A Second Chance: A Regency Historical Romance (The Chances Book 2), page 1
A Second Chance
The Chances
Book 2
Emily E K Murdoch
© Copyright 2024 by Emily E K Murdoch
Text by Emily E K Murdoch
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 23
Moreno Valley, CA 92556
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition September 2024
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch
The Chances Series
A Fighting Chance (Book 1)
A Second Chance (Book 2)
Dukes in Danger Series
Don’t Judge a Duke by His Cover (Book 1)
Strike While the Duke is Hot (Book 2)
The Duke is Mightier than the Sword (Book 3)
A Duke in Time Saves Nine (Book 4)
Every Duke Has His Price (Book 5)
Put Your Best Duke Forward (Book 6)
Where There’s a Duke, There’s a Way (Book 7)
Curiosity Killed the Duke (Book 8)
Play With Dukes, Get Burned (Book 9)
The Best Things in Life are Dukes (Book 10)
A Duke a Day Keeps the Doctor Away (Book 11)
All Good Dukes Come to an End (Book 12)
Twelve Days of Christmas
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Eleven Pipers Piping
Ten Lords a Leaping
Nine Ladies Dancing
Eight Maids a Milking
Seven Swans a Swimming
Six Geese a Laying
Five Gold Rings
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves
A Partridge in a Pear Tree
The De Petras Saga
The Misplaced Husband (Book 1)
The Impoverished Dowry (Book 2)
The Contrary Debutante (Book 3)
The Determined Mistress (Book 4)
The Convenient Engagement (Book 5)
The Governess Bureau Series
A Governess of Great Talents (Book 1)
A Governess of Discretion (Book 2)
A Governess of Many Languages (Book 3)
A Governess of Prodigious Skill (Book 4)
A Governess of Unusual Experience (Book 5)
A Governess of Wise Years (Book 6)
A Governess of No Fear (Novella)
Never The Bride Series
Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)
Always the Chaperone (Book 2)
Always the Courtesan (Book 3)
Always the Best Friend (Book 4)
Always the Wallflower (Book 5)
Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)
Always the Rival (Book 7)
Always the Matchmaker (Book 8)
Always the Widow (Book 9)
Always the Rebel (Book 10)
Always the Mistress (Book 11)
Always the Second Choice (Book 12)
Always the Mistletoe (Novella)
Always the Reverend (Novella)
The Lyon’s Den Series
Always the Lyon Tamer
Pirates of Britannia Series
Always the High Seas
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
Whirlwind with a Wolfe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch
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
Epilogue
A short letter from the author
About Emily E K Murdoch
Chapter One
July 5, 1812
If it were possible to literally fade into the wallpaper, Miss Florence Bailey would have managed to do it about three years ago.
As it was, however . . .
Florence smiled weakly as Mrs. Pullman laughed riotously at a joke of her own making. “Yes. Yes, I see. Very amus—”
“And of course, Prinny darling nearly wept with tears—wept!” cried Mrs. Pullman over the polite mutterings of the younger woman. “The man could barely see, he was enjoying himself so much!”
If she knew anything about Prinny, Florence thought, it was that his lapse in vision was probably due to the sheer amount of brandy he had likely consumed, or the snuff he had borrowed with no intention of repaying the favor from his friends.
She did not say these words, of course. Florence may not have learned how to disappear in public, but she had certainly taught herself to hold her tongue when her sharp mind presented it with a less than flattering remark.
Most of the time.
“—howls of laughter, I really thought I had broken him!”
“How amazing!” said a wide-eyed woman about Florence’s age, whose name she had already forgotten. “To merely be in the presence of a prince is one thing, but to actually make him laugh . . .”
The conversation continued. At least, Florence was almost certain it did. She couldn’t be entirely sure, because she had already taken advantage of Mrs. Pullman’s momentary distraction in the way she had hoped to do for over eight minutes.
Florence had stepped back, slowly, out of the small gaggle of women, and was now creeping slowly toward the drawing room door.
That was it. She was almost there.
Almost free. Almost out of this cacophony of sound, the constant stares, the well-meaning smiles, the people consistently asking her—
“Ah, Miss Bailey!” boomed Mr. Knight with a wide grin. “Or are y’married by now?”
