Westbury: A Regency Romance - Ballrooms, Cotillions and Almack's...

By Arabella Sheen

Westbury - A Regency Romance - Ballrooms, Cotillions and Almacks...

Can Miss Georgina Morton surrender her independence and accept the Duke’s love?

Miss Georgina Morton, at the age of four-and-twenty, with a modest annual income of four hundred pounds, believes she has no need of a husband and can manage quite nicely without one. Yet within a matter of weeks, she’s betrothed to Giles Glentworth, the Sixth Duke of Westbury, and bound for Regency London.
Set in rural Wiltshire and elegant, fast-paced London...a runaway ward, a shooting at midnight, and a visit to fashionable Almack’s, are only a few of the adventures Georgina enjoys while falling for the Corinthian charms of the Duke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arabella Sheen
• Release date: Mar 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780957569843

Arabella Sheen

Arabella Sheen is a British author of sizzling, sensual Contemporary and Historical romance novels.Published with Evernight Publishing, she is also a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association.Arabella likes nothing more than starting a new novel with romantic plots and passionate characters with whom her readers can share some stolen moments.​In her free time, and when she's not reading or writing romance novels, she is either on her allotment sowing and planting with the seasons or she can be found curled on the sofa pandering to the demands of her attention-seeking moggy.Having worked and lived in the city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands as a theatre nurse for nearly twenty years, Arabella now lives in the southwest of England with her family.

Book preview

Westbury

A Traditional Regency Romance

Arabella Sheen

Can Miss Georgina Morton surrender her independence and accept the Duke’s love?

Miss Georgina Morton, at the age of four-and-twenty, with a modest annual income of four hundred pounds, believes she has no need of a husband and can manage quite nicely without one. Yet within a matter of weeks, she’s betrothed to Giles Glentworth, the Sixth Duke of Westbury, and bound for Regency London.

Set in rural Wiltshire and elegant, fast-paced London...a runaway ward, a shooting at midnight, and a visit to fashionable Almack’s, are only a few of the adventures Georgina enjoys while falling for the Corinthian charms of the Duke.

Also by the Author

Contemporary

Castell’s Passion

Temporary Bride

Blinded by Desire

Regency Sensual

A Bride for Lord Redfield

Regency Sweet

Westbury

http://arabellasheen.co.uk

Acknowledgements

Book cover image courtesy of: commons.wikimedia.org

Disclaimer, Copyrights and Publishing

Any names or characters have no existence outside the imagination of the

author or are used fictitiously, and actual events are purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, copied,

stored in a retrieval system known or hereinafter invented, without

written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 2019 by – Arabella Sheen

Published by priceplacebooks

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9575698-4-3

CONTENT

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Author

Westbury

Chapter One

March 1814 – The Runaway Ward

Avebury, Wiltshire, England

Miss Georgina Morton placed the basket of eggs she carried on the boundary wall and paused in the act of walking to the vicarage. It was noon, and the south-bound stagecoach, with its heavy load of luggage and boisterous passengers, was arriving at The Red Lion Inn.

Enthralled by the commotion unfolding before her, Georgina watched with interest as the drama evolved.

The coach slowed to enter the inn’s cobblestoned courtyard, and with a sharp tug on the horses’ reins, the coachman brought the vehicle to an abrupt standstill. A swirling veil of dust was left in the stage’s wake, and when the cloud of dry dirt settled, the inn came alive with the sound of bustling people.

Without ceremony, the door to the coach was flung open, and as it slammed hard against the side of the vehicle, a young man, irate with temper and shouting his protests, leapt from the carriage, demanding the postilion’s attention.

Why have we stopped? he said. "We must leave…now. I’ve travelled from Bath and it’s essential I reach Marlborough before noon. I must catch the next stage to London and insist we depart from here at once."

The weary postilion shrugged his shoulders in an uncaring way, and in a broad West Country accent, said, Young sir, I’m afraid that can’t be done. We’re obliged to stop and rest the horses. We also have to wait for these good people to finish inside the inn.

With much speed and eagerness, the other travellers on the stage hurriedly disembarked, and vanished through an arched doorway into the tavern.

The postilion, ignoring the young man and his grievances, walked to the horses’ heads and checked the bridles and tack, before inspecting the thick leather straps on the heavy luggage. He was ensuring the passengers trunks and baggage were securely buckled in place prior to the coach’s departure.

The incensed youngster, with his fair curls awry and his attire askew, paced back and forth with impatience.

His annoyance at his unfortunate situation was made known, and it was clear he was in a hurry to be on his way. He demanded of anyone within earshot that the stage changed its route to accommodate the urgency of his journey, but none of his fellow passengers were listening.

