The Nobody: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix)
Contents
Also from Intermix
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
About the Author
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SIGNET REGENCY ROMANCE
The Nobody
Diane Farr
InterMix Books, New York
INTERMIX
InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.
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THE NOBODY
A Signet Regency Romance
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Signet edition / January 1999
InterMix eBook edition / August 2012
Copyright © 1999 by Diane Farr Golling.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-57290-0
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To the memory of
THE REV. DR. J. WESLEY FARR
and ESTHER LYNDEN FARR,
who believed I could;
GARY MICHAEL HART,
who dared me to;
and
GAIL EASTWOOD,
who showed me how;
this book is gratefully dedicated.
Chapter I
With an exclamation of pleasure, Mrs. John Campbell snatched up a letter that was waiting beside her breakfast plate. As only her immediate family was present, she did not hesitate to open her letter at the table. Seconds later, she uttered a faint shriek and went into a coughing fit.
Nicholas, a sturdy lad of ten, helpfully pounded his mother on the back until his father requested in no uncertain terms that he stop. When Amabel had somewhat recovered her breath, she announced the contents of her sister’s letter in a trembling voice.
“My dears, the most wonderful news! Your Aunt Harriet is inviting one of our girls to London for the Season!”
A stunned silence greeted this proclamation. Caitlin paused in the act of buttering her toast. Her eyes went immediately to her sister Emily, for whom this must be the greatest of all possible news. But Emily, an ethereal blonde of eighteen summers whom one might expect to be overcome by rapture at such a moment, was not alone in her jubilation. To Caitlin’s surprise, her entire family was shortly reduced to chaos.
Emily leaped up from her place and executed a neat step dance; John Campbell kissed his wife; little Agnes began tugging on her mother’s sleeve, demanding to be told what it all meant; and Nicholas took advantage of the general bedlam to perform a handstand in the dining room—something Caitlin suspected he had always longed to attempt.
Her brother’s legs waved precariously in the air. “Mind the dishes, Nicky!” Caitlin cried, as Nicholas’s boots clattered down upon the sideboard. This brought the rest of the family more-or-less back to its senses. They resumed their accustomed places round the table to savor their unexpected good fortune.
“London!” breathed Emily. “Oh, Caitie, how envious I am!”
Caitlin paused, toast aloft. “Envious? I thought you would be ecstatic.”
Emily blushed. “I do not mean I wish to take your place, of course! But I have longed all my life to go to London for the Season.”
“Take my place?” Caitlin, now startled, turned to their mother for enlightenment. “Good heavens, Mama, has Aunt Harriet invited me, rather than Emily? No, no, she could never have made such a mistake! If she meant to invite me, she might have done so any time these four years.”
Emily also turned to their mother, her blue eyes wide with anxiety. “But she could no
t invite me over Caitlin. It would be grossly improper, would it not, Mama? Caitie is the eldest unmarried daughter.”
“Your aunt must be the best judge of what is proper, my love,” Mrs. Campbell assured her. A slight cough from her husband caused her dimples to appear. “Do not laugh, John! Harriet may not have an extensive education, or an extraordinary degree of native intelligence, but on matters of ton she is infallible.”
Mrs. Campbell began swiftly reading through her letter. Caitlin saw the painful hope flickering in Emily’s eyes, and affectionate amusement lit her own. “Never fear, Emily! Our aunt has sent the invitation to you, now you are turned eighteen. What do I want with a Season? What a figure I would cut, dressing in white and acting the simpering ingenue at two-and-twenty!”
“You look splendid in white,” said Emily staunchly. “And you needn’t simper, just because it is your first Season.”
“Well, I hope not, because however shy you may feel, Emily, you certainly never simper. I am persuaded you will do us all great credit.”
Emily bit her lip bravely. “It is you, Caitie, who will go to London and do us all credit. Indeed, how could you not? You are never at a loss, and always know just what to say. I wish I had your poise. And your height. And your coloring! Blond hair is so insipid.”
“Do not talk to me of hair,” exclaimed Caitlin, diverted. “Mine is the greatest trial to me!”
