Have you (like me) been swept up in the romance and sparkle of the second season of Bridgerton this past week? I hear it’s the most watched show on Netflix (again) and it’s little wonder why. The writing is witty, the characters are gorgeous, and the romance and drama is tangible – chest-heavingly passionate, in fact. I am a sucker for Bridgerton just like I’m a sucker for any romantic drama, and though I love to write modern romantic suspense (hence my debut novel, WILD HEARTS), I do in fact hold a special place in my heart for Regency England.
I still remember my first ‘bodice-ripper’ Regency romance novel – a gem of a story called WAKING UP WITH THE DUKE by Lorraine Heath (I read it when I was about 19). I fell absolutely in love. A history lover by nature, I was totally caught up in the idyllic descriptions of a simpler time – one where gentlemen truly courted ladies. Where pretty words were written by quill, where horse-drawn carriages carried primly-dressed peers to and fro. Ever since, I’ve adored historical romance and often considered these types of novels to be my guilty pleasures. (Though, really, what’s so ‘guilty’ about them? I’ve read far smuttier stuff in some contemporary romance novels, and yet these bodice-rippers continue to get an interestingly bad wrap.)
That is, perhaps, until Bridgerton came onto the scene. Now suddenly the Regency romance genre has taken its place front and center, and more women than ever before are dabbling in these scandalously fun historical romances. And so, readers… today I have a little treat for you.
I began writing my own Regency romance novel several years back, picked it up again a couple years ago to dust off and polish (though it’s still not finished), and haven’t touched it since. But the Bridgerton craze had me wondering about it. And I thought, “Hey, I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything with this, but why not celebrate season 2 of this fun show by teasing the first chapter of my very own historical romance?”
You might like it; you might hate it. It’s a very different flavor from WILD HEARTS, but it showcases a different kind of love that I have for writing. This is just for fun – I’m not prepping it to publish or anything like that, but I’d still be interested to know your thoughts. After reading the following first chapter, are you at all intrigued?
Chapter 1
Westley Chenwith, Earl of Dagenham, was trapped.
Inexplicably – maddeningly – he had been coerced into the agreement of the most preposterous and ridiculous arrangement he could have imagined, and as he contemplated the fact in the plush leather armchair of his private study, the crisp amber liquid held in his crystal tumbler mirrored his own swirling thoughts. They were becoming stormier and more frenzied by the second.
Damn it all, how could he be so easily compelled? He was an earl, for God’s sake – a commanding, authoritative, and highly respected member of the peerage, and he could make his own decisions. He could bloody well say ‘no’ whenever it pleased him, or when – as was the case currently – the circumstances proposed to him were so outrageous that no respectable man in his right mind would agree to them. So why – of all the men in England – had Westley relented? Why did he now find himself sulking moodily in his study, growing more and more tempestuous with every vehement churn of the whisky held tightly in his fist?
“Ah, there you are,” came a female voice from the oak-trimmed doorway behind him.
There was his answer. His tired eyelids fell closed and he let out a weary breath as he lifted the tumbler to his lips. The whisky slowly lapped against his mouth, and he tilted it upwards to swig the contents in one single gulp. Eyes pressed tight, he cleared his throat as the stinging sensation subsided and he placed the tumbler down on the wooden end table beside the chair. As he stood from the chair, he heard the impatient tapping of fingernails on the doorframe.
“Westley Chenwith, you are moving at a sloth’s pace at the most inconvenient of times.”
He rubbed a hand over his face and offered a half smile of apology to the radiant beauty who stood before him – her small, pink mouth turned down in a stern frown.
“Caroline, my sweet. How lovely you look this morning.”
“Bite your tongue, Dagenham, for I’ve already had it with you today,” she bit back, placing a frustrated hand on her hip, which was draped in a luxurious new silk-lined gown of powder blue, featuring white lace ruffles, which Westley had purchased for her days prior.
