Finding Hope (The Virtues Book 2), page 1
FINDING HOPE
ELIZABETH JOHNS
Copyright © 2024 by Elizabeth Johns
Cover Design by 17 Studio Book Design
Edited by Scott Moreland
Historical content by Heather King
ISBN: 978-1960794222
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Elizabeth Johns
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
Hope Whitford had watched that morning as her elder sister Faith had married Dominic, Lord Westwood, their guardian, and not without a little trepidation. Nothing would change, they said, but Hope was sceptical. She now sat at a table littered with remnants of the wedding breakfast, watching as Dominic danced with Faith, the two of them looking as though nothing or no one else existed in the world.
Hope could not suppress some jealousy towards Lord Westwood. She was not proud of this emotion, but it was difficult to think of Faith as anything other than her motherly elder sister and best friend. She had not even wanted to come to London and had had no thoughts of getting married, yet she had made the match of the Season. It was not that Hope wasn’t pleased for her sister, but she did not want everything to change. But how could it not?
She looked around the ballroom, which no longer resembled the heavens as it had only a few weeks before at her and her sister’s debut ball. Instead, it looked like a rose garden with tables for dining and room for dancing. Mr. Cunningham was doting on Joy and Freddy Tiger as the beloved rescued cat was currently taking turns jumping from her lap to his. Hope laughed as she thought of the cat’s performance during the ceremony, when he’d leaped from Joy’s pocket to pounce on Faith’s train as it had snaked along behind her. The congregation had not been able to contain their laughter.
Patience was surrounded by her court of gentlemen in Regimentals. They all looked the same to Hope except for Major Stuart. He at least, with his fair features, resembled his brother Lord Westwood enough that she recognized him.
Lord Montford, another of Lord Westwood’s close friends, was holding out his hand, clearly asking Grace to dance. Hope stabbed her confit de canard with her fork, chewed it without tasting it, then took a long swallow of her champagne.
“May I join you?” Lord Carew, also one of Westwood’s friends, asked as he slid into the seat beside her before she could answer. “You look as though you are in mourning rather than celebrating.”
Hope tried not to watch as Lord Rotham twirled the beautiful Vivienne Cunningham around the room. She was Freddy, Mr. Cunningham’s younger sister and every bit as beautiful. With her blond curls she was the complete opposite of Hope, and looked ethereal next to Rotham’s dangerous dark looks.
“Would it help if we danced?” Carew asked, as if reading her thoughts.
“I doubt it.”
“Which sister will be next, do you think?” the Dowager asked the now Dowager Lady Westwood none too quietly—at least, from where Hope sat, it seemed as though she was almost shouting.
“It is hard to say. All of them have plenty of suitors.”
Hope heard a harrumph. “Better catch Rotham for the next one.”
Her ears pricked at the name.
“He will have to want to be caught. I am not certain that will happen anytime soon.”
“Balderdash! He will want what his friends have, mark my words.”
Hope frowned at that. What a lowering thought. To be wanted only for such a reason.
“Come. You need to dance.” Carew held out his hand to her, and she accepted it, meeting his twinkling blue eyes.
“Perhaps you are right.”
“My attentions to your sister seemed to get Westwood’s notice. Maybe Rotham will wake up and notice the prize before him as well.”
As she was swept into his arms, Hope thought perhaps she had fallen for the wrong man.
“Smile, dearest,” Lord Carew said as they danced. “Nothing will get Rotham’s attention more than seeing you enjoying another man’s arms.”
“Forgive me,” Hope said. “I must be a terrible partner.”
“Not at all,” he said graciously.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“It would amuse me to see Rotham brought to heel.”
“Did it amuse you to do the same to Westwood?”
He smiled devilishly. “Indeed it did.”
He was remarkably handsome. Why could she not be in love with him? But Grace, her younger sister, was very much enamoured of the Irish rogue and Hope did not wish to hurt her.
“Were you insincere in your offer for Faith, then?” she asked.
“Not insincere, no, but I knew it would have the desired effect.”
“Gentlemen are odd creatures,” she replied.
“Men feel the same way about the fair sex. It keeps things interesting.”
Hope allowed her gaze to slide to Rotham and Miss Cunningham.
“I would not do that if I were you,” he cautioned.
“Why not?” Hope asked, though she knew she should keep her eyes on her partner. “What is the harm in looking?”
He shook his head sadly. “You have much to learn, mo stór.”
Hope bristled to defend herself.
“It is human nature to want what you cannot have, do you not agree?” he asked.
“So you are saying if he thinks he cannot have me, then he will want me?”
“Precisely.”
She shook her head. “And you say you are not odd creatures.”
“Smile, my dear. He is looking this way.”
Hope smiled her biggest smile and laughed.
