Love Springs Anew: A Regency Romance Novella Read online

  Contents

  Also By Isabella Thorne

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  Love Springs Anew

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Sneak Peek of The Countess and the Baron

  Prologue

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  Also By Isabella Thorne

  Also By Isabella Thorne

  The Ladies of Bath

  The Duke’s Daughter ~ Lady Amelia Atherton

  The Baron in Bath ~ Miss Julia Bellevue

  The Deceptive Earl ~ Lady Charity Abernathy

  The Hawthorne Sisters

  The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor

  The Baggington Sisters

  The Countess and the Baron ~ Prudence

  Almost Promised ~ Temperance

  The Healing Heart ~ Mercy

  Other Novels by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Miss Georgette Quinby

  The Duke’s Wicker Wager ~ Lady Evelyn Evering

  * * *

  Short Stories by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress' Cousin and the Hunt

  Mischief, Mayhem and Murder: A Marquess of Evermont

  Mistletoe and Masquerade ~ 2-in-1 Short Story Collection

  Colonial Cressida and the Secret Duke ~ A Short Story

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  Love Springs Anew

  A Regency Romance Novella

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Love Springs Anew Copyright © 2019 by Isabella Thorne

  2019 Mikita Associates Publishing

  Digital Edition

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.isabellathorne.com

  1

  It was a cold grey day in the beginning of April and Philippa Dunn, the only daughter of the Baron Montclair sat in the parlor near the window where the light was best with a book open upon her lap. She ran a skinny ringer down the page line by line, to help keep her dark hazel eyes focused on the scintillating text.

  Her father would not approve of the racy French novel, but her father did not know of its existence. It was unlikely he would visit to find out what Philippa’s reading material consisted of; why would he? He did not notice his daughter for any other reason

  Philippa’s maid, Lydia, had procured the novel from the widow Sinclair’s maid with some difficulty and the utmost secrecy. It was doubtful anything written in Philippa’s books would ever happen in real life, but that did not stop her from imagining.

  Philippa was an argumentative woman with sharp features and a sharper tongue. She was labeled as a spinster and was unlikely to ever marry. Her father, the Baron, had apprised her of this often enough. Philippa was unlikely to forget just how unattractive she was. She was thin-boned and sickly, her bosom slight as a boy’s, her hips too narrow for childbearing and her feet overly large.

  Her eyes were her most appealing feature according to Lydia; they were dark hazel brown with flecks of green and long lashed, but that was not enough to make up for her other insufficiencies. Cow eyes her father called them, no matter if her eyes were beautiful, or at least lovely enough for bovine appreciation, they could not make up for her frail nature or her shrewish disposition.

  Her hair long dark hair was always looped in intricate styles, done by Lydia, the same maid who procured her clandestine books. When she was not reading, Philippa could be found sitting in her chamber in front of the rounded looking glass while Lydia carefully arranged her locks.

  Philippa could not see why the style of her hair mattered. She did not go attend events for any one of importance to see her. She could leave her hair in long braids or allow it to form rat’s nest for that matter. She told herself the pastime was for Lydia’s practice, not her own beauty.

  Philippa liked Lydia and enjoyed her company, but Lydia was her maid, not her friend. The Baron Montclair made sure Philippa remembered the difference in their class, lest Philippa find herself a companion in her serious bookish maid. No. Philippa had no friends. Her father saw to that fact, but Philippa herself was the reason she had no suitors.

  Philippa was six and twenty, but felt older. Most individuals of her age thought she was a dour sort. Only she was not dour; she was weary; a heavy sense of melancholy settled upon her shoulders each morning and rarely dissipated. This was especially so as the cold grey days of winter melted into a soggy grey spring. It seemed as if the coldness seeped into Philippa’s soul and indeed some members of the Ton who deigned to speak of her at all, called her the Ice Lady and remembered her shrewish nature from an incident when she had once lost her temper in public and screamed obscenities at her intended. After that day, the freezing came from without.

  Truly, Philippa had little to raise her spirits. She was firmly a spinster, which was quite the reason for melancholy. No one would want a skinny bird of a woman with a bad temper. Her father told her often enough. Philippa knew he had regretted marrying her mother who, was also slight of body and had died giving birth to only one sickly daughter. Philippa often wondered if her mother would have felt differently than her father about her existence, if her mother had lived.

  Her father was a busy man. Robert Dunn, The Right Honorable Lord Montclair; was very hands on with the running of his estate. Although for a long time it had just been the two of them, as often as not Philippa would go for days without seeing her father at all. Which meant of course, that she did not have permission to leave the manor.