Georgina looked on with amusement as the young person flayed his hands in the air and stamped a foot with frustration. All his efforts for a speedy departure were futile. And the postilion, unconcerned for the young traveller’s plight, continued tending the horses.

From where Georgina stood, she could see, through large casement windows, travellers busily eating what they could, before having to leave the turnpike inn. The stage was to stop briefly, and people had only a fleeting chance to benefit from a tankard of ale or a glass of wine before continuing on their travels.

For some, breaking their journey at The Red Lion Inn was a welcome chance to stretch their legs and rest from travelling, but the young sir paid no heed to the needs of his fellow travellers. His concern was wholly for himself and his desire to be on his way.

I tell you, we must proceed at once, he again berated the postilion. There is no time for delay.

His argument created a commotion, and Georgina, along with several passing villagers, watched on with interest as the furore unfolded.

Another coachman, who was somewhat older and had a mass of curling whiskers, wandered over and joined in with the discussion.

With legs astride and arms akimbo, the coachman, taking matters in hand, said, "Now you listen here, little breeches. Seems my friend, the postilion, ain’t getting his message across. We’re waiting for everyone inside to finish."

But―

And I be takin’ no orders from the likes of you. You’re nout but a young ‘un.

Fustian! I’m old enough to know what I’m doing, and old enough to know I have to be on my way. I’ve a right to―

And I’ve the right to throw anyone from the stage I think might cause trouble. If you ain’t careful, you’ll find yourself stranded.

Not if I have any say in the matter, said the young sir.

Gripping the handle on the carriage door, the young man flung the door open and clambered hastily inside. He then sat with his nose haughtily in the air, and looked out of the carriage window at the affronted faces of the coachman and postilion.

A large crowd had gathered, drawn by the noise the men were making. Curiosity had taken hold and people wanted to know what had happened.

Out, said the coachman with rage in his voice. I said, out!

Then from the postilion, warning shouts of imminent departure were called. Stagecoach leaving! Stagecoach leaving!

Chaos was in the air.

Although curious to know the outcome of the heated discussion, Georgina, with places to be and things to do, lifted her basket off the wall and walked on. It was only on her return journey, having delivered the freshly laid eggs to the vicarage and collected a package for her father from the post-office that she discovered the young man from earlier was still stood outside the inn. He’d not, as she first supposed, continued on his journey.

She also noticed he was not of an age to be called a man, but was in fact, a mere slip of a boy: a young whippersnapper, as her Papa would say.

What little luggage he had was at his feet, and he was alone.

All signs of the stagecoach and its passengers having stopped at the turnpike inn were gone; and there was now a strange, disconcerting silence about the place. The frenzied activity of earlier was no longer.

Even though the young man was dressed in clothes of excellent quality, it was obvious that what he wore, including the tasselled Hessian boots on his feet and the pristine white neckcloth tied stylishly beneath his shirt points, could not belong to him. Everything he wore was several sizes too large and his attire had clearly not been tailored to fit his petite frame.

The young man gingerly approached.

Excuse me for being so bold. His eyes were wide with panic. I find myself to be in somewhat of a predicament.

The young man was scared and trembled visibly. Something had alarmed him, and he appeared quite distressed.

And what might that predicament be? Georgina asked. She wondered what was to come.

It wasn’t often that such a smartly dressed person of obvious means arrived in Avebury. And although she was reluctant to become involved in a problem that wasn’t hers, being of a caring nature, she decided she could not ignore the fact that this young person seemed genuinely distressed and in need of assistance.

I’m supposed to be travelling to Marlborough and from there to London, he said. That preposterous coachman misunderstood the matter and claimed my fare was paid only to this point and no farther. It wasn’t my fault. Truly it wasn’t. But he has thrown me from the stagecoach, and I’ve no idea where I am.

You are in Avebury, sir, Georgina said.

Avebury? But I was to change at Marlborough, not Avebury.

Was your fare paid only to here?

I don’t know. I expect so. But that’s beside the point.

Well, it appears the coachman didn’t agree with you. I’m sure he expected to be paid for his trouble. He couldn’t allow you to travel on the stagecoach for nothing, could he? That would be unreasonable, would it not?

Georgina looked about her, searching for signs of assistance, but there were none. No one was in sight. The hostlers at the inn had disappeared, and it was just her and the young man to be seen. For a brief moment, Georgina wondered if she could ignore the youth’s plight and walk on. But she couldn’t.

