The Weekday Bride

By Lois Tennant

Echos of Regency Romance: Lord Markham Elsworth is about to lose his family home because of a codicil in his father's will of which he was unaware. Lucinda Stanton is about to lose her inhertihance and leave her sister and family without support.  Somehow, it seems that inspite of obstacles and jealous rivals, they can assist each other. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lois Tennant
• Release date: Apr 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393998204

Book preview

THE WEEKDAY BRIDE

( A Regency novel)

by

Lois Tennant

Copyright@LoisTennant

Description:

Echoes of a Regency Romance.

Lord Markham Elsworth is about to lose his family home because of a codicil to his father's will of which he was unaware!  Lucinda Stanton is about to lose her inheritance and leave her sister and family without support.  Somehow, it seems that, in spite of obstacles and jealous rivals, they can assist each other.

REVIEWS

I love the Regency theme Lois Tennant uses, without all the cloying attention to romance one sometimes finds!  Lauretta James

A very pleasant read indeed!  W. Share

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

For Ken and Candice, with love!

Chapter 1

Sorry I had to be the bearer of bad tidings, Mark, said the Honorable Charles Sutton, as he sat back with a sigh and sipped appreciatively from the goblet of mulled wine that had been placed beside him.  He eased his back against the comfort of the armchair.

Not your fault, Charlie, replied Lord Markham Kingsley Elsworth - Mark to his friends - as he turned away and leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane.  The sharp cold of the glass was soothing and steadied the turmoil of his thoughts.  He stared out at the library garden.  It suddenly looked overgrown and rather grotesque at this late hour of the night.  Or was it early hour of the morning?  The rose bushes which were such a riot of color in the daytime were charcoal smudges and the waning new moon glinted briefly on the water-fountain beside a dark shaggy willow.  Shrubs drooped like hooded figures on the silver-grey expanse of the lawns that dipped to the steely grey of the small lake.  It was a still night, still and cold. 

Markham Elsworth turned to glance at the ornate timepiece above the fireplace.  The slightly yellowed face in its decorative walnut frame, which had always seemed to hold a smile for him as a child, was now remote and aloof.  It was indeed early morning.  Five minutes to two o’clock to be precise.  He ran a hand through his rather thick dark hair, which caught and held the bronze sheen of the firelight. 

With a short sigh he pulled closer the cord of the royal blue monogrammed night robe.  He had flung it on hastily on being summoned by Smithson, his elderly butler, and told that his friend, Charles Sutton, was awaiting him in the library.  He had expected the worst - death of a relative at least - for surely other news could wait until daylight!

Well, none of his relatives near or far (not that he had many he particularly knew or cared much about in either category) had met an untimely end.  But, in some ways, he mused, the news could mean a kind of death, for him.  He sat down and leaned back with a short sigh in the armchair he had come to regard as his favorite. 

It had been the favorite of his father and his grandfather before him.  Although it had never been re-covered within Mark’s memory, the wine-red fabric was only slightly faded over the arms and the chair was as comfortable as ever.  He stretched out a cream velvet slipper towards the fire, which had revived itself under the careful ministrations of Smithson.  The firelight flickered on his firm, muscular calf, but he was not aware of the warmth of the flames as they danced in contorted shapes of orange and yellow.

Mark picked up a goblet of the warm mixture served to them by the ever-reliable Smithson and took a sip.  This was more to warm his blood a little than to be sociable, for suddenly it felt as if a cold breeze had swept into this cozy room that had seemed so warm and secure a few hours before.

You’re absolutely sure, Charlie? Markham asked in the calm, expressionless manner that even his closest friends found hard to penetrate.  When he had first received the news, the Honorable Charles had noticed the sudden flash of shock and disbelief.  Then Markham had turned away to look out of the window.  Now he seemed to be his usual enigmatic self.

I’m sure, replied Charles.  He held his friend’s dark blue gaze for a moment.  Hardly think I’d have galloped half the night on a nag that has more staying power than speed, if I weren’t!

Of course, replied Markham with a grin that for a moment lit up his face.  Must have been quite a sight!  Then he looked intently at Charles.  I really do appreciate what you’ve done.  It’s not the safest of roads either.

Oh, as for that, I reckoned that all cut-throats and robbers would be at home in bed on a night like this.  Or, on the other hand, more startled than I, as I galloped past!  Took Betsy just for comfort, though!  The Honorable Charles Sutton chuckled for a moment as he patted the bulge at his waist, which concealed, Markham realized, the ancient pistol which Charlie had inherited from his late grandfather and which he occasionally fired for practice.  Charlie’s round, boyish face beamed like that of a schoolboy who had just played a prank.  His fair hair was in complete disarray and his light blue eyes twinkled mischievously. 