“Gibble-gabble, gibble-gabble,” mimicked Nicky. “Couple of peahens.”
“Eat your breakfast, Nicholas,” recommended his father. Nicky subsided.
Agnes leaned in to whisper anxiously to Caitlin: “Is it not the fashion to have red hair?”
Amused, Caitlin tousled her little sister’s curls. “Your hair is not red, Agnes, it is auburn. And ringlets are always fashionable.”
Mrs. Campbell looked up from her letter, her forehead puckered. “Well, how vexatious! I have read Harriet’s letter twice through, and nowhere does she say which one of you she means to invite.”
Caitlin munched her toast reflectively. “I daresay she could not recall our names.”
The children unsuccessfully stifled their giggles and Mrs. Campbell frowned with mock severity at her unruly brood. Mr. Campbell reached over to his wife, and she relinquished the letter to him.
“I would not be surprised to learn that she is inviting both of you,” he remarked. “I suppose that is how it will end.” He began methodically studying the letter.
“At any rate, Harriet is the dearest, most wonderful, most generous of sisters!” declared Mrs. Campbell. “She was under no obligation to make such a gesture. Years ago, she must have intended to bring Isabella out—after all, Isabella is her goddaughter—but my other girls have no claim on her whatsoever.”
“Why did she not bring Isabella out?” asked Agnes, puzzled.
“Isabella fell in love with Tom,” her mother explained.
“Before anyone could stop her,” added Caitlin helpfully.
“Caitie, hush!” exclaimed Emily. “We are all very glad that Isabella married Tom.”
“Yes, but only think what a splash Isabella would have made in London!” said Caitlin, stirring her tea with a pensive air. “I never considered the matter before. It must have cost you something, Mama, to allow the Beauty of the family to throw herself away on a mere squire’s son.”
“Why could not Tom have gone to London, too?” pursued Agnes.
John Campbell raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling. “Explain it to her, Amabel,” he suggested.
His wife fluttered helplessly. “Oh, dear! I never should have begun this conversation at the breakfast table. It is most improper to discuss such matters before Nicky and Agnes.”
“Ho!” uttered Nicky scornfully, if indistinctly, through a mouthful of ham. “I know all about it.”
“You terrify me,” said his father calmly. “What is it that you know?”
Nicky swallowed, and sat up. “They have a Season in London, every spring. And the girls all go to meet the swells and get married.”
“Gentlemen, Nicky. Not swells,” said Mrs. Campbell firmly. “And there is far more to it than that.”
Her husband chuckled. “Is there? Apart from the idiom, I thought his description remarkably apt.”
Agnes was still bewildered. “Do they only have one season in London? We have four seasons in Hertfordshire.”
“Not with dancing,” asserted Nicky.
Agnes brightened. “I would like to see the dancing. Are we all going to London, Mama?”
“Heavens, no, chickie! You won’t be ready for balls for another ten years. Only grown-up young ladies may go to London for the Season.” Amabel decided the time had come for her to confide her thoughts to her family. She folded her hands and looked earnestly at Caitlin and Emily.
“Well! It wouldn’t do to speak of it before, but I confess it did give me a pang to see Isabella forego her Season. She is perfectly happy with Tom, for which I am most grateful, but her choosing Tom spoiled my plans—not only for her, but the rest of you as well. Since her marriage I have been more worried about my younger girls than I liked to admit.”
“Worried about us? Why, Mama?” inquired Caitlin, throwing her mother temporarily off stride. As Caitlin was no longer in the first blush of youth, Mrs. Campbell might have been pardoned for thinking that Caitlin herself ought to be a bit worried. However, Amabel knew her daughter. It was hopeless to expect cheerful, independent Caitlin to fret about matrimonial prospects. Caitlin was a pretty-enough girl (although she couldn’t hold a candle to Isabella or Emily), but she had grown from a rambunctious, lanky, athletic child into a graceful, confident, regrettably headstrong young lady—with a twinkle in her eye that the neighborhood beaux found disconcerting. Several young men called on the Campbells with suspicious frequency, to be sure, but they all seemed to hover around the sweet and fragile Emily.
