A Lady Without a Lord

By Bliss Bennet

A viscount convinced he’s a failure
For years, Theodosius Pennington has tried to forget his myriad shortcomings by indulging in wine, women, and witty bonhomie. But now that he’s inherited the title of Viscount Saybrook, it’s time to stop ignoring his responsibilities. Finding the perfect husband for his headstrong younger sister seems a good first step. Until, that is, his sister’s dowry goes missing . . .
A lady determined to succeed
Harriot Atherton has a secret: it is she, not her steward father, who maintains the Saybrook account books. But Harry’s precarious balancing act begins to totter when the irresponsible new viscount unexpectedly returns to Lincolnshire, the painfully awkward boy of her childhood now a charming yet vulnerable man. Unfortunately, Theo is also claiming financial malfeasance. Can her father’s wandering wits be responsible for the lost funds? Or is she?
As unlikely attraction flairs between dutiful Harry and playful Theo, each learns there is far more to the other than devoted daughter and happy-go-lucky lord. But if Harry succeeds at protecting her father, discovering the missing money, and keeping all her secrets, will she be in danger of failing at something equally important—finding love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bliss Bennet
• Release date: Feb 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996193757

Bliss Bennet

Bliss Bennet writes smart, edgy novels for readers who love history as much as they love romance. Her Regency-set historical romance series, The Penningtons, has been praised by the Historical Novel Society’s Indie Reviews as “a series well worth following”; her books have been described by USA Today as “savvy, sensual, and engrossing,” by Heroes and Heartbreakers as “captivating,” and by The Reading Wench as having “everything you want in a great historical romance.” Her latest book is A Lady without a Lord.Despite being born and bred in New England, Bliss finds herself fascinated by the history of that country across the pond, particularly the politically-volatile period known as the English Regency. Though she’s visited Britain several times, Bliss continues to make her home in New England, along with her husband and ever-growing pile of historical reference books.

Book preview

Praise for the historical romances

of Bliss Bennet:

savvy, sensual and engrossing—USA Today Happy Ever After

This pleasing romance… round[s] out its story with precise historical flair and genuine feelings. —Publishers Weekly

"Bennet may be a fledgling author but her book stands stalwart with… Devil in Spring by Lisa Kleypas, My American Duchess by Eloisa James, and A Lady’s Code of Misconduct by Meredith Duran…. I was very much taken with her assured writing, complex and unusual characterization, and verve for storytelling."—Cogitations and Meditations

Definitely recommend[ed] to lovers of historical romance who are looking for something a little different to the usual rounds of balls, musicales, and soirées. —All About Romance

A refreshing change of pace from other historical romances. —Romantically Inclined Reviews

Steamy historical romance with witty and memorable characters and an intriguing plot…. [W]ill keep readers turning pages from beginning to the very end. —Night Owl Reviews

Her finest achievement is the heroine who remainds unconventional to the end even when she cooperates in the most conventional of romance fiction’s elements: the HEA. — Heroes and Heartbreakers

"effervescent. . . . a series well worth following." — Historical Novel Society Indie Reviews

 [Bennet has] the rare, and becoming rarer, ability to create main characters who reflect their times and are in turn uniquely, likably themselves. —Miss Bates Reads Romance

A beautifully written love story that has everything you want in a great historical romance: heart-wrenching emotion, heartbreak and a great HEA… Cannot wait for the next one in the series. — The Reading Wench

Bliss Bennet creates the most enticing, delightfully imperfect characters. Watching them finally achieve their happy ever after is bittersweet—you’re happy they’re happy, but dang it, you weren’t done with them yet… —USA Today Happy Ever After

A Lady

without

a Lord

Bliss Bennet

To Jamel, my sister

CHAPTER ONE

London, early summer 1822

If Theo Pennington had a shilling for every time he’d kept someone waiting, he’d have—well, he didn’t know just how much, precisely. Keeping track of money, like keeping track of the time, had never been among his admittedly small list of personal virtues. But it would be a deuced large amount, of that he was certain.

Today, though, it was not a relative, nor an acquaintance, nor even some time-obsessed flunky who was waiting upon Theo’s pleasure. No, the one cooling his heels—if the idiom could rightly apply to a man incessantly pacing the marble floors of Messrs. Child & Co., bankers—was Theo himself: Viscount Saybrook, recently ennobled peer of the English realm.

