The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor Read online

  The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

  A Historical Regency Romance

  Patricia Haverton

  Edited by

  Maggie Berry

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Also by Patricia Haverton

  About the Author

  About the book

  Lady Amalia Gallagher, daughter of the Duke of Thornhill, is terrified.

  Having already lost her only brother to illness, and with her ailing father knocking on death’s door, she finds herself under tremendous pressure to find a suitable husband. When a new suitor appears asking for her hand in marriage, she realizes that as her time runs out, so do her choices.

  Reginald Davidson, Marquess of Lyonhall, has made a vow to protect Amalia at all costs, even if it means never confessing his true feelings for her.

  But bad things come in threes. As her father’s health grows worse by the second, Reginald suddenly goes missing, and in the manor's study, there’s a pistol with her name on it…

  Chapter 1

  Lady Amalia Gallagher bent to lay flowers on the grave at her feet. Her eyes skated over the inscription on the headstone—Lord Marshall Gallagher—though she had no need. It had been two years since he had passed on, but she still felt the tears sting her eyes and would not let them fall. She was the daughter of the Duke of Thornhill, and she would not weep in public.

  “I apologize for not visiting you earlier, brother,” she murmured. “No excuses, really, as I seldom leave the house anymore, save to visit you. Father would have come as well, but he is not well right now.”

  Blinking away her tears, she gazed around the quiet cemetery grounds, taking in the lush grass and the tall trees with their branches shading the graves below. “I miss you terribly, Marshall. So does Father. Nothing is the same anymore. He keeps pushing me to find a husband, but all I want is to look after him.”

  Breathing in deeply the fresh, clean breeze with the hint of cooler air to follow autumn waiting in the wings, Amalia nodded her respect to the dead. “I will visit more often. I promise.”

  Turning away from her brother’s grave, she lifted her skirts to pick her way carefully along the path toward her waiting carriage. The footman who attended her stood back to offer her some semblance of privacy, then fell in behind her after she passed him. Approaching the small coach, Amalia observed a man dismounting a stocky horse with a coat the color of flame, and immediately her sorrow lifted.

  “Reggie,” she exclaimed, hurrying forward. “I had no idea you came to visit Marshall, or I would have waited for you.”

  Reggie, his raven black hair tumbling in a rakish fall over his brow, grinned, his even white teeth gleaming. “I have a confession, Amalia, I did not come to visit your brother, though I know I need to pay my respects. I saw your carriage from the road.”

  He bent to kiss her cheek, his startling blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his pale complexion warm as he gazed down at her. “I have not seen you lately.”

  “All you had to do was knock on the door,” Amalia answered, her tone prim as she responded to his affectionate grin. “As Marshall’s best friend, you are always welcome.”

  “What if I wanted to knock on the door to visit you?”

  Amalia laughed. “Of course, you can. You are my friend as well, are you not?”

  “Forever and always. How is your father?”

  Her smile fading, she shook her head. “He is not well, or he would have come with me today.”

  “What is wrong? His Grace is not young, nor is he old yet.”

  “His physician is stumped, Reggie. I always fear that he will go the same way as Marshall.”

  Reggie’s expression tightened. “Never think that. He will be fine; this is only a passing issue.”

  His words brought another smile to her face. “You know just what to say to bring me comfort. Would you like to come back with me? Say hello to Father?”

  “I was planning to inquire if I might escort you home,” Reggie replied, his grin returning. “Am I invited to supper?”

  Amalia pursed her lips, eyeing him up and down in a mock examination. “Hmm. Well, you appear presentable, my dear Marquess of Lyonhall. I suppose an invitation will be extended.”

  “And you, my dear Lady Gallagher, are as beautiful as ever.”

  “You flatterer. Come along, tell me, what you have been up to lately? Have you been to your estates in the north?”

  Ambling sedately beside him toward her carriage, Amalia reflected briefly on her long friendship with Reggie that began when they were children. She, her brother Marshall, Reggie, and her cousin Patrick grew up quite close and had been an inseparable foursome. When Marshall died, they had become a threesome.

  “Yes, I only just gotten back,” Reggie replied, bringing her back to the present. “Now that I have returned to London, perhaps I might escort you to the ball at Dame Garson’s in three days?”

  Accepting his assistance into her carriage, Amalia smiled sadly down at him. “I am sorry, Reggie, you know I do not like going to parties anymore.”

  “I do know,” he replied, his devilishly handsome face slipping into a smile with that quirk she was so fond of. “I had hoped that you were starting to come out of that shell you placed around yourself.”

  “I am afraid not; it is still there and as hard as ever.”

  “I will crack it soon enough.” Mounting his horse, he grinned through the window. “Do not think I will not stop trying.”

