His Unexpected Muse

By Victoria Chatham

When Lady Olivia Darnley is seemingly abandoned by her mother, she accepts the assistance of a stranger, Lady Skeffington, who offers her a position as a companion, much to her son’s dismay.

Lord Peter Skeffington is not at all pleased that his mother has chosen to not only take Lady Olivia under her wing, but her dog, too. Despite his reservations, he finds in Olivia a shared interest in books and begins to look for her daily until he faces the uncomfortable realization that he is in love with her.

Still hurt by her mother’s disappearance and desperate to find her, Olivia relies more and more on Peter’s support but a shocking betrayal by the man she has come to trust and love, shatters her new found happiness. Will Peter manage to overcome the rift between them that he has unwittingly caused? Will Olivia accept not only his apology but also his proposal of marriage? Is there a future for this apparently mismatched pair?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Aug 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781773624396

Victoria Chatham

Being born in Bristol, England, Victoria Chatham grew up in an area rife with the elegance of Regency architecture. This, along with the novels of Georgette Heyer, engendered in her an abiding interest in the period with its style and manners and is one where she feels most at home.Apart from her writing, Victoria is an avid reader of anything that catches her interest, but especially Regency romance. She also teaches introductory creative writing. Her love of horses gets her away from her computer to volunteer at Spruce Meadows, a world class equestrian centre near Calgary, Alberta, where she currently lives.

Book preview

His Unexpected Muse

Berkeley Square Book 3

By Victoria Chatham

Digital ISBNs:

EPUB 9781773624396

Kindle 9780228604495

WEB/PDF 9781773624440

BWL Print 9780228604501

Amazon Print 9780228604518

LSI Print 9780228609797

Copyright 2019 by Victoria Chatham

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Chapter One

A log settling in the grate roused Lord Peter Skeffington from a brandy induced haze. He groaned as he hauled himself upright in the chair in which he sprawled, slowly becoming aware that something other than the shifting logs disturbed him. He carefully peered around the wing of the chair.

Hello? Is someone there? His query hung in the gloom beyond the apron of light cast by the cheerful glow from the fire. Another log shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and causing a hot coal to fall onto the hearth.

Must be hearing things, he muttered. With no wish to engage in any conversation, the lack of a reply gave him instant relief.

He arranged his ungainly limbs more comfortably, not entirely sure whose chair he sat in or whose fire he sat beside. From the faint traces of tobacco, the aromas of ink, and the mustiness peculiar to old books, he deduced he must be in a study, but to whom it might belong escaped him.

He vaguely remembered snagging a snifter from a serving tray and reached out, groping on the low table beside the chair. His long fingers connected with the stem of the glass but before he could raise it to his lips, he heard what could have been the rustle of a page turning in a book or the soft susurration of a breath.

He drew himself upright once more.

Who’s there?

The sound came again, and Skeffington stiffened as a shuddering sob, ending in a loud sniff, made his blood run cold.

No, it couldn’t be.

Only a female could weep like that and from the severity of her affliction, she must consider herself alone in the room.

Hang it all.

Being in this close a proximity to a woman he deemed bad enough but that the wretched girl should be crying, too, was beyond his realm of competence. He wavered between staying quiet and offering sympathy. His mama would no doubt expect him to offer comfort, and prompted by those expectations, he leaned over the arm of his chair.

Can I be of help?

A shocked gasp and a sudden rustle of fabric, accompanied by the thump of a chair overturning, made him rise from his seat.

Oh, sir, do not disturb yourself on my behalf, a girl’s voice pleaded. Please remain seated. I only sought refuge from the party.

At her mention of a party, recollection came to him in a disconcerting rush. That was it. Lord and Lady Suffield’s damned rout-party. Dragged along by his mother like a lamb to the slaughter. Whether that description applied to himself or the obligatory females of marriageable age to whom his mother introduced him, he could not determine. An unnerving thought struck him. Had he been introduced to this particular young lady during the course of the evening? Might he be the cause of her affliction?

