

  “I love you more.” He brought his lips to hers in a soul-searing kiss, certain that his life would never be the same—and exceedingly grateful for it.

  Epilogue

  All of London is anticipating today's nuptials in the union being dubbed the wedding of the century. A double ceremony between two of London's most renowned rogues and our beloved city’s most sought-after debutantes. My congratulations go out to the lucky couples, Lord Harcourt and his soon to be countess, Lady Tabitha, along with Lord Lovell and his soon to be viscountess, Lady Priscilla.

  -Whispers from Lady X

  Six weeks later

  Tabitha stood beside Priscilla, studying their images in the looking glass. They wore identical white muslin gowns with embroidered satin stitching and knots, embedded with pearls, puff sleeves, and trains. As had become their custom, Priscilla's hair had been gathered at the sides then left to flow down her back while Tabitha’s had been plaited and strung with pearls.

  “Are you ready?” Tabitha meet Priscilla's sparkling gaze in the looking glass and smiled.

  Priscilla beamed back, her eyes fairly glowing. “Never have I been more eager to do something.”

  Tabitha took Priscilla’s satin covered hand in hers and turned toward the door. “Then let us be on our way.”

  Together the girls strolled across the room then cast open the door and stepped into the corridor where their father had been waiting. He stopped pacing, a wide grin stretching across his face. “My darling girls, you are stunning.”

  The elation that had been building in Tabitha all day bloomed brighter as Father pulled her and Priscilla into his embrace.

  “Your mother will be so proud.”

  Tabitha released Priscilla’s hand then wrapped her arm around her sister's shoulders, tightening the shared embrace. Words could not begin to describe the joy in her heart, so she did not bother to try, relying on her love instead as she held tight to her father and sister.

  “I fear we are wrinkling our gowns,” Priscilla said.

  Father released them, chuckling. “No one will notice if we did. The two of you are so beautiful that your faces far eclipse your gowns.” He proffered both of his arms—one for each daughter. “Shall we?”

  “Straight away.” Priscilla nodded, her smile firmly in place.

  “Yes, I do not wish to waste a single second,” Tabitha agreed.

  Priscilla took Father’s left arm while Tabitha threaded her hand around his right. Warmth spread through Tabitha as Father turned them down the long aisle of St. George’s church. She found Colin’s gaze and he winked, flashing her the roguish grin she loved so deeply.

  The couples took turns reciting their vows, promising to love, honor, and cherish one another for the rest of their days. With the ceremony at an end, Colin brought his mouth to Tabitha’s in a bruising kiss and the church erupted with whistles and applause. Tabitha wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips clinging to his. For a moment no one else existed. They were alone in a tide of bliss that she knew would carry them through all their days.

  Colin led her up the aisle and out of St. George’s with Lord Lovell and Priscilla following behind them through a flurry of well wishes and rice. He paused when they reached the carriage, turning to her to drop a kiss onto her cheek. Pulling back, he brought his forehead to rest against hers while he stared into her eyes. “I love you, Tabitha, my sweet.”

  Her heart melted, warmth spreading through her as she cupped his face in hands. “I love you more.�
�

  About Amanda Mariel

  USA Today Bestselling author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.

  Visit www.amandamariel.com for more information on Amanda and her books. Sign up for Amanda’s newsletter while you are at her website to stay up-to-date on all things Amanda Mariel and receive a free eBook!

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  Thank you so much for taking the time to read One Moonlit Tryst.

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  USA Today bestselling author

  ~Heartwarming historical romances that leave you breathless~

  Love Me, Lord Tender

  USA Today Bestselling Author Deb Marlowe Deb Marlowe

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Love Me, Lord Tender

  Copyright 2017 by Deb Marlowe

  Chapter 1

  A little bird has whispered in my ear. The reclusive Lord Terror has arrived in Town. Guard the women in your families, gentlemen. Rumor has it that Lord Terror does not always display the respect that is due a lady . . .

  —Whispers From Lady X

  Lady Hope Brightley weaved skillfully through the throng at Lady Loxton’s ball. She was following her nose toward the buffet, until her sister-in-law grabbed her and pulled her behind a potted plant.

  “Just where do you think you are going?” Catherine, Lady Kincade, hissed.

  Hope rubbed her wrist. “To the buffet,” she answered absently. “I rather fancy the sound of the lobster patties.”

  “Lobster patties! Lobster patties? How can you be thinking of lobster patties now? Lord Bardham has just left me and he is most upset! He says that you have treated him quite coldly.”

  “I am not surprised that he would say so.” Hope craned her neck toward the food, hoping her sister-in-law would get the hint. “I refused his offer. He didn’t take it well.” She took a step away. “I shall speak with you later, Catherine.”

  But Catherine grabbed her again. “Refused him? Why? Why would you be so foolish?”

  “I do not care for him—as I have told you before.”

  “He is a fine young man, my brother’s closest friend. What possible objection could you have?”

  “He is younger than I, for one. And as I have told you, I find him insincere.”

  Catherine waved both of those objections off. “The age difference means nothing. And as I said, every suitor has a few honeyed words—”

  “Honeyed is one thing. Salacious is another.” Hope shivered. “His words, his insinuating looks, the way he acts as if I were as good as betrothed to him already, just because he has shown an interest—it’s all feels more slimy than honeyed. No. I do not care for him.” Hope speared the tiresome woman with a stern look. “And if you are the one who is encouraging him in his suit, then I beg you to stop.”