  As busy as he was, Philippa was sure he sometimes avoided her, due to embarrassment, or a simple sense of uncomfortableness she could not be sure. So, for almost a decade her companions were mostly the staff, first her nurse, then her governess, and then a tutor. At least her father had allowed her that…and now, finally, her maid, Lydia.

  Her father had let her study books, saying at least she would be of some use doing calculations for him. He brought her his accounts to look over, and she found several mistakes that his clerk had missed, but he gave her no word of praise. He said it was unnatural that a woman should be so bookish. It did not really matter. No one would look at her to wed whether she was a blue-stocking or not. She was a woman grown and scrawny as a twelve-year-old. Certainly no one would offer for her.

  As she grew older, Philippa did not seek the company of others. She was more than happy alone with her books. Instead, she sat in her room and reading and making up all matter of elaborate games where the men were strong and virile and woman were small, spirited and beautiful.

  Books had such heroes in them, but Philippa had never seen a real hero. She doubted they actually existed. No, actual men were quite like her father in that regard; more likely to be absent or abusive
, and she preferred the former.

  Then her solitary life changed overnight. Her Lord father once had a younger brother. The man passed away several years ago, along with his wife, when a terrible fever had swept through the countryside just outside of London.

  Her uncle also had a young daughter, Charlotte, and her father The Right Honorable Lord Montclair, was nothing if not honorable. He did not hesitate to bring the girl into his home and raise her as his own, which meant he paid for her keep and promptly forgot about her existence, leaving both Philippa and her young cousin to their own devises.

  Though Philippa had not ever said it, having the younger girl nearby made her most happy. She had never been lucky enough to have a sister, or even a brother. She had been on her own since her mother had died. Now her cousin, Charlotte was also alone; an only child in a world of siblings.

  Charlotte was beautiful. She came to the manor thin and gangly, but only four years later she was beginning to blossom into a striking young woman with golden hair that shone as bright as her personality. Her bosom was full and round and Philippa couldn’t help but notice, larger than her own although Charlotte was nine years her junior. The small young woman had a curve to her hips and pouty lips.

  She was everything that Philippa was not which might have ignited a cold stab of jealousy, but it did not. Philippa loved her cousin dearly, and the attention Charlotte attracted from gentlemen as she matured was fascinating to Philippa

  Charlotte had missed her parents dreadfully and cried almost non-stop during their first month together. Philippa consoled her, wondering if she would even miss her own father if he were to die. She doubted she would cry at all. Crying, she learned early, did little to improve one’s lot in life. It only made one’s face red and blotchy and more ugly than usual.

  Still, Philippa held the young girl while she cried. She rubbed circles on her back and gave her a handkerchief to wipe her tears. Charlotte’s face remained prettily flushed, instead of going blotchy. Philippa found herself making excursions to the kitchen to ask cook to prepare special delicacies which would raise Charlotte’s spirits. Philippa wondered if this was what it was like to be a mother, and have another soul cling to her like life depended upon it. If it was like this, she thought she would not mind so much being a mother.

  In time, Charlotte became adjusted to her new life and her naturally optimistic spirit took hold once again. She was like a bright ray of sunshine upon the rainy day of Philippa’s life. She was always laughing and as sour as Philippa’s own mood so often was, she found Charlotte could always lighten it.

  When Philippa looked up from her current book, she saw Charlotte was staring at her with half a smile. She often did this, and it was maddening. Her long looks always left Philippa wondering if she had dirt on her nose or a piece of spinach between her teeth.

  “Yes?” Philippa asked.

  “I did not speak,” Charlotte said, while kicking her feet in front of her slightly. It was a childlike quality she had yet to shed.

  “But you are staring at me,” Philippa replied. “It is very rude.”

  “I may be,” Charlotte said, “However, I did not mean to stare.”

  “You did not mean to be looking at me?”

  “No, I was just thinking,” Charlotte said with a small giggle which escaped past her full lips. She tossed her golden curls. She was a natural coquette.

  “What about?” Philippa asked, letting the question hang in the air.

  “You,” Charlotte said, and then she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What?” Philippa was aghast.

  “I was wondering why it is you never married. Surely some man would offer for an heiress even if she possesses a less than a gentile temperament.”

  “You are doing your best to make me feel uncomfortable,” Philippa reprimanded sharply. “Or at least such seems to be the case to me.”

  “I am sorry sweet Philippa,” the younger woman said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Philippa chuckled at the notion. She was not sweet. Everyone said so.