"I explained to the coachman that I must reach London urgently and that he will be paid on the nose and in full upon arrival. But he was unwilling to understand. He laughed at me and said the coach wasn’t bound for London. Once he reached Marlborough, he was to travel south to the Port of Plymouth. This is truly awful…"

At a loss to know how to help, Georgina said, If this is the case, then it is indeed awful.

He said if I wished to travel on his bone-rattler, I should cough up the necessary, and only then could I board the stage.

Really?

He did. But I could not pay him. At least I can’t pay. Not until I reach London. And as you can see, the coach has now gone.

Yes. It has.

The young man ran his hand beneath his nose, and Georgina thought she heard him give a loud, woeful sniff.

The thing is, when I reach London, I mean to ask my Great Aunt to advance me a few shillings from next quarter’s pin money. Until then, unfortunately, I’m without funds.

Pin money!

Stepping nearer, Georgina decided her impression that something was amiss was indeed correct. This young person, dressed strangely in gentleman’s clothing, could not be the whippersnapper she had first supposed him to be. And taking a closer look, she concluded that he…was in fact a she…and was possibly fresh from the schoolroom, with tell-tell marks of girlish tears on her face to prove it.

Georgina thought the girl was of too tender an age to be allowed abroad without an escort. And by the manner in which she spoke, it was apparent she came from a good home and was well educated. There was also an air of refined gentility about her, revealing a distinct sense of quality and breeding. Georgina suspected there was more to this mystery than one would first suppose.

From the noticeable lack of luggage, there being only a couple of carpet bags to be seen, Georgina thought there was definitely a story that needed to be told.

The young girl began worriedly wringing her hands together. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I’ve no idea how to reach London by nightfall. I shall be extremely grateful if you can offer some suggestions on what must be done, madam. I wonder if you can help.

Georgina was unsure what course of action should be taken. The next stagecoach passing through Avebury wasn’t due until the next day, and the idea of walking to Marlborough was unthinkable. Like the young girl, she too was at a standstill.

"I should hate to find myself in such a position as you seem to be. I’m sure I don’t know how best you may proceed, sir! she said. Then seeing a look of disappointment appear on the girl’s face, Georgina took pity. The only suggestion I can offer is to tell you that my father may be of some assistance in this matter. He gives excellent counsel at the most desperate of times. Let me make myself known to you. My name is Georgina Morton, and I live but a few miles yonder with my Papa at Rose Hill House. It’s situated across those fields. Near that clump of trees. Pointing over the fields, Georgina drew attention to a large cluster of sycamores not too distant. I’m in no doubt that once we arrive, a solution to your troubles will be found, and the world will not seem so gloomy. I’m also certain you must be famished and would perhaps like some lunch."

In all honesty, Miss Morton, the chance of a glass of lemonade would not come amiss. The young girl smiled her gratitude. I left home early this morning, and have had nothing to eat or drink since. I’ve never travelled by stagecoach, and didn’t realise that I ought to have brought some food with me. It has been terrible. We were all squashed inside the coach together and the heat was almost enough to make me swoon. That is, if gentlemen were given to swooning.

The girl had hurriedly corrected herself.

"To be truthful, sir, I believe you not to be a gentleman at all," said Georgina.

Georgina was determined to get to the bottom of this. If she could gain the girl’s trust and ensure all was revealed, then perhaps things might become clear.

When the girl realised her disguise had been uncovered, a blush of discomfort spread across her cheeks. Is it so obvious that I’m not a man? I had hoped to fool everyone I met on my journey. My worry is that someone will discover who I am and return me to Bath before I reach my destination.

Georgina gave a sympathetic smile. I understand you thought it safer to travel these roads as a man, but my concern is that you were permitted to leave your home at all.

Oh, no! I wasn’t allowed to leave, exactly. I’ve been staying with a cousin, and I’ve...I’ve sort of run away.

Oh dear, gasped Georgina, astonished. She’d discovered the situation was far worse than she first supposed. If that’s the case, I think it best we hurry to Rose Hill, so we can be comfortably seated, and you can tell me all I need to know. Don’t you agree, Miss…?

Georgina waited, hoping she would be rewarded with a name.

Please, call me Abigail. But I beg you not to ask the name of my family because I know you will feel obliged to contact them and inform them of my whereabouts. And yes, I’d like to go to Rose Hill with you, for you seem like a person I can trust.

With the decision made to journey on to Rose Hill, they walked over to The Red Lion and entered. Speaking briefly with the landlord, they asked if he could spare a stable boy to help take Abigail’s travelling bags to the house. When everything was arranged to their satisfaction, and they knew that Ned, one of the stable hands, was to deliver the bags, they set off at a steady pace.

