His Forbidden Debutante

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 smile. ‘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.

‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.

‘My schedule?’

‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.

An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.

It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.

‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.

Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises that scarred his heart, and end his dependency on the impossible.

But he couldn’t.

The realisation he possessed this weakness weighed heavily on his soul. How could he enter into marriage, a sacred union built on honesty and trust, when his truest emotions, love, devotion, passion, lay tied with a ribbon hidden in his wardrobe? How could he betray his intended and compromise his own integrity? With the deepest reverence, he respected his betrothed. She presented a kind smile and clever intelligence. He’d encountered not one poor word in reference to her reputation or family. Still, despite earnest effort, he’d collected no tender emotion.

He cleared his throat as if the action would somehow rid him of the reality of his choices. He had a duty, a new station to uphold. He would marry. He would propagate and carry on with the most congenial of relationships. Ardent affection could develop were he to allow it the opportunity. This was the truth and the lie he told himself daily while enduring the ritual of overdressing required of his station.

He slammed the drawer closed and locked it before he could change his mind. He would not read a letter this morning. He had a long, happy future to look towards and the letters did not signify.

Chapter Two

Dearest, I cannot allow you to speak poorly of your dance ability. You are, no doubt, a swan in the ballroom, a rose among weeds, delicate, graceful and captivating. I long to waltz with you, hold you in my arms and circle the floor, proud and honoured to be offered the boon. One day we will waltz. You have my word.

Livie allowed a gentle smile, the remembrance of Randolph’s words bittersweet, the letter in her lap dated over a year ago. At the time, she had believed his vow to be no more than a fairy-tale wish made by a kind gentleman who knew her solely through correspondence, never having seen or conversed with her in person. Yet as their exchanges grew in frequency, through weeks and months, emotion became more important than probability. Their conversations evolved into lively banter, two friends who hinted at more, a man and woman who’d met under the most unlikely of circumstances and forged a relationship by letter writing.

How she looked forward to his heartfelt missives, their discussions exploring every subject imaginable, no topic off limits or too mundane. Perhaps it was the act of committing the words to paper and sending them into the post that freed her from inhibition. She shared fears and aspirations, goals and accomplishments. The anticipation of his reply kept her counting the days and mentally listing all the new questions and comments she longed to include in her next message.

Together they spoke with refreshing candour and frank honesty, which led to a natural progression of sentimental affection and, though they never confessed it, feelings of love. An undercurrent of adoration and devotion laced their final letters, hinting at what might be were one to take that final step, to wish hard enough and plan a meeting. She clenched her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion she worked so hard to ignore.