  “I was looking at you, that much is true,” Charlotte said. “And I was thinking of you, that is also true. I was thinking how happy I was, at that very moment, to be sitting with you, reading quietly, and simply enjoying your company. I thought, why would a gentleman not enjoy your company as well?”

  “I am not good company,” Philippa replied.

  “Oh posh! That is not true. I do not know what I would have done without you… after Mother and Father died.”

  “You would have survived,” Philippa said coolly, but she could not hide a smile, and her heart softened.

  “I feel the same,” she said finally. “I love you like a little sister.”

  Charlotte smiled and Philippa returned to her reading.

  * * *

  2

  A knock from the front door echoed through the parlor. Philippa did not look up from her book. She was at a particularly good part, and often shut out the sounds of the world when she read. Whoever was calling, they were not here for her. It would be someone from the bank for her father most likely, a solicitor or business man, come to talk of lands and taxes for the Regent.

  Charlotte was in the parlor as well, sitting across from her older cousin, a book in her lap still unopened. Instead, her soft blue eyes were focused out of a nearby window, which overlooked the garden where the dormant sticks of the rose bushes dripped with the spring rain.

  Jackson, the old butler came to the door the room, announcing, “There is a visitor for Miss Charlotte.”

  Charlotte was up in a flash, moving like a rabbit startled from under brush.

  “Charlotte,” Philippa cautioned.

  “Yes?” Charlotte flashed her cousin a smile as she rose, but the older woman did not return it.

  “Remember your decorum,” Philippa said. “It is lent,” she called as Charlotte continued towards the door. “There shall be no frivolity.”

  Charlotte gave a quick mocking curtsey to her cousin and rushed to follow the butler. Philippa quickly scanned the next two paragraphs of her book and then closed it, a runner marking her place and carried the book with her. She walked more sedately behind her cousin, not eager to be her chaperone, but also unwilling to leave her without one.

  Of course Charlotte had a visitor. More and more suitors were stopping by each week. The season had begun after Christmas, and the gentlemen would soon return to Town for Parliament and the Easter Balls, even though father did not hold with balls and such to-dos.

  Philippa had been overseeing Charlotte’s coming out as best she could considering that squeezing money out of Baron Montclair for the dresses needed was like plying juice from a turnip. The truth was, Philippa was not quite sure what to do with Charlotte, having never actually had a season herself.

  Father had said the mass of ball gowns would be a waste of money and since Charlotte did not have a suitable older female companion, the whole ordeal of a season would be difficult. However, Philippa knew that unlike herself Charlotte would not be long in search of a husband. There were several eligible young men who were flitting around her like bees. The young girl would have a proposal before long even without a formal coming out.

  “My company quickly is forgotten when a suitor comes knocking,” Philippa whispered to her cousin’s back, knowing well that Charlotte would not hear. She was already at the door with thoughts of love in her heart.

  Philippa cast down the envy in her mood. She would not deny Charlotte her suitors. Without them the girl would wither and die. Philippa herself was made of sterner stuff.

  Philippa seated herself in a corner unobtrusively, while Charlotte ordered crumpets and tea from the servants. Philippa opened her book and stared at it unseeing as she thought back to her own lack of a coming out. She had entertained suitors as well. She was not pretty or soft spoken even then, but her father had money and a minor title as the Baron Montclair. Philippa had fallen for a gentleman quickly.

  He was da
shing and personable, the younger son of Henry Goldthwaite, the Earl of Stone, a tall and barrel chested young man named Simon. When Simon smiled at her, Philippa’s heart fluttered and it felt as if the sun came out. The Goldthwaite home was beautiful and twice the size of her father’s. An expansive manse located atop a hill which overlooked a small village of quaint houses and a curving path that wound along one side of the valley.

  Simon Goldthwaite was charming, and had kissed her. Philippa was quite sure that such an action meant marriage. She redecorated his entire house in her mind. It had truly been a whirlwind romance, but it ended just as swiftly when Philippa discovered Simon kissing another woman after he returned from a fox hunt. The woman was a lady of some substance, both monetarily and physically. Philippa could see in an instant all the qualities her rival possessed, that she, Philippa did not.

  In a fit of passion Philippa had screamed at them both, calling them vile names. She had cursed Simon quite publicly with vulgar words from her secret novels, words no gentlewoman should know, much less say aloud. She flung his grandmother’s heirloom ring into the shrubbery, thus necessitating the aid of a footman to crawl around on his hands and knees in the dirt to find the expensive bauble for his master.