Amabel looked a little uncomfortable and began to pleat her napkin. “Caitlin dear, I hope I am not a mercenary creature, and I never wanted to be one of those detestable matchmaking mamas—but, you know, I had hoped—foolishly, I am sure!—that Isabella might achieve a little higher worldly position. Oh dear, how dreadful it sounds! But, you know, much as your father and I wish to give our children every advantage, it has not been in our power to—that is, we haven’t the means to—oh, dear!”
“What your mother is trying to say,” said Mr. Campbell, “is that she could not afford to give her daughters a Season in London because she married a penniless younger son.”
“And lived happily ever after!” said Amabel quickly.
He smiled softly at his wife. “Yes, we have had the temerity to be perfectly happy all these years—a solecism for which your father has never quite forgiven us.”
Amabel dimpled again. “Pooh! Papa is so stuffy, there’s no bearing it. But I don’t believe he’s any kinder to Harriet, and she married excessively well.”
John shook his head with mock gravity. “She did marry a baron, which naturally gratified your father. But then she loved her husband, you know, and he could not approve of that.”
“Very true, dearest. That is—oh! You are roasting me!”
“And what is worse, I am interrupting your tale. You were explaining why living on a monkey’s allowance made it impossible for you to give your own daughters the come-out you once enjoyed.”
“Yes, I see that you are still laughing at me, but I assure you it is no laughing matter! Our girls deserve at least one proper Season, do they not? And when Harriet married Lord Lynwood—all that money, and the title besides—well! I am not proud of it, but I suppose I fell into an absurd way of thinking that her marriage would someday make all our fortunes. After all, Harriet was Isabella’s godmother. What could be more natural than for darling Isabella to someday enjoy a Season under her godmother’s aegis? And if Isabella had married a gentleman of fashion, she would, in turn, have sponsored her younger sisters into the ton.” Amabel sighed. “The long and the short of i
t is, I am afraid I had my hopes for the entire family pinned upon Isabella’s chances.”
“Ah,” said Caitlin thoughtfully. “Poor Isabella! I would have married Tom myself, to escape such a burden.”
Mrs. Campbell turned shocked eyes upon her Caitie, but relaxed when she saw the twinkle in Caitlin’s own. “Really, Caitlin! I often wish you would try to be a little less clever! A burden, indeed! It is no hardship to spend a few weeks in London, enjoying the fashionable life! Of course I would never ask a daughter of mine to marry anyone she did not like, but I did want my girls to have the opportunity of meeting—and liking!—gentlemen from—from—well, a wider circle than we have here in Hertfordshire.”
Caitlin opened her eyes at this. “Are the Hertfordshire gentlemen inadequate? It never crossed my mind.”
“Well, it’s very natural that it shouldn’t,” stated Mrs. Campbell untruthfully, reminding herself, with an inward sigh, that she was glad her children had not been reared to concern themselves with worldly matters. “What purpose would it serve for my chickens to worry about their futures, particularly if their circumstances couldn’t be helped? But as your mother, I confess it has exercised my mind considerably. I don’t have a word to say against dear Tom, of course. But he is simply not in a position to introduce his sisters-in-law to—well, he himself is not acquainted with—oh, dear, how difficult this is! But what in the world will become of you all, if you stay buried here at Rosemeade? I don’t worry so much about the boys, because Hector is doing so well at the university, and Nicky has a very good head on his shoulders—”
Caitlin’s eyes danced. “I also have a very good head on my shoulders.”
Amabel frowned at her daughter with loving exasperation. “Now, Caitlin, you know that is entirely beside the point! No, do not argue with me, dearest. Suffice it to say, I have worried about you, and Emily, and even little Agnes. It is only in the nature of things, after all, that if girls have no opportunity to meet eligible young men, they will fall in love with ineligible young men. And I have dreaded the day when one of you takes a fancy to some half-pay officer, or perhaps the curate—”