“If I’m not mistaken, it hasn’t even struck eight of the clock,” Westley replied calmly, bemused by her annoyed expression.
“Indeed it has not, which should indicate to you just how truly vexing you are to me thus far – and on such a lovely morning, no less.”
Westley took a single step forward, attempting to look chastened.
“It is a lovely morning, isn’t it? Perhaps a walk in the garden, or a ride through Hyde Park would please my dear sister? Perhaps return that usual sunny smile? Allow me to call for the—”
“Oh, you insufferable cad, Westley! I cannot go for a walk or a ride, as well you know – and neither can you! I’ve just been informed by the head house-maid that nothing has been prepared ahead of Lady Anabelle’s arrival, and her carriage is due by luncheon! Tell me, have you even arranged for food to be served at that hour?”
Westley rolled his eyes sardonically.
“Sweet sister, do you not always dine on food for luncheon? I saw no need to order for anything extravagant.”
“No, you didn’t, did you?” Caroline huffed. “Just as you didn’t see fit to arrange for her room to be aired, or the house cleaned. No fresh flowers by her bedside, or—”
“Fresh flowers by her buggering bedside?” Westley repeated, aghast. “Good God, are we welcoming the Queen of England or a ruined young lady?”
At that, Caroline’s cool blue eyes turned frosty.
“Never refer to her in such a way, Westley,” she warned through gritted teeth. “Do you hear me?”
“Caroline.”
Westley closed the distance between them and reached for her arms – from which she shrank away and instead pointed an angry finger at his face.
“She is not ruined, and you know it perfectly well. Lady Anabelle happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong point in time, and her reputation has been compromised – but she is far from ruined.”
“Do we even know fully what happened, dear sister?” He ran a cautious hand over her shoulder in an attempt to mollify.
She jutted her chin. “Not exactly, but I heard talk of a—flirtation of sorts in an estate garden earlier in the season. A flirtation, I am sure, that was quite innocent and misinterpreted.”
With a cocked brow, Westley questions, “Oh? And how can you be quite sure of that?”
“Because I know the lady, and you do not. Westley, I consider Anabelle a friend. She was a lovely companion during the season before my marriage, and I feel it is my duty to help her through this… inconvenient gossip. I can and will get her comfortably back on her feet before the end of this season.”
“You’ve only three months left, you know.”
With a defiant glint in her eyes, Caroline grinned. “Just watch me, brother. Lady Anabelle will be betrothed by August, with not one word of salacious gossip mentioning her name.”
“You are confident, aren’t you? Tell me, just how many seasons has this Anabelle Dawson participated in, without attracting a husband?”
With a darkening glare, Caroline placed a hand on her hip. “I am sure she’s only shy, Westley. As many ladies do, perhaps she finds it difficult to speak to gentlemen, and her nerves get the best of her. But she’s beautiful and highly educated, and—”
“Yes, yes.” Westley used Caroline’s passionate moment of lecture to his advantage, and captured her shoulders with his steady hands. “Caroline, please breathe. We’ve been over this. We’ve no need for this oration once again.”
“It clearly hasn’t sunk in,” she snapped back at him. “This is important to me, Westley. Anabelle is a sweet, lovely woman, and it is my intention to assist her in overcoming this – unfortunate – situation, and to make a good match. I’m determined to do it. Who could be a better chaperone and guide for her than I, a respectable widow fresh out of mourning?”
At that, Westley’s expression lost its amusement. His sister had only come out of the formal mourning period for her husband, Lord Gabriel Alton, two weeks ago – just in time for her to send the summons to Lady Anabelle and arrange her stay for the remainder of the London season. Westley had noted Caroline’s eagerness to shed her drab black garments and veil, in favor of the sumptuously decorated gowns she was accustomed to, as well as her enthusiasm to take part in the vivacious social events that the ton was carrying on without her.
