A True Gentleman (Regency Love Book 2)

  A True Gentleman

  Regency Love Series Book Two

  M.A. Nichols

  Copyright © 2018 by M.A. Nichols

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  www.ma-nichols.com

  Books by M.A. Nichols

  The Tréaltha Series

  The Drogue

  The Rinaldi Triplets: A Novella

  Blood of the Warden

  The First Great War: A Novella

  Lock and Key

  The Tréaltha Series Collection

  The Villainy Consultant Series

  Geoffrey P. Ward’s Guide to Villainy

  Geoffrey P. Ward’s Guide to Questing

  Regency Love Series

  Flame and Ember

  A True Gentleman

  Prologue

  London

  Spring 1805

  A gentleman’s study is more than a mere sanctuary for its master. For it to be that true beacon of masculinity the room must be formidable and austere; a place that conveys all the proper pride, pomp, and circumstance that is due to its denizen as he conducts his business and intimidates his underlings. No self-respecting gentleman would accept anything less, and Horatio Granger was no exception.

  However, young Miss Tabitha had never felt such trepidation in her father’s study. From an outsider’s perspective, Mr. Granger’s room was the epitome of what that it should be—managing its function to perfection. But for Tabby, it was a place filled with fond memories of sitting with her father by the fire as they gorged themselves on books and teacakes. Though plenty of people found Mr. Granger to be an imposing man, Tabby knew her papa to be more bluster than bile, and visiting him in his study had never caused Tabby an ounce of dread or dismay.

  Until this moment.

  Clenching her fists in her skirts, Tabby watched her father’s face. It was thin and lined, though that had more to do with the angry pull of his eyebrows than age. She had to make him see. Her happiness depended on it. Leaning on his desk, he watched her as if peering into her soul, and Tabby pushed away her nerves to radiate the confidence she felt in her choice. This was the right one. There was no other.

  Tabby’s heart rested on the edge of a knife, ready to be cleaved in two if things went awry. She knew that if the worst should happen, there would be no piecing it back together. Her heart would be irrevocably ruined, and she would be lost.

  “You wish to marry Joshua Russell?” Her papa huffed and shook his head. “That jackanape?”

  “He is a gentleman,” insisted Tabby. “A good man.”

  “No man with his reputation can be called either of those things, Tabitha,” he said with a scowl. “You cannot be serious about marrying him. He should never have been introduced to you in the first place! And he should have had the decency to speak with me before paying his addresses, rather than hiding in the shadows like a sneak.”

  “If he had come forward sooner, you would have denied him as you are now.”

  “What good father would do anything less?” He puffed his cheeks, glaring at his desk. “If I’d had any clue that he was sniffing around, I would have packed you off into the country posthaste.”

  Tabby held herself in her chair, though she felt compelled to get on her knees and beg. She’d never had such an urge before, but the thought of losing this battle left her feeling as though a vice were clamped around her heart, squeezing it until it was liable to burst.

  “He has changed, Papa. I am not ignorant of how Mr. Russell has behaved in the past, but he is different now.”

  Her father huffed again and shook his head. “Altering oneself to impress a young lady is not a sign of a true change of heart. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my girl, but such a shift in character does not last after the lady is won.”

  Her fists clenched tighter, and Tabby fought to keep her composure. She would not prostrate herself before her father, even if every part of her heart and soul was desperate to shown her conviction. “He has no desire to gamble anymore, and he has been attending church services every Sunday.”

  “To impress you.”

  “He gave up drink,” Tabby continued. “Except for a bit of port with the gentlemen after dinner, he abstains from any spirits. His former friends have all but shunned him because of his new behavior, and yet it has not weakened his resolve. Surely, that is a sign of a changed man.”

  Just thinking about Joshua’s struggle filled Tabby with irrepressible love. He was such a sociable creature, and to be so isolated from his former friends and acquaintances cut him to the core. He did not deserve such treatment nor her papa’s distrust. Joshua was human. He had been frail and weak, but Tabby knew that any person could change if they wished to be better. She knew Joshua was becoming something more than he had been a few months ago. Watching that transformation was one of the most humbling and remarkable things Tabby had witnessed in her twenty years of life.

  “Tabitha—” her father began, his tone all but telling her what was to come.

  But Tabby did not want to hear it. Surrendering all sense of decorum and self-respect, she rushed to him. Gripping his hand, Tabby knelt beside his chair. “Please, Papa. I love him so much, and it is not fair to hold his past against him. None of us are perfect, and he is changing. He truly is. And we love each other so very much.”

  Tears blurred her vision, making it impossible to see her father’s reaction.

  “Dearest Tabby,” he said while mopping at her face with a handkerchief. “I understand—I do—but you are too important to me and your mother. We cannot allow you to marry someone whom we distrust, and neither of us feel he is the good man you believe him to be.”

  “I cannot bear to live my life without him,” she said, her words broken. “I love him.”

