His Forbidden Debutante Read online

  The dance she never dared to dream of…

  One year after a carriage accident killed her parents and left her seriously injured, Lavinia Montgomery has finally learnt to walk again – just in time to make her societal debut. Yet while the beautiful debutante’s body may have healed, she hides a broken heart.

  Before her injury, Lavinia had exchanged letters with a man she knew to be the love of her life – despite never having set eyes on him. But when she feared she’d be crippled for life, she made the heart-rending decision to let him go…

  Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, is betrothed, but cannot forget the words he once received from a woman whose name he knew, but who he never had the chance to meet. So when, at a ball, his dance partner is introduced, he can’t believe his luck. One thing is certain: if this really is his debutante, he won’t lose her a second time…

  Also by Anabelle Bryant

  Three Regency Rogues

  To Love a Wicked Scoundrel

  Duke of Darkness

  The Midnight Rake

  Regency Charms

  Defying the Earl

  Undone By His Kiss

  Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

  His Forbidden Debutante

  Anabelle Bryant

  www.CarinaUK.com

  ANABELLE BRYANT

  began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

  Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running, and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology. A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com.

  The final book in a series carries with it expectation and emotion. Readers want a satisfying completion to the journey and as much as I’ve enjoyed writing the Regency Charms series, I’m emotional to see it end and pleased I’ve accomplished all this story needs to be. I’m a little in love with the hero. I hope you find him equally as romantic.

  Thank you readers – for spending time with my characters, for emailing, messaging and letting me know how much you like this series and most of all, for loving books and historical romance!

  Thank you to my fabulous editors, Clio and Nicky. Your insight is brilliant.

  Happy Reading!

  It is said that the right pair of shoes can help you conquer the world…

  This book is dedicated to anyone who battles fear -- Fear of the unknown, fear of letting go of the past, fear of love and most of all, fear of finding their happily ever after. The first step is the hardest but from there it’s just a matter of walking on.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Endpages

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‘Over ‘ere.’ Hawkins’ impatient words broke across the night air, a well-timed command to mingle with the felonious commerce abounding in the King Street rookery. Southampton was a far cry from London but distance did little to dampen the prosperity of prostitutes, street sellers and thieves. Hawkins, no exception, an adept smuggler in particular, waited for an answer.

  ‘Aye.’ Gulliver’s blunt reply joined the darkness beneath a dilapidated awning, the wood rotted away to leave a skeletal frame of exposed gutter and drain, a discernible landmark in the moonlight even for a low-cunning simpleton like Gulliver Booth, a petty criminal with unremarkable intelligence.

  ‘‘Ave you got the ready?’ Hawkins retreated until his shoulders brushed the dirt-besmeared bricks of the squalid lodging house in guarantee his identity remained cloaked. Gulliver knew him from past business, but while uppers would dare not make eye contact with the seedy sort found in the rookery, the inhabitants who lined the decaying foundations and blind alleys possessed the innate ability to observe all with a flick of the eyes. Information was sold for coin, no loyalty existed. Aware he could meld no further, Hawkins watched Gulliver pull a face as if his question had insulted the thief’s reputation.

  ‘O’course, Gov, ‘ere it is.’ A shadow of an arm thrust a pale paper forward, the moonlight a poor lamp to judge whether or not the content proved authentic: detailed instructions to their next smuggling operation. As with most thieves, time was the enemy, and Hawkins had no choice but to trust his associate. The notion soured his stomach like loathsome rot; still he pushed the paper into his pocket and whistled his dismissal, the sharp sound common among the noisy colony of illicit dwellers.

  Then the two men parted, the plan begun.

  Chapter One

  Lavinia Montgomery paused in front of the rectangular pier glass, keen focus at her feet where her maid tied the delicate ankle ribbons of the slippers in question before moving aside to provide a clear reflection. Lavinia angled her right foot with a sigh of sublime satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Dinah.’ Smiling at her maid, she glanced over her shoulder to confer with Esme, her friend and fellow conspirator in fashion, at least within the walls of Lott’s Majestic Shoe Shop. The ladies frequented the establishment often and were tended with the most preferential service, which elevated the experience from delightful to grand, and ensured they would visit again soon.

  ‘I adore them. They’re perfect.’ Lavinia – Livie to her friends – slanted the heel and examined the orchid silk where swirls of pristine embroidery patterned a miniature fleur-de-lis in black satin thread. ‘I’ve never seen such clever design. I must have them.’

  ‘You claimed the very same last Tuesday when you tried the brown cordwain half-boots and then again on Thursday when you purchased the ivory silk slippers with satin rosettes,’ Esme reminded her with melodic amusement.

  ‘I did, I know. At that time, I’d never seen such fine detail, but these…’ – she wiggled her toe in a flurry to emphasise her declaration – ‘…are too exquisite to ignore.’