  “You do that,” Amalia challenged, signaling her driver that she was ready to go. “Besides, you know the ton despises me now.”

  “Since when do you care what society thinks?” He reined his horse in as close as he could to make conversation easier.

  “I do not,” she replied with a sniff. “It is just easier on everyone if I remain at home and care for Father.”

  “That is not a good way to find a husband, Amalia.”

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Do not start on me, Reggie,” she replied, glancing out at the coach and wagon traffic on the wide avenue. “Father has been nagging me for months to get married. I have no desire to do so, however.”

  “Why ever not?” Reggie asked, his brow furrowed. “With Marshall gone, you are his sole heir. His dukedom must pass to someone.”

  Amalia sucked in a slow deep breath and blew out her cheeks. She looked at him. “I know,” she replied, her voice soft. “But how can I be certain it is me my future husband wants, and not the wealth and titles and estates?”

  Something odd flashed across Reggie’s expression, and his face closed as he glanced away. Confused, Amalia watched him gaze straight ahead through his horse’s ears before he finally turned back to her. “Then I suppose you should choose wisely then.”

  Chapter 2

  Reggie helped Amalia down from the carriage onto the wide circular drive at the immense London mansion belonging to the Duke of Thornhill. He tried to ignore the sharp ache in his chest that happened whenever he was near her, a sickness of his heart that only Amalia’s love could cure. She did not regard him as a potential husband; she did not return his passionate feelings, an
d most likely never would.

  His hand still in hers, he gazed down into her golden-brown eyes, wishing, yet feeling hopeless, that one day he would see the love and not simple friendship within them. “Will His Grace be able to join us for supper?” he asked, making useless conversation as a means to allay that unceasing pain.

  “I hope so,” Amalia replied, striding up the steps to the front doors. A pair of bowing footmen swung them wide, and Reggie accompanied her across the wide echoing foyer. His father and hers had been friends as well as business associates, so Reggie spent a great deal of time in this house as a child, then as a young man. His own townhouse lay in the same neighborhood not far away, and many members of London’s high society owned stately homes along the quiet, tree-lined road.

  The butler, who had been employed by the former Duke of Thornhill, bowed as Reggie and Amalia strolled across the grand entryway. “Hello, Perkins,” Amalia said. “Do you happen to know where my father is?”

  “Yes, My Lady, he is having a drink in the library.”

  As far as Reggie knew, the aging butler had never been addressed as anything except Perkins. If he had a first name, he never knew what it was, and it was impolite to ask.

  As he and Amalia climbed the stairs toward the second floor, he bent to her ear. “You realize he was old when we were quite young? He does not seem to age at all.”

  Amalia giggled. “I know. But he is getting old, Reggie. He does not look it, but he is having difficulty with his joints these days. He will never admit it, of course, and would be scandalized if Father offered to limit his duties for the sake of his health.”

  “He is one of those who will serve until the day he dies, I expect.”

  “I know, and it breaks my heart.”

  Reggie eyed her sidelong. “How so?”

  “He is a member of the family, Reggie,” she said with a hint of impatience. “The thought of losing Perkins is akin to losing my father.”

  “I have always loved that about you, Amalia,” Reggie commented, his grin returning. “How much you care for your servants.”

  “Yes. Well, I know you do, too. I do not understand how so many people of our station do not regard them as people, but only tools. I never liked that.”

  At her knock on the library door, a gruff voice invited them to enter. Reggie opened it for her, and they strolled into the vast, book-lined room. His Grace, Noah Gallagher, the Duke of Thornhill, glanced up from the book he was perusing and smiled broadly at the sight of him.

  “Reginald,” he exclaimed, rising as Reggie bowed. “What a most welcome surprise. Come in, have a drink. Brandy?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, thank you.”

  Amalia curtseyed before planting a kiss on her father’s cheek. “You look better, Father,” she said as the Duke gestured for a footman to serve Reggie with brandy and Amalia with wine. “I am so pleased to see it. I invited Reggie to supper. I hope you do not mind.”

  “No, of course not, Amalia, it has been too long since Reginald came to visit. How are you, boy?”

  “Quite well,” Reggie answered, sitting down after the Duke did. “Amalia tells me you have been ill.”

  “Yes, but I will be fine in a day or two. Tell me what has been happening around the realm.”

  Keeping his eyes from Amalia with a concentrated effort, Reggie spoke of his estates in Northumberland and his thriving horse and cattle business. She listened to their conversation and sipped her wine. She, no doubt, was unaware of how her stunning eyes on him merely forced his heart into a renewed ache. How can I talk of business when I want to ask her to marry me? I have been in love with her since I was twelve years old.

  “You have your father’s gift for horses,” the Duke commented, his eyes, so much like Amalia’s, glinting. “As well as his business sense. You will do well, Reginald.”

