A Timeless Romance Anthology: All Regency Collection Read online

  Six Regency Romance Novellas

  Anna Elliott

  Sarah M. Eden

  Carla Kelly

  Josi S. Kilpack

  Annette Lyon

  Heather B. Moore

  Copyright © 2015 by Mirror Press, LLC

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Annette Lyon, Cassidy Wadsworth and Whitney McGruder

  Cover design by Mirror Press, LLC

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  http://timelessromanceanthologies.blogspot.com

  eISBN-10: 194114540X

  eISBN-13: 978-1-941145-40-1

  Winter Collection

  Spring Vacation Collection

  Summer Wedding Collection

  Autumn Collection

  European Collection

  Love Letter Collection

  Old West Collection

  Summer in New York Collection

  Silver Bells Collection

  California Dreamin’ Collection

  All Hallows’ Eve Collection

  The Wedding Gift: A Pride and Prejudice Story, by Anna Elliott

  Other Works by Anna Elliott

  About Anna Elliott

  Dream of a Glorious Season, by Sarah M. Eden

  Other Works by Sarah M. Eden

  About Sarah M. Eden

  The Mender, by Carla Kelly

  Other Works by Carla Kelly

  About Carla Kelly

  Begin Again, by Josi S. Kilpack

  Other Works by Josi S. Kilpack

  About Josi S. Kilpack

  The Affair at Wildemoore, by Annette Lyon

  Other Works by Annette Lyon

  About Annette Lyon

  The Duke’s Brother, by Heather B. Moore

  Other Works by Heather B. Moore

  About Heather B. Moore

  A note to the reader: Because this story takes the form of a diary written in Regency-Era England, British spelling and punctuation conventions have been used in a departure from the usual TRA style. —A.E.

  Monday 2 November 1812

  I have never kept a diary before. I suppose, strictly speaking, that I am not keeping one now, either. Not properly, at any rate. A proper diary ought to be leather-bound and suitably official and solemn-looking. At least I am certain that that is what my sister Mary would say.

  I am just jotting these words down on a sheet of paper from my aunt Gardiner’s writing desk. Somehow I want to keep a record of these days, even if it is only dashed off in bits and pieces on haphazard scraps.

  Darcy came to see me today. We see each other every day, or nearly, so that was not so very remarkable. But—

  But I have just realised that in addition to failing at giving these words a proper leather-bound setting, I have also failed to properly introduce myself.

  Does one introduce one’s self to a diary?

  If it is to be forced to be the silent recipient of all one’s private thoughts and confidences— yet never allowed to offer any return thoughts or confidences of its own— I suppose it seems rather rude not to.

  Very well. I will be courteous to my diary. It is not its fault, after all, that thus far my diary consists of just a single sheet of slightly dusty writing paper.

  To begin, my name is Elizabeth Bennet. I am nearly twenty-one years of age. I have dark hair and dark eyes, and—

  And really, I am hurrying through all these boring particulars so that I may have the pleasure of writing: I am engaged to be married to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy in just two short weeks’ time.

  It is rather lucky that my diary does not have a mouth with which to protest, considering how quickly I have abandoned courtesy in favour of boasting. Is it boasting to tell of one’s own happiness?

  I’m sure my cousin Mr. Collins would say that it is.

  I also seem to have developed a strong streak of my mother— speaking of my engagement as though it is the culmination of all my accomplishments. As though having informed the world— or this page— that I am engaged to marry, there can be nothing more of value to say.

  But that is not true. There is more to me, of course, than my engagement to Darcy. I love music, and can lose myself for hours within the pages of a good book. I love to be out of doors, and, much to my mother’s chagrin, I have to be bullied, tortured, or bribed into suitably feminine pursuits like quillwork or embroidery.

  It is just that right now it still seems such an unlikely miracle that Darcy should happen to love all of those various bits and pieces of me.

  That is really why I took up this paper and pen to begin with.

  They say that time moves swiftly when one is happy, and it is quite true. I seem to spend my days both wishing that the days between now and Saturday next will fly by— and at the same time wishing that I could somehow slow time down, sink fully into every minute the way one sinks into a warm bath.

  Perhaps that is how every bride feels two weeks before her wedding day— but of course, never having been married, I cannot be sure.

  In any event, to continue my lamentably circuitous introductions, I am currently staying in London, with my aunt and uncle Gardiner, for the purpose of selecting wedding clothes.

  To be honest, I would have been perfectly content to marry Darcy in my last year’s workaday gown. Or in my nightshift. But it seemed cruel to deprive my mother of the delight of seeing me outfitted in a perfectly outrageous number of new things. Jane, my oldest sister, was to accompany me to London, as well. Our wedding is to be a double one; Jane and Mr. Charles Bingley are to be married on the same day Darcy and I are wedded.

  But at the last moment, Charles heard word of an estate in the north that has come up for sale. The place is not so very far from Pemberley, where Darcy and I will live, and it sounds ideal in practically every regard. Charles elected to travel there at once to see the place for himself and decide whether he wishes to make an offer for it.