In truth, it had been clear to him that Caroline had forced herself through her mourning period by obligation only, and not from any true regret or grief for the loss of her husband. Though he had never asked for the particulars of his sister’s feelings, he guessed that – as many other high-born ladies – Caroline had felt little for Lord Alton, and their brief union had left only the scantest of impressions on her young, effervescent spirit.
For a brief moment, Westley considered that having another young lady with whom to take part in the London festivities could only be a good thing for his sister, who’d spent far too much time of late cooped up in Chenwith House, with only him for company.
“Remind me how long she’ll be with us,” he said, rubbing his temple.
“Do you listen to nothing I say? I’ve told you, Westley – at least a dozen times – that Anabelle will return home the first week of August, once her parents return from their country estate in France.”
Almost exactly three months, Westley considered. Many events still lay ahead on the ton’s social calendar, though the season had technically been well underway since February. Lady Anabelle wouldn’t necessarily be at a disadvantage, but according to Caroline, she had been absent from all social events in the month since her unfortunate scandal – whatever exactly that had entailed.
But she still had three months of balls, sporting events, and parties, where many an eligible bachelor would be vying for the hand of a suitable bride. And if Caroline was right about Lady Anabelle’s appearance and loveliness, perhaps those traits would be enough to distract a gentleman from the stain on her reputation. He had to hope so – if for no reason other than his concern for his sister’s happiness and sense of satisfaction.
“And she’ll be returning to her parents with a ring on her finger, you say?”
Caroline beamed. “I guarantee it, or else I—” She broke off, looking at him thoughtfully. “You don’t believe I can do it, do you?”
“I have my doubts,” Westley admitted. “But they do not stem from your inability, so much as from the lady’s tainted reputation.”
“Westley Chenwith, I believe this calls for a wager.” The challenging spark in her grey-blue eyes brought a rumble of laughter to Westley’s throat.
“A wager, you say? On whether or not you’ll be able to lead the tarnished lady to a respectable engagement within the three months remaining of the season?” He grinned in amusement. “Name your stakes then. What is it that you’ll want if you should win?”
At that, she eyed him carefully, her expression suddenly taking on an entirely new manner.
“You know exactly what it is that I want, Westley.” She spoke softly, causing something in Westley’s chest to catch.
“Caroline,” he started carefully, knowing full well what she was after – as they’d been over the matter countless times during her mourning period. Her pleading, yet fierce, eyes bored into his.
“Very well,” he heard himself say on a low groan. At those two simple words, Caroline flung herself at her brother – her arms wrapping around his neck in a violently affectionate embrace.
“Oh, Westley, thank you!” She kissed both of his cheeks and cradled his face tightly in her hands. “You agree to my terms, truly?”
“Yes, yes.” Westley removed her hands from his cheeks and squeezed them gently. “But ‘tis only if you win, dearest sister. You’ve a long road ahead of you, to be sure.” He suddenly hoped very much that she wouldn’t win – but then who could know how long he’d be saddled with the responsibility of hosting the Lady Anabelle until she found a husband? Knowing Caroline, she’d probably invite the lady back the following year. It seemed Westley was damned either way.
Oblivious to her brother’s inner turmoil, Caroline beamed radiantly – the happiest version of herself that Westley could recall seeing in far too long. The sight made him want to reach for anything her heart desired, and give her absolutely whatever lay within his control.
“You do know that you are the only person who could possibly convince me to agree to this arrangement, don’t you? Not to mention the wager.”
He lifted her soft hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips lightly. “I couldn’t very well refuse your wishes – despite my very best efforts – and that fact is rather irritating, you understand.”
Caroline smiled in return. That charming, white-toothed smile spread over her porcelain skin and her previously icy blue eyes warmed to their usual sunny glow.
“I know,” she replied happily. “It’s why I asked you, after all. You’ve refused me nothing my whole life – and you know it helps my love for you grow evermore.”