And after he’d made such a particular effort to be punctual, too! Tearing himself free of the luscious Mademoiselle Crébillion so he might sleep in his own rooms; instructing his valet to rouse him early enough so he might dress and break his fast with a little something to clear his drink-addled head; even arriving at no. 1 Fleet Street before the bells of St. Brides rang the ungodly hour of ten. Yet here he paced, still waiting for the bank’s director to emerge from the building’s inner sanctums.

Theo stared at the clerk seated behind the long marble counter, his quill flying over the ledger as he totted up sums. The man must have sensed his gaze, for he jerked his head up from his desk, eyes darting about the room. But it wasn’t the poor clerk’s fault that he tallied shillings and pence with an ease Theo would never know.

He wiped all hints of envy from his face, giving the clerk a civil nod before returning to his pacing.

Lord Saybrook.

Theo’s attention turned to the tall, dark-haired man bowing beside him. Not the bank director, damn the slow-coachish fellow, but his new brother-in-law, Sir Peregrine Sayre. Hell, why didn’t he send a secretary to collect his sister’s dowry?

Theo donned his most civil smile and bowed. My dear Peregrine. Surely, having been married to Sibilla for what, now—a fortnight?—you might bring yourself to use my Christian name.

The young baronet gave a wary smile. Lord Milne demanded a bit more deference from his subordinates than you do, my lord. It may take longer than a fortnight to accustom myself to calling my political patron ‘Theodosius.’

Theo, please, Theo said with an exaggerated shudder. Be grateful our father insisted on choosing the name of his only daughter instead of allowing our mother to continue in her misguided ways. Bless her soul, the poor woman must have believed foisting such devout names upon all her sons would give us a leg up when the judgment day arrives.

His brother-in-law chuckled. Yes, Theo may not be a dab hand with numbers, but he could always make a person laugh.

Besides, he continued, clapping a hand on Peregrine’s back, unlike Lord Milne, I’m not only the man supporting your candidacy for Parliament, I’m your damned brother by marriage. Unless, of course, you failed to inform us of a prior relation between yourself and one of Lord Milne’s sisters?

Sir Peregrine laughed out loud, a strange sound in the midst of the sober bank lobby. Theo, then, his brother-in-law agreed. "At least when we are en famille. And you may call me Per, if you like."

Yes, Theo had done one thing right this past year, consenting to Sibilla’s marriage with this conscientious baronet. Sir Peregrine would live up to his sister’s high expectations, even if Theo did not.

The sound of a slight cough interrupted their good cheer. Another clerk, this one all dressed in somber gray, bowed. Sir Peregrine? My lord? Mr. Dent will see you now.

Down the passageway, they passed the bank’s counting house, its tables filled not with guineas and bouillon as he’d imagined as a child, but with stacks upon stacks of account books. Theo repressed a grimace. He’d seen more than enough of such loathsome things in the night terrors of his childhood, the dreaded Saybrook estate ledgers looming above him, poised to crush him under the weight of their incomprehensible columns of pence and pounds.

You’re not trying hard enough, Theo. Again!

Lord Saybrook? Sir Peregrine? I am Mr. Dent.

Not his father, nor one of his many dreaded tutors, but the chief banker at Child & Co. stood before them. Theo shook off the memory as the stiff, stern-faced gentleman gave a brief bow.

Please to take a seat? Dent gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk.

Thank you. Theo nodded, wishing he had kept hold of his walking stick so he might have something to occupy his hands. Did your bank building once house a public ordinary, Mr. Dent? That old oak sign hanging above the door to the back offices seems more likely to appear on the outside of a tavern than the interior of a financial concern.

Yes, indeed, my lord, it was once a tavern.

Ah. And do you still raise tankards to the king in the back rooms? Theo teased.

Drunken revelry? Here at Child and Company? The poor banker looked appalled.

Not a man for small talk, was he, this Mr. Dent? Straight to business, then. Are the necessary papers for the transfer of my sister’s dowry to Sir Peregrine all in order?

The banker gave a delicate cough. Ah, the papers?

Yes, yes. I’m ready to sign whatever you need. Theo waved a careless hand. Must the ridiculous man turn his every statement into a question?

Ah, yes? Ready to sign? But perhaps first, the funds in your account? Mr. Dent opened an old, leather-bound volume and flipped through its pages.

What of them? Theo asked, his voice sharpening. Did not my mother’s marriage settlement require Sibilla’s portion to be put in trust until her marriage?

Apparently not, my lord. And since, as far as I am aware, you and your father did not agree on a new settlement when you came of age, you have succeeded to the estate absolutely.