Perhaps you would like my handkerchief? He hoped she wouldn’t answer, but it was only polite to ask.

No, thank you. I have my own.

If your handkerchief is similar to the dainty lace-trimmed scraps of linen m’mother favours, then I imagine it is now of little use, he said.

I’m afraid you are correct. The girl sniffed hard. But I shall manage, and would not wish anyone to see me in this sorry state.

Skeffington imagined red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks and shuddered. Perhaps if I hold up my handkerchief you could simply take it without the necessity of either of us seeing the other?

In the ensuing silence, during which he wondered if she were still there, he heard her sigh as if capitulating.

Thank you, both for your handkerchief and your understanding.

He pulled a square of white cotton from his pocket, held it aloft and waited. He heard her soft footfalls on the carpet and then the handkerchief was plucked gently from his fingers. The cause of her upset was really none of his business, but he found himself struggling with curiosity until he could no longer contain it.

May I ask what upset you?

The answer was an unladylike trumpet into the handkerchief.

I am sure you will hear of it sooner rather than later, she said, sniffing again. It was my mother.

Skeffington, puzzled, waited for some clarification. Was her mother ill? Had she died? Before he could form a question the door burst open, flooding the room with light and casting a monstrous shadow across the mantle.

Good heavens, Olivia, the interloper said in a cold, exasperated voice. What on earth are you doing in here? I have been looking for you everywhere. Come with me.

Skeffington gulped. That voice grated on his ears and shrivelled his heart. At the same time, it revealed the identity of his unseen companion. Not wishing to be discovered, he shrank into the confines of the chair, tucked his angular elbows into its corners and drew his knobby knees as close to his body as he could. He held his breath, silently cursing all parents of the female variety.

No, Mama. I will not. The girl’s voice quavered but from the underlying strength he heard in it, he could imagine her lifting her chin in stubborn defiance.

The door slammed into its frame, rattling the ornaments on the mantle. Darkness descended again, but now the once cozy atmosphere vibrated with malicious tension.

What did you say? The tone of the voice chilled him to the bone, and he could only imagine the look that went with it.

I said no, Mama. Another sniff, this one not as delicate. Your dress and your behaviour tonight have no doubt made you the laughing stock of the season. You have embarrassed me beyond belief.

Embarrassed? A harsh laugh sounded dangerously close above Skeffington’s head. What about you embarrassing me by being such a ninny? You failed to engage Lord Clifton’s attentions after all my efforts to give you a chance in that direction, and then refused the only offer that has ever been made for you from Lord Wyvern.

Who has to be one-hundred and three years of age at least, Olivia retaliated.

Never mind his age, her mother snapped, he has the wherewithal to set you up very nicely. Who do you suppose will offer for you now, stupid girl? You are two-and-twenty and I will not have you hanging on my coat-tails forever.

I have never hung on your coat-tails. Indignation replaced defiance in the girl’s voice, a shift which caught Skeffington’s interest. The daughter showed some pluck it seemed. It was you that insisted I accompany you everywhere since poor Papa died.

To make sure I got you married off as soon as I could, her mother hissed. You were ever a disappointment to me, Olivia, in every way.

Had I born a boy, I would have been loved and feted until the end of your days, would I not?

But you were not. A fist thumped the top of the chair in which he cowered, making Skeffington flinch. As your mother I demand you pull yourself together for us to make our farewells.

My mother? The girl’s voice rang with incredulity. You may have carried me in your womb and given birth to me, but when were you ever my mother?

How dare you. A sharp slap followed by a swift intake of breath caused Skeffington to take a breath himself.

You may make your own exit, Olivia. I am now done with you.

He listened carefully, determining that the footsteps he heard belonged to the mother. Light flooded into the room again as the door opened and was then firmly closed. He remained where he was, listening to Lady Olivia Darnley’s inconsolable sobs.

He shouldn’t care but he found her despair disconcerting. If he suddenly stood up to offer his assistance, would she scream? And if she did, where would he be then? If discovered unchaperoned and alone in a darkened room, he would have no choice but to make an offer for her.

