Only For Their Love: The Theodosia Sword, #3

Chapter 1

Kent, England

Winter 1812

Miss Carol Cresswall would never marry Lord Gregory Renshaw.

Ever.

Not possibly.

Not, if she was unwed still, ten years from now.

And not even if the king decreed it.

Even if her mother, the Viscountess Fennimore, alternated between pleading with her to encourage the gentleman’s suit and cursing Carol for her bluestocking obstinacy.

He would make you a splendid match. Her mother’s imploring tone cut into the quiet of the carriage, calling Carol’s attention away from the passing snow-covered countryside.

As no prelude had been made with mention of the gentleman in question, Carol would stake the funds coming to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday, on his identity. She forced her features into a perplexed mask. He?

From the opposite side of the carriage, her brother, Herbie, glanced up from his copy of Robert Huish’s The Mysteries of Ferney Castle. I believe Mother is speaking about Lord Gregory, he supplied, in a bid to be ever-helpful.

You’ve always been a smart boy, Herbie, the viscountess said, her displeasure briefly receding as she beamed at her son.

Carol made her eyes go wide. Ah, she replied, stretching out that syllable. Of course. Then, Herbie had long been the dutiful one and she had been the one responsible for all the silver in their mother’s once blonde hair. "That he." As in one of the Duke of Devlin’s younger brothers. For somewhere along the way, her flighty mama had determined that Carol would suit the gentleman. And never were her efforts to throw them together more pointed and forceful than they were at the holiday season when their families retreated for the Christmastide festivities.

It made Carol wish away the whole yuletide season, which was rather unfortunate. As a small girl, it had been one of her favorite times of year. Sledding in the snow, skating on the frozen lakes. Pelting her brother with snowballs as they’d battled.

Mother stitched her equally silver eyebrows into a line and studied Carol with the same intensity of a constable questioning a thief in the streets. You are unwed, her mother said as though she spoke to a child of four. "And you are four and twenty," she went on and then dropped her head into her hands.

So her mama did remember Carol’s age. Then, she wasn’t likely to forget that precise detail, given the horrors that came in having a spinster for a daughter, as she so often lamented. Carol almost took pity. Almost. Nearly five and twenty, she pointed out. Woman old enough to know her mind and that mind included no interest in a husband who’d once remarked within her hearing about rather being saddled with a belle than a bluestocking who spoke entirely too loud, and oftentimes too much.

Well, you needn’t worry anymore.

Carol stilled. Oh, bloody hell on Sunday. She eyed her mother with an increased wariness.

"I have it on the authority of the dowager duchess that Lord Gregory has, at last, been brought around."

This again. For the previous four Seasons, her mother had attempted to secure a familial connection to the esteemed Renshaw family with Carol as the proverbial bait. Brought around? she asked, lowering her brow.

Herbie swallowed audibly. The book tumbled from his shaking fingers and he swiftly retrieved it. Lifting the upside down volume, he brought it close to his nose.

Mother clasped her hands at her throat and grinned like the village lackwit. "He is amenable to the possibility of marrying."

Carol curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Amenable to marrying. Marrying me? Or marrying anyone? By the dull flush that stained her mother’s cheeks, it was invariably the latter.

The latter, her mother mumbled under her breath and then she rubbed her temples. Or is it the former, I’m always confounded by the—

Mother, she said tightly.

The viscountess gave her head a shake. Yes, yes, right. As I was saying…Lord Gregory will marry. She clasped her hands close to her chest and beamed.

When is the joyous occasion? she asked dryly. The last thing she cared about was who Lord Gregory married—as long as that someone was not her.

Her mother lowered her hands to her lap. When? A little giggle escaped her lips. You silly girl. She leaned over and swatted Carol on the knee. He’s not made his selection, rather, he’s been amenable to making a match with… The immediate cessation to that reveal and the viscountess’ sudden interest in the passing scenery set off warning bells.

Mother? she asked slowly. With obvious reluctance, her evasive mama looked back.