Theo frowned. Yes, his father had been after him to discuss some estate-related papers soon after he turned twenty five, hadn’t he? But every conversation on the topic quickly devolved into the viscount upbraiding him for his lack of ambition and effort, which had Theo slinking from the room before any papers could even be read, let alone signed and sealed. He’d soon learned to bolt whenever his father seemed poised to broach the subject.

But it would not do to share any such painful family disagreements with Mr. Dent. Or with his brother-in-law. Theo lounged back in his chair and swung a booted foot. Surely after the receipt of the spring rents, my account should contain far more than the twelve thousand pounds owed Sir Peregrine.

Spring rents? But my lord, the deposits from your estate agent this past May, nay, all the ones for the past three years, since the illness and decease of the late Lord Saybrook, are far smaller than the ones we had been accustomed to receiving.

Smaller? But have not the bad harvests improved of late? Theo shifted in his seat, recalling the pile of letters from the Saybrook estate steward he’d shoved in a desk drawer in the London house library. He’d opened each monthly epistle, but left them all largely unread, filled as they were with minute details of the sale of timber and cheese, the purchase of cows and tups and springtime seed. Lord, was it possible he had overlooked word of a twelve thousand pound downturn in the estate’s income?

Yes, they have, at least for all of our other landowning families. And we have received rental income from yours. Just not as much as in the past. We, of course, simply assumed you had directed your man of business to send some of the monies, ah, elsewhere. To a gambling den or other disreputable haunt, Dent’s uneasy smile suggested.

My man of business? Theo said, stalling for time. Yes, this was why noblemen employed secretaries and solicitors. To keep track of their holdings and funds, so they would not have to bother with anything as mundane as money. How could he have been so stupid, to allow so many months to pass without replacing his father’s secretary?

There is enough in your account to advance two thirds of your sister’s dowry to Sir Peregrine today. Which leaves four thousand pounds wanting. Mr. Dent cleared his throat. And as I’m sure you’re aware, my lord, Child and Company has arranged many a mortgage for other members of the aristocracy who find themselves unable to meet their prior fiduciary commitments. We would be happy to make all arrang—

"I assure you, a mortgage will not be necessary, Theo bit out. The money must be here somewhere."

Dent drew himself up in his seat, stiff as a poker. Would you like to examine the account book yourself, my lord?

No, of course not. Theo rose before Dent could slide the dreaded volume across the desk in his direction. My father trusted this bank, and I see no reason not to do the same. A simple miscommunication between myself and my secretary, I’m certain that is all.

Certainly, my lord, Mr. Dent assented with a sour little smile. "Once you have cleared up the, ah—miscommunication, Child and Company will always be ready to serve. Now, if you just sign these papers . . ."

Theo’s brother-in-law remained blessedly silent as he and Theo signed the requisite papers, and while the clerk led them back to the bank’s lobby, a walk that felt as if it took hours instead of minutes. Only when they had reached the pavement outside did he raise an eyebrow in inquiry. Trouble?

Theo’s laugh sounded hollow, even to his own ears. But he’d been keeping up appearances for years now, papering over his own intellectual deficiencies with a smile and a joke. As long as one did not admit to one’s failings, most people did not bother to look beyond a show of friendly cheer.

Of course not, he said, waving for his coachman. A brief chat with Mr. Kimpton will clear up the matter in a trice.

If only he could ask his father’s man of business. But the blasted fellow had taken up a position overseas, damn him to the Antipodes and back.

Certainly, Saybr—ah, Theo. His brother-in-law laid a reassuring hand on Theo’s arm. We needn’t begin laying out funds to canvass voters quite yet; the by-election is not until August. I have enough to occupy myself, writing up my initial address to the electors and arranging to have it printed, and corresponding with the election agent.

Still, Sibilla will have my head on a platter if I put a spoke in the wheels of your candidacy, won’t she? And especially if she hears how horribly I’ve been mixing my metaphors. Please, I beg you, take pity and keep this little delay to yourself!

Theo shot Per his most comically woeful expression before escaping to the confines of his carriage. The clatter of the wheels against the cobbles drowned out the sounds of what he hoped was his brother-in-law’s laughter.

Yes, the writ for the by-election had already been issued, setting the election day only two months from now. And if neither he nor Per had more money to hand, the damned Parliament seat might just slip through their fingers.