He started to unroll his cramped limbs, having decided that he really should comfort the young lady, but he was saved from that eventuality by her exiting the room.

It took several moments for him to gather his scattered wits. As much as he disliked his mother’s insistence on his meeting young ladies, with the intention of marrying one of them, he could not ever remember her speaking to him as venomously as Lady Darnley did to her daughter tonight. The raw emotion in her voice, and its subsequent effect on Olivia, tripped an unexpected rush of empathy towards her.

This puzzled him. Rather than comfort her as his mother would expect, he wanted to comfort Olivia for her own sake. Or maybe his, he wasn’t sure. While his mental debate raged one way and then another, the despair he heard in Olivia’s sniffs and sobs disconcerted him. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her should not be so blue-devilled.

He stood up and stretched, his long frame cramped from being in such close quarters for far too long. As he made his way a little unsteadily to the door, he noticed a small white handkerchief on the edge of a table. He stopped and picked it up.

Sodden with tears, the soft, lace-edged linen lay limp in his hand. It must be Olivia’s. How could he not have heard her come into the room? He supposed he must have nodded off from the effects of the brandy. But if he returned the handkerchief to her, then she would know he witnessed her misery.

He never bothered his head about females so why did her situation concern him? He knew her to be shy and retiring but her courage in facing her enraged parent impressed him. He hadn’t even heard her stutter, that speech impediment being the one thing he most remembered about her.

Their paths had crossed on more than one occasion. Prompted by his mother, he even stood up with her at some ball or other where it surprised him to discover that he was the better dancer. Only marginally, he would admit that. They held no conversation beyond the pleasantries of request and answer, as she stared at his feet during the whole set. He saw no purpose in talking to the top of her strawberry blonde curls and was only too pleased to hand her back to her parent.

He turned his attention to the handkerchief he still held, then carefully replaced the sad scrap of fabric on the table. The way Olivia defied her mother this evening gave him a whole new respect for her, but the best choice of action would be to not get involved in anyone else’s business at all. He steadied himself and continued on his path to the door. As he reached for the brass knob, another thought struck him, and he withdrew his hand. No one must see him leaving the study.

He stood by the door for a few moments, then carefully cracked it open. The murmur of voices and an occasional burst of laughter filtered in from the hallway. Finally, he stepped out into the throng of guests, thankful that no one appeared to take notice of him, even though his height made him instantly noticeable. This gave him the advantage of being able to peruse the fellows around him. He nodded greetings to those with whom he was acquainted but smiled when he saw his old friend, Lord Lucius Clifton, Earl of Avondale.

Avondale, didn’t know you’d be at this abominable squeeze, he said by way of greeting.

We arrived late, Avondale explained.

But not late enough, murmured his wife as she appeared at his elbow.

Bit of a hubbub, was there? Skeffington asked as he made his bow to Lady Clifton.

You could say that, Avondale replied in a carefully modulated tone.

Skeffington shot him a wary glance. That tone of voice spoke volumes. That, and the smile hovering on Lady Clifton’s mouth while her eyes sparkled with amusement.

A dramatic entrance by Lady Darnley rather ruined Lady Suffield’s evening. You were fortunate to miss it, she said.

Ah, I see. Skeffington recalled Olivia’s accusations and dared not say more. He could not disclose his situation this evening, even to his closest friends.

Lady Darnley appeared in a spectacularly diaphanous gown. I imagine it would better suit the boudoir of a high-class courtesan, Lady Clifton continued.

Except that high-class courtesans normally have better fashion sense, murmured her husband.

Skeffington watched Lady Clifton lower her eyes and bite her lip. He could see the dimple in her cheek and knew that, rather than accepting the quiet admonishment, she was about to burst into laughter.

Well, you would know more about courtesans than I, that is for sure, she rejoined. She quickly snapped her fan in front of her face to hide her merriment.

