The Marriage Season

Dunn Jane

Description

‘It’s not a fair world I’m afraid. Beauty or fortune carries the day. You have the beauty and I the fortune, so there’s every chance we’ll succeed’

In Regency England, marriage is everything. For young widow Sybella Lovatt, the time has come to find a suitable husband for her sister and ward Lucie. Male suitors are scarce near their Wiltshire estate, so the sisters resolve to head to London in time for the Season to begin.

Once ensconced at the Mayfair home of Lady Godley, Lucie’s godmother, the whirl of balls, parties and promenades can begin. But the job of finding a husband is fraught with rules and tradition. Jostling for attention are the two lords – the charming and irresistible Freddie Lynwood and the preternaturally handsome Valentine Ravenell, their enigmatic neighbour from Shotten Hall, Mr Brabazon, and the dangerous libertine Lord Rockliffe, with whom the brooding Brabazon is locked in deadly rivalry.

Against the backdrop of glamorous Regency England, Sybella must settle Lucie’s future, protect her own reputation, and resist the disreputable rakes determined to seduce the beautiful widow. As the Season ends, will the sisters have found the rarest of things – a suitable marriage with a love story to match?

Sunday Times bestselling author Jane Dunn brings the Regency period irresistibly to life in a page-turning novel packed with surprising revelations, which all comes wittily, gloriously, good in the end. Perfect for fans of Gill Hornby, Janice Hadlow, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and anyone with a Bridgerton-shaped hole in their lives.

Praise for The Marriage Season:

'Brilliant, sparkling and very clever.' Elizabeth Buchan

'Jane Dunn’s The Marriage Season gives all the immersive pleasure of Georgette Heyer’s brilliantly confected Regency novels, in a sublime alternative world of joy. Bridgerton look out!' Melanie Reid, The Times

'What a joy! I fell in love with the characters immediately, the storyline was brilliant, the descriptions of clothing, fashion and scene setting for that era were excellent' ★★★★★ Reader Review

'Beautifully written by the inimitable Jane Dunn.Her characters are so appealing you will not want to leave them. One of those books that you never want to end' ★★★★★ Reader Review

Praise for Jane Dunn:

‘Outstanding, perceptive and delightfully readable.’ Sunday Times Books of the Year

‘Jane Dunn has written a splendid piece of popular history with the ready-pen of a highly skilled writer, endowed with remarkable insight.’ Roy Strong, Daily Mail

‘Jane Dunn is one of our best biographers.’ Miranda Seymour, Sunday Times

What readers say about Jane Dunn:

‘Absolutely brilliant book. Easy, interesting and certainly a page-turner. Enjoyed reading this book so much.’

‘I loved this book, Jane Dunn writes with an insight into Elizabeths and Marys psyches that is mesmerising. I couldn’t put it down and was gutted when I finally finished it, at a loss of what to read next.’

‘One of the best books I have ever read. I have always been interested in this period of history and felt that this book and the way Dunn writes helps to bring history alive. Once I started reading I could not stop.’

Sujets

• Classiques
• Tous les classiques
• Historical Fiction
• New Adult
• 19th Century
• World Literature
• Historical
• Regency style
• Inglaterra
• Historical romance
• Regency architecture
• Regency
• General officer
• General
• Sagas
• Family Life
• Romance
• England
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 26 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781804835241
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE MARRIAGE SEASON


JANE DUNN
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue


Acknowledgments

More from Jane Dunn

About the Author

Sixpence Stories

About Boldwood Books
in celebration of sisters everywhere
and especially mine
1
A NOBLE LORD FALLS TO EARTH

