Anabelle Bryant - His Forbidden Debutante

‘I’ve seen to the fire and your daily schedule, milord. Your body-linen is arranged on the clothing horse in your dressing room, pressed and brushed. I will strop your razor with your permission and replace the hot water for your attendance after your wardrobe is complete.’

‘Very good.’ Penwick nodded his approval. ‘Inform me of my appointments while I prepare for the day.’ Strickler had attended his position for over a year now, yet the formal distinction between servant and employer was drawn with a broad stroke. Penwick didn’t know whether he’d rather it any different, again out of depth with the fresh title. A few of his comrades established a casual ease as they instructed staff or managed their valet, yet he remained conflicted. In truth, he had no need of a personal valet and considered the upper-class affectation perpetuated to invigorate one’s self-importance, a trait Penwick didn’t possess and would not acquire. With frank honesty, what he needed was a sincere friend.

‘Yes, milord.’ Strickler scurried to open the door to the inner chamber where a pristine wardrobe was organised and displayed within the shelves and closets. Waistcoats, overcoats and linen shirts hung from hangers, as neatly ordered as soldiers in formation. Trousers and breeches flanked the far wall. In the centre of the room stood a large mahogany top chest where several drawers patiently held smalls, stockings and cravats. Footwear of every necessity, Hessians, Wellingtons, Jack boots and court shoes, lined the lower shelf of the room’s perimeter. Strickler immediately arranged the wardrobe, aware but never questioning the one drawer of the bureau which remained locked at all times. Penwick kept the only key.

‘This will do.’ Penwick shed the towel around his waist and donned smalls before accepting the fresh linen shirt offered, the fasteners at the cuff time-consuming, the silence awkward. High-waisted breeches followed, the fall buttoned to the band, before he donned a waistcoat embellished with elegant sage-green embroidery. Atop this came his tailcoat with pale grey facings and then a stock, followed by a cravat that Strickler worked with swift efficiency to tie into a stylish knot. Penwick held no favour for bows or ruffles, the trappings of required clothing already an unfavourable portion of his morning. Layer after layer was added, disguising the man he once was, and embellishing the earl he’d now become.

‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.

‘My schedule?’

‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.

An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.

It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.

‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.

Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises that scarred his heart, and end his dependency on the impossible.

But he couldn’t.

The realisation he possessed this weakness weighed heavily on his soul. How could he enter into marriage, a sacred union built on honesty and trust, when his truest emotions, love, devotion, passion, lay tied with a ribbon hidden in his wardrobe? How could he betray his intended and compromise his own integrity? With the deepest reverence, he respected his betrothed. She presented a kind smile and clever intelligence. He’d encountered not one poor word in reference to her reputation or family. Still, despite earnest effort, he’d collected no tender emotion.

He cleared his throat as if the action would somehow rid him of the reality of his choices. He had a duty, a new station to uphold. He would marry. He would propagate and carry on with the most congenial of relationships. Ardent affection could develop were he to allow it the opportunity. This was the truth and the lie he told himself daily while enduring the ritual of overdressing required of his station.

He slammed the drawer closed and locked it before he could change his mind. He would not read a letter this morning. He had a long, happy future to look towards and the letters did not signify.

Chapter Two

Dearest, I cannot allow you to speak poorly of your dance ability. You are, no doubt, a swan in the ballroom, a rose among weeds, delicate, graceful and captivating. I long to waltz with you, hold you in my arms and circle the floor, proud and honoured to be offered the boon. One day we will waltz. You have my word.

Livie allowed a gentle smile, the remembrance of Randolph’s words bittersweet, the letter in her lap dated over a year ago. At the time, she had believed his vow to be no more than a fairy-tale wish made by a kind gentleman who knew her solely through correspondence, never having seen or conversed with her in person. Yet as their exchanges grew in frequency, through weeks and months, emotion became more important than probability. Their conversations evolved into lively banter, two friends who hinted at more, a man and woman who’d met under the most unlikely of circumstances and forged a relationship by letter writing.

How she looked forward to his heartfelt missives, their discussions exploring every subject imaginable, no topic off limits or too mundane. Perhaps it was the act of committing the words to paper and sending them into the post that freed her from inhibition. She shared fears and aspirations, goals and accomplishments. The anticipation of his reply kept her counting the days and mentally listing all the new questions and comments she longed to include in her next message.

Together they spoke with refreshing candour and frank honesty, which led to a natural progression of sentimental affection and, though they never confessed it, feelings of love. An undercurrent of adoration and devotion laced their final letters, hinting at what might be were one to take that final step, to wish hard enough and plan a meeting. She clenched her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion she worked so hard to ignore.