Mrs Sommersby’s Second Chance

She’s played Cupid for others

Now she’s met her own unlikely match!

Part of The Sommersby Brides. Widowed society matchmaker Mrs. Clara Sommersby thinks self-made businessman William Lane is just the man for her neighbor’s overlooked daughter. He’s successful and confident, if emotionally distant, until suddenly—shockingly—his attention turns to Clara herself! She thought her days of romance were over, but is this younger man intent on giving her a second chance?

LAURIE BENSON is an award-winning Regency romance author, whose book An Unexpected Countess was voted Mills & Boon’s 2017 ‘Hero of the Year’ by readers. She began her writing career as an advertising copywriter. When she isn’t at her laptop, avoiding laundry, Laurie can be found browsing antiques shops and going on long hikes with her husband and two sons. Learn more about Laurie by visiting her website at lauriebenson.net. You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.

Also by Laurie Benson

Secret Lives of the Ton miniseries

An Unsuitable Duchess

An Uncommon Duke

An Unexpected Countess

The Sommersby Brides miniseries

One Week to Wed

Convenient Christmas Brides

His Three-Day Duchess

Mrs Sommersby’s Second Chance

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Mrs Sommersby’s Second Chance

Laurie Benson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08926-5

MRS SOMMERSBY’S SECOND CHANCE

© 2019 Laurie Benson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For my editor, Linda Fildew,

for trusting me with this idea and for

frequently making me smile with your notes.

Thank you to Harper St George for being there, and

to Anabelle Bryant for listening to me work through

this plot on that long road trip. Shout out to my

agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, and to my team at

Harlequin Historical. To my friends, who understood

when I disappeared to write this. Thanks for your

patience. And to my family. I’m grateful for you every

day. Finally, thanks to my awesome readers! For those

of you who said Clara deserved to find love again,

regardless of her age, this one’s for you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Bath, England —1820

It wasn’t as if a small sip of water was capable of changing one’s life. In all the years Clara Sommersby had stood in the Pump Room to have her daily drink, she had never witnessed anyone perform such an intense inspection of a glass of the spa’s mineral water.

She had seen the tall blond-haired gentleman accept the empty glass from the attendant and approach the fountain out of the corner of her eye. Many people entered Bath each day to stay for an extended amount of time to take advantage of the waters in hopes of alleviating their ailments. There were also those who came to the fashionable town to experience the noted assemblies and various entertainments. She would firmly place this gentleman in the latter category.

While Clara normally took note of newly arrived visitors, this morning she awoke with a soreness in her lower back and had only been thinking of a long soak in the thermal baths to hopefully relieve her discomfort—until she saw this man swirl the water in his glass and sniff it as one would do while studying a glass of wine.

As he held the glass up and brought it to his eye, he caught her staring at him through the clear liquid. Too amused to look away, Clara tried to flatten out her smile. The gentleman across from her cleared his throat and went back to studying the contents of his glass.

‘The water is an exceptional ancient vintage,’ she offered, not even bothering to hide the amusement in her voice. ‘It might be a bit odd on the palate at first, but people have been praising its quality for ages.’

He lowered the glass and the faint spark in his blue eyes told her that he understood her jest. ‘I was simply trying to determine the mineral content.’

‘Are you a connoisseur of water, then, or perhaps a scientist of some sort?’

‘Neither. I was just comparing it to the waters from the Chalybeate Spring in Tunbridge Wells. The water there is also reputed to have healing properties.’

‘Reputed?’ She raised her hand to her chest and gave him a false look of indignation. ‘Sir, I would refrain from making such a statement here unless you’re prepared to endure long lectures by numerous patrons on how restorative this water truly is. You’ll be advised on how it has eliminated painful symptoms of the gout, how drinking it has reduced a bilious gut and how it has miraculously helped with a variety of other diseases, half of which you might not have ever heard of and quite possibly might not even exist. Scepticism is met with radical belief here in Bath.’