Westley chuckled, though his anxiety bubbled just under the surface. It was true – Caroline, his little sister of one-and-twenty years was the most precious, adored person in his life. Throughout her life, he’d never denied her a single wish that was in his power to grant, and since becoming the Earl of Dagenham upon his father’s death four years prior, he’d been more determined than ever to not only grant her every desire, but to protect her fiercely with everything he had.
Regardless, the prospect of having a ruined woman in his home, as his responsibility, had caused Westley to dismiss his sister’s proposal before the entirety of it had even left her mouth two weeks prior. He’d had no intention of honoring the request, and had attempted to steel himself against Caroline’s pretty pouts – but that, of course, had lasted no longer than a day.
Now, Lady Anabelle Dawson would be arriving in only a few hours’ time, and as he’d been contemplating only moments ago, he was damnably trapped by his convincing – and unfortunately irritatingly cherished – sister.
“Westley.” His name broke the trail of distracted thoughts that flitted through his mind, and he snapped back to attention. Caroline stared at him with softened, yet determined eyes.
“Hm?”
“The house. The food. The lady’s room. Must I repeat myself again, or will you please snap out of it and prepare for Anabelle’s arrival?”
He cleared his throat and released his sister’s arms, rubbing them gently before stepping back to button his open waistcoat.
“I’ll arrange everything presently, but only because you are exceedingly precious to me, and you alone hold a power over me that I cannot rebuff.”
Caroline leaned up on her toes to kiss her brother’s stubbly cheek sweetly.
“I know. And I love you too, Westley. You’ll like Anabelle, I promise.”
Scoffing, Westley started out of the study, with Caroline at his side.
“I still fail to understand how you could possibly care to—”
“Don’t ruin our moment, brother, by asking more questions. Simply use this time to make the preparations. If you need me, I shall be upstairs, overseeing the pressing of the new dresses I ordered for our guest.”
“New dresses! What the bloody—”
“Westley!” A booming voice called from the grand foyer down the corridor. “Good brother, well met!”
“Christ,” Westley muttered. Turning, he found himself alone once more – Caroline having fled for the aforementioned dresses without offering further explanation. The irritation and weariness returned to him, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.
“Blimey, you look like hell this morning,” the same masculine voice called, punctuated by the tapping of a wooden walking stick on the marble floor. “And how depressingly dark and quiet it is in here! Am I at Chenwith House, or have I stumbled into a morgue? Without knowing, one would never know that a pretty young lady is due to arrive today.”
“I’ve heard very little of her appearance,” Westley lied on an exasperated breath.
“Caroline says she was one of the loveliest ladies of the season last year,” another voice put in. As Westley approached, he found the other man standing beside the doorway to the dining room, looking befuddled.
“Is there no breakfast?” he asked.
“Have you honestly come here for breakfast, Max?” Westley demanded. “Can’t my brothers fend for themselves at their own estates, instead of encroaching on my dining table?”
The first man to speak – Tristan – stepped forward, batting the side of Westley’s leather boot once with his walking stick.
“Your dining room is larger than ours are. As is your table. And your cook makes the most delectable hot cakes, which I swear I dreamt of last night. Do tell us you haven’t broken your fast yet, Westley. We’ve come all this way.”
“With no invitation to do so from me,” Westley grumbled. With a flick of a finger, he gestured for his brothers to follow him into the dining room, where he rang a small bell on the sideboard to summon a servant.
“Do order for coffee, Westley,” Tristan – the middle Chenwith brother – said, as he flopped into a padded chair along the side of the long, polished oak table. “Is that whisky I smell on you? You’ve been at it already?”
“Lord, man, have you any idea of the hour?” Max questioned, sitting across from Tristan and propping his walking stick against his chair.
“I didn’t sleep,” Westley replied. “Not that I need to defend myself to my younger brothers, but my mind has been in turmoil. Whisky settles me.” Though in truth, it hadn’t.