The low-built house seemed to be dozing in the late summer sun. A golden light glinted off the leaded windows and burnished the honey-coloured stone. Emperor butterflies floated over the lavender beds flanking the portico that sheltered the studded front door. Suddenly the drowsy air was stirred by a young woman running across the lawn. Picking up her skirts, she lengthened her stride to jump the muddy carriage tracks, then struggled with the heavy oak door for a moment before dashing into the house.
‘Bella! Bella!’ She paused in the cool dark hallway and listened. The oak staircase stretched away and up, the dust motes dancing in the slanting light from the great west window on the landing. She called again. A door opened at the back of the house and an old man appeared. He looked as ancient and gnarled as an oak tree bent by the wind, but with a gay red neckerchief tied round his scrawny neck.
‘Miss Lucie, hush that clamourin’. Nuff to quicken the dead.’ He advanced slowly towards her, his eyes twinkling at the sight of the excited flushed face, her fair hair dishevelled and falling in damp tendrils round her ears.
‘Oh, Beamish, I’m sorry. Where’s my sister?’
‘Well, that would be tellin’.’ He grinned, not willing to give up his advantage too soon.
‘Oh, don’t tease.’ Lucie slipped a hand through his arm. ‘There’s something happening up at the big house. The windows are unshuttered.’
Lucie Carey had turned eighteen and country life was beginning to pall. She still rode her horse freely over the family’s acres and even trespassed on the neighbouring estate, but she longed for more exciting company than her busy sister and the elderly servants. No sight nor sound of their neighbours at Shotten Hall had been detected for the last four years. Lucie had got used to treating their land as her domain and habitually trespassed in the grounds. She had discovered two mysterious temple follies crumbling back into earth and strange dykes and ditches suggesting ancient waterworks that caught her imagination. It was a mysterious place, full of thrilling atmosphere, and the opening up of the house after so long was news indeed.
But Beamish was less excitable. ‘Aye, I hear last week they were a’comin’.’
‘Last week! Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘What’s to say, Miss? They been twigged in town. That harum-scarum Freddie is down with some cork-brained culls.’ Beamish sniffed and gazed mournfully at his young mistress. ‘All jackanapes. Too much rhino, not enough to do. Should be out sheddin’ blood in the Peninsula like the young master.’ He turned back towards the kitchen.
‘But where’s my sister?’
‘P’raps with her blessed bees,’ he said over his shoulder.
Lucie headed through the walled garden, her feet scrunching on the cinder path between wigwams of beans and rows of cabbages and parsley. She could just see through the far gate the spreading mulberry tree that marked the beginning of the orchard, but knew better than to halloo for her sister when she was with the bees. There Sybella stood, dressed in her workaday blue cambric and with her husband’s violin and bow in her hand. She lifted her instrument and began to play. The first notes were tentative and then the melody took over with a life of its own. The music floated upwards and out, vibrating between the trees, a familiar folk tune Lucie knew so well.
Perhaps it was the warmth of the afternoon, perhaps the magic of the orchard filled with sound, but a luminous envelope of light seemed to trace Sybella’s form against the humming air. Around her were five conical grass-woven beehives, her new experiment. She had explained to Lucie with excitement how these revolutionary hives opened at the top. Inside were wooden frames on which the honeycombs were built by her busy swarm of workers. She hoped it would make the harvesting of honey possible without having to kill the bees each year.
Lucie approached soundlessly over the springy grass. The trees were weighed down with apples and the bees were busy rummaging in the dusty hearts of ox-eye daisies, foxgloves and buddleia that fringed the orchard. Gently, she put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Sybella stopped playing and turned her head. Her green eyes seemed distant and unfocused; for a moment, she was lost in another world. Startled from her reverie, she smiled, her whole countenance radiating warmth and a quizzical good humour. ‘Lucie! You were so quiet, I didn’t hear you coming.’
Sybella kissed her, tucking one of the loose tendrils of her hair behind her ear. ‘You look charming even with your dress muddied like that.’ She brushed the skirt with a quick hand.
Lucie fulfilled every ideal of blue-eyed, fair-haired beauty and had a body that was fashionably sylph-like but strong too, used as she was to riding pell-mell and climbing trees.