  With a nod, Dinah scrambled to gather the box, deftly intercepted by Mr Horne, the shoemaker and shopkeeper, who beamed with a perceptive glint in his eyes in anticipation of the expensive purchase.

  Esme sidled closer, her whispered comment for Livie’s ear only. ‘You own nearly seventy pair.’

  The note of alarm in her friend’s voice provoked Livie’s quick s
mile. ‘Bite your tongue – that’s a barefaced exaggeration. Last time I counted I had fifty-two and no more.’

  ‘When was the last time you counted? I’d wager it’s been some time. Boxing Day, perhaps?’

  ‘Don’t trifle with details, Esme. No one enjoys the company of a know-it-all.’ With a dismissive swish of skirts, Livie bent to untie the ribbons and return the coveted shoes to the box. She had every intention of bringing them home, her friend’s disapproval dismissed as easily as she righted her spectacles. ‘Besides, if I knew the exact number of pairs, it would be proof I didn’t have nearly enough.’

  ‘Your sister will not be pleased. Wilhelmina will insist the last thing you need is another set of slippers. She already complains you have too many, which you do.’ Esme’s provocative objection rose with emphatic declaration.

  ‘You’re supposed to be my ally. Have I ever commented on your obsession with earbobs? Even once?’ She pinned her friend with an accusatory stare and tapped a fingertip against the elegant gold swirl dangling from Esme’s left lobe before gathering her reticule from a nearby chair. ‘My sister has no eye for fashion, wrapped tightly in a blanket of practicality. How easily she forgets she’s married to an earl and can afford the most opulent wardrobe.’

  ‘Especially when you remind her so often. I suppose she reflects on your past more than the present.’ The conversation took a decided turn.

  ‘Oh, I do as well. Be assured.’ Livie glanced at her feet as her teeth hemmed across her lower lip in contemplation of a dozen serious thoughts in the expanse of one exhale. ‘How could I not?’ The question needed no answer, the emotion in her voice adequate explanation. ‘I spent over a year staring at my feet, willing them to support my legs and cooperate so I might walk again, relearn to dance and ride, and experience life without pain. I’ve made every promise and said every prayer, if only to secure my future and stand strong as a debutante. I’ll forever reward my feet with new shoes. It’s the least I can do to repay the debt.’ She paused and managed half a smile. ‘I shall celebrate my accomplishment with silks and satins, ribbons and gemstones. So much time has already been wasted.’

  ‘I agree. You’ve worked inordinately hard to land on your feet. Shoes and boots are a fitting resolution.’ Disarmed, Esme strove to restore the convivial mood. ‘Don’t forget your sister is planning for you the grandest come-out London has ever seen. Imagine the slippers you’ll wear that evening.’

  ‘You make a fine point. Wilhelmina is a wonderful sister.’ There was no denying how much their lives had improved since her sister’s marriage and, deep in her heart, Livie knew Wilhelmina’s concerns were rooted in love. She held her brother-in-law in high esteem as well, but at times, when she sought to assert herself and begin life again, she experienced a fair amount of conflict between loyalty to family and loyalty to self. She moved towards the shopkeeper’s counter, her petite maid hovering in the background at the ready to accept the package. ‘Besides, I won’t purchase another pair after these. At least not for a good long time.’

  Esme’s unconvinced giggle chased the words. ‘Now we need to devote our attention to a more important problem – smuggling the shoes into Kirby Park and up into your bedchamber.’

  Livie canted her head towards Dinah, a quiet shadow to their conversation. ‘I have that matter under control, although storage has become an issue of late.’

  ‘Again?’ Esme dared another giggle. ‘With every trunk and closet in your bedchamber filled to near overflowing, you must have advanced your collection to the bathtub, or perhaps you’ve removed a few floorboards and stacked boxes beneath the planks in the sitting room. Do tell. Wherever have you hidden your secret obsession?’

  Livie rolled her eyes in dramatic response. ‘Of course it’s not as bad as all that, but the shelves in my dressing room are brimming over and I’ve packed tight the space below my mattress. It has been a challenge.’ Her face expressed pure muddlement. ‘I suppose I could stack a few boxes under the architrave soffit near the window seat.’

  ‘Truly?’ Esme hardly completed the word before a jingle of the bell at the door drew their attention across the otherwise empty shop. ‘It would appear you are managing, then…’ The end of her sentence trailed off.

  A well-uniformed footman entered, his livery pale blue and smoke grey, the brass buttons on his coat a-shine in stiff competition with the gleam of his polished black boots. He strode to the shopkeeper who had busied himself wrapping Livie’s purchase, and enquired after a special order, the ladies observing all the while. Livie’s right brow climbed higher with each passing word of the exchange, though she couldn’t hear what the conversation detailed.

