So This Is Love

  A Regency Rogue Novella, Volume 2

  Rebecca Ruger

  Published by Rebecca Ruger, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some creative license may have been taken with exact dates and locations to better serve the plot and pacing of the novel.

  So This Is Love

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Ruger

  Written by Rebecca Ruger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Rebecca Ruger

  rlruger0220@gmail.com

  www.rebeccaruger.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The dowager duchess of Hawthorne made a face at her new companion. At eighty-two, much about the dowager seemed to have shrunk with the years and now all parts of her face appeared even tinier with the grimace she pulled. Not that her companion could see this—the girl was sitting ramrod straight, barely on the edge of the chair in the drawing room, her nose behind the book from which she read.

  “My dear, your voice is pleasing enough,” the dowager interrupted, “but you read entirely too fast. How is an ear to follow a story read at lightning speed?”

  The book was lowered. Green eyes widened behind thick-glassed spectacles and the dowager scowled again. Those eyes appeared rather owlish in the girl’s face. This was due only in part to the substantial glass of the spectacle, and then, too, in part to the tightness of her banded hair—often the dowager wondered that her eyes didn’t end up on the side of her face, her chignon was wound so forcefully. The poor chit, the dowager thought, not much to recommend her. Of poor family, without even a decent look to attract any possible suitor, and quite apparently beyond an age where the imprudence of youth might gain her some silly swain. Hence, the girl sat here, tucked away north of London, with an aged dowager who thanked the Lord for plain girls and—she considered again her companion—those even less fortunate.

  “My apologies, your grace,” said her companion, and truly, her voice was as pleasing as the rest of her was not. Soft and lyrical, it rather floated over a person, almost airy. “The story is so entrancing, I guess ... I guess I get lost in it.”

  “Well, never mind that now. I suspect it is almost time for tea.”

  “Yes, your grace,” this, dutifully, and the book was laid temporarily to rest upon the table beside her. She rose and tugged at the tapestry pull that would bring Herman with their afternoon tea.

  Again, the dowager found her lips and eyes pinching distastefully as she watched the girl. To the dowager’s mind, it just didn’t fit that such a small face and head should sit stop a body that was ... well, not small. Oh, the girl was tiny in height, to be sure, but she’d found more girth about her in her short life than the dowager had in her eighty odd years. And quite evident was the fact—if the very snug fitting gowns she regularly donned were anything to go by—this was newly acquired mass. Then there were her hands, the dowager noticed, as the girl took again her seat and folded them neatly in her lap. They were, as of yet, unaffected by the heaviness of the rest of her form, small and slender, with long fingers which the dowager knew firsthand played a beautiful melody upon the pianoforte.

  “Is it that you have only those three gowns which I am repeatedly greeted with, my dear?” Asked the dowager, never of a mind to imply tact when answers were desired.

  “Yes, your grace. Just the blue and the brown and this one, the grey.”

  That was easily remedied, imagined the dowager, for she hadn’t any intention of taking the chit in public dressed as she was, drab and unfit.

  She complained much, she guessed, but the dowager decided that at her age, things would be as she wanted them, and not merely as she wished them.

  From out in the hall of the grand country home, there rose a clamor of voices, which turned the heads of both the dowager and her companion toward the door of the drawing room. Their attention was rewarded quickly enough as the door opened to reveal Herman, complete with tea tray, smiling as he was rarely wont to do. The dowager’s similarly aged butler was known for many things—perfection, tidiness, fairness included—but he was not known for his humors.

  “The Duke of Hawthorne, your grace,” he announced, explaining his elevated mood, and he set the tray onto the table which separated the dowager from the girl.

  This announcement was followed immediately by the arrival of Dominic Waring, Duke of Hawthorne, as tall and broad as Herman was petite, the butler being of a height with the dowager herself.

  “Good day, Grandmother,” called her grandson, the duke, eyes lighting on that little woman as he traversed the ornate and overlarge furniture to reach her. The dowager’s eye, indeed her entire face, lifted and softened at the sight of him. She clapped her hands at her bosom only for a moment before reaching for him.

  “Hawk, you’ve come,” she cooed and kissed his cheeks repeatedly as he bent over her chair to accommodate her. “What a lovely surprise, my dear.”

  “I was hoping to catch you away from the city as I am on my way further north,” said her grandson.

  “To the Newcastle estate?”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” he answered and kissed her cheek one more time before he straightened. He was incredibly large. While he stood there, Herman prepared tea, and when not bent over his task, one could see that the butler’s height reached not even to the duke’s shoulder. He lent his grandmother his full attention, answering her unending barrage of questions about London life, the end of the season, his pursuit of a wife (this one he neatly sidestepped), and even about the talked-about-all-season affair between two high ranking but married-to-others members of the ton.

  “All drivel, I can assure you, Grandmother,” the duke said with a wave of his hand. “You miss nothing, I promise, by relegating yourself to the country halfway through the season.”