One of Avondale’s dark brows quirked upwards, but the look he cast his wife contained nothing but love. Something in Skeffington warmed as it always did when in their company, and he rather envied the ease of their relationship.

I take it she has left? he asked, not wanting to see the evidence of Lady Darnley’s disgrace with his own eyes.

A moment ago, Lady Clifton told him. You may have heard the buzz of conversation after their departure.

Skeffington could only imagine how mortified Olivia must have been. Most disconcerting for her daughter, he offered.

Yes, the poor girl certainly didn’t deserve that. Lady Clifton closed her fan. She walked out of here with her head held high. From what I’ve known of her in the past, she showed much more backbone than I would have ever expected.

I’m sure I shall hear all about it from m’mother. Skeffington looked around as if expecting her to suddenly materialize. I suppose I should bustle about and retrieve the old gel.

Avondale took his hat, gloves and cane from the lackey who appeared at his side. You won’t find her, Skeff. She’s already left. May I offer the convenience of my carriage?

Skeffington shook his head. Much obliged, but I think I’ll just walk around to the club for a nightcap.

As you wish. Avondale settled his tall, silk hat in place, pulled on his gloves, and nodded goodnight.

Skeffington bowed again to Lady Clifton and watched them depart. Emmeline Devereux, as she was before their marriage, had completely captivated his old friend. Now, if he could find a woman who accepted him as readily as Lady Clifton accepted her husband, he might be prepared to satisfy his mother’s wishes.

Your cloak and hat, sir? a lackey asked him.

Yes, thank you. Skeffington moved towards the door, more than ready to leave the stale atmosphere of the foyer behind him. The combination of heat generated by candles flickering in their sconces, and the cloying aromas of perfumes and colognes from the crush of bodies around him, offended his senses. That, and the lingering effects of the brandy, must be the only reasons for him to be pondering the merits of marriage.

He shuddered and the lackey, returning with his accoutrements, quickly helped settle his cloak around his shoulders.

Thank you, Skeffington murmured and stepped out into the coolness of the late April night.

The clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels echoed in the street as carriages whisked by, taking their occupants to their homes, or not, as the case might be. Many an assignation arose from rout-parties such this, but that part of society held no intrigue for him.

Much to his consternation, the only issue that did intrigue him was the strength he detected in Lady Olivia’s tone of voice. From where had she conjured that? His recollection of her was admittedly somewhat hazy. Their meetings were so fleeting as to be inconsequential. What little conversation they engaged in was prompted by the questions his mama suggested he ask, and Olivia’s responses were delivered in a stuttering voice barely above a whisper. As far as he could recall there was nothing at all remarkable about the girl. If that were the case, then why could he not get her out of his mind?

He lengthened his stride in frustration, the heels of his shoes tapping a beat on the flagged pavement. The sooner he reached the club, the better. A brandy might just do the trick of clearing his head of his recollection of Olivia’s slim, petite, figure. Good Lord, how could so small a girl leave such a large impression upon him?

He trudged up the steps to White’s open door and handed his belongings to the porter. He nodded a greeting to a few gentlemen of his acquaintance, found a vacant chair close to the fireplace and sank into it. He stretched out his legs until his heels rested on the leather coping of the brass fender surrounding the hearth.

The silver buckles on his dress pumps twinkled in the firelight, as he used the toe of one shoe to rub an itch on the back his opposite calf. A calf, his valet, Edmunds, regularly admonished him, could do with some prudent padding. He made one concession to this worthy’s complaints by wearing plain cotton hose under his black silk stockings, which gave a more rounded effect to his long, thin legs.

His habits were well known and shortly after taking his seat a waiter placed a tray bearing a brandy decanter and glass on a table within his reach. As he reached for the decanter, he noticed a slim, blue-bound volume sitting on the table-top and picked it up. It’s gold embossed title, The Way of the Maiden, sprang out at him.

Please don’t tell me that dreadful collection of words belongs to you.

Skeffington looked up into the mocking eyes of a long-time associate. Good Lord, Hastings, he objected. "I should think not. Who is this