A servant approached the dining room quickly, taking direction from Westley to serve breakfast presently. Once she shuffled out of the room, Westley moved to the largest chair at the head of the table and stared at both of his brothers in turn.
“Why exactly are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Max asked, amused. “We’re here to greet your new house guest. God’s blood, Westley, you look like someone’s shot your prized hound. Shouldn’t you be pleased to be welcoming a young lady?”
“Why the devil would I be pleased? She’s been foisted upon me by our sister, and I’ve had very little to do with it. Why on earth should I wish to spend my time redeeming a woman’s reputation and finding a husband for her? In truth, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in the arrangement.”
“I have it on good authority that she’s a ravishing beauty,” Tristan said, as coffee was poured into a porcelain cup before him. “Praise God, I need this today. Why on earth did we wake at such an unholy hour for this, Max? The girl isn’t even due to arrive for hours. I sent Madonna off at what seemed like the first light of dawn – thanks to your incessant hammering on the door. If not for you, I could still be rapturously swathed in the sweet embrace of—”
“She was no Madonna, to be sure,” Max interrupted him. “She was a barmaid from Whitechapel with heaving breasts the size of roast geese, and a Cockney brogue that’d chafe the ears off a Tomcat. And besides, her name was Helen.”
“Helen,” Tristan repeated. “That’s the one. Where the devil did I come up with ‘Madonna’? Though I must ask you not to bring up the woman’s geese-sized breasts if you expect me to remain sat here with you, instead of spread out with—”
“This hardly sounds like appropriate breakfast conversation,” came Caroline’s voice as she sauntered into the dining room. She flicked a gaze at Tristan, then Max. “Good morning, brothers.”
Max stifled a chuckle and greeted his sister with a warm smile before flicking a glance in Westley’s direction. “And if it isn’t already blisteringly obvious, we had an interesting evening at The Scarlet Peacock.”
“So I gathered.”
The notorious London gentleman’s club was a favored haunt of Tristan Chenwith – and after long evenings of drinking and gaming, he’d been known on many an occasion to spend the night with one buxom woman or another. How the man was able to so quickly recover the following morning – in outer appearance, at least – impressed Westley immensely.
“Back to the lady,” Tristan transitioned, pointing a spoon in Westley’s direction. “Truly, you should contort your miserable face into some semblance of a smile, or you’ll frighten the poor girl away the moment she arrives.”
Westley uttered an inaudible retort that had Caroline slanting a look at him from where she stood. It took less than a second for him to feel the penetrating gaze on the side of his face before he turned to her with raised eyebrows.
“What have I done now?”
“Breakfast with us, sister?” Tristan invited, interrupting the heated look on their sister’s face. “Westley’s ordered hot cakes.”
“I’m not interested in hot cakes, you ninny,” she replied – her eyes still fixed on the eldest brother. “What did I tell you only moments ago? You haven’t even lifted a finger to prepare for—”
“God’s blood, Caroline, I’ll get to it now. Don’t you have dresses to press?” Westley lifted himself from the table with an impatient huff.
“Move along!” Caroline hissed, before becoming distracted by a female servant scooting along the perimeter of the room. “Abigail! I need your assistance with something!” She chased after the servant, leaving Westley standing at the head of the table, facing his brothers’ amused expressions.
“Sounds like you’ve work to do, my man,” Tristan chuckled. “The lady’s not even yet arrived, and already your hands are full.”
“We’ll save some breakfast for you,” Max said with a grin as Westley stalked towards the door.
“Don’t bother. Apparently I have bedside flowers to arrange.”
As he reached the doorway to the foyer, a plump female servant waddled in through a separate entrance across the room, carrying a large covered breakfast tray. “Bedside flowers?” Tristan called out, his tone perplexed. “What the—Oh good, hot cakes!”
Thanks for reading, and continue enjoying Bridgerton if you haven’t binged it all already! I, for one, can’t wait to get back to it this evening.
STEPHANIE KLINE 