  “Yes, yes, quite so,” the dowager agreed. “Oh, Hawk, you must meet my new companion,” she said, bringing her grandson’s attention across the table to the girl. “Lady Helmsford sent her ‘round a fortnight ago. Quite pleasing, indeed. Meredith Bridgerton, meet the Duke of Hawthorne.” The dowager watched as the girl—‘slip of a girl’ often entered her mind, but the mass of the poor thing precluded these words from coming out—rose and made a perfectly respectful curtsy to her grandson, who in turn bowed accordingly. It was fairly obvious to the dowager that the girl was flustered greatly in the presence of so influential a man, her cheeks turning a not unbecoming shade of pink.

  “How do you find our north country, Miss Bridgerton?” The duke inquired.

  “Entirely pleasing, your grace. I prefer it to London, truth be told.”

  The dowager declined to say that this would be natural, as within city limits, the girl’s uncommon, not wholly pleasant appearance, coupled with her lack of titled family would render her both unmarriageable and too, unworthy of few attentions.

  “Many of us do,” the duke agreed and then dismissed the girl, as was right; a duke had neither inclination nor expectation to tarry with the servants. As unfortunate as the truth sometimes was, Meredith Bridgerton hadn’t hopes of furthering her lifestyle above that of servant. A companion, perhaps even nanny, should be all to which she might aspire. The dowager, however, believed that one could still be happy within the lower classes, so long as their aspirations never overtook their possibilities. And truly, the girl was pleasing enough—a good companion, of solid intellect, with a most remarkable voice for reading, if only she might slow down a bit—that one day, when the dowager no longer required her services, she would find her an available position with a good family, for which the dowager could rest easily then, this charitable work having been done.

  MEREDITH BRIDGERTON.

  How she hated that name. It had been necessary, of course. As necessary as all the other parts of her ruse. She could not be found.

  She would not be found.

  Alone now, having been excused by the dowager for the evening, she was left to her own devices. This was heaven to her. She, who at one time had been the toast of the London season, who daily had received callers and flowers, inviting more, who rarely knew a moment’s privacy, now found the greatest calm and peace tucked away in a castle in the north, shielded from all that she had known, and all that she’d been afraid to know.

  At the window seat she sat unmoving, glancing down upon the terraced yard and beyond. Under the soft moonlight, there was not much to be spied but she appreciated the quiet of the evening, only the occasional call of an owl, or ninny of a horse from the stables to break it. Directly below her window was her favorite place to be. She liked when, weather permitting, the dowager and she would sit on the terrace, flanked by climbing roses, clinging to the last vestiges of summer, soon to be eradicated altogether, she guessed. She liked the sun on her shoulders and just at the top of her head—ignoring the dowager’s distress over the state of her skin—while she read to the older woman. So often she had felt cold and trapped. Here she felt free and warm. She would want for nothing more in life.

  The dowager herself, Lady Leticia Waring, though on in years, was still of an incredible constitution, keeping her on her toes. She’d not expected to be worked exactly as she was, but she certainly didn’t mind that the woman kept her mind and body active, for the dowager rarely, if ever, engaged in downtime.

  She’d had trouble at first answering to the very name she herself had provided.

  Meredith Bridgerton. She would, she suspected, never get used to that.

  This she might lament, perhaps, never hearing her own name again. Just once, she might like to hear ‘Madeleine Sheffield’ from someone’s lips. It seemed to have been an age since she had, though in reality, she knew it only to be a fortnight or so. Since she had wheedled dear Aunt Harriet to abet her in this ruse. Without her help, Madeleine might not have been able to pull this off. But having Aunt Harriet set her up with the dowager had been the answer to her prayer and now she was free.

  Madeleine stood from the window seat and drew the curtains closed. She removed the thick glasses and placed them on the gold trimmed bureau in her room. She glanced at the door to be sure it was locked and then began loosening her hair until it fell near to her waist. Shaking it out felt wonderful, for the confines to which she subjected it were painful by day’s end. With the palms of her hands, she rubbed well her eyes which itched and burned a bit by this time of evening, the spectacles having done that. Lastly, she began to pull at the strings that held her modified chemise in place. It was a tricky ensemble, one she’d taken weeks to perfect before having taken this position. There were tapes about her middle and neck and then again at her thighs, but she liked the article because she’d made it happen in one piece, which allowed her to dress quickly, should ever the need arise.

  Having loosened all the tapes and bindings, Madeleine stepped gingerly from her chemise, leaving the padding of a very heavy woman on the floor near her bedside.

  She stretched her now slim and unconfined body with a feline grace before slipping beneath the coverlet and off to dreams of a fearless life. And she spared only a moment’s concern for the advent of the Duke of Hawthorne himself. He would likely be true to form and be gone on the morrow.