As he tipped his head at her, his serious expression softened just a bit. ‘I’ll make note of it.’

Bath was losing too many visitors to Brighton since the royal court, and George in particular, had made that town fashionable. Clara owned one of the finest hotels here, although she kept that fact a secret from Society. For all she knew, he might be staying at The Fountain Head Hotel. It was in her best interest to create a favourable impression of the town.

‘I’m sure whatever it is that ails you, you will find relief here.’

He seemed surprised she assumed he was here because he needed help. ‘I have no ailments that I’m aware of.’

Two finely dressed young ladies approached Clara’s side and dipped their glasses into the streams of water, while trying to catch the gentleman’s eye. Instead of offering them some form of encouragement, he reverted his attention back to studying his glass until they walked away, giggling and whispering as they went.

When they were alone once again, he eyed Clara across the fountain. ‘And you, madam, certainly you are much too young to suffer from any of those ills you spoke of. What brings you to the spa?’

‘I am not as young as you might think.’

‘Come now, you’re not any older than I am.’

Ah, so he was one of those gentlemen who liked to flatter women. She had run across many of them in her life. By her estimation he appeared to be in his midthirties, which was ten years younger than she was.

‘Perhaps this fountain also holds the key to a youthful appearance,’ she teased. ‘I have been drinking from it for many years now.’

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips and softened the hard angles of his features. ‘Then the waters here are far better than those in Tunbridge Wells. I don’t believe they’d dare to make that claim.’ Suddenly, his features hardened once more as he appeared to study her. ‘Perhaps you are one of those charlatans, like the men and women selling miracle elixirs outside in the streets, only you are employed by the Pump Room to convince people they should drink this odd-smelling liquid.’

‘I assure you, sir. I am not. I am simply an honest patron here for my daily dose.’ And to recommend a certain hotel to those who happened to be in need of one whenever she was here, but that was neither here nor there. ‘And how do you think our water compares to those of Tunbridge Wells?’

He peered out of the window behind him, down at the steaming spa waters below which, if it weren’t for the rain, at this hour would have been full of bathers who had come at this early hour of the morning for the restorative benefits. Once again, his attention was back on his glass. ‘The smell is similar. However, the water is cold there, not hot like this, and that water comes from a small spring. People do not bathe in it.’

‘You will not find hair in your water, if that is your concern. This water is not piped in from the baths.’

His face scrunched up as if that disgusting thought hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I am much relieved.’

Quite deliberately, Clara raised her glass and took a long sip of the hot water. It was not exactly a pleasant taste, but over the years she had grown accustomed to it. She wondered what he would think of it.

His gaze rested on her lips as she lowered her glass. Then he fixed his attention on her face and it appeared he was trying to determine what she thought of the taste. She would not give him any reason to think the water people were consuming in Tunbridge Wells was better than the water that flowed here. Bath needed people to believe in the waters, if the town was to continue being a popular destination. And, as the owner of The Fountain Head Hotel, she needed those people—those gentlemen—to keep returning to her establishment. The Hotel meant everything to her. It was her security for financial independence and its success was something she took great pride in.

‘I’m trying to determine if you’re a good actress or if indeed the water is not as bad as I’ve been imagining.’

Had anyone ever been this hesitant to try the water? His procrastination was rather amusing. ‘There is only one way to find out.’ She cocked her head to the side and gave him an encouraging nod.

* * *

It wasn’t as if a small sip of water was going to change his life. It might keep him close to a chamber pot for a good part of the day, but that would pass. At least that’s what Mr William Lane silently hoped was the case as he had accepted a glass from the attendant and walked over to the King’s Spring fountain in the Pump Room in Bath. Water cascaded down from spigots at the top of a pale stone urn into the open mouths of painted fish below. It was a clever feat of design engineering to get the water to fall just so and Lane took note of it, along with the other observations he was making of the interior design of this public space.