Florence’s weak smile almost faded under the barrage of the good-hearted man. It certainly faltered.
Well, it was the question everyone asked a woman of a certain age, did they not? Even if that certain age was naught but four and twenty . . .
“Still M-Miss Bailey, Mr. Knight,” she said quietly, her voice barely strong enough to be heard over the violent laughter that surrounded Mrs. Pullman.
“Well, can’t be long, I’ll be bound,” said Mr. Knight jovially. “My wife has said how awfully pleasant it is to have you about the place. We couldn’t have had the house party without you!”
It was on the tip of Florence’s tongue to point out that having her at a house party made little to no difference, that she was a wallflower, desperate to hide, desperate not to be noticed, hoping from one moment to the next that she would not be called upon to speak. Or sing. Or breathe loudly. And his dear wife had not spoken a word to her since she had arrived at the Knights’ nearly four whole days ago. She doubted the woman could pick her out of a—
“How k-kind,” Florence murmured.
There was no point in attempting to speak those things. Not when her cheeks flushed a heavy burning pink at the mere thought of them.
Mr. Knight puffed out his chest. “It was quite a coup to get this group of people together
Florence’s hopes sank.
More people? More names to remember, more faces to gawp at her—more people?
Were the ten who were here already insufficient?
Mr. Knight misunderstood her expression. “I knew you’d be pleased!”
Florence swallowed. She tried to remind herself it would all be over in a few days, that the constant commiserations that she was entering her fourth Season—fourth!—unmarried were not a slight on her family. It was just a comment on her, and it would all soon be over and done with. She would cease to be asked who was courting her, cease to have to explain that no, she had no younger sister who was prevented from coming out, and cease to be forced to acknowledge that no, she herself had not yet managed to find a husband.
In short, soon she would be able to escape the marriage mart completely.
In just a few days.
Until then . . .
“You look a little tired, if I may be so bold as to say so, my dear.”
Florence blinked, and the face of Mr. Knight swam back into view. As did her excuse.
“T-Tired—yes, I am greatly f-fatigued,” she said hastily, almost doing the unthinkable and reaching out to touch the man’s arm. Dear Lord, what was coming over her! “I think I sh-shall go upstairs to m-my room and—”
“Can’t have you abandoning afternoon tea, can we?” said Mr. Knight happily, as though it would be the end of British civilization as they knew it. “Here, let me deposit you on a sofa, far away from the chatter.”
Just for a moment, Florence considered arguing with the man. She didn’t want to stay in the stuffy drawing room, a fire lit even in July, filled with people she didn’t know. Even those she knew, she didn’t like.
There was lace everywhere, cushions and wall hangings and crochet, the place was fit to bursting. And Mrs. Pullman was laughing so loudly the sound pounded on her ear drums, and there were people everywhere, people who would stare and ask awkward questions and—
“Let me find a nice sofa for you,” said Mr. Knight in what he evidently thought was a kindly voice.
Before Florence could attest to the fact that she merely wished to go upstairs and be alone, completely alone, he had taken her arm. Mr. Knight shepherded her through the crowded drawing room, acting as a sort of barrier between the guests and herself. And by the time she had been carefully lowered onto a sofa, at least ten feet from a single other person, Florence had to admit it was a decent second choice.
Just not her first choice.
“There,” Mr. Knight said proudly, as though he had achieved something remarkable. “Now, I’d better be off—new guests arriving, and all that!”
Florence managed a watery smile. “B-But . . . I w-would much rather retire up—”
He was gone before he could even hear the end of her sentence.
Inhaling deeply and arranging her hands just so, as her mother had always taught her, Florence tried to force her face into a genteel, vague expression.
It was not difficult. It was the sort of thing she had been doing since she had first entered Society, at the late age of almost twenty.
It was her mother’s fault.
And not just the inane expression or the house party, however true it might be that Florence had been most insistent that she did not wish to spend what was turning out to be one of the hottest weeks of the year with strangers. But Mama had insisted, too, and when Mama insisted, Mama got what she wanted.