After tossing his hat and stick on the opposite carriage seat, Theo sat back and banged his head once, twice, a third time against the squabs, remembering how angry Sibilla had been with him this past year. Barely bring herself to say a civil word to him, not after his craven desertion while she nursed their dying father. Or, even worse, his outright refusal to cut a fine figure in Parliament, as their father once had.

After her engagement and wedding to Sir Peregrine, though, he’d unexpectedly found himself back in her good graces. But if he’d lost the money meant to support her husband’s political ambitions—hell, for such blatant incompetence, she’d be more than justified in never speaking to him again.

And since his youngest brother, Kit, still wouldn’t forgive him for interfering in his romantic affairs, that would make two out of his three siblings whom he’d alienated beyond repair.

At this rate, would Benedict, his middle brother, be far behind?

Theo grasped handfuls of hair and pulled until his scalp began to burn. Damn it all, why did he have to be such a bloody blunderer? Where the hell was Sibilla’s money?

Atherton. Henry Atherton, his father’s steward—he must know.

But Atherton was in Lincolnshire, not here in London.

Damn it all to hell and back, to bucolic Lincolnshire Theo would have to go.

If only some benefactor would grant him a shilling for every mile out of his way this blasted muddle was likely to send him . . .

CHAPTER TWO

Harriot Atherton couldn’t quite wish the full complement of woe the Lord vowed to inflict upon the idle shepherd who leaveth his flock to rain down on young Laban Dawber, the herdsman in charge of this bit of pasture. Laban was, after all, only a child of ten. And heavens’ knew, rumors of the new Lord Saybrook’s slothful doings in London did little to encourage his Lincolnshire tenants to diligent labour. Yet Harry could wish Laban had not chosen this particular day to leave his sheep unattended. So close to shearing, the animals were so weighted down by thick spirals of fleece that when they tried to rise from a spot of rest on the ground, they were only too likely to lose their centers of gravity and find themselves flat on their backs, unable to regain their footing.

Like the poor struggling creature lying on the sward before her.

Harry shook her head, her lips turning up in a rueful smile. So much for trying to shave a few precious minutes off the walk to the vicarage by cutting through Saybrook’s home farm pasture. But she’d been so engrossed by the Saybrook estate account books, attempting to make sense of her father’s scribbled entries of the May rent receipts, that she’d lost track of the time. And no young lady wished to appear rushed or out of breath when arriving at a meeting of the neighboring village’s worthies.

Still, she could not help but laugh. Yes, she’d look a far sight worse than rushed once she finished helping the struggling ewe find its footing. But truly, neither vanity nor amusement should stand in the way of duty. A cast sheep might seem foolish, bleating and squirming in such a pathetic fashion. But even she, who had spent more time of late in fashionable Brighton than in the farmlands of Lincolnshire, knew that any sheep forced to lie on its back more than a few hours could die.

Laban? she called, hands on hips as she scanned the empty pasture. Laban Dawber? But of Mrs. Dawber’s youngest, nor any of her other strapping boys, was there the smallest sign.

It looked as if Harry were the only person available to put the sheep to rights.

And so Harry it would have to be.

With a sigh, she knelt in the grass and laid a calming hand on the ewe’s side. After a few moments, when the animal had quieted, she forced her shoulder under its belly and pushed until she tipped it nearly upright. After making sure it had its hooves underneath it, she pulled away, trying hard not to sneeze as a stalk of hay stuck in the animal’s wool tickled her nose.

The ewe wobbled, weak from its earlier efforts. Come on, girl. You can do it, she said, clasping her hands as if praying her encouragement.

But after taking a few unsteady steps, the ewe fell to the ground in a heap of wool and dirt.

She coughed at the cloud of dust rising around them. Not as easy as young Laban and his fellow shepherds made it look, was it, righting a fallen sheep?

Perhaps if she stood behind it? After scooting over the grass—oh, heavens, what stains she’d find on her second-best gown—she positioned herself in back of the ewe’s head, one leg on each side of its body.

Ready for another try, poor thing? she asked as she bent down and laced her hands under its upper torso. With a grunt, she pulled up, as if she were raising a child who had taken a fall.

The ewe strained forward, trying to get its legs under it. In spite of its obvious exhaustion, though, its strength still proved greater than that of its would-be rescuer. With a jerk, it shot across the field, sending Harry tumbling to all fours into the dirt.

From behind her came a low, appreciative chuckle.

Yon sheep may not be black, but it looks to have far more than three bags of wool on its back. Are you certain, though, fair shepherdess, that you’re using the best method to shear?

