Regency Rescues: Three Short Sweet Romances
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About this ebook
Can these gentlemanly heroes save the women they love?
'Gentleman to the Rescue': Clarissa Lanstone has been dragged to the altar by her cousin to marry old Squire Barns. Will Captain Tom Whittlesea, the love of her life, save her?
'An Officer and a Gentleman': Marianne Chaseley receives the worst news a mother can hear. Can Major Oliver Hurst convince her to let him help her one last time?
'A True Gentleman': Lady Emma Blanche is trapped in a situation no woman should endure. Her husband's valet, John Wright, knows he must help her, but can they escape Sir Henry Blanche?
Isabella Hargreaves
Isabella Hargreaves is an award-winning historical romance author. She writes Romance through the Ages, with a story to tell from the Regency era to Ancient Britain and to 1920s Australia. She loves writing about strong heroines finding the men to match them. She is a winner of the Romance Writers of Australia Romantic Book of the Year 2022 (novella category), the Romance Writers of New Zealand Koru Award 2018 (novella category) and the Romance Writers of Australia 'Little Gems' short story competition 2018, and a finalist in a number of other awards. Isabella lives in Brisbane, Australia, where she works as an historian and is butler to three moggies. When she's not reading and writing, Isabella loves horse-riding and scenic walks. She dreams of an around-the-world trip to indulge these passions. For more information about Isabella Hargreaves' books, and to sign up for email advice about her next release, go to: www.isabellahargreaves.com Follow on: Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/isabella-hargreaves Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7457181.Isabella_Hargreaves Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/IsabellaHargreavesBooks
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Regency Rescues - Isabella Hargreaves
Gentleman to the Rescue
CORNWALL, 31 DECEMBER 1814
Clarissa Lanstone stood before the wooden altar rail of the small stone church that perched, like a solitary lighthouse, on its windswept Cornish headland. A wild wind whistled through the eaves into the open rafters, turning the temperature inside frigid.
Clarissa’s fur-lined pelisse barely kept her warm, if feeling warm was even possible when her blood ran cold at the thought of marrying this man.
What convergence of bad omens had conspired to bring her here?
She was being sold into legalised slavery by her cousin and head of the family, the current Baron Ventnor. He didn’t want an indigent female relative hanging off his estate income.
Marry Squire Barns or leave,
he had commanded.
Having no other family and no way of quickly communicating her dilemma to her one true love, Captain Tom Whittlesea, who had been serving with Wellington’s army on the Iberian Peninsula for the last three years, she had delayed the marriage as long as possible. She had written away for governess positions, pleaded for clemency, feigned illness, and requested time to make wedding clothes and have fittings.
Time and her cousin’s limited patience had run out.
Now she stood in the little church on his rocky estate, beside Squire Barns—a coarse, middle-aged farmer with half a dozen motherless children and a great need for a new wife-cum-housekeeper.
A shiver ran down her spine, as though a rat had scuttled over her feet.
The droning voice of the vicar altered its tone to command, If any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.
His eyebrows rested like a pair of hairy grey caterpillars on his forehead. His gaze performed a brief circuit of the congregation.
She would not allow her cousin to serve her up to Squire Barns like a lamb for slaughter! Clarissa opened her mouth to object.
I do,
a deep voice boomed from behind her.
Clarissa spun around to see her saviour. A collective gasp from the small congregation ricocheted around the spartan building as they turned in unison.
A tall, auburn-haired man stepped forward from the doorway.
Tom!
Was it her tears or the French lace of her veil that mottled Clarissa’s view of him? Even so, he looked every inch the demigod she had always thought him. But taller, more muscular, more handsome.
His country clothes moulded his athletic body in ways that made her heart beat faster.
He pointed at her, his arm outstretched in accusation. That woman is my wife!
The vicar ignored him. Instead he turned to Clarissa and his eyes drilled into hers. His eyebrows performed a Highland jig above his widened orbs as he asked her imperiously, Is this true?
Clarissa swallowed. If only it were!
Of course it’s true,
said Tom. His tone was one of command; he was not used to having his word gainsaid.
It... it can’t be,
said her stout bridegroom.