He dipped his glass into one of the streams of water, breaking the flow and filling his glass with the warm liquid. He had yet to try the thermal water his workmen had uncovered underneath the building he had just purchased, but thought it wise to try the popular water in the King’s Spring first so he would have something to compare it to. If he offered it to customers to drink and reap the reputed benefits, he knew people would expect it to taste the same.

Lane raised the glass slowly to his lips and gave it a sniff as if he was sampling a fine bottle of wine. The bouquet in his glass was nowhere near as appealing. Instead of fruity notes or the scent of the oak barrels that wine was stored in, this water possessed a metallic scent. He had tried the water at the spring in Tunbridge Wells, when a friend procured a glass for him after an evening of too much ale at a local tavern. He didn’t know if it was the water that had caused him to be violently sick shortly afterwards. That was not a sensation he had enjoyed and he would rather not do anything to bring it on again. Certainly not all of these people would be coming to the Pump Room and drinking this water if they knew they would be sick afterwards.

Just as he was about to ask the woman in front of him, an expensively dressed, slight, elderly woman and two older gentlemen joined them at the fountain, forcing him to step closer to the striking, petite brown-haired woman he had been conversing with. The faintest scent of roses replaced the metallic scent of the water, giving him a brief reprieve. It brought back a vague memory of laughing while running through a garden surrounded by roses, as a small child. Lane couldn’t recall much of that memory. It was one of the earliest ones he possessed and remembering it always seemed to somehow create a sense of longing for a time that was best forgotten.

Pushing back against the sensation, he took note that the three new guests nodded a greeting to the woman beside him before they filled their glasses with water and immediately began to drink it as if they were returning from a long trip in the desert. At five pence for a glass and with the crowds of people standing about in the classical, sparsely decorated room, offering a similar arrangement in the spa he might build appeared to be an excellent idea. Perhaps if he charged four pence per glass for the first few months it would be a way to entice patrons of this spa to the one he might build. He just needed to find a way to convince his partner that this was a lucrative investment.

‘Drink up, my boy,’ the balding man wearing spectacles called to him from the other side of the fountain. ‘You will experience none of the benefits of the water if you simply hold it in your glass. The water needs to be hot to be at its most effective.’

Lane must have been eyeing the room longer than he realised for it to be remarked upon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the woman beside him take another sip from her glass.

‘You find the water beneficial? I admit I’ve been hesitant in trying it.’

There was a faint tsking sound from the woman next to him and he could see her shake her head ever so slightly, right before the white-haired, portly gentleman answered him.

‘Nonsense,’ he replied, his runny pale blue eyes narrowing on Lane under his thick, bushy, white eyebrows. ‘There is no reason to hesitate. This water will not kill you. It cures rheums, palsies, lethargies, apoplexy, cramps, forgetfulness, trembling of any manner, aches and swelling of the joints, and even deafness.’

‘What was that?’ the other man asked him.

‘I said the water has been known to cure those who are deaf.’

The balding man shook his head. ‘Well, it helps with ailments, does nothing for theft.’

‘Deaf. I said it cures deafness,’ the other man said louder.

‘Oh, rightly so. I’ve been coming here every day for a year and drink three pints a day. Works wonders.’

The calculations of revenue started to happen in Lane’s head. ‘You’ve been coming here for a year?’

‘Near to what?’

‘He was verifying that you’ve been taking the waters here for an entire year,’ the elderly woman chimed in, rolling her eyes. The diamonds in her earrings sparkled as she shook her head.

The old man waved her off with his hand. ‘I heard him. I heard him.’

How many patrons in this room had been coming to the spa that long? Repeat customers were a boon to any business—and this particular one was drinking more than a glass a day. What exactly was it that kept a gentleman such as this coming back? Was it something more than his belief in the water?

The elderly lady broke into his thoughts as she addressed the woman beside him.

‘Good morning, my dear. Lovely to see you, as always.’

‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ The woman gave a slight curtsy and the sleeve of her scarlet-silk spencer brushed against his arm. ‘It’s a pleasure. I wasn’t aware you had returned to town.’