Both gentlemen wore their hair slightly shorter than was the fashion:  Charles, because of the unruly curls which were often the envy of the fairer sex, and Markham, because he had become accustomed to shorter hair in the heat of India and found it more practical in any event.  Neither was partial to the wigs worn by the more dandified set.  Both Markham and Charles regarded with secret amusement the masses of artificial hair worn by some young men of their acquaintance.  Their immediate circle of friends had almost all discarded the elaborate wigs in favor of their own hair, a growing habit that had motivated the peruke-makers to send a petition to the King himself, complaining of this tendency! 

You haven’t put your career in jeopardy, have you? asked Markham with a slight frown.

Hardly think so, replied Charlie.  Old man Wingate has no idea that I read the will.  And anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always tell Catherine the truth and perhaps take up Yorke’s offer of a partnership.  Made my mind up about that on the ride over. 

Catherine Wentworth was the only daughter of the Earl of Southey, an heiress of some substance.  She had declared herself utterly in love with the Honorable Charles Sutton, who was the somewhat penniless son of Lord Sutton of Bramswell Manor, a jovial old man who had had two wives and seven sons, Charles being the youngest. 

Catherine’s father, the Earl, did not particularly dislike young Charles, but was adamant that no fortune hunter would ever marry his daughter.  As a result, much to his friends’ amusement and some good-natured teasing as well, Charles Sutton had pursued the study of law and was at present articled to Mr. Cyril Wingate, of Wingate and Cummings, legal attorneys of some note, thus earning the admiration of Catherine and the grudging acceptance, to a degree, of the Earl.

What made you read the will, anyhow, Charlie? asked Markham, leaning forward in his chair.

"I’m not sure.  Unless it was a remark that Catherine made at lunch one day about how she wondered if you were coming up for the Season.  And then she wanted to know if it was true

that your half-brother, Lawrence, had inherited more than you.  Seems like that’s the story that was doing the rounds.  Didn’t mean to pry, Mark, but I was working late and on my own, so I just thought -"

I’m grateful to you that you did read the will, said Markham quietly.

Well, personally can’t stand gossip and anyhow, I owed you one, went on Charles.  Would’ve been a gonner for sure that night if you hadn’t fought ‘em off! 

Nonsense, my lad, said Markham with a brief smile.  I enjoyed the exercise.  He recalled for a moment the incident to which Charles was referring.  They had come out of a gaming house in a none too savory part of London, having visited it with a friend who gambled heavily and intended spending the entire night within its precincts.  Having tried unsuccessfully to persuade their friend to call it a night, they had eventually excused themselves.  It was fairly late and the streets were ill-lit.  The doorways of the dark stone buildings were shadowy and a mist had begun to roll in off the Thames.  Putting their collars up to protect themselves against the dampness, they had stepped out into the street, intent on finding a cab of sorts.  Heads down against the drizzle, they had failed to see shadows dislodge themselves and swiftly and silently come up behind them.  As rough hands grabbed their shoulders, they realized that they had been set upon by at least four brigands, who had the express intention of relieving them of their money and any other valuables.  Markham had struck one or two lucky blows, as he said later, and then had lifted up the fallen Charles and ducked into a doorway with him.

It must have been their lucky night, as the doorway belonged to Mother Bellarona, a somewhat infamous owner of a brothel.  The door opened to Markham’s touch.  His eyes  widened slightly at the sight before him.  Ladies of doubtful virtue reclined in various states of undress on couches against the wall, some of them already giving their undivided attention to the men beside them.  The atmosphere was unpleasantly warm and smelled of cheap perfume.  Markham took a deep breath and was contemplating a swift retreat, when a rather large lady dressed in bright red, with hair as yellow as a caged canary, swept forward.  It was Mother Bellarona.  She saw what she determined might well be potential customers, but noting the state of the blond gentleman who was being supported by the tall, handsome one, she simply smiled graciously and helped the young men out of a side door into the next street, whispering an invitation into the ear of the tall gentleman.  He grinned and saluted her gallantly.  He hailed a passing cab and took Charles home to attend to his injuries.

Can say what you like, said Charles after another taste of the wine, saved my life good and proper.  Only thing is, can’t see how I can really save you in return.  Damned shame it will be too, seeing as you seem to love this place, he waved one arm in the general direction of the garden outside, and have made up your mind to be one of those boring country squires.

He peered at his friend who seemed lost in thought.  The firelight danced on his rather stern profile, a profile which certain society ladies insisted must go back to the Roman generals: the classical nose, the firm, carved lips, the fine brow beneath the dark hair that curled into his neck and, of course, the depth of the deep blue eyes. Wish I had discovered the codicil sooner, said Charles regretfully. 

You weren’t to know, said Markham quietly.  Must say it was a pleasant surprise when I was told my father had left Elsworth to me, he added with a bitter laugh.  I always thought step-mother would persuade him to leave it to Lawrence.

But you were wrong, said Charles earnestly.  Reckon he loved you and wanted you to have your inheritance same as you would have if your own mother had been alive.