  Mr Horne pushed Livie’s shoebox aside and retrieved two similar-sized packages from below the counter, a broad grin offered to the servant in waiting. These boxes were joined by several others until no less than eight comparable parcels littered the countertop.

  ‘Who do you suppose he represents?’ Livie questioned in a not-so-soft voice over her right shoulder where her friend stood with rapt attention. ‘I’ve never seen the colours before.’

  ‘Nor have I.’ Esme slanted a glance at the footman in assessment of his uniform. ‘Perhaps a princess has come to town, one who adores fine slippers.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Livie blinked rapidly and cleared her focus. ‘Well, I hope this doesn’t take much longer. I need to return home and Mr Horne has abandoned my package in deference to this interruption.’ Her whisper evolved into a low-voiced complaint. ‘I despair leaving my purchase behind. The slippers are an ideal match for my aubergine redingote, but I cannot wait much longer.’

  ‘Mr Horne would be every kind of fool to lose your loyal business when your purchases pay his rent.’ Esme added an emphatic nod.

  ‘Now is not the time for teasing, Esme.’ The gentle chastisement exposed a fair degree of concern.

  Perhaps their conversation carried, for Mr Horne concluded the exchange with the footman, piling several boxes in the servant’s arms before returning his attention to where the ladies waited. He may have noted Livie’s expression of desperate impatience as he quickly nabbed the closest box from the counter and presented it with a broad grin. ‘Miss Montgomery, I will put these on account, of course. I apologise for the unexpected interruption.’

  ‘I do understand.’ The compliant reply contained a smidgen of dishonesty.

  Dinah stepped forward to accept the package, her short, cropped curls bouncing with the effort, and the ladies left the shop swiftly, a question of eager curiosity lingering in their wake.

  Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, stroked the single-edged razor across his right cheek, removing the night’s growth of whiskers with one fluid pass. His valet, Strickler, a kind, intelligent man and excellent manservant, would have preferred to perform the duty, but Penwick, having come to the title unexpectedly a scant eighteen months prior, chose to keep some deeds as close to his former life as possible. Much had changed in a short span of time and comfort was found in the mundane routines of his past.

  Wiping his face clean of shaving soap, he applied cologne, a fragrance of spicy bergamot and cashmere, and turned his attention to the toothbrush and mint powder lying in wait on the towel-draped washstand. Fastidious with personal hygiene, he allowed his valet to assist with wardrobe only, otherwise not enjoying the fussy ministrations other titled gentlemen considered their privilege. Again, past practice dictated his comfort. He had no need for Makassar oil or pomatum, and combed his short-clipped wavy hair away from his face before he stepped from the mirror. Noting the time, he turned as Strickler entered his bedchambers.

  ‘I’ve seen to the fire and your daily schedule, milord. Your body-linen is arranged on the clothing horse in your dressing room, pressed and brushed. I will strop your razor with your permission and replace the hot water for your attendance after your wardrobe is complete.’

  ‘Very good.’ Penwick nodded his approval. ‘Inform me of my appointments while I
prepare for the day.’ Strickler had attended his position for over a year now, yet the formal distinction between servant and employer was drawn with a broad stroke. Penwick didn’t know whether he’d rather it any different, again out of depth with the fresh title. A few of his comrades established a casual ease as they instructed staff or managed their valet, yet he remained conflicted. In truth, he had no need of a personal valet and considered the upper-class affectation perpetuated to invigorate one’s self-importance, a trait Penwick didn’t possess and would not acquire. With frank honesty, what he needed was a sincere friend.

  ‘Yes, milord.’ Strickler scurried to open the door to the inner chamber where a pristine wardrobe was organised and displayed within the shelves and closets. Waistcoats, overcoats and linen shirts hung from hangers, as neatly ordered as soldiers in formation. Trousers and breeches flanked the far wall. In the centre of the room stood a large mahogany top chest where several drawers patiently held smalls, stockings and cravats. Footwear of every necessity, Hessians, Wellingtons, Jack boots and court shoes, lined the lower shelf of the room’s perimeter. Strickler immediately arranged the wardrobe, aware but never questioning the one drawer of the bureau which remained locked at all times. Penwick kept the only key.

  ‘This will do.’ Penwick shed the towel around his waist and donned smalls before accepting the fresh linen shirt offered, the fasteners at the cuff time-consuming, the silence awkward. High-waisted breeches followed, the fall buttoned to the band, before he donned a waistcoat embellished with elegant sage-green embroidery. Atop this came his tailcoat with pale grey facings and then a stock, followed by a cravat that Strickler worked with swift efficiency to tie into a stylish knot. Penwick held no favour for bows or ruffles, the trappings of required clothing already an unfavourable portion of his morning. Layer after layer was added, disguising the man he once was, and embellishing the earl he’d now become.