Harry groaned. What a spectacle she must present! And not even to a fieldworker or a farmer, but to a gentleman, if the man’s way of speaking were any indication. Just what she needed, a smugly superior clever-boots, come to bear witness to her indignities. Watch, next he’d be ba, ba, baa-ing at her as if they were characters from the old nursery rhyme.

She jerked her head up and down, banging the brim of her bonnet lightly against the ground.

But the ground was hardly likely to open and swallow her and her embarrassment whole. Gathering her scattered dignity, she pushed up to her knees and turned round, wondering which of the local gentry she’d had the misfortune to meet.

A large gentleman strode across the pasture, his carriage and driver stopped in the lane close by. The afternoon sun, shining directly behind him, made it difficult to discern his features. Too tall to be Sir John Mather, who held the estate closest to the Saybrook home farm. And not Mather’s son, visiting from Market Rasen, either; Haviland was far too proper to accost any woman so, genteel or not. Besides, this man’s voice hadn’t sounded at all familiar. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

Unkind of me, wasn’t it, to make sport of your plight? The gentleman stopped a few feet from where she still knelt on the ground. But if our positions were reversed, I’d wager you’d have laughed, too. Such a sight! But here, sweet maid, allow me to assist you.

His shadow fell over her as he bent down, holding out a gloved hand. Eyes blinking to adjust to the sudden change in light, she placed her own in his.

With a light tug, the gentleman pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, and her hands pressed against the silk of his waistcoat. Beneath them, she felt him chuckle—what, did he think she had fallen against him on purpose? Before she could upbraid him, he bent his head to hers, as if intending to steal a kiss.

Sudden recognition flooded her senses. Oh, no. Not again.

She pulled her hand free of his and took a step back, then another. Chin raised high, she lowered into her most respectful curtsy, no matter that the man deserved none of it.

Lord Saybrook. Welcome home.

Theodosius Pennington, the new Viscount Saybrook, gazed down at her, his eyes crinkling in puzzlement. No, he wouldn’t recognize her, not after spending years in London surrounded by elegant ladies of the ton, as well as those of more dubious repute. All of whom would be far more memorable than the daughter of his father’s steward, whom he’d last seen as a lanky, awkward adolescent. Even if he had given said adolescent her first kiss.

She recognized him, though the intervening years had changed his appearance more than hers. The same blond curls, the same gray-blue eyes, yes, but no longer the skin-and-bones figure she remembered from their youth. Theo Pennington had grown into a large man, far taller than even her tallish self, with shoulders almost twice as wide as her own. His dress, which once had been careless at best, was now far more stylish than even that of Sir John Mather’s, who was known throughout Lindsey for his fashionable attire. The only outward sign of the dissipation in which he was rumored to have sunk was a slight redness about his eyes. Although to be fair, one might just as easily attribute that to the dust kicked up by his horse and carriage than to overindulgence in drink.

The lines bracketing those eyes, and his mouth, both suggested that smiles, not frowns, were his expression of preference. The one he donned now, tinged with both rue and amusement, would have charmed any woman meeting him for the first time.

"My apologies, ma’am, for mistaking you for a shepherdess. I should have remembered that my father’s—no, my—steward does not allow females to tend the Saybrook flocks. And certainly not a lady of quality such as yourself."

Harry bent to brush the grass from her skirts, avoiding the sight of that inviting twinkle in his eye. Do not trouble yourself, my lord. My actions hardly suggested gentility. In any case, many would not deem the daughter of a steward genteel, never mind one of the quality.

His eyes widened. Daughter of a steward? Do not tell me you are little Miss Atherton?

Little? Did I not tower over you for the longest time, gawky girl that I was?

He laughed. And how I plagued you for it. My brothers still have not forgiven me for placing those frogs in your bed.

More out of concern for the safety of the animals than for my girlish sensibilities, no doubt, she said, laughing herself.

But no, this would not do. She would not allow herself to be swayed by an easy smile and a bit of town polish. This was Theo Pennington, after all, the man who had not troubled to visit the estate he’d inherited, not even once in the year and a half since the late lord’s passing. Nor had he replied to any of the letters she’d sent him on her father’s behalf, asking for permission to release funds for the cottage building and for the preparation for the annual village fête. This new Viscount Saybrook seemed well on his way to becoming as inattentive a landlord as his father had been, and without the excuse of an active political career to justify it. No, if even half the rumors from London were true, laxity and dissipation were all that kept him