‘Well, you, dearest Bella, are just beautiful, even in your oldest dress and with twigs in your hair.’ Lucie picked a leaf from her sister’s cloud of hair, already tumbling half-undone. They were a striking pair. Sybella knew her own dark hair and green eyes were less the fashion but she was grateful to be tall and shapely and enjoyed the fact she was a woman now, no longer a girl. Her vivid face had a sensitivity that expressed every emotion, often close to laughter but always alive with sympathy. Sybella understood how it pained her sister to be adjudged by strangers as the pretty one. How invidious were comparisons, she thought, particularly between sisters.
‘You’ve been playing to your bees again?’ Lucie quizzed her.
‘I have. They seem to like it. I’ve been practising the “Sussex Waltz” and hope we’ll play it together to entertain us in the winter. Grandpapa’s piano-forte would like you to exercise it more.’ She smiled.
‘I love playing with you, Bella. It’s so unfair, though, that we can’t play duets together in company. Why is it considered indelicate to play the violin? How vexing!’
‘Many things are improper for well-bred young ladies. But we get away with it here as long as no one sees. When you’re presented in London, you’ll have to leave your hoyden tricks behind!’
‘Oh! I had forgot. I came to tell you some news. The great house is woken up. After all these years! Its shutters are open and it has eyes again. It’s come back to life.’
‘How do you know?’ Sybella turned to regard her sister with a knowing gleam.
‘I saw for myself,’ was the defiant reply.
‘You were trespassing again. I knew it!’
‘Of course. I love their woods and no one is there apart from the few servants who keep to their quarters at the back. No one goes into the woods.’
Sybella’s frown did not diminish. ‘You must not go there while the house is inhabited. You have no idea whom you may stumble across. You don’t want to be mistaken for a poacher and shot!’
‘Beamish says it’s all over town that some young man called Freddie, although he wasn’t very complimentary in the words he used, is down from London with some wild friends. Who is Freddie? Does his family own the estate?’
‘I don’t know. I thought the house and land belonged to the Brabazon family. Perhaps he’s a son or grandson?’ She picked up her violin and began to walk with Lucie back to the house. ‘Beamish might know more. We haven’t met anyone from the estate since before our father died.’
A thought struck Sybella and she grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Lucie, promise me you won’t trespass while this Freddie and his friends are here.’ Her voice was urgent. ‘Young men in their cups can be reckless, and rude. And they won’t know you for a gentlewoman, wearing a muddied dress like that and with smudges on your nose.’
‘Oh, Bella, you’re so sensible.’ The sisters had almost reached the kitchen door. ‘I’m longing for adventure.’
‘I know, my dear. But not that sort, I assure you!’ They laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve written to Lady Godley and asked her to sponsor you this coming Season. As she’s your godmother and was a dear friend to our own mama while she lived, I hope she will be amenable.’
‘But how will we manage my clothes?’ Lucie was anguished.
‘We will do very well. I’ve been saving some money just for this occasion. We can go to that good modiste in Salisbury and get some evening dresses made. And we’re both clever with our fingers; no doubt we can refurbish some of my dresses, even use the fabric from a few of Mama’s, and add ribbons and flowers. Don’t worry about not having the right clothes.’
But Lucie was worried. She knew that their countrified ideas of what were becoming dresses would not be the same as the fashion of the haut ton in London, and she wanted to look truly up to snuff.
Sybella smiled sympathetically and slipped her arm round her sister’s waist. ‘You goose! Something you don’t appreciate, but I do, is that you are so very beautiful you could wear that faded blue muslin you like so much, and you’d still outshine them all.’ They both knew it was not quite simple but Lucy was consoled.
‘Now, I must rescue Nurse from James. I wonder where they are.’
‘Most likely down at the stables with George. You know that scamp can’t keep away.’
‘It’s wonderful he loves horses so much. Just like his father. But his language leaves much to be desired.’ Sybella walked into the sun towards the stable yard behind the house.
‘Mama! Mama!’ A small boy with an angelic face and blonde curls was running unsteadily towards her. ‘George say I can ’ave a pony. Say I’ll be good as Papa. A top—’ His brow wrinkled as he tried to remember the word he wanted. ‘A top-saw!’ he said triumphantly.
She laughed. ‘You mean a top-sawyer. But rea