Georgina wasn’t exactly dressed for a long trek.

That morning, she’d left the house hurriedly with Mr Kelley, a friend of her father’s. Mr Kelley had been visiting her Papa, and upon discovering Georgina intended to call upon the vicarage with a basket of eggs, he’d offered a ride in his gig as far as the village. Georgina had readily accepted his offer and without thinking about her return journey, or the fact she might need a sturdier pair of shoes, she’d set off wearing house slippers and not her robust, sensible nankeen half boots.

With her bonnet tied securely upon her head, and wearing a plain beige pelisse over her muslin morning dress, she looked exactly what she was―a refined young lady dressed in a sensible style.

Georgina was practical in outlook. Clothes were to be worn because they were of use, not because they were the height of fashion. And although she would sometimes love the luxury of dressing solely for elegance and not functionality, she was realistic enough to know that, in the country, away from the bustle and trends of the city, comfort and durability were the deciding factors when choosing what to wear.

Spring would soon be here, and today, with a fresh nip still in the air, Georgina was thankful for the warmth and protection her old pelisse was giving.

Crossing the brown, freshly ploughed fields in which crows and ravens were diving for offerings, Georgina and Abigail soon arrived at the tall wrought-iron gates of Rose Hill House.

For most of her four-and-twenty years, Georgina had lived at Rose Hill House with her parents. But since the death of her mother, whom she still sorely missed, it was only Georgina and her father who lived there.

The house was an impressive dwelling.

Although not overly grand and not at all pretentious, it was a modest sturdy stone structure, set in mature, well-manicured gardens. Positioned on the south side of the house was the coach house and stables.

The gardens wrapped neatly around the wisteria-clad walls. And with a lavish green lawn extending down a steep incline until it reached the edge of a twisty, meandering brook, it was indeed a strikingly beautiful place in which to live.

Behind some woodland to the rear of the property was a small expanse of hidden acreage. It was an area Georgina was allowed to keep aside for her horse Splendour to use. There were also a couple of fields in which her father’s farmhands worked, keeping the estate in sufficient crops and vegetables, throughout the year.

Walking to the house and entering through the impressive solid-wood door, Georgina discarded her bonnet, pelisse, and the basket she’d been carrying, carelessly onto a chair before showing Abigail into a parlour.

The sun streamed in through the open French windows, and although it was a spacious room, it felt cosy. In the centre, was a large, pink rug upon which stood a circular table and matching chairs. A fire screen was before the hearth, and above the mantel was a framed portrait of Georgina’s mother.

Pointing to a chair, Georgina said, Please, take a seat, I shall not be long. I will go and find my father and explain the situation.

Georgina thought it best if she spoke with her father before ordering tea for Abigail. She wasn’t reluctant to introduce them to one another; it was just that she thought it best if she paved the way. Her father was set in his ways and disliked his routine to be disturbed. And an unexpected guest would definitely be a disturbance.

Georgina found her father closeted in the library where he was accustomed to sit and relax. The day wasn’t cold, but a comforting fire had been lit, and the room had warmth to it.

Mr Morton was a well-built man of sturdy frame and posture. He had strong features and there was a black ribbon tying his dark brown hair back from his face. It could be said that he was not dissimilar to Georgina in looks, but he’d nothing of her soft femininity. He was ageing but not old, and today he was to be found sprawled in his favourite armchair, reading.

Entering the room, Georgina waited for her father to finish reading the page he was on. And when he placed a finger, wedging it between the closed pages of the book, marking the spot he’d reached, she began to explain about Abigail’s predicament.

She had his full attention.

Enlightening him on Abigail’s unexpected eviction from the stagecoach, she then began the daunting task of persuading her father to allow Abigail to remain. She insisted it was to be only until Abigail was reunited with her family, or if not her family, then until someone was found to take on the responsibility of Abigail’s wellbeing.

Georgina walked to a chaise lounge placed near Mr Morton’s chair and sat down, clasping her hands firmly in her lap.

"So, you see, Papa, we cannot permit this poor child to continue on her journey. It would not be safe for her. She is an innocent, and we don’t know what might befall her if she were to travel on to London―alone. She has no concept of danger, and she is willing to place her trust in anyone who comes along. Look how she blindly trusted me! I feel it my duty to offer some sort of protection and guidance to someone so young. Is it not vexing, to be in a position where we are unable to do anything to help?"

Tempted to stamp her foot in frustration, but being of a calm and level-headed disposition, Georgina knew such an outburst of emotion would achieve nothing productive.