‘Just arrived yesterday and haven’t sent my cards around yet. My grandson was interested in showing his wife the sights in Bath. She’s never been. I saw it as a wonderful opportunity to enjoy the restorative effects of the waters and spend time with my family. Pity it’s raining today.’

‘Yes, it is. I was looking forward to a long hot soak when I awoke this morning.’

So, she had intended to bathe here today. He couldn’t understand why. She couldn’t be any older than his thirty-seven years. She appeared fit and her movements, while graceful, were spry. Perhaps she just enjoyed the feel of the hot water.

An image of the woman with her dark hair piled high on her head, soaking in the large stone bath as her skin glistening with the steam of the water, filled his mind. Did they bathe naked here in the spa? He imagined the smooth swell of her breasts submerged partially in the hot water and he swallowed hard, thinking about swimming up to her and licking the water from her soft skin. The pool of water he spied below was large, which would leave them with plenty of room to explore one another below the surface of the water or on one of the stone steps leading down into the bath. In his mind, he pictured them in there, after the spa had been closed up for the night. Those musings quickly ended with the words of the white-haired gentleman across from him.

‘Blockage of the bowels.’

Lane blinked a few times, bringing the room back into focus as he felt his eyebrows rise. ‘Pardon?’

There was a soft sputter of laughter from the woman he had been daydreaming about, before she covered her mouth with her gloved hand and pretended to cough.

‘I said blockage of the bowels,’ the man repeated a bit louder. ‘It also cures blockage of the bowels. Is that why you’re here? Or is it for the women? Many fine women here in this town.’ The man eyed the Duchess on his right.

She raised her chin and arched a very regal-looking brow at the man who appeared older than her advanced age. Her expression had the effect she intended since he moved a few steps away from her and shifted his attention back to Lane. None of them had been introduced to him and yet they all seemed perfectly content to speak with him about the advantages of taking the water here. Was all of Bath like this or was it something unique that happened while you were all partaking in a glass of water that might, or might not, have you attached to a chamber pot for an undisclosed amount of time?

‘Leave him alone,’ said the elderly Duchess. ‘Let the man enjoy his water in peace.’

Enjoying it was probably a gross exaggeration. ‘I don’t mind,’ Lane said, feeling a need to speak with these people to better understand what motivated them to frequent such an establishment. ‘I’ve come to Bath at the suggestion of a friend. He thought I was sure to find something I’d like here.’

‘Plenty of things to like in Bath,’ the man who was hard of hearing replied back. This time he eyed the brunette to Lane’s right.

‘I am not a thing, Mr Falk,’ she said, surprising Lane with her way of directly addressing the man’s comment.

More surprising was the way the tone of her voice and her confident demeanour made the man redden with embarrassment at her chastisement. Although that did little to stop him from continuing.

‘You will never find another husband with that outspoken nature of yours.’

‘I am glad to hear of it. That is more reason to speak my mind.’

‘A man doesn’t like a woman who speaks her mind. A man likes a woman who is docile and deferential.’

‘What nonsense,’ the Duchess interjected. ‘A man would be bored with such a woman in less than a week.’ She shifted her attention to Lane. ‘What say you, sir? Do you agree with his proclamation?’

The two elderly gentlemen leaned closer and watched, as if they were warning him not to side with the two women in this odd little party.

Lane glanced at the woman beside him before addressing the Duchess. ‘I’ve never given it any thought.’

‘But surely you have preferences in the women you spend your time with.’

He was being watched too closely by the four people in this group. Why couldn’t they still be discussing the benefits of the water? He downed the contents of the glass in his hand, forgetting it was the spa water. If only he could wipe his tongue on his sleeve to alleviate the coppery taste in his mouth. He had learned not to care what other people thought of him a long time ago, but he found he didn’t want the woman beside him to think him lily-livered. It was not the impression he wanted to leave her with.

‘An interesting way to avoid answering a question,’ she commented. Her brown eyes held that now-familiar hint of amusement under her arched brow.