Lord Carew touched a finger to her cheek and boldly caressed it.
“What are you doing?” she asked through the smile, which was so wide it almost hurt.
“Trust me.”
“Making me look like a hussy is your idea of making him jealous?”
Lord Carew laughed and bowed as the dance ended. He held out his arm to her, then escorted her from the floor. Hope could not help but see Lord Rotham and Miss Cunningham speaking with his mother, the Duchess.
“It is no secret Miss Cunningham is the Duchess’s choice for Rotham,” Carew said quietly in her ear. “They have been intended for each other from a young age, though nothing was made formal, I understand.”
“How am I to compete with that?” she asked, as much to herself as to him.
“You don’t,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not you versus Miss Cunningham,” he explained. “That is the wrong way to look at it, and will only bring animosity between you.”
“So I am to befriend her?” she asked sceptically.
“If you must, but at least do not hold this against her. She may not wish for the match herself. Regardless of any affection they may feel, men do not enjoy cattish females with petty, bitter tendencies.”
“I cannot say I enjoy them myself,” she muttered. Instead of returning her to her table, Lord Carew kept walking. “Where are you taking me?”
“Have you had the privilege of being introduced to the Duchess?”
“No, but now is not the time.” Hope tried to resist and pull back.
“Nonsense. No time like the present!”
Hope suspected Carew had his own reasons for doing this to her, but Rotham had seen them coming, and it was too late to draw back.
He looked as darkly handsome as ever, and Hope prayed that her reaction to him was not outwardly obvious. She still clung to Lord Carew’s arm, and hoped she wasn’t bruising him.
Hope noticed the Duchess stop her conversation and look Hope over from head to toe with pursed lips and a disapproving gleam in her eye. She was probably in her mid-forties and striking—or would have been were she not looking so censorious.
“Carew, Miss Whitford.” Rotham bowed. “Mother, have you had the privilege of meeting Miss Whitford?”
“I have not,” she replied tartly, in a tone that said she would rather not ever have that privilege.
“Mother, Sister. This is Miss Whitford. Miss Whitford, this is my mother, the Duchess of Davenmere, and my younger sister, Lady Claudia.”
Hope curtsied, but deliberately not low enough for royalty. She would not toady to one who felt her consequence so strongly. The Duchess was not tall, but her presence was all intimidation. Hope barely noticed Lady Claudia beside the wrathful stare of the mother.
“Are you acquainted with Miss Cunningham? She has been Rotham’s intended from the cradle,” the Duchess returned.
Hope smiled her sweetest smile and curtsied to the beautiful girl. “It is a pleasure,
She returned the courtesy, which made Hope like her a little, even against her wishes. It was hard to hate someone who was kind. Perhaps Carew was correct that Miss Cunningham was not the enemy.
“You are new in Town, are you not?” she asked in a soft, angelic voice. “My brother has mentioned you and your sisters.”
“Yes, we lived a secluded life near Bath with Lady Halbury until Lord Westwood became our guardian.”
“I believe my brother invited you to our garden party. I do hope you will attend.”
“How very kind. I will consult with the Dowager. I do believe my sister and her husband are preparing to say farewell. If you’ll excuse me?”
Hope began to pull away, but Carew stayed with her as she walked away. “The Duchess has thrown down the gauntlet, has she not? Rotham will not be pleased.”
“He is a grown man. If he chooses to allow his mother to lead him around by the nose, that is his choice.”
“She is a dragon,” Carew agreed good-naturedly.
“Miss Cunningham is lovely.” So lovely that it hurt Hope to compare herself to the young lady.
“Rotham sees her as a sister.”
Hope stopped. “It matters not. I am resolved not to wear my heart on my sleeve.”
“Good girl,” Carew said with an approving smile.
Hope only wished she felt as resolved in her heart as in her mind.
***
Max watched Miss Whitford walk away on Carew’s arm, and it was difficult not to go after her. A strange sensation of jealousy pulsed through his veins, but he dared not show any hints of affection lest his mother try to destroy Miss Whitford. He had no right to monopolize her and, at this point, he was not ready to acknowledge more than a genteel friendship.
The Duchess was ruthless in trying to get her way—as witnessed by the announcement she had just made.
“I will call on you to discuss this in the morning, your Grace. Miss Cunningham.” He made a curt bow to both of them, then left the wedding breakfast.
What he hated the most was that Vivienne was caught between he and his mother. Max had been brought up by the Duchess and knew she would do anything to have her way. Vivienne knew his family, but not the lengths his mother would go to, either to be right or get what she wanted.
Her determination had come between them more than once, and Max refused to let her run his life, nor make such monumental decisions for him.