Georgina, I think you’re unnecessarily fearful. said Mr Morton. The child must have some sense. Some intelligence. And she has seen you’re a trustworthy individual, has she not? But on the matter of keeping her here, even though we might not wish for her to wander the countryside alone, we cannot force her to stay with us, my love. Mr Morton looked at his daughter over the rim of his spectacles. If we did, we might be accused of kidnapping, or at best, holding her against her will. She must be free to continue on her travels if she so wishes and to face the perils of them, if that is the case.

Then in all good consciousness, we must persuade her otherwise, said Georgina. For I cannot allow this to happen.

You cannot stop it from happening. You’re not her keeper.

But Papa, I cannot turn a stray dog away from the door and certainly not this poor child. With your permission, Abigail must remain here with us until I find a solution. Perhaps if we are able to discover the whereabouts of her relatives, her troubles might be solved.

Go and fetch this poor child and let me see for myself how things stand, for I fear you’re too emotional. I expect your judgement is clouded and all this runaway needs is a good talking to. Perhaps we can persuade her to return to her family.

I think not, said Georgina. Although Abigail is terrified about what is to become of her, I believe she is brave enough to find her way to London as she originally intended. My only wish is that she might do so safely.

Georgina stood and walked to the door. She turned and said, Papa, I will go and find her. And please be kind, for I know how intimidating you can be. Sometimes you only have to look at me over your papers and you have me quaking in my shoes.

Abigail was no longer to be found in the parlour.

Concerned and suspecting the worst, Georgina went in search of her, but luckily Abigail hadn’t left. She was to be found in the kitchen sat at the table with Betty, the housekeeper, and with Nelson, their cat, on her lap.

The warm, inviting kitchen was filled with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread. Betty had been baking, and two large loaves were cooling on the table.

An array of sparkling brass pots and pans were on a dresser along with copper jelly moulds and jugs. A kettle hung over the black cast-iron hearth in which a fire was burning. Steam came from the kettle’s spout, and Betty had the makings of a pot of tea at the ready.

Abigail looked up from stroking Nelson. Oh, Georgina, I hope you don’t mind, but Nelson came into the parlour, and when he left, I followed him to the kitchen. Isn’t he gorgeous? And he’s so fluffy. Heedless of the cat hairs that were being shed on her clothes, Abigail continued to stroke him. Betty said she would bring me tea in the parlour, but I much preferred waiting for you here.

I’ve come to take you to see Papa, Georgina said. I’ve explained most of what you’ve told me, but he would like to see for himself what sort of person you are. Shall we go to him now? In ten minutes Betty can bring tea and some of her delicious caraway-seed cake. Or would you perhaps prefer some sandwiches?

Oh, no. Cake is fine. And yes, I would love to meet your father.

When Georgina managed to distract Abigail away from Nelson, they went to the library where Mr Morton had remained. Georgina knocked before entering. He was still sat in his high-back armchair.

Papa, this is Abigail. The young person I told you about. She’s hoping to stay with us―for a little while.

Indeed? said Mr Morton.

Abigail dropped a curtsy.

Yes, sir. And thank you for allowing me to stay in your home. It’s so kind of you.

Nothing has been decided, young lady. I don’t know enough about your circumstances to understand if it warrants you staying with us. Would you care to explain what has happened?

Oh, Papa. I’ve already told you what has happened, and―

Mr Morton held up his hand, and Georgina fell silent.

Let the young lady speak, Georgina. I prefer to hear the story from the source. Mr Morton looked long and hard in Abigail’s direction. He eyed her from top to toe and made an assessment. Like Georgina, he too came to the decision she was of good family and ought not to have been allowed to venture abroad. But he was determined to get to the bottom of the problem and find out exactly what was going on. What brought about your departure from Bath, and why did you leave the safety of your home?

It wasn’t my home, sir. And the reason I left so suddenly is because I urgently need to reach my Great Aunt, in London. Only…that dreadful coachman cast me off and now I’m stranded in Avebury.

Mr Morton reached down to a wicker-basket beside his chair; he lifted a log and threw it onto the fire. The log knocked against others burning in the hearth, and sparks danced into life.

He’d had time to think.

We must write to your Great Aunt, and we must do so at once. he said. Your Great Aunt can send someone to collect you.

Abigail’s eyes widened with fear.

Oh, no! I must tell you that I do not wish to be collected. I would not wish for my Great Aunt to be so troubled. Abigail sighed despondently. Mr Morton…sir…can you not lend me the money to pay my fare? I promise it will be returned as quickly as possible.

I won’t lend money, Mr Morton said. There was a frown on his brow. "Not because I think it will not be returned, but