  Chapter Two

  The dowager was quite excited at breakfast the following morning when she informed her companion that she had convinced her grandson to stay on for a few days before trudging further north to Newcastle House.

  “Hawk has never been one for family and hearth, my dear,” the dowager was saying, “but I managed to convince him that it might be the last time he would see me...alive.”

  Madeleine suppressed her outright laughter at the dowager’s tactic, transparent though it was, and her near panic at this news of the duke’s now extended stay, and still did query, “Did you imply a sickness to which you can certainly not lay claim?”

  The dowager shrugged, appearing completely innocent, “Of course.”

  After a moment, while they ate in companionable silence, the duke himself entered the breakfast room. He bid his grandmother a good morning with a kiss to the cheek and a squeeze of her hand. “And aren’t you looking to be in remarkable health, Grandmother,” he said slyly, but with a rather indulgent grin.

  “My vigor always improves with the visitation of my family,” was the dowager’s only response, but she offered a wink to Madeleine.

  “And good morning to you as well, Miss Bridgerton,” the duke said, and began to give her what should have been a passing glance as she responded in kind but seemed to remain upon her person for an inordinate amount of time. There even appeared a frown at his forehead momentarily while he considered her. Madeleine shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping against hope that the duke saw only what she presented.

  “Hawk, my dear, you’ve the poor chit flushing and blushing with this perusal,” the dowager finally commented. “What is this about?”

  “My apologies, Miss Bridgerton,” the duke said with a wave of his hand at such unaccountable rudeness, but with one last penetrating stare. “You—for a moment you reminded me of someone I had met. My mistake, as that would have been impossible.”

  And that was the end of it, Madeleine hoped. True, he had for a moment thought to put her true name to her—if he even recalled it—but Madeleine found it hard to imagine that this man of such prominent position should recall even remotely a mere young woman he met so many months ago at the Harding’s ball. They’d spoken only briefly, introductions really, before she’d been whisked away by her uncle. If she’d felt at all that night as if his eyes might have followed her about, she believed she’d only imagined it. He was a duke after all, the most sought after man presently on the marriage market—whether he desired this standing or not—and it was unlikely that he would have shown interest in a mere debutante.

  “No offense taken, your grace,” Madeleine answered. She knew her cheeks burned with the onslaught of his severe scrutiny, and now breathed only marginally easier for having evaded disaster presently.

  Madeleine left the duke and dowager to their own conversation while she considered their meeting at the beginning of the season, before her world had gone to hell. The Duke of Hawthorne was exactly everything a young girl dreamed of when considering a mate. For young girls tended only to dream of the physical of a man. He was large and powerful and clearly fit; his hair was dark, curling just a bit at his forehead and nape, causing many a maiden to contemplate the feel of it between her fingers; his eyes were dark, being blue, she remembered knowing then, though many thought them black, eyes that might scare you or consume you or caress you with equal amounts of ease, depending upon his mood, she thought with great fancy; his lips, his mouth, in laughter or with a smile might surely tempt a sinner, being generous when still and then stretched over perfectly white teeth when roused to humor. Add to that those chiseled cheekbones and aquiline nose, and a physical form that surely never caused a damsel distress; it all amounted to a perfect catch.

  Madeleine, however awed she might be by his appearance, was as she often was, put off by the aura of power that radiated from him. His very bearing, his smooth movements, the grace with which he interacted, spoke of that power to which he’d been born. And Madeleine had certainly had her share of men and their power, of their want of supremacy over a woman. She’d have no more of it.

  Coming back to the conversation at the table, she understood that the duke was—or had been harangued into—escorting them to their visit to the orphanage. The dowager rode out the few miles to the children’s home once a week, and thus Madeleine had accompanied her twice. She enjoyed this part of her job, difficult though it was to witness the very bleakness of the children’s reality. She believed that the dowager did truly care for them—this was not simply charity prevailing—and the children sensed that. Madeleine had enjoyed their activities last week, for the children had engaged her in a game of Blind Man’s Bluff. To the dowager’s credit, she had allowed their stay to be extended and had waited and watched patiently for quite some time while Madeleine had played with them.

  “I shall have Herman bring the carriage ‘round in one hour then, if that is pleasing to you, Hawk,” the dowager was saying.

  “Yes, grandmother, that will give me time to meet with your steward here to discuss any business that needs tending,” the duke said, giving Madeleine another glance from those sharp eyes, though he said nothing directly to her.

  Madeleine might have folded inward in her seat if her costume had allowed for such movement. He was still trying to place where he knew her from, if at all. She prayed he might never remember, truly found it fanciful that he might even be connecting the Meredith Bridgerton he saw now before him with Madeleine Sheffield as she appeared at the Harding’s ball. After a moment she was relieved again of his scrutiny, and left then to cringe at the thought of spending time in this man’s company. Suddenly, the trip to the orphanage, which she normally might look forward to, became an expedition she’d rather had made excuses to escape.

 

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