Max dismissed his carriage and walked home. Part of him hoped he would be set upon by footpads because he was itching for a fight. It was not even dark yet when he left, though he scarcely noticed his surroundings. He did not go to one of his clubs that night, but passed them without going inside. Instead of returning home, he walked and walked, considering the matter.
Besides being twelve years his junior, Vivienne was like a little sister to him, and he could no more consider marrying her than his own flesh and blood. Thankfully, Vivienne understood, and professed to feel the same. However, his mother saying such things in public would only harm Vivienne. He must—would—put a stop to her madness, once and for all. Unfortunately, short of matricide, the only way to stop her from spreading the falsehood was to marry someone else.
He no more wanted to be forced into marriage than to marry Vivienne—or allow his mother to have her way. It was difficult to honour thy mother when she was behaving dishonourably.
Max could not even say how long he wandered the streets, but he did eventually find himself back at his town house.
The next morning, he had had time to calm himself, and he dressed whilst mentally preparing for battle. To what lengths would he have to go to see his mother surrender?
He donned his beaver hat and took his walking stick from Baxter, then proceeded across Grosvenor Square to his parents’ house. His future residence. His father stayed buried in the country unless he had to come to London, but would he trouble himself to rein in the Duchess if Max asked? Max shook his head, answering his own question. He was a grown man and had to deal with this himself.
The door opened before he could knock.
“Good morning, my lord,” Evans said and held out his hand for Max’s hat and walking stick.
“Evans.” Max acknowledged the long-time family retainer. “Where is her Grace?”
“I believe she is still in her chambers, my lord. Her maid sent down word that she was abed with the headache.”
“I will show myself up, then,” he said before Evans could protest. Her Grace did not care to be disturbed in her chambers, but Max knew this was one of her tricks to fob him off. She knew full well he would be there this morning, and was trying to disconcert him. It would not work.
He climbed the stairs with deliberate patience, forcing himself to be calm, then knocked on the door to her sitting room—he did not care to find her in dishabille, after all.
“Enter,” she called, very likely expecting a servant.
He opened the door and found her fully dressed, sitting near the window.
“Rotham,” she greeted him coolly.
“Your Grace.” He walked forward and kissed her on the cheek to discompose her. “You are looking well.”
“I have an announcement en route to the papers. Vivienne and her parents have agreed it is for the best to make things formal.”
Max sat down and slowly crossed his legs. He had anticipated something as base as this. He could somewhat relate to Westwood’s fury when Sir Julian had made such an announcement about Westwood’s wife, except now it was his own mother trying to force his hand publicly.
“Have you nothing to say?” she demanded.
“I think it is unfortunate that you felt you had the power to do such a thing. I have already made it clear to the papers that any such announcement, unless delivered personally by me, is not to be printed or such publication will result in serious consequences for them.”
She drew in a gasp with anger.
“I will not be forced into marrying Miss Cunningham, or anyone else, your Grace.”
“You intend to be entrapped by that vulgar Whitford girl!”
“No one will entrap me, including you. I will marry whom I want, when I want.”
“But this has been arranged for years!” she argued.
“There is nothing binding and you know it. Vivienne and I never agreed to such an arrangement. Besides, if that were the case, you would not have invited half a dozen ladies to your house party.”
“A house party that you promised to be at, and rather than honour that obligation, you went hunting instead!”
“I made no promises.”
“How can you be so unfeeling?” His mother’s voice shook with anger.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“You were brought up to be a dutiful son. You cannot marry whomever you wish like your friends do. You must honour your name and title!”
“I have no intention of besmirching the dukedom with a guttersnipe, your Grace.”
“Yet you hang in the pocket of one! Do you think I do not see your name associated with hers in the papers every day?”
“Miss Whitford is a lady.”
“Ha! She is gentry at best.”
“I will not argue this, your Grace.”
“Vivienne has everything you could ever want—birth, fortune, looks. She is a diamond of the first water!”
“She is as a sister to me.”
“You have raised expectations in her breast! As well as her parents and yours!”
“My father has no opinion on the matter whatsoever. This is solely your doing.”
“There you are wrong.” She pushed a letter across the table towards him, and Max recognized his father’s script and seal.
Max picked it up and tossed it into the fire. “You have bullied him into proclaiming his deepest wish for the union, have you not? It will not work.”
“Then you will be cut off.”
“So be it. I cannot be removed as heir. I can survive until then.”
He stood and made her a bow—he would give her no reason to disclaim him a gentleman at least.
“You will regret this!” she called after him.
Once he was out of sight of Davenmere House, Max increased his pace.
He yelled for his secretary the moment he was through the door. “Johnson, the Duchess has been busy. Hand deliver a notice to all the papers at once! No announcements are to be published unless at my expressed wish!”
