A Perfect Gentleman

By Rose Redmond

When Margery Montgomery took on a position as companion to the formidable Agnes, grandmother of the newly-titled Earl of Friston, she never expected to find love.

 

Yet that's precisely what she finds in Peter, the Earl himself - until a stranger's accusation threatens to shatter everything growing between them. Devastated by the allegation and its consequences, Margery flees home to Friston, regretting ever having opened her heart.

 

But Peter won't let her go so easily - especially when the truth behind the accusations comes to light...

 

 

A Perfect Gentleman is a sweet and clean Regency romance, featuring an excellent Earl, a gentlewoman with an unfairly tarnished reputation, and a spitfire of a grandmother determined to see the two together! If you enjoy reading romantic Regency tales with strong, determined heroines who know what they value, kind, handsome heroes with a golden heart, and a guaranteed happy ending, A Perfect Gentleman is the perfect book for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Redmond
• Release date: May 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223430926

Book preview

Chapter 1

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When Margery Montgomery left her home at dawn, the rest of her family still abed, she could tell that it was to be a beautiful spring day. The warmth of the sun had already begun to soak into the earth, and she was glad to have left so early, for if she had waited much longer she knew that the walk to Friston would have been most unpleasant.

As it was, it was pleasantly warm, the weight of her flower basket not too great. She had cut some truly beautiful blooms this morning, and she looked forward to seeing the reactions of the town's children whom she taught. They always loved the flowers she grew, and begged her to teach them of their names and their qualities, even when they ought to be learning arithmetic or the like.

It was a simple existence, one where the passing of days was marked only by the weather, the seasons, and of course Sunday worship. But it was tolerable enough, if not what Margery had once longed for, when she was younger and looked wide-eyed to the London ton. No more, though - that was in the past. Margery had long since ceased to desire such things, having seen the truth of them to her cost.

By the time she reached Friston, the sun was high in the sky, making its measured way towards its peak. Mid-morning, or so Margery put it at - plenty of time, still, to give her flowers to the florist, and keep a few back for the children. She took no profit from them but that of sensibility, but that was enough for Margery. That, and the knowledge that others might also delight in them.

The florist was an older woman, perhaps in her forties or fifties to Margery's twenty-three. She greeted her cheerfully as she always did, addressing her as 'Lady Montgomery'. Margery hid her wince behind a pleasant smile, and they spoke for a while of the weather and of how hot the spring had already grown, though it was still only early in March. At last, the church bells tolled the hour - ten o'clock, more than past time for Margery to be at the schoolhouse. She bid her farewells to the florist and hurried away.

The schoolhouse was a rather new innovation, one that had apparently been the thought of the late Earl's mother in law, who had come to live with him when his wife, her daughter, had taken ill some ten years ago now. Though she was English, the Earl's mother in law had travelled widely, so it was said, and had suggested the schoolhouse for Friston's children, claiming that it would be the better for all of the Earl's folk. Even after the Earl's wife had died some five years ago, the schoolhouse - and the Earl's wife's mother - had remained.

Fortunate for Margery, truly - she was an educated lady, and that was enough for the schoolmistress to overlook the rumours of Margery's history that had reached even Friston. So despite the shame brought upon her family by her past, Margery was still able to provide some financial support - support that would be ever more needed, as her sister Alethea was of an age now for her own debut, and Margery knew well the cost of such things.

The children were as delighted to see her as always, and it took Margery only a few moments to settle them. She had always had a talent with children, and it had served her in good stead as a teacher.

Miss Margery! Ernald, one of the younger boys, exclaimed. Miss Margery, have you heard? The Earl is back!

Margery's eyes widened.

The Earl had passed away, some three months ago now - Margery had mourned as was appropriate for her station, and thought little more of it. But that meant that the only Earl to whom Ernald might be referring was his son - his estranged son, whom nobody had seen hide nor hair of since his mother's death.

I had not heard, Ernald, she replied, curious despite herself. He has returned to assume his title, then?

Ernald's face scrunched up, and he shrugged.

That is what my mother says, said Hester - she was the blacksmith's daughter, Ernald's elder sister. And that we shall have to wait and see what he does with it. Miss Margery, what does it mean, that he will assume the title?

And so Margery did her best to explain the ins and outs of the gentry and of titles to the fascinated children, trying to ignore her own curiosity. Soon enough, the children lost interest, and she was able to steer them to her intended subjects for the morning, which took up some hours until the bells tolled for half past two. At that, she let them go, and departed herself.

As Margery set her feet on the road towards home, empty flower basket hung on her arm, she couldn't help but wonder. What had brought the young Earl back? Margery was not one to gossip, not when she knew all too well the harm it might do, but it had been impossible to avoid the rumours, particularly when she had been part of the ton at the time. It was whispered that the late Lady Friston had died not of any mundane illness, but of a broken heart, or something like - the result of her husband's scoundrelry, his unsavoury habits. The truth of those habits was not bandied about around genteel women, of course, but rumour enough had reached her ears that Margery knew he had been in the habit of adultery, and frequently with those women who might not have families able to protect them from his attentions.

The young Earl, though, his son... Margery had never heard a whisper of any untoward behaviour from him. But then, he had been out of the country for five years now, taking off almost before his mother was buried, as though he could not bear to be in the same house as his villainous father. Could he truly be so different from him, though? After all, like father, like son, or so it was said.

Margery shook the thoughts away and focused instead on the road before her. It would be of no use to her to contemplate such a man; all it did was remind her of her own troubles at the hands of a man who, true, had not been quite as cruel as the late Earl. But cruel enough, still, that her reputation was ruined though she had done less than nothing to deserve such, all because of a rake's decision to toy with her heart. She still wondered, sometimes, where that man was. Matthew of York, the son of a Marquess, a scoundrel and villain through and through - and she knew that he likely never wondered as much about her, hadn't done even when he held her heart.