  Catherine reared back. “Oh? And whom should I encourage? It’s not as if you are entertaining a host of suitors, all ready to go down on one knee. And at your age, the chances that such a thing would occur . . .”

  She allowed her words to trail off into dire, silent speculation.

  Hope sighed. “The Season has barely begun. As you point out—again—I have waited overlong to enjoy it. But enjoy it, I mean to do.” She nodded over Catherine’s shoulder. “Your brother approaches.” Hope suspected that both Catherine and her brother, Mr. James Judson, were behind Lord Bardham’s persistent and unwelcome attentions. “I imagine you wish to share the bad news.”

  She left her sister-in-law sputtering, determined to make her escape. She tried to make allowances for the woman. Her own brother implored her to do so often enough, trying to keep the peace between his wife and sister. But Catherine was so irritating. She’d been trying to get rid of Hope since Papa had passed on and Matthew had inherited the title. Certainly, she’d made it easier to contemplate moving on.

  But if Hope was going to leave her younger sister, her home, and everything and everyone she loved, well then, she was going to do it on her own terms.

  Right now, though, she was going to enjoy a lobster patty. Or two.

  William Grey, Lord Tensford, eyed his host from across the room and suppressed a sigh of impatience. He could not recall when he’d last attended a London ball. All around him, members of the ton eyed him askance. Some gave awkward nods or the occasional bow. Others frowned or let their gazes slide away as if they had not been staring.

  They looked at him with knowing eyes, as if they were already acquainted with everything about him.

  They were not. Nor did they care to be, he had found. They were not interested in Will Grey. Only in the terrible Earl of Tensford.

  He hated hearing his name whispered as he passed. He despised hearing his nickname even more. Lord Terror. Ridiculous.

  He refused to let their disdain affect him. But he hated being the object of their gossip.

  He moved on. He’d been waiting to speak with the host of this evening’s event. A chance for a word with Lord Loxton had been the only thing to tempt him here this evening. But the earl had been huddled in a corner with Lord Kincade for quite a while. He wondered if they discussed the growing unrest in the country. It was part of the reason why he was here. Loxton, he had heard, was rumored to have had quite a bit of success in modernizing his estates and keeping his tenants happy despite the current difficulties.

  Tensford would be thrilled to glean any bit of advice in that direction. It would be the height of bad manners to interrupt, however. So he wandered, impatient with the delay.

  A pair of young ladies breezed past him. So caught up were they, in their giggling behind their fans, that they failed to watch their step. A risk in a crowd like this. And sure enough, as one girl leaned in to whisper, she stepped on her friend’s hem, sending her stumbling.

  “Whoops!” Tensford reached out and caught the young lady, setting her back on her feet. “There you are.”

  Eyes twinkling, she looked up. “Oh, thank you so—”

  She stopped. All of her bright color drained away. “Oh!” She looked as if she might fall over again—into a faint. “Lord Terror!”

  Her friend snatched her close. “Lord Tensford, thank you for catching Dolly. It’s so close in here, she might have been stepped on.” She retreated, dragging her friend with her. “Do excuse us.”

  The girl he’d caught stared back at him as they fled, all of her laughter and exuberance drowned in fear. Fear of what? Of him? Of taint? Of scandal?

  Fury churned like lava in his gut. He suffered the irresistible urge to do something. Something wicked. Whisper a naughty invitation to a starchy matron or snap his teeth and growl like a dog at a wide-eyed debutante. Why not? If he was going to be condemned without trial or question, then he might as well earn his fiendish reputation.

  He paced a while longer, ignoring the crowd and keeping an eye on his host, waiting to catch him alone. After a few minutes, he considered leaving and catching the man another time.

  But a footman passed with a tray of canapés, intent on replenishing the buffet. Tensford’s stomach growled. So, instead, he followed in the servant’s wake.

  Tarts. That’s what the footman carried to the end of the buffet. He set about arranging them, while Will took up a plate and the last lobster patty and then turned to the platter of cheeses.

  “Oh, dear.” A feminine voice sounded close behind him. He glanced back to see a woman moving away from him, approaching the footman. “Will it be a long delay?” she asked.
“Before the lobster patties are replenished? I heard Lady Arthnaught say they were culinary creations of sheer bliss.”

  Color drained from the servant’s face. “I’m very sorry, miss,” he said in a hushed tone. “But the kitchen has run short of lobster patties.”

  “Oh, dear. How disappointing.”

  “But the cook is preparing a lovely salmon mousse,” he offered.

  “Thank you.” She turned back to peruse the other choices and gave Tensford a glancing smile.

  He blinked. Before it could bloom as a conscious thought in his head, Tensford stepped forward, offering his plate. “But of course, if this is the last, then you must have it.”

  It was because of her easy smile. And because of her eyes. Large and shining and the same deep, warm brown as his mother’s sable coat, they sparkled up at him over a nose that was long and snubbed the smallest bit at the end. Her hair was sleek and a similar rich, chocolate color. It contrasted wonderfully with the soft yellow of her gown.

  Their gazes held. She reached for the plate, all comfortable manner and pleasant acceptance.

  And his stomach let out a long, gurgling protest.

  The footman’s laugh turned into a cough as he quickly fled. And then it came—the assessing gaze, the measuring look that would size him up and reduce him to pound notes, parliamentary votes, and rumors of his callous disregard of his family.

  He stiffened. Drew the haughty veil of his indifference around him.

  Except that the assessment looked different on her. Kinder. Her gaze touched on his suddenly fisted hand, on the tense set of his shoulders. It lingered on the faint shadows that he knew lived beneath his eyes.