No, more than that, it was her mother’s fault that she hadn’t entered Society until so late. That she had been kept away from the world.
Though Florence hadn’t complained. She disliked the world, with all its noise and chatter and rules. Rules that didn’t seem to make any sense. Rules she had to abide by, even if they made her flush, and her stomach churn, and her heart cease beating.
Well. Perhaps not entirely cease.
Regardless, it had been her mother’s firm suggestion that she accept the house party invitation from the Knights, and Florence hadn’t had the energy to continue arguing with her once it was clear her mind was made up.
And there were only a few days left, she reminded herself as she sat alone on the red cotton sofa. Just a few days to avoid people, and try not to get caught up in conversations, and—
“—must have heard, it’s all over Town!” said a woman Florence was almost certain was a Mrs. Lymington. “I read about it. The announcement was a few weeks ago.”
“But I was not even aware the Duke of Cothrom was courting!” said another woman, a Mrs. Moncrieff, in tones of mild offense, as though she should have been informed.
The two of them had meandered close to Florence, much to her chagrin. Mr. Knight may have placed her far away from the current gaggles of conversation, but the sofa on which she sat was close to the afternoon tea table.
Mightily close.
“I heard it was rather a rushed affair,” continued Mrs. Lymington as she helped herself to another slice of cake. “And that never bodes well, if you ask me.”
“Well, titled folks have a different way of doing things, I suppose,” said Mrs. Moncrieff with a shrug, pouring herself a cup of tea. “They seldom marry for love, do they? I suppose it is not much of a consideration for them, so they need not wait to see how they suit. What do you think?”
Florence started. She had hoped to remain inconspicuous here on the sofa. Her light red muslin gown, after all, was not too dissimilar a color to that of the sofa.
Dissimilar enough, it appeared.
“I-I . . . I do not know the man,” she managed to say, a little proud of herself for actually replying.
Mrs. Moncrieff was not similarly impressed. She snorted. “I did not ask if you knew him, Miss Bailey. I asked what you thought!”
Heat burned Florence’s cheeks.
It should be illegal, she thought furiously as her tongue attempted to work, to ask people such things.
What did she know? Had she ever met the duke in question? She’d never met any duke before, and as for the only marquess she had ever encountered . . .
Well. The less said about him, the better.
Anyway, who was she to go around passing judgment on other people’s lives? It certainly wasn’t something she would wish for others to do to her. And why were they so excited about the whole thing? It was only a duke’s marriage. Surely that sort of thing happened . . . well, all the time!
Perhaps not all the time. How many dukes were there in England, anyway? There seemed to be more and more of them with every passing year . . .
“I said, Miss Bailey, that I asked—”
“I-I am af-fraid I do not have an . . . an opinion,” Florence said stiffly.
The hope had been, naturally, that that would be the end of it. That she would not have to concern herself with any further nonsense, and the two women would take their tea and cake and return to whatever inane conversation they had departed.
And they did. In a manner of speaking.
“Well!” Mrs. Lymington said, with a gasp that suggested Miss Bailey had mortally wounded her. “I never heard the like!”
“Too well-bred for the likes of us, I see,” sneered Mrs. Moncrieff, peering at Florence with a most bad-tempered eye. “At least we’ve been put in our place, and I thank you for it, Miss Bailey!”
The two ladies flounced off to the other side of the room.
It was all Florence could do not to drop her head into her hands.
Why was it that Society was so eager to force gossip upon and from its members? Why could she not just read? Or leave the room in search of solitude? Or even better, disappear from this house party altogether?
It was most infuriating that she had no carriage to whisk her away. It was most irritating that merely leaving this room would cause comment, even suggest offense to her hosts. And it was infuriating that no matter what she did, Florence thought with still-reddening cheeks, she was still the person no one wished to talk to.
And from there, the afternoon wore on in much the same manner that she expected it would, but for two incidents.
The first was the sort of thing Florence had grown accustomed to over the years, though it did not make it any easier to endure. About an hour after her last conversation—the unfortunate one with Mrs. Lymington and her companion—Florence had, ironically as it turned out, been congratulating herself at fading into the background.