  Jane, of course, being the happy possessor of the sweetest temper in all of England, told Charles that she would be entirely content with his decision, whether he chose to buy the property or no.

  But Charles would not hear of that. He really is Jane’s perfect match. Not only that, but he loves her so truly that it practically radiates from him whenever they are in the same room. He insisted that Jane ought to see the place too, before he committed to buying it. After all, it would be her home, as well.

  So they have gone off on a hurried journey to the north— properly chaperoned by Charles’s sister Mrs. Hurst. I told Jane that Mrs. Hurst’s presence was the only part of the arrangement that made me pity her a bit. But Jane is too sweet tempered to mind even Charles’s slightly dreadful sister.

  I hope, hope, hope that the estate in the north is as charming as the estate agent claimed it to be.

  It almost seems like too much happiness, to think of myself living at Pemberley with Darcy, and Jane and Charles settled not far away.

  I had to break off writing earlier. My little cousins— Aunt and Uncle Gardiner’s children— came bursting into the room. There are four of them: Anna and Charlo
tte, who are seven and nine, and Thomas and Jack, ages three and five. They are all so utterly adorable that I was forced to drop all other considerations and play at spillikins and hunt-the-slipper with them.

  Then it was time to dress for dinner.

  Only now that I am back in my room getting ready to go to bed have I realised that I never did write down what I set out to say earlier, which was an account of Darcy’s visit this morning.

  I was in the morning room, writing a letter to my mother— who had just written to inform me that I am a terrible daughter for not giving her better accounts of the balls that I am attending, the gowns that I am wearing, and the expensive presents with which Darcy is (presumably) showering me; because what is the good of her daughter’s being engaged to marry a fabulously wealthy man, if she cannot crow about all of said items of interest to our neighbours?

  (That, of course, is my own interpretation. My mother’s actual words were slightly more subtle. Very slightly.)

  Rose, Aunt Gardiner’s maid, came in to tell me that Darcy had arrived to call on me, and a moment later, he entered.

  He looked almost impossibly handsome, wearing buckskin breeches and a blue superfine coat that set off his broad shoulders and dark hair.

  I suppose the truth is so patently obvious that I may as well admit it straight out: I am hopelessly, helplessly, utterly in love.

  But more important than good looks, he was smiling. Not the polite, stiff quirk of the lips that passes for his social smile— the one he gives people whose boring company he is forced to endure. A real smile— the one that reaches his eyes, and that I have seen only since we have been engaged.

  “I met Mrs. Gardiner on the front step,” he said. “She was just going out to pay some morning visits. But she kindly allowed that I might come in and visit without a chaperone, seeing as how, for one thing, we are engaged to be married in two weeks’ time, and for another, she said she has the highest estimation of my gentlemanly character.”

  “Ah.” I pushed the letter to my mother aside and got up to greet him. “I, however, am not gentlemanly in the slightest. How does she know that I will not take ruthless advantage of your honour?”

  Darcy laughed. Until we were engaged, I had never heard him laugh before, either. Actually, there was a time in our acquaintance when I would have believed him utterly incapable of laughter. “I shall resign myself to being thoroughly compromised.”

  The way he looked at me then— his dark eyes somehow at once wondering and tender and filled with need— stopped my breath and made my heart feel as though it were expanding inside my chest.

  The morning room, the noise of carriages in the street outside, the entire world around us, all seemed to fade as his lips settled over mine. Finally he kissed me one last time, then lifted his head and said, “I have something for you.”

  “Really?” I had to stop to draw in a breath. “I must warn you, after that, no gift can possibly compare.”

  My breath caught again, though, when he brought out a small velvet-covered box and opened it to let me see inside.

  It was the most beautiful article of jewellery I had ever seen: a necklace, worked in a delicate design of twining leaves and vines and flowers. Diamonds formed the vines and leaves, while the flowers were accented with tiny rubies.

  “It belonged to my mother,” Darcy said. “My father gave it to her when they were married.”

  I touched one of vines, just with one fingertip. It was so lovely, I was almost afraid to do more. “My mother will finally have no reason to complain that I am failing in my filial duties.”

  “I beg pardon?” Darcy looked more than slightly confused.

  I shook my head and blinked a sudden press of tears from my eyes. “It is beautiful. Absolutely, utterly lovely. Thank you.” I looked up at him. “I wish that I could have known your mother. Or—” I stopped as a sudden thought struck me. “Perhaps she would not have been happy to know about your marrying me?”

  Darcy’s mother was, after all, the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s sister. And to say that Lady Catherine is less than pleased that her nephew and I are betrothed is a little like saying that Marshal-General Wellesley is less than a good friend to the Emperor Napoleon.

