His Little Flower

Sophie Culshaw

Description

Alexander Matthews, the Duke of Henwood, made a mistake and has been paying for it ever since. By following the orders of his father, Alexander left his childhood friend Marigold Heron behind, only to come back seven years later and want her even more. Seven years separated the two childhood friends, will an overzealous earl and a match-making mother stand in the way of true love?

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 28 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528947862
• Langue: English

Extrait

His Little Flower
Sophie Culshaw
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-02-28
His Little Flower About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Chapter One 19 February 1813, London Chapter Two 2 March 1813, London Chapter Three 3 March 1813, London Chapter Four 17 March 1813, London Chapter Five Later That Evening. London, 1813 Chapter Six 23 March 1813, London Chapter Seven 27 March 1813, White’s Gentlemen Club. London Chapter Eight That Same Night, Just Before Our Hero Finds out About a Certain Impending Engagement, London Chapter Nine 27 April 1813, London Chapter Ten 28 March 1813, London Chapter Eleven 29 March 1813, London Chapter Twelve 11 April 1813. A Carriage Somewhere in the South of England Chapter Thirteen 8 May 1812, Henwood Chapter Fourteen 13 May 1813, Henwood Chapter Fifteen Later That Afternoon, Henwood Chapter Sixteen Henwood Forest Chapter Seventeen Very Late That Same Night, Henwood Chapter Eighteen 23 May 1813, Glenalmond Epilogue 14 April 1814, Henwood
About the Author
Sophie has been reading and writing books since she was eleven. She has been writing stories on and off for years but never turned them into a full book. Finally, after finishing her degree, she wrote her first full novel.
Dedication
For my mum, who gave me my first historical romance when I was eleven and started my obsession.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Sophie Culshaw (2019)
The right of Sophie Culshaw to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788787802 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788787819 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528947862 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One

19 February 1813, London
Mary was bored. She’d been bored for the last hour and a half but until now her mother had kept her promise to not send every unappealing, dreary and downright old gentleman her way. Until now that is, as her mother was currently talking to the Earl of Hallamshire and, very unsubtlety Mary thought, pointing at her. Mary hoped her mother had just stopped to chat with the man and not, as Mary feared, decided to play matchmaker. The man was old enough to be her father for heaven’s sake! And it was said, mainly by gossiping servants, and then, just as much so by the older ladies when they thought no one was listening, although never directly to the earl and never directly to Mary, that the earl was a mean drunk. That particular piece of ever-present gossip must have escaped her mother’s bat-like ears as, while her mother desperately wanted to see Mary married, Mary knew that Oliva Heron, the Countess of Winchcombeshire, would never want her children to marry someone mean.
Mary supposed that at three and twenty, and therefore very much on the shelf, she should be glad there were still gentlemen who wanted to dance with her, even if they were old and had wandering hands. Such was the case with the Earl of Hallamshire the last three times they’d danced since the start of the season.
“Mary!” Turning at the sound of her name, Mary saw her mother and the Earl of Hallamshire walking towards her.
“Miss Heron,” murmured the earl as he bowed and kissed Mary’s hand.
Mary bobbed a polite curtsey, “My lord, how lovely it is to see you again.”
“Mary, the Earl of Hallamshire was wondering if you would accompany him in the next dance.”
Mary looked at her mother and tried to show her displeasure without being too obvious.
“Yes, Miss Heron. I’d be delighted if you would be so inclined.”
Seeing no way out of the situation, and knowing that her mother’s sparkling green eyes, which were the image of her own, were firmly fixed on her, she dared not decline. So she placed her hand on the earl’s extended arm and smiled politely at the ageing man. “Of course, my lord,” she said, “that would be lovely.”
Later that evening, Mary feigned needing to retire to her room and was now wandering around an abandoned corridor all the while trying desperately to forget how the earl’s hands had wandered during their dance. His hands had been placed on her back more often than not during their dance; it was amazing really that he’d even managed that, as the Quadrille was not usually a dance that allowed for intimate touching – unwanted or otherwise.
“Oof!” So lost in her thoughts, Mary slammed into what felt like a wall. Closing her eyes, Mary braced herself for the impending impact of her bottom on the hard ground. Strong arms snaked around Mary’s middle and her face was then pressed into a crisp cravat.
“You should look where you’re going more often, little flower,” drawled an amused voice above her.
At five foot, seven inches, Mary was uncommonly tall, and to have a man be above her height was unusual.
Looking up, Mary found herself drowning in very familiar, very blue, eyes. It took only a second for her to remember why the nickname, voice and eyes were so familiar.
“You!” Struggling in his hold, Mary wrenched herself free.
“Hello Mary.”
“It’s Miss Heron to you!” spat an outraged Mary.
He chuckled and shook his head, clearly unperturbed by her outburst and smiled that awful, yet charming, half-smile that never failed to turn her insides to mush.
“Ahh, little flower, we both know that’s not true.”
Anger and indignation rose to overcome the nostalgia and longing that simple nickname brought back. It was only thanks to years of being taught how to compose and ignore her emotions that kept her from exploding at the devilishly handsome man in front of her.
“Do not call me that, my lord.” Mary was very proud of herself when her voice came out cold and unfazed.
Alexander Matthews, the seventh Duke of Henwood looked down at the blonde-haired beauty in front of him and stifled a sigh. He wondered if she’d always hate him, and if he’d forever regret leaving her to follow his father’s orders. Despite his sober thoughts, Alexander was not one to let the opportunity to vex his little flower go, as that is what she was to him regardless of her feelings over the nickname. Leaning in close and relishing in her little intake of breath, he murmured, “You’ll always be my little flower, Marigold.”
Mary, who due to his nearness, was trying to keep the butterflies in her stomach calm, barely had time to react to his words before he turned and strode down the corridor, leaving Mary to stare after him in a mixture of annoyance and longing. Insufferable man, thought Mary, as she too turned and headed down the corridor, although in a different direction to the one the now smiling man had just gone.