I do not understand why the dowager duchess would have the Quigleys for the holidays while she invited our family, her mother mumbled.

Because, the dowager duchess had not. Carol’s sole friend in the world, Lady Theodosia Renshaw, the Duchess of Devlin, had. Her poor mother was too proud and optimistic to see that the sole reason they’d been invited for the holiday season was because the new Duchess of Devlin had wished for their attendance.

Mother? she repeated warningly.

You’d make a far grander match for Lord Gregory than Lady Minerva Quigley, her loyal mama muttered. Isn’t that right, Herbie?

Er… Herbie shifted his gaze between mother and daughter. That is… He yanked at his cravat.

Carol took pity on him. I value truthfulness over empty flattery, Herbie, she said with a reassuring smile.

He straightened in his seat. Thank—oomph, his words trailed off on a noisy grunt as their mother kicked him in the shins.

I’ll not have you stating, suggesting, or hinting that Lady Minerva is lovelier than our Carol, she scolded, her eyes glittering with maternal fire.

Suggesting is really the same as hint… At their angry mama’s ferocious glare, Herbie wisely returned his attention to his book.

Though Carol appreciated her mother’s devotion, she was very well aware of who she was. When she had made her Come Out, she’d been praised in the papers for having an uninspiring English beauty. Though Mother had carried that page around proudly for much of the Season, Carol had read between the more than clear lines. She was ordinary. Whereas, Lady Minerva? Well, she was not only a duke’s daughter with a hefty dowry, she also possessed an otherworldly beauty.

Like Carol, with her crooked teeth and brown eyes, never would be.

Lady Minerva was expected to wed the Duke of Devlin. In the end, the young duke had wed Carol’s closest friend leaving Lady Minerva unmarried. Now it would seem the dowager duchess’ matchmaking plans had shifted to include a pairing of Lord Gregory and the flawlessly elegant Minerva.

That hardly matters. You would also make him an excellent match. The viscountess jabbed a forceful finger into the air. A better match.

No doubt, the dowager duchess quite disagreed.

Regardless, the other lady was welcome to him.

She’d never bind herself to an honorable gentleman who’d marry a woman he didn’t love, just to join two noble families. Just like her own parents’ union. Carol balled her hands into tight fists. Those empty unions that invariably found a discontent lord taking his pleasures with other women, as her own father had.

Mother clapped her hands once. Do attend me, Carol.

Should you not be more intent on Herbie making a match and securing the future line?

Herbie gulped audibly.

She stole a glance over at her brother and mouthed a silent sorry.

The viscountess opened and closed her mouth like a fish plucked from the Thames. Then she lamented, I am more concerned with you and your advancing years.

An audible sigh left Herbie.

Advancing years?

Lord Gregory would not be so snobbish as to simply choose a duke’s daughter over you because she’s lovelier.

And because the dowager duchess wishes it, Herbie reminded, flipping a page in his book.

Precisely, their mother said, accentuating that unintended double insult with an enthusiastic nod.

Those two ducal families shared a history that went back to William the Conqueror. Did her mother truly believe Her Grace would sever that close bond for a friendship that only went back ten years or so? I’m incredibly, horrified, honored Lord Gregory might even consider me for a match, however—

All you need do, the viscountess carried on over Carol’s droll reply, is demonstrate how dutiful and obedient you might be.

Alas, her mother still clung to the hope that she would be and could be like every other lady. Like a dog?

Herbie emitted a low groan as the book trembled in his hands.

Their mother folded her arms. Do you find this to be a matter of amusement, Carol Sandria?

Oh dear, she’d gone and included Carol’s middle name. As a girl, that had been the very useful indicator to seek out a place to hide on their family’s rolling grounds, until the viscountess had otherwise reined in her disappointment. Never, she assured in placating tones. After all, she was wise enough to know when she’d crossed the proverbial line in terms of baiting. I do not doubt, she lied. She highly doubted. Lord Gregory would save me from my circumstances. Circumstances she’d rather remain unchanged until she, herself, determined. "However, he