Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson

everywhere. He saw his mother’s controlling hand in it but was helpless in the face of her and Lady Swinley’s clever maneuvering. And really, was it so bad? he wondered. He had gotten over his initial distaste for Miss Swinley’s company and conversation and found that all things considered, she was an entertaining companion for an afternoon.
    She might be a little spoiled, she might be high-handed and demanding, but she was more clever than she let on, and her conversation, when she forgot to be coquettish, was intelligent. She played games with vigor and good sportsmanship and was a spirited competitor when her mother was not there to dampen her vivacity. Lady Swinley appeared to have the idea that gentlemen preferred a spiritless widgeon to an intelligent women, and perhaps that was true of many. Conroy, for example, looked rather put out when Miss Swinley bested him in battledore and shuttlecock, despite the impediment of her long skirts.
    Miss Swinley, in other words, had every potential to be a charming wife for some lucky gentleman. If his mother had her way, it would be him. But was he the gentleman who would say his vows with Miss Swinley and mean them? He could do worse. It was not as if he really thought he could “wait for love,” as Truelove put it.
    Truelove. Though they had spent little time together for that week, he had been aware of her always, strolling with Conroy or talking with the ladies. Sometimes there was a pensive look on her pretty face, an abstracted air of indecision about her. He was not good usually at reading people’s expressions, especially ladies, but he rather thought she was thinking about her offer of marriage. Had she made up her mind? Would she marry her earnest, good vicar and move away to the north? It would be a life of toil, but he could see that she would not mind that. Did she perhaps love her Mr. Bottleby just a little? He didn’t know, and he shouldn’t care. But he did.
    The days wore on, the heat and humidity in their valley building. The relentless activity his mother enforced among the company was meant to keep his mind off his troubles, no doubt, but it was wearing him down, with no sleep at night to give him back his strength. How could he sleep when he was straining every nerve and sinew in the attempt to awaken himself before he entered the hideous dreams? It was too humiliating to think that everyone in the household might know about his affliction. Most nights he was successful and snatched a couple of hours sleep, but there had been once or twice when Horace had had to awaken him in the throes of his agony.
    And he was longing for some solitude. Doing the pretty to the ladies had never been his strongest suit even when they had been stationed in England and there were balls and parties and dinners held for the officers every night, or so it seemed, in the town nearest their encampment. Someone like Conroy would have been in his element, but Drake was a sore disappointment even to Wellington. The duke himself was a gracious and gallant guest at balls and dinners, and Drake had tried to emulate the great man, even altering his habitual relaxed manner of dress to conform with the expectations that every officer would be perfectly attired. When he had come back to stay at Lea Park during Napoleon’s incarceration on Elba, he had tried his best with his mother’s guests, Lady Swinley and her daughter. Apparently he had been more successful than he had given himself credit for, as was evidenced by his mother’s persuasion that he and Miss Swinley would suit as marriage partners.
    The constant pressure to be charming was becoming more and more difficult, though, in his present state of mind. He needed to escape, at least for a few hours. The sultry weather had reached a peak, finally, ending with a day that was so stultifying that most of the company were spending the day napping or reading in their own rooms.
    Drake took advantage of the quiet house and crept