Margery sighed, and walked a little faster.

Good day to you! She was jerked away from her thoughts by a man's call, and looked up to see who it was.

He was tall, or so it seemed - she couldn't be properly sure, for he sat astride a dappled-grey horse. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a mouth that looked used to laughing. At a guess, Margery would have put him at around her years, perhaps a little older.

Good day, she answered politely, though it was perhaps not entirely proper for him to have hailed her as such, and the man smiled at her, a sweet, boyish grin.

And a beautiful one it is too, he said. But I shan't keep you - I'm sure a lady like yourself has better places to be on such a fine day. Only might I ask - this is the right way to Friston, is it not?

It is, Margery answered, and the man nodded as if he had already known, and only wanted to be certain of it.

My thanks, he said, and with a brief farewell, he was off, dappled horse trotting swiftly down the road from whence Margery had come.

She stared after him for a moment, and was embarrassed to realise her cheeks were a little heated. Only the warmth of the day, surely - they had barely exchanged a handful of words, no matter how comely his smile had been! And Margery had long since sworn off any sort of romantic considerations - not that there was any chance of that. Likely she would never see the man again, and so much the better for it.

Settling that thought firmly in her mind, Margery turned her feet towards home.

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Peter Coppinger, newly-named Earl of Friston, slowed his horse as he approached the town, glad to see that the lady had told him true. Not that he'd thought she wouldn't, but she had seemed uncertain of his question. Then again, a woman walking alone, accosted by a man, might well seem unsure; that was why he had taken his leave swiftly.

The town had nothing like a proper stables, for it was hardly a hub of travel. Still, it had tying-posts, located in a shady spot with plenty of grass and a trough of water. Peter slipped down off his mare's back and led her to them, slapping her flank lightly.

Good girl, he murmured, pulling a few bits of apple from his pocket and offering them to her. She whickered and accepted them gracefully; Winter had always been a sweet mare.

Once she was securely tied, Peter looked around. It had been some years since he had visited Friston; even before he had left England, he had never spent a great deal of time here, preferring instead to remain in London or at friends' estates the year round, the better to avoid his father and the arguments they had. He had only ever returned to the estate when his mother wished it.

The town was much as he remembered it, though. He found few changes as he strode through its streets - the schoolhouse was new, but his grandmother had already mentioned it before he left the estate, so it was not wholly unfamiliar. Everything else seemed to have remained the same - save for the people. Peter saw only a handful of faces he recognised, and all of those older, now. None recognised him; they were distracted, going about their business. And, of course, they would have no reason to expect their Earl - Peter had hardly sent notice of his visit.

He had not come with any purpose in mind other than seeing the town, refamiliarising himself with it. But he found himself wandering towards where the florist had always made her home and her shopfront alike - she had always had a cheerful word for him, even when he was only a boy trailing after his father or mother. And his grandmother had been saying only this morning how she wished for more colour in the estate - perhaps some flowers might begin to answer that. It would be the least he could do, to begin to repay what he owed her.

Young Lord Peter! the florist exclaimed in clear delight the moment she saw him. Ah, but no, it ought to be Lord Friston now, ought it not? Why, we'd heard the news, but I hadn't expected a visit from you so soon!

They made small talk - or rather, the florist chattered away, reminiscing about the times she had seen him as a youth. Peter kept a smile firmly fixed on his face, even when she spoke of things he would rather not recall.

And I suppose now you're to be the Earl of Friston, the florist said eventually, eyeing him with sudden wariness. He could hardly blame her, given that the last Earl had been... well.

I am, he said. And a better one than my father was, God be willing. I shall do my best to do right by you, at least. He punctuated that with a firm nod, both to the florist and to her husband, who had come out of the house at some point during her talk and now stood close by.

The florist chuckled. Ah, you always were a sweet boy. Well, I suppose I'll hope to see things much improved soon enough then! Not that we want for much, though, truly - your grandmother has made plenty sure of that so much as she could, of course. How is she, now?

Well enough, Peter said. I had thought to bring her a gift, actually - some flowers, perhaps?

I have just the thing, the florist said, and held up a finger. Now you wait yourself there just a moment, my lord, I won't be half a tick. She disappeared down the side path of the house. Peter glanced at her husband, who shrugged.

Lass from over the hill's been bringing flowers, he said, and seemed content to leave it at that.

A lady from over the hill? Peter's mind drifted to the woman he had met on the road. Hadn't she been holding a basket, one of the type that might be used to carry cut flowers? Peter wasn't entirely sure - in all honesty, he'd been busy trying not to stare. Both for the sake of politeness, and because the lady, with her crimson hair, freckled skin, and blue eyes had truly been uncommonly beautiful. Though Peter didn't tend to let himself think of women in such a way - that road led to nothing but danger.

Peter would not become his father. Not even if he had to live out the rest of his years unwed.

A moment later, the florist came bustling out again, cradling a bundle of cut flowers with delicate blue blossoms.

Beautiful, these ones, she said cheerfully. From a young lady with a real knack for growing them, my lord. Proper English bluebells, just the right thing for a spring day like this, if you'll have them?

Peter accepted, and though the florist tried to refuse his payment, he insisted. He was more than wealthy enough to afford a simple bouquet of bluebells, and though he appreciated the thought, he wouldn't take advantage of his position in such a way. He lingered a while longer, exchanging words with the florist - mostly gossip, he had to admit, at least on her part, with the occasional interjection from her husband. It seemed that the woman knew everything about everyone within the town, and was more than happy to share it all with him.

And then there's the Montgomery family. The florist clicked her tongue. "Now, it's not the place of one like myself to say too much about that, of course. But twas a terrible shame what happened with that girl, terrible.