One Grand Season Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  One Grand Season

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “I can only imagine that being married to the wrong woman—say a woman with whom one is not entirely compatible but who does, on the face of things, seem suitable for the position—must be like being led to slaughter. I cannot fathom how hopeless one must feel waking morning after morning beside someone who might be nice but does not stir the heart. It must be…”

  Heaving a deep sigh, Will finished, “Like dying. Yes, now that you put it that way I quite agree.”

  Relief washed over Oliver, brightening his mood. Since last year’s chaos he was not fully certain all his views were socially acceptable. There had been too many wild, crazed moments for him to believe he always saw a situation in its proper light.

  Will was his voice of reason, and hearing the other’s validation sent doubts scurrying.

  It was not that Oliver was opposed to marriage. He was not—especially after witnessing his parents’ devoted union. But when he married a woman he wanted to be certain he was doing so for the right reason, and not because someone decided it was in his—or her—best interest.

  Then he recalled Miss Fox. She wasn’t his type, but she had certainly made a lasting impression.

  One Grand Season

  by

  Sarita Leone

  A Willowbrook Manor Romance,

  Book Two

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  One Grand Season

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Sarita Leone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-803-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-804-4

  A Willowbrook Manor Romance, Book Two

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Love never dies.

  Chapter 1

  London, June 1815

  Vivian Fox detested being the family’s poorest relation.

  Fortunately, her mother’s second cousin was a woman of heart as well as means, and had generously invited her to spend the summer at Willowbrook Manor. The forty-acre estate lay within London proper, but was far enough removed from the center of Town that the Gregory family and their guests could feel themselves out in the country if they so desired. Had Lady Gregory not been so kind, Vivian would have undoubtedly had another dull Season without any prospect of fun, fancy or—most importantly—spending time with any eligible men.

  She had never been to to the country before—she had never been anywhere, really. Her life to this point had centered around the small flat in Stropshire where she and her younger brother lived with their mother. When not busy cleaning the flat or caring for young Liam, she brought extra funds to their meager situation by doing hand sewing for a local seamstress who catered to a wealthy London clientele. Vivian had worked on enough dazzling gowns, elegant morning dresses and pricey afternoon ensembles to identify this year’s designs from last. Alas, she herself had never worn, let alone owned, anything as fancy as the items she labored over.

  But that was neither here nor there, as far as Vivian was concerned. Life had been filled with harsh realities, and she was fully aware of the difference between the “haves” and the “have-nots.” She was under no illusion as to which set the Stropshire Foxes belonged. Accordingly, her realistic nature did not allow for wanting what she could not have.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop outside the front entrance of the manor, she was so tired, dusty and travel-worn that her fondest hope for the imminent future included plenty of hot water, soap and the chance to rest.

  If she was especially lucky, food might be included, although it was optional. Years of not having enough to eat, or of giving the biggest portion of any morsel to Liam, had left her almost indifferent to food. Again, it was a case of learning not to desire what could not be had. So if sustenance was provided she would gladly eat. If it was not, she would be just as happy with a bowlful of water with which to bathe.

  The driver appeared by the side of the carriage. He opened the door, unfolded the metal steps and stood back. He did not offer a hand to help her down, but she did not expect he would. No man had done so on any of the few occasions when she had ridden instead of walked so she clutched the carriage’s inside hand strap, forced her cramped leg muscles to support her weight and proceeded to step from the musty confines of the vehicle.

  The manor’s wide mahogany front door had not yet opened so she stretched, then put a hand behind her and attempted to massage the kink out of her lower back. Cobblestones and ruts did not provide a comfortable journey, especially when trundled over on ancient wooden wheels. It was a miracle the decrepit vehicle had not broken down along the way. But her passage had been within her budget so when faced with the prospect of riding in a newer, pricier coach or this one, she had naturally chosen economy over comfort.

  Vivian took a deep breath, thankful to finally not inhale stale air or the dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves. She looked toward the front of the building. Not even her wildest imaginings prepared her for what she saw.

  The manor was built of smooth gray stone, much of it moss-covered or draped with runners of deep green ivy. Two turrets jutted toward the sky, making the structure seem more castle-like than manor-ish. It was enormous but not ostentatious. It looked like it had grown naturally from the earth beneath it, retaining the rustic feel of a country home while giving the appearance of welcome.

  She loved it immediately. The front flower beds were a riot of color, the grassy area just beyond the stone drive looked verdant enough to make her want to kick off her side-button shoes and run barefoot . At the far northern edge of the building, a fountain burbled.

  It is like a fairytale.

  The front door opened wide, a gray-haired butler in full uniform holding the door latch in a hand encased in a snowy white glove. His appearance reminded Vivian of her own griminess. Had there been a way to hide until she had a chance to freshen up she would have done so. Unfortunately, that was still one more option not open to her so she squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine and took a step forward. She only got two paces closer to the door before she stumbled, the pins-and-needles sensation in her toes hindering her movement. Limbs trembled, and for a panic-filled instant she was certain she was going to fall face-first onto the stones at her feet.

  The driver had left the side of the carriage, so he no longer stood directly behind her. His job was nearly finished. He had delivered her and as soon as he got her small trunk down from the luggage rack he was free to leave, having earned every shilling of his fare. Oc
cupied as he was, had he been inclined to reach out to steady her (which she sincerely doubted, his having shown no interest whatsoever in her well-being at any point in the journey) she was completely beyond the length of his arms.

  “Miss!”

  The butler saw her plight but he was too far to be of any service. He would never reach her before she fell, and although he scrambled forward Vivian knew she could not depend on him for help. It seemed her fate in life that she take care of herself, without relying on anyone else’s assistance.

  In one very unladylike whoosh! all air left her lungs as she bent forward from the waist.

  I am going down, she thought with sudden clarity. There is no help for it, I am fall—

  Just when there seemed no way out of her chin meeting the ground, she was lifted to her feet by an unseen force. A solid, warm wall of navy blue surrounded her and held her upright as her blood thundered in her head. Struggling to catch her breath, she gasped, deeply inhaling a spicy scent. It sent her senses reeling and her knees began to buckle.

  Realization hit her hard. A man! Now that her wits were returning, she noticed the blue cocoon which held her so securely had muscles. There was movement beneath the fabric pressed against her nose. Then there was space before her and she found herself gazing up into the face of a very good-looking man. His mouth formed a perfect “o” and his coffee-colored eyes were circles of alarm.

  “I say, are you all right? Do you need to be carried?” The gentleman’s words smacked of culture and education. His way of life no doubt included rescuing damsels in distress on a habitual basis, but she was not any damsel and had no intention of acting as if she needed rescuing. Immediately she began to pull herself from his grasp, but his grip was firm and he did not let go. She could have fought more strenuously but she already felt silly enough.

  I have made a cake of myself, and I am not even past the front door!

  The butler stood beside the young man who stubbornly kept his hands on her shoulders. The older man’s face was white with concern, and she regretted having frightened him.

  Waving a hand in front of her face, she attempted to diminish the situation.

  “I am fine, really.” The sooner she extricated herself from the notice of these men—both figuratively and literally—the better. “I am just—” Her gaze darted past the butler to yet another man who ran down the steps to join the cluster. The deep blue eyes, as dark and mysterious as she imagined the ocean must be, stared into her face. When their gazes met, and held, all rational thought flew from her mind, merely wisps of intelligence torn to flimsy threads by a passing breeze. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, and she would have stood and stared—endlessly, perhaps—had the man who held her not given her a gentle shake.

  He caught her attention, and she turned back to him.

  “Are you certain you are really fine?” His question was insistent, no longer reactionary but genuinely concerned.

  Wearily, Vivian nodded. The bonnet ribbons tied beneath her chin had long since given up any appearance of being starched, and dragged like two sodden kite tails against her neck. She knew she must look awful. Coupled with her graceless behavior, she would not be surprised if these people ordered the coachman to put her trunk back in its place on the rack and insisted she depart this very minute. Had she been in their place she might have done just that, so she bore them no ill will if that was their plan.

  They still stared, so she answered, “I am fine. Really and truly fine. I am just…” The effort of speaking was too much. Assembling coherent thoughts, and then getting them from her mind to their ears, was too great a task so she closed her mouth with a snap and heaved a sigh.

  “You are tired.” The man beside the butler swept a glance down to her feet, then back up to her face. “Do you think you have your legs back yet? Can you walk?”

  She nodded, grateful for his insight. “I am fine now.”

  Remembering her manners, Vivian gasped and tried to dip into a curtsey. It was painful, but her toes, calves and thighs were no longer numb. Her mother had gone over the first meeting so many times, and had made her promise she would not disgrace her by failing to bob during her introduction, that there was no alternative other than to bend her knees and incline her head.

  The man who held her would not allow her to lower herself more than a scant half-inch before he realized her intent and pulled her upward. “I am glad you are restored.” Then, as if he had not just cut short her first curtsey at the Manor, he smiled and said, “You must be Miss Fox. My mother has been anxiously waiting your arrival. You see, since my sister Lucie got married there is no female in residence for her to chatter with. She is overjoyed you consented to visit with us. We all are.”

  As he spoke, he released her. By the time he finished, she stood on her own.

  “That is kind of you to say.” He made it sound as if she had done them a favor by visiting, when it was so clearly the other way around. The magnanimous statement left her at a loss, but that did not matter.

  Now that she was not falling at his feet, the gentleman seemed much more at ease, smiling and placing his now-free hand over the center of his starched white shirt.

  “I apologize. I have not introduced myself, have I? I am Oliver Gregory. Welcome to Willowbrook Manor. Hastings, will you see to Miss Fox’s trunk, please?”

  The butler gave a small bow. “Certainly, sir.” Turning to the driver, he motioned toward the door and the two men proceeded to the front entrance. The servant reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a coin and handed it to the other man after her trunk had been deposited just inside the door.

  “Miss Fox, may I escort you inside?” Oliver Gregory held out an arm so she tucked hers beneath his. He felt solid and strong, and she leaned on him as they slowly walked to the gaping front door.

  The spectacle she created upon her arrival was nothing like what she had envisioned in her mind—what she had hoped for, actually—but for better or worse, at least she had arrived. There had to be something said for finding the end of one’s journey, even if the finding was only temporary.

  Vivian decided as she stepped from her old world into the new that she was going to enjoy every exciting moment of this summer. After all, it would most likely be the only opportunity she would ever have to experience one grand Season.

  ****

  Oliver Hazelton Gregory was used to getting his own way.

  His life had been one of ease which was fitting since he was the only son of a well-off duke. Never had he known hardship or want, at least not with regard to the fundamental issues in life—food, clothing, shelter. Even all entertainment and educational opportunities afforded him were of a high standard, and he had availed himself of each prospect his family’s fortune provided. Yes, the next duke of Danbury had eagerly walked through every single door opened to him by his very presence in the Gregory family.

  The future duke did not have a completely skeleton-free closet, however. Oliver had fought demons, struggled against a dependence on medicinal products and battled his conscience for having been weak enough to succumb to that which could only do him serious harm—if not be the cause of his premature death. It had been a horrifying descent into near-madness and an agonizing crawl back to sanity, but he had overcome the terrors his addiction wrought.

  One year had come and gone, and Oliver was still healthy. The family doctor assured him he was cured, but he could not fully believe that. It was a luxury, a fable invented to soothe, he was sure. And as much as Oliver wished—nee, craved—to be relieved of the mental burden he carried, he could not blithely believe everything the good doctor said.

  He had fallen once. What was to stop him from doing so a second time? Fear that he might give in to temptation could be tamed by day but his sleeping hours were filled with nightmares that left him drenched in sweat and clutching the bedclothes as if all the demons of the underworld stood at the foot of his bed.

  Being born into a world of privilege
did not guarantee an unblemished existence.

  In an effort to keep his days so filled with acceptable endeavors, he had, since his recovery, thrown himself full-tilt into pastimes which were favorably looked upon by those in his social circle. Horseback riding, hunting, polishing his whist skills until he was sought out at parties, dancing, attending musicales, reading and going to the theatre all gave him ample opportunity to prove to himself that he would someday be able to take his place in the long and distinguished line of Gregory men without shame.

  His latest undertaking was the planning of a fox hunt. While he found no joy in riding about after small, long-tailed brown animals, he knew others in his set did. Since the family property was vast by comparison to other London-area residences, it seemed logical to host a sporting event on the premises. His peers had begged him all winter long to pull together a fox hunting party and even though he believed deep in his heart that the sight of full-grown men astride massive horses chasing down prey no larger than an ordinary housecat was nothing short of ridiculous, he could not continue to turn them down. Finally, about mid-March, he had consented to the affair. Now all he had to do was plan, and then execute, the gathering.

  It was fortunate, not only for Oliver but for his guests as well, that he had in his employ a man who seemed capable of doing absolutely anything asked of him. William Fulbright had once been his valet, an arrangement that worked magnificently for both of them. However, after the madness surrounding his addiction had been put to rest, Oliver knew that the man who kept his secrets, held him through the agony of withdrawal and then nursed him back to health deserved more than a position as valet. After all, anyone could hold his undershorts open and choose his cravats but there were blessed few who could have done what William had.

  Now the position of valet was held by a capable young man named Charlie. He was the young son of one of the downstairs housemen, and had proved himself as competent at coordinating his lordship’s outfits as his father did at arranging the dining room furniture for dinner parties. All in all, the situation suited everyone involved.