ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories) by Jane Prescott
Authors: Jane Prescott
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mashed his mouth against hers.
It wasn’t the sensation of it but rather the act itself that amazed Anabelle wholly. His mouth was a little grimy and wet, and neither one of them had any idea what this could or should mean; Henry had acted purely on impulse upon seeing how pretty Anabelle’s eyes looked shining in the light of the sun. He had seen his father do this to his mother countless times, and had always imagined that since his mother was so pretty, this was the exact course of action he should take. Anabelle, on her part, was changed forever in a way which she might never be able to put words to. In that moment, she had crossed over from a plane where she and Henry were equals, two snotty-nosed playmates, into territory where an imbalance of power would plague them forever. It was an adult world, and it was heady.
With a loud smacking noise, Henry broke away from Anabelle’s mouth, and she did the only thing she could think of to do—she whacked him upside the head.
He was still clutching it when she ambled down the hayloft ladder, nimble as a cat. How was he to know how badly her stick-thin legs were shaking and how hard her too-young heart was pounding? She ran until her legs burned, ran until she collapsed in her bed, startling all the servants on the way, and ran until she could outrun the idea of what had just occurred. It settled on her finally in bed, and she turned over, staring at the crown moldings on the ceiling, reveling in the rush of emotions until the housemaid called her down to dinner.
10 YEARS LATER
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
And then the trio of men collapsed into laughter.
So they were all in the cups, though Henry Princely. Was that so bad? He himself chose not to imbibe these days, but perhaps that was from his time abroad more than anything else. It had proved difficult to maintain the ever-popular lifestyle of drinking until cards, cards until dinner, dinner until women, and women until marriage when he had been doing his Grand Tour. His father had managed to procure some connections with the royal houses of Rome and Madrid, and Henry had enjoyed the lavishness he had been presented with when he was there. But when he stepped out of the palace to his own quarters, he had happened upon the starving children in the slums there in one city and then the next, and the disparity between the wealth of the privileged few and the underserved had struck him most acutely, had sobered him into seriousness earlier than he had expected. When he had hasten back to London due to his father’s illness, the remains of that particular lifestyle had disappeared entirely, and Henry’s days had become a familiar routine of bills, nurses, and keeping all the decanters around his home empty for his mother had become well-acquainted with that particular devil in her struggle to cope with the happenings-on.
Truth be told, there was little amusing about the fact that he had now inherited his father’s title almost a year hence and had been mired in an ocean of paperwork when he could have been grieving for what had gone on. But when his London friends decided upon that little formal greeting, they had been unable to resist addressing each other in turn until the hilarity of the appointments had washed over them all as they shook hands. Maintaining that they all now had new responsibilities was perhaps not amusing in the conventional sense, but Henry preferred it this way—it was easier to laugh than to cry, and he felt the old camaraderie settle over him like a balm.
“Fitzy St. Hubert is having her coming out ball tonight,” Jack Whetstone informed Henry
It wasn’t the sensation of it but rather the act itself that amazed Anabelle wholly. His mouth was a little grimy and wet, and neither one of them had any idea what this could or should mean; Henry had acted purely on impulse upon seeing how pretty Anabelle’s eyes looked shining in the light of the sun. He had seen his father do this to his mother countless times, and had always imagined that since his mother was so pretty, this was the exact course of action he should take. Anabelle, on her part, was changed forever in a way which she might never be able to put words to. In that moment, she had crossed over from a plane where she and Henry were equals, two snotty-nosed playmates, into territory where an imbalance of power would plague them forever. It was an adult world, and it was heady.
With a loud smacking noise, Henry broke away from Anabelle’s mouth, and she did the only thing she could think of to do—she whacked him upside the head.
He was still clutching it when she ambled down the hayloft ladder, nimble as a cat. How was he to know how badly her stick-thin legs were shaking and how hard her too-young heart was pounding? She ran until her legs burned, ran until she collapsed in her bed, startling all the servants on the way, and ran until she could outrun the idea of what had just occurred. It settled on her finally in bed, and she turned over, staring at the crown moldings on the ceiling, reveling in the rush of emotions until the housemaid called her down to dinner.
10 YEARS LATER
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.”
And then the trio of men collapsed into laughter.
So they were all in the cups, though Henry Princely. Was that so bad? He himself chose not to imbibe these days, but perhaps that was from his time abroad more than anything else. It had proved difficult to maintain the ever-popular lifestyle of drinking until cards, cards until dinner, dinner until women, and women until marriage when he had been doing his Grand Tour. His father had managed to procure some connections with the royal houses of Rome and Madrid, and Henry had enjoyed the lavishness he had been presented with when he was there. But when he stepped out of the palace to his own quarters, he had happened upon the starving children in the slums there in one city and then the next, and the disparity between the wealth of the privileged few and the underserved had struck him most acutely, had sobered him into seriousness earlier than he had expected. When he had hasten back to London due to his father’s illness, the remains of that particular lifestyle had disappeared entirely, and Henry’s days had become a familiar routine of bills, nurses, and keeping all the decanters around his home empty for his mother had become well-acquainted with that particular devil in her struggle to cope with the happenings-on.
Truth be told, there was little amusing about the fact that he had now inherited his father’s title almost a year hence and had been mired in an ocean of paperwork when he could have been grieving for what had gone on. But when his London friends decided upon that little formal greeting, they had been unable to resist addressing each other in turn until the hilarity of the appointments had washed over them all as they shook hands. Maintaining that they all now had new responsibilities was perhaps not amusing in the conventional sense, but Henry preferred it this way—it was easier to laugh than to cry, and he felt the old camaraderie settle over him like a balm.
“Fitzy St. Hubert is having her coming out ball tonight,” Jack Whetstone informed Henry
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