  In Lady Catherine’s eyes, I rank somewhere around the level of an unpleasant insect stuck to the sole of her shoe. Insolent, headstrong girl were the most complimentary of the epithets she hurled at me on our last meeting— and if she could prevent Darcy’s and my marrying by sacrificing an arm and a leg, I have a strong suspicion that she would lose no time in calling for a surgeon.

  Darcy only smiled again, though, and pulled me close. “My mother used to tell me that one of her fears for me was that I should marry a meek wife— some timid, spiritless girl who would do nothing but pander to my own good opinion of myself. She would have been delighted to find that with you, she need not have feared anything of the kind.”

  I made a slight face. “Because I am the opposite of meek and timid and spent the majority of our courtship subjecting you to teasing and general abuse? I am not sure that that is entirely a compliment.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Though I am desperate enough to marry you that I will accept it as such. So you see, perhaps after all I am meek and cowed and… what was the other word?”

  Darcy laughed. “Spiritless. And I am happy beyond words to say that the day the word applies to you is the day I shall expect a freezing snowstorm in July.” His arms tightened around me. “As for my mother, she would have liked you very much the moment she met you. She would have loved you, if she could have had the chance to know you well.”

  It is almost frightening to be so perfectly happy.

  Tuesday 3 November 1812

  I am almost perfectly happy. The only slight blemish on my spirits is that I should like to find a gift for Darcy. Nothing I can give him would match his mother’s diamond necklace, of course— at least not in expense. But I should like to find some present for him. Something that would mark how much I love him. Something that would surprise and delight him.

  The difficulty lies in thinking of such a gift. Lady Catherine would probably say that I ought to give him an engraved snuffbox or some such. Or a diamond-studded watch fob.

  But Darcy does not take snuff, and I suspect that he would make affronted noises— or laugh— at the idea of adorning his pocket watch with diamonds. Besides, if he wished for either of those, he could well afford to buy them for himself ten times over.

  And doubly besides (Can one double a besides? I suppose it is lucky that these are only my own private musings), even if I thought Darcy would like either of those articles, I could not afford them.

  So, I require a gift that is unique, clever, delightful, and thoughtful. Something Darcy cannot or would not purchase for himself— yet at the same time something inexpensive.

  I suppose it is small wonder that my mind was absolutely blank of useful ideas.

  I spoke of the dilemma to Georgiana, when she was here this morning to see the latest set of gowns come from the modiste.

  Georgiana is Darcy’s younger sister— and if I am of necessity deprived of Jane’s company for these weeks in London, I am consoled by having the chance of spending time with Georgiana. She is such a dear. When we first met, I thought that she was lovely, but terribly shy. She is shy— occasionally even still with me. But now that I know her better, I have discovered that beneath her reserve, she is both intelligent and good-humoured, with a surprisingly sharp wit.

  She understood at once my difficulty in thinking of a suitable gift, and nodded when I explained what was required.

  “I do see what you mean,” she said.

  Georgiana has her brother’s very dark hair and tall figure, and is very pretty in a stately, classical way. Though she looked considerably more informal perched on the edge of my bed and fingering the fringe on the new paisley shawl that arrived this morning.

  “There is so little, really, that one can get for a
man like my brother. Although—” She stopped and looked at me intently. “You do realise— at least, I hope you do— that my brother truly does not need a gift from you. Simply in agreeing to marry him, you have given him all that he could wish for. I have never seen him so happy as he has been these last weeks.”

  “That is truly good to hear. But—”

  “Oh, I do understand.” Georgiana nodded. “It is so often far better fun to give gifts than to receive them.” She laughed suddenly, a dimple appearing at the side of her mouth. “I remember one Christmas, I got Edward—”

  Edward is Colonel Edward Fitzwilliam, Georgiana’s second guardian. I like him very much— and I should have liked to know the full story of Georgiana’s Christmas gift to him. But she stopped abruptly, a touch of colour warming her pale cheeks, then went on a little hurriedly, “But I am sorry. I am rambling on, when what you require is for us to think of a gift for my brother.”

  “I thought perhaps… that is, you have known him longer than I have,” I said. “I wondered whether you might have any ideas.”

  Georgiana frowned, plainly deep in thought. “I do not think…” She shook her head, but then stopped abruptly. “I wonder. There was Nero.”

  I felt my eyebrows lifting. “Apart from being an unpopular Roman emperor, who was Nero?”

  “He was my brother’s hunting dog. Our father purchased him when Fitzwilliam was eight or nine, I think— before I was born, I know, and that was when my brother was ten. Nero and my brother were inseparable all the way up until Fitzwilliam went away to school. And even then, whenever Fitzwilliam came back to Pemberley for a visit, Nero would be a permanent fixture at my brother’s side. Nero lived to be a good age for a dog of his breed— ten or eleven, I think. But he died years ago, and my brother has never got another dog, though he has spoken of doing so at times. He has a kennel and dogs at Pemberley, of course, for when he and Charles and their other friends go hunting. But not one dog that is particularly his more than any of the others, if you know what I mean.”