  “Why have you never called him ‘Reggie’ like everyone else?” Amalia complained.

  The Duke snorted. “He is always Reginald to me, daughter. Did I tell you Patrick arrived while you were out?”

  Amalia brightened. “No, you did not. Why is he not here with you?”

  “I believe he mentioned the desire to write a few letters before supper. He will join us then.”

  Feeling a small stab of jealousy at the knowledge that Amalia’s cousin was in the house, Reggie tried to squash it. The Duke’s younger sister’s second child, Patrick Miller, had grown up as close to the Gallagher siblings as he himself had. His status as a second son prevented him from ever courting Amalia, yet Reggie could never seem to be able to drop his possessiveness of her whenever Patrick was near.

  “What is he doing these days?” Reggie took a mouthful of his brandy in an effort to swallow the pang.

  “He is currently working as the export manager for the Earl of Bainbridge,” the Duke replied. “I am considering offering him better wages if he consents to work for me instead.”

  Reggie inwardly winced. That would mean he would be around Amalia that much more. “Splendid idea, Your Grace. He must be performing excellently for His Lordship.”

  Amalia clapped her hands. “Keep everything in the family.”

  The Duke nodded. “Yes, I have been hearing great things about my nephew in the city. Very smart young man. He will go far, you know.”

  I prefer him to be in Scotland. Not even the Orkneys are far enough away for my comfort. “Then, he will be a wonderful asset.”

  “Of course, he will,” Amalia replied, her smile full and happy.

  His jealousy merging into dull anger, Reggie understood his own reaction to Patrick. While they were all close as youngsters, and once Reggie realized there could be no wife for him save Amalia, anyone else Amalia loved became a target for his enmity. Even if a blood cousin who had no claim on her hand in marriage, all that mattered was that Amelia loved him.

  She loves you, too, you remember. Except I want—no, I need—her to see me as a potential husband and life partner.

  Hiding his emotions behind a pleasant façade, Reggie absently wondered what her reaction might be if he, at last, confessed his feelings for her. She is too well-bred to laugh in my face. But I could not stand it if she looked at me with pity and said she could never feel the same.

  Thus, Reggie kept his love for Amelia closed inside him, a burning ache that might never find a cure.

  Chapter 3

  Patrick Miller knew his uncle Noah, the Duke of Thornhill, was a stickler for propriety and punctuality at mealtimes. Although a genial, even-tempered man, the Duke politely but firmly demanded family and guests dress properly and arrive at the dining room promptly. As a young prankster, Patrick would enter the dining room one minute late and still garbed in his less-formal clothes.

  He tried that only once.

  Grinning at his reflection in the looking glass as he brushed his hair, he recalled the incident with humor. “I certainly learned my lesson that day, Uncle,” he muttered. He now planned ahead what he would wear and how long it would take him to get ready for supper.

  His happy mood faded upon reaching the dining room exactly on time and discovering the presence of Reggie Davidson, the Marquess of Lyonhall, escorting Amalia. Covering his burst of annoyance, he bowed low. “My Lord. Amalia.”

  Even as Amalia greeted him warmly and offered her cheek for his kiss, he saw Reggie’s eyes shutter. Lord Lyonhall was even less happy to see Patrick than Patrick was to see Lord Lyonhall. “Mr. Miller,” Reggie intoned coldly.

  Amalia gazed between the two of them, a small frown on her beautiful face. “What is wrong? Why are you both so formal with each other?”

  “I suppose it has been too long since we have seen one another,” Patrick suggested. He held out his hand. “Reggie.”

  With a tight smile, Reggie accepted it. “Patrick. I have heard good things about you.”

  “Really? I am certain they are not true.” Patrick grinned.

  The footmen swung open the doors to the dining room, and Patrick yielded entrance to Reg
gie due to his superior rank. His Grace stood just inside, speaking with the old butler, and glanced up as the three of them offered their respects. “I was beginning to think you were late,” he commented as Perkins bowed and retreated. “Come in, sit.”

  As the lowest ranking person at the table, Patrick was seated furthest from the Duke while Reggie sat at his right hand. His annoyance grew as His Grace ignored his nephew for a time and spoke to Reggie about horses, a topic that he felt he knew more about than the upstart Marquess. I should have been born first.

  His resentment at being the second son of the Viscount of Martindale had burned within him since the day he understood what that meant. His older brother, the current Viscount, had married a wealthy heiress and already had an heir and a spare, which meant Patrick had little chance of ever inheriting anything. It is not fair that the eldest gets everything. It never has been.

  The Duke’s voice broke into his thoughts. “How are you doing under Lord Bainbridge, nephew?”

  “Very well, Uncle,