  Her papa sighed and stood, pulling her to her feet and escorting her to their sofa by the fire. Seated beside her, he took one of her hands in his while surrendering his handkerchief as she continued to sniffle.

  “Love is not what that I worry about,” he said. “Any fool can see that Mr. Russell loves you. He made it very clear when he spent the morning begging for permission to marry you. However, love is not enough.”

  “That is not—” Tabby began, but stopped when her father raised a silencing hand.

  “Tabitha, I know that at your age you feel it is, but trust someone who has a little more life experience than you. Love is not enough because romantic love is not always constant,” he said. “When you marry someone, you bind yourself to them irrevocably. It is easy to love them through the good times, but when the struggles of life come, you need someone who will stick it out.”

  “Joshua—” But at the sharp look from her papa, Tabby began again, “Mr. Russell will do that. I do not believe I have ever seen a man work so hard for the woman he loves.”

  “I have,” replied her father. “Many times. People get wrapped in the glow of love and alter themselves dramatically in order to win the object of their affection. Then they marry only to realize that the energetic infatuation fades with the reality of daily life, and eventually, they revert to what they once were. They changed solely to make the other happy, and at some point, that will not be enough of a reason to maintain the lifestyle they did not desire in the first place.”

  Tabby crushed the handkerchief and shook her head. “That is not the case with
Mr. Russell. He is so much happier now. He does not want his old life.”

  “Sweetheart, I know you believe that with all your heart, but resentment grows quickly in the wrong circumstances, and I have never witnessed a happy ending for couples who start off with such different desires in life. You want a home and family, and he wants pleasure and idleness. What happens in a few years, when life has settled you both firmly in that quiet country life and Mr. Russell begins to miss his old one?”

  “You don’t believe people can change?” asked Tabby.

  “Of course people can change,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “But doing so for someone else is not a true reformation. Such things can only come from within, independent of what others desire of you. It is one thing for him to be inspired by your good example and alter himself because he wishes to be better, but everything he has done has been to win your good opinion. What happens if he decides it is no longer worth the sacrifice?”

  “Papa, every marriage is a gamble,” said Tabby. “There are gentlemen who feign goodness in public, and good men who become wicked, so marrying a seemingly perfect husband with a perfect past is no guarantee he will remain so and that our marriage will succeed.”

  “But you increase the risk of failure if your husband is an unabashed libertine and rake.”

  Tabby shot to her feet. “I will not listen to you condemn him. No matter what he may have been, he has changed, and it is unfeeling of you to hold it against him.”

  Her papa stood and tried to draw closer, but she stepped away. “I am your father, and it is my duty to protect you.”

  “I am not a child.”

  “Only children say that,” he replied.

  Tabby ignored it and continued. “I want your blessing—we both do—but I am nearly of age and shan’t need it. If you and mother will not give it to us, we will simply wait until the law is on our side.”

  She had hoped not to need to resort to such tactics. Over the years, she had dreamt of the moment when the man she loved would ask for permission to marry her, but Tabby had never thought that she would have to beg, plead, and cajole her papa into accepting it. This should be a happy event, and the look on her father’s face was anything but. His brow wrinkled further, and his eyes were dimmed with disappointment, not shining with joy.

  “Are you so determined to have him?” asked her father, his voice sounding weaker than Tabby had ever heard before.

  Tabby ran her father’s handkerchief through her fingers and then lifted it to wipe away a new wave of tears. This was not at all what she wanted, but she knew her Joshua was worth it. Stepping closer to her father, she took his hand in hers.

  “I cannot imagine my life without him,” she said. “I have met many gentlemen, but none of them have stirred my heart so. You and mother may not trust him, but I do. He is a good man, and I want to marry him more than I have wanted anything in my life. I know that we shall be happy, Papa, and one way or another, I shall marry him.”

  Her father turned away and stared into the fire, leaving Tabby blind to what he was thinking. She wanted to push him, but she knew she must wait. If there was any chance of this ending happily, she had to be patient. Tabby’s breath caught as she watched him, her heart ceasing to beat as he deliberated.

  When he met her eyes again, Tabby saw the resignation. It was not the emotion she had hoped for, but the nod of his head had her springing into his arms. With kisses on his cheeks and a flurry of excited words promising him heaven and earth, Tabby’s excitement enveloped him as she assured him of all the blissful years that were yet to come.

  Turning away, she ran for the study door, bursting through it as her father slumped onto the sofa. In the moment, she did not notice the tears in his eyes and the way his head hung low, but in the years to follow, her memory would dredge it up on many an occasion. At present, the only thoughts in her head were of Joshua standing just outside the door, his eyes red and face twisted in uncertain agony. In two steps, she threw herself into his arms.

  “We must marry the moment we can get a license,” she said, hugging him tight.

  “He gave his permission?” Joshua’s voice trembled.

  Pulling away, Tabby nodded through a wave of new tears and saw matching ones in Joshua’s eyes. With a triumphant shout, he spun her around, crushing her in his arms. When they stopped, Joshua’s hands framed her face in his strong fingers.

