Regency Romance: A Race Against The Lord

By Charlotte Stone

Love is in the air Regency style. You will love this wonderful story because it will leave you filled with love.
 

Dashing dukes, lavish ladies and enough romance to fill a season. Grab this amazing value book to be swept away by dashing dukes and handsome lords.

Four inspirational regency stories. Journey with these ladies as they choose the man of their dreams and find their happy ever after.

 

If you're a fan of clean regency romance, you will love this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlotte Stone
• Release date: Jul 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393005681

Charlotte Stone

In a near cynical world which we are currently living in, Charlotte finds comfort in the readings of Regency Romance writings, one of her favourite would be Laura Kinsale’s Flowers from the storm where the female character loves and saves the male lead character who is a stroke victim. It was such writings which inspired her to be an author herself. In Charlotte’s writings, the characters are able to see beyond the imperfections of each other and to accept and love one another, just the way one is. Isn’t this true of our inner self? To be able to find someone who is able to see the beauty in us, in spite of all imperfections we might have. Isn’t this true of what love really should be? Ever accepting, ever loving, ever seeking. May you find love and acceptance in Charlotte’s writings.

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A Race Against The Lord

a regency romance book

––––––––

CHARLOTTE  STONE

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 by

Charlotte Stone

All Rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Cover Style by  Sanja Gombar

www.bookcoverforyou.com

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Find Out More

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

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Publisher Notes

chapter 1

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When Nicholas Barrington, Duke of Winnefield, exhaled, plumes of his breath hung for a moment in the air before uncoiling to be lost to the wind. It made him feel a trifle dragonish, or perhaps devilish would be more appropriate.

Catherine Green had certainly called him devilish more than once during the two days he had spent with her. His rather unpleasant business in Hartford had only kept him for a night. Spending the two nights after that at his mistress' cottage had been a welcome change. The time spent with Catherine, mostly naked, mostly laughing, was a delight, but he wondered whether it was time to give her a final rich gift and bid her goodbye.

He had been attracted to the sharp-eyed girl in Mrs. Wentworth's brothel for her grin, her curves, and her wild ways, but these last few visits, he had seen her getting uncharacteristically moon-eyed over him. Nicholas liked Catherine, but he disliked attachments, especially of the female variety. No. as amusing as she was, it was likely time to end things, and if she was hurt, well, the cottage he had purchased for her and the bank draft he would have his man deliver to her would hopefully salve those wounds.

The road to London from Winslow and points farther north was a quiet one, and even if he was a man who had always favored London's lights over the calm of the countryside, Nicholas enjoyed the ride back. His mare, a Moroccan Barb, fairly danced under his light hand, and when he could, he let her stretch her elegant legs.

When the first shot rang out, Nicholas’ mount tossed her head, dancing a little, but he stilled her, looking around to see where the sound had come from. It was likely a local squire out for a day of shooting or at worst, a poacher who Nicholas couldn't bring himself to care about. A second shot came, and he realized that it had originated from the road in front of him.

Easy now, my love, he murmured to his horse. And gently—

He continued around the bend and saw what he most feared. Stopped not twenty yards in front of him was a Royal mail coach, as large in the road as a barge was in the river. From his vantage point, Nicholas could see the driver clutching his arm and the guard sprawled on the road, his gun cast aside.

Drawn up next to the coach was a man with a revolver and a hand inside the window, and Nicholas guessed he was offering the people seated inside their lives for whatever valuables they were carrying.

The bandit was utterly focused on the coach, and Nicholas reckoned that he could get fairly close without the man noticing him. Of course, if he was unlucky, the man would turn just in time to see him, and at close range, it wouldn't matter if the bandit had good aim or not.

Well, I always liked high odds.

Almost as if she understood the need for silence, Nicholas’ mare moved quietly toward the bandit and his mount. The man was leaned into the coach, speaking in a rough and urgent tone with the people inside. Just as Nicholas got close enough that he could think about making a grab for the criminal, a hoarse shout rang through the air and then the air was filled with an oddly familiar lemony-herbal reek.

While Nicholas was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened, the bandit reeled back from the coach window, hanging on to his revolver desperately with one hand while he wiped frantically at his eyes with the other. Never one to let an opportunity go by, Nicholas gigged his mare up alongside the man's cob before drawing his elbow back and slamming it across the man's throat. This close, the smell was even stronger, and Nicholas turned his face as the bandit toppled backward off his horse. On his way down, the revolver fell out of his grip, and Nicholas caught it deftly in his free hand.

All right, sir, hold as still as you can or you might not live to make it to the magistrate, Nicholas said with a grin. When it looked like the man lacked the interest in doing anything besides wiping at his stinging eyes, Nicholas glimpsed at the coach's interior. He was slightly startled to see a frail and shaking man, a Quaker couple, a matronly woman with what looked like a mass of small children clutched under her arms, and sitting close to the window of the coach was a young woman dressed all in black, a fierce look in her vividly green eyes.

If you are also planning to rob us, I should make you aware that I may be out of Hungary water, but I will happily strike you down with the bottle instead.

She brandished the small rock crystal bottle at Nicholas with such determination that he pulled his mare back slightly with a laugh.

I can see that you will, miss, he said. But right now, I was hoping to find a man who would be willing to tie up the bandit who tried to accost you. The driver is wounded, and we must still check on the guard.

I can take care of that for you, said the woman in black. With her martial temperament, Nicholas guessed she could be a war widow.

I could do it if you would rather hold the revolver?

No. I detest guns.

She said it with a kind of flat distaste that brooked no question, and before he knew what she was about, she had opened the door and gathered her skirts in one hand before hopping out. As she did so, her hat was knocked askew, showing off gleaming chestnut braids coiled around her head. Nicholas smiled, charmed at the ferocity of such a pretty thing.

All right now, you rogue, we'll see about making sure you don't escape.

As Nicholas kept the gun trained on the man, she bound the man tightly with his own belt and some spare leather tack that hung from the coach.

When she was done, she looked around briefly.

I don't suppose there will be a passing constable who can help us.

Nicholas nodded at the iron hook hung off the side of the coach. It was empty, designed for hauling bags of mail.

I think I have an idea.

Nicholas laid the revolver aside and hauled the man up, hanging him by his bindings from the hook. He figured he needn't have worried with the gun; the man's eyes were red and irritated, nearly swollen shut, and Nicholas shot the woman in black an amused look. Now that the bandit was taken care of, he couldn't help but notice that she was more a girl than a woman. It was the black fustian that made her look older.

I shouldn't like to be a bandit while there are Amazons like you around, miss, he said with a grin.

She shot him a baleful look.

It was the last of a gift from someone who was very dear to me. I know he would have approved of my using it in a noble cause, but I am still sorry to lose it. Now we must see to the guard and the driver.

As it turned out, the guard was merely stunned, but the bandit had broken the driver's wrist when he snatched the reins from him. The poor man was in so much pain that the only thing to do was to load him into the coach as he would not be able to ride on the outside seats. Nicholas looked at the crowded coach interior dubiously.

Well, I can drive the coach on to Berkhamsted, but it might be dangerous with so many crowded inside.

Well, he can have my seat, and I can ride on the outside seats, said the woman in black.

Are you sure? It's only a short distance to Berkhamsted, but the winds are picking up a little.

I am sure, she said sternly. I am not some wilting flower.

I can see that you are not, Nicholas said, hiding a grin. But perhaps you should take the driver's bench with me. It'll be a little more protected.

She gave him a suspicious look, but Nicholas’ innocent expression must have looked convincing because she nodded and allowed the guard to help her onto the bench seat as Nicholas secured his mare to the carriage, letting her trail along behind.

Well, shall we venture forward, Miss...?

It is Lady Lydia Waverly, she said. And how may I address you?

Well, if we are being proper, I am Nicholas Barrington, Duke of Winnefield, at your service.

She colored slightly, and Nicholas realized with amusement that she’d assumed she had been talking to a country squire.

Your grace, I beg your pardon.

Begging doesn't become you at all, Lady Lydia. Call me Nicholas, please.

The coach rolled forward with a jolt as he called to the horses, and Lydia clutched on to his arm for a moment for balance before she let him go.

That's hardly proper!

How proper is throwing your perfume into a bandit's eyes?

That was something that had to be done!

'I'm not saying it wasn't. It was necessary but hardly the proper thing for a young lady to do.

Oh? Lydia's voice was testy, and for some reason, Nicholas found himself grinning at it. And I suppose you're the one who knows everything about the proper thing for a young lady to do?

"Well, I am a duke. That must count for something. But honestly, no, I couldn't care less. I'm only saying that there is a place where being useful and being proper diverge. I'm sure if you were a proper young lady, you would have fainted as soon as the bandit stopped the coach."

I was hardly going to let him rob the poor Fosters! And Mrs. Thackeray barely has enough to pay for lodgings until her husband gets to London, and Reverend Anderton—

Wait, who are all these people?

Oh. The Fosters are the Quakers in the carriage, and Mrs. Thackeray and her children are going to London to meet Mr. Thackeray when he returns home from sea. And Mr. Anderton is the other man who has a heart condition. All this excitement can't be good for him.

So, you acted to prevent harm from coming to the people you bonded with on the mail coach. Not very proper, Lady Lydia, but brave.

For some reason, that made her look down at her hands. Was she thinking about whoever she was mourning? It might explain her distaste for guns.

I'm not, she said quietly. "Not