The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella by Holly Newman Page B
Authors: Holly Newman
Tags: Romance
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Marchioness remained at Bayneville for most of the year, coming to London for the height of the season and when Parliament sat.
It was only now, after Lady Mary's betrothal, that the dowager marchioness came to spend any time in the country. There was curiosity in London as to why the Lady Tarkington deemed it necessary for Lady Mary's betrothal party to be at Bayneville Castle. Still, society did not complain, for when invited they were not averse to journeying to the country to visit legendary Bayneville Castle.
According to the letter Jocelyn received from her friend, the house would be full by Christmas. Looking at the bucolic peace of Bayneville in its pastoral setting, Jocelyn felt a surge of joyous relief in the knowledge that she and her mother were arriving before the press of London guests bringing London society with them. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation, and her pulse quickened.
As the carriage drew up before the entrance to Bayneville, Jocelyn was delighted to see her friend coming out to greet them, a hastily donned shawl thrown about her slight shoulders. Lady Mary skipped down the wide stone steps, eager for the waiting footman to open the carriage door and set the steps. Jocelyn's anticipation matched Lady Mary's.
Behind Lady Mary, descending the broad manor steps in a sedate manner, came an elegant gentleman dressed in a soft pigeon-gray suit. His dark hair waved back off a high brow, though one recalcitrant lock curled forward. Studying his confident, settled demeanor, Jocelyn was surprised that his hair dared to fall out of place. She recognized the man at once. Here was the eighth Marques of Tarkington, Simon Charles Froborough Bayne.
It struck Jocelyn that his mien—while in high contrast to his lively sister's and his amiable cousin's—was not the somber, morose aspect she'd expected. Nor was there the arrogance one often found in a man of his portion. His was a hard face, true, full of angles and planes with a stubborn, square-cut jaw. Nonetheless there was a welcoming smile on his lips, and he radiated a calm contentedness. Here was not a man with ghosts to dispel, a mask to wear, or hidden goals to achieve. He was as he was.
Fascinated at this divergence from idle supposition, Jocelyn stared at him until her attention was recalled by the feel of Lady Mary's arms about her shoulders in enthusiastic greeting. She blushed at her preoccupation with the Marques—and not a little for the realization of the rudeness in her stare. Flustered, she fixed her eyes firmly upon Lady Mary and vowed not to let them stray again in the Marques's direction until they were introduced. She grasped her friend's hand, kissed her cheek in gentle salute, and exclaimed on how good it felt to see her again.
"And I you! I swear I have been driving poor Tarkington to distraction with my pacing and wondering when you'd arrive! I'm so glad you and Lady Maybrey could come early," Lady Mary said, turning to greet Jocelyn's mother. "Mama's in the parlor anxious for all the London news."
"After your guests have had a chance to rest and freshen up," interceded Tarkington in a calm, surprisingly low voice that rumbled along Jocelyn's spine. She gave a tiny, involuntary shiver.
"Well, yes," Lady Mary agreed with her brother. "Oh, dear, and I have been most shatter-brained again, haven't I? I haven't yet made you known to Tarkington!"
"Ah, I was wondering when you would recall that trifle," Tarkington faintly drawled.
"I do apologize, but excitement and happiness overwhelm all thoughts!"
"Odd, I thought that an everyday occurrence," murmured her brother.
"Beast!" Lady Mary exclaimed, laughing. "Now please hush, I'm trying to do this right." She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, cleared her throat, and drew herself up. "Tarkington, may I present Lady Maybrey and Miss Maybrey?" she said solemnly—and promptly sneezed.
Everyone laughed, Lady Mary pouted, and Jocelyn clapped a hand over her mouth, apologetic
It was only now, after Lady Mary's betrothal, that the dowager marchioness came to spend any time in the country. There was curiosity in London as to why the Lady Tarkington deemed it necessary for Lady Mary's betrothal party to be at Bayneville Castle. Still, society did not complain, for when invited they were not averse to journeying to the country to visit legendary Bayneville Castle.
According to the letter Jocelyn received from her friend, the house would be full by Christmas. Looking at the bucolic peace of Bayneville in its pastoral setting, Jocelyn felt a surge of joyous relief in the knowledge that she and her mother were arriving before the press of London guests bringing London society with them. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation, and her pulse quickened.
As the carriage drew up before the entrance to Bayneville, Jocelyn was delighted to see her friend coming out to greet them, a hastily donned shawl thrown about her slight shoulders. Lady Mary skipped down the wide stone steps, eager for the waiting footman to open the carriage door and set the steps. Jocelyn's anticipation matched Lady Mary's.
Behind Lady Mary, descending the broad manor steps in a sedate manner, came an elegant gentleman dressed in a soft pigeon-gray suit. His dark hair waved back off a high brow, though one recalcitrant lock curled forward. Studying his confident, settled demeanor, Jocelyn was surprised that his hair dared to fall out of place. She recognized the man at once. Here was the eighth Marques of Tarkington, Simon Charles Froborough Bayne.
It struck Jocelyn that his mien—while in high contrast to his lively sister's and his amiable cousin's—was not the somber, morose aspect she'd expected. Nor was there the arrogance one often found in a man of his portion. His was a hard face, true, full of angles and planes with a stubborn, square-cut jaw. Nonetheless there was a welcoming smile on his lips, and he radiated a calm contentedness. Here was not a man with ghosts to dispel, a mask to wear, or hidden goals to achieve. He was as he was.
Fascinated at this divergence from idle supposition, Jocelyn stared at him until her attention was recalled by the feel of Lady Mary's arms about her shoulders in enthusiastic greeting. She blushed at her preoccupation with the Marques—and not a little for the realization of the rudeness in her stare. Flustered, she fixed her eyes firmly upon Lady Mary and vowed not to let them stray again in the Marques's direction until they were introduced. She grasped her friend's hand, kissed her cheek in gentle salute, and exclaimed on how good it felt to see her again.
"And I you! I swear I have been driving poor Tarkington to distraction with my pacing and wondering when you'd arrive! I'm so glad you and Lady Maybrey could come early," Lady Mary said, turning to greet Jocelyn's mother. "Mama's in the parlor anxious for all the London news."
"After your guests have had a chance to rest and freshen up," interceded Tarkington in a calm, surprisingly low voice that rumbled along Jocelyn's spine. She gave a tiny, involuntary shiver.
"Well, yes," Lady Mary agreed with her brother. "Oh, dear, and I have been most shatter-brained again, haven't I? I haven't yet made you known to Tarkington!"
"Ah, I was wondering when you would recall that trifle," Tarkington faintly drawled.
"I do apologize, but excitement and happiness overwhelm all thoughts!"
"Odd, I thought that an everyday occurrence," murmured her brother.
"Beast!" Lady Mary exclaimed, laughing. "Now please hush, I'm trying to do this right." She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, cleared her throat, and drew herself up. "Tarkington, may I present Lady Maybrey and Miss Maybrey?" she said solemnly—and promptly sneezed.
Everyone laughed, Lady Mary pouted, and Jocelyn clapped a hand over her mouth, apologetic
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