  “I love you, my darling,” he said, saying the endearment as if it were as sacred as a prayer.

  “I love you, too,” replied Tabby before he pressed his lips to hers.

  ***

  Thornwood, Devon

  Eleven years later

  Tabby Russell stood at the library window, capturing the image of her gardens firmly in her mind. She had stood thusly many times during her eleven years as mistress of Kelland Hall. In summer, the blossoms filled the beds in a rainbow of colors. In winter, the landscape grew barren, but the grass and moss became all the more vibrant under the winter rainfalls. And then there were the days when the snow coated the hedges and ground like a down blanket, all cozy and inviting. But for a few weeks in spring and fall, the seasonal transition seized the world in a gloomy mess of mud and decay. Tabby wished her last memories of her home were more colorful or comforting, but it was a fitting end.

  Crates were scattered across the library, the bits and pieces of her life stuffed inside, hastily packed to make way for a new family that would fill these rooms. Walking over to the last of the boxes, Tabby wrapped a rag around a vase before nestling it among the straw. Gathering extra bits of padding, she made double and triple sure that it was safe from harm. Having no intrinsic value, her mother’s favorite vase had escaped the ravages of the creditors, and Tabby could not bear to see the heirloom damaged.

  Retrench.

  Tabby had grown up hearing stories of great families brought low, and that word was spoken in hushed voices with raised eyebrows as neighbors tittered about their downfall. Tabby herself had participated in such conversations. Not in a mean-spirited manner, but with the morbid fascination of those who cannot image such hardships befalling them. Yet, here it was at her doorstep. Retrenching.

  It was a temporary step. Nothing more. By downgrading their expenses and adding the income of a renter, they would make due. It would take time, economy, and sacrifice, but Tabby knew they would gain a more secure financial footing. They would manage.

  Kneeling beside the crate, Tabby reached for the next leftover bit of her life when she heard tiny footsteps echoing in the vacant hallway. Tabby looked behind her to see her little man run past the doorway. Phillip peeked out at her, and Tabby glanced at a stack of her father’s books that they’d been unable to sell. Pretending to examine them, she kept her eyes fixed on the crates as Phillip crept across the room. She turned the books over, studying them with the intensity of a scholar while the floorboards thumped and stifled giggles drew closer.

  And then Phillip pounced. Throwing his arms around her neck, he leapt onto her with a squeal.

  “Mama!” he shouted, squeezing her neck.

  Swinging him around, Tabby nibbled at her favorite spot on his cheek and tickled his sides. Phillip wiggled and laughed, his joy raising her spirits. Holding him tight, Tabby gazed at the boy who looked so like his father. They shared the same curly chestnut locks and crystalline eyes that were the color of a clear summer sky; when he was grown, Phillip would be just as handsome as Joshua had been.

  Phillip wriggled in earnest, so Tabby gave him one last kiss and released him; the three-year-old promptly began digging through the crates.

  “What are you doing, Mama?” he asked, scattering a bit of straw.

  Tabby scooped the mess with one hand and secured Phillip’s wrists with the other. “I am packing our things.”

  “Why?” he asked while tugging at her grip.

  Tabby handed him one of the books she did not care about, but Phillip pushed it aside and reached for the straw. “We’ve talked abou
t this, dearest.”

  Phillip looked at her, his brow scrunched, but Tabby did not have the time and patience to go over this conversation again. This change in their circumstances was difficult enough, and Tabby did not have it in her to withstand another tantrum.

  “Where’s Papa?” she asked, diverting Phillip’s attention.

  “In his study,” he said. “He’s sick.”

  Tabby sighed. She had thought Joshua would be able to watch their child so she could get the work done, but apparently, that was beyond his capability.

  “Should we go find him?” asked Tabby, standing and holding out her hand to Phillip, giving his a squeeze as they left the library.

  Rather than walking, Phillip hopped along, making a ribbit sound. When his little tongue darted out to catch an invisible fly, Tabby found herself smiling—until Phillip decided there was a fly on her hand, and she got a quick, wet lick.

  “Phillip!”

  But the frog in question pulled out of reach. With a grin, Tabby lunged for him, and the frog abandoned his hopping and ran. The two of them tore through the hall, around the corner, and up the stairs. She kept Phillip a few steps ahead, close enough to keep him worried, but far enough behind to make it look as though he were winning.

  At Joshua’s study door, Phillip paused, turning around to give Tabby another quick flick of his tongue, but she dodged out of the way and grabbed him. Tickling him until he shook, Tabby pretended to growl at his impertinence.

  “Tongues belong in mouths,” she said, probing Phillip’s most tickly of spots under his ribs. He howled with laughter, and when he had done enough begging Tabby put him down again with a final tickle and knocked on the door.

  She heard something that sounded vaguely like “come in”, but it was just as likely to have been “go away”, though Tabby did not care which it had been. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside and saw her husband lying face down on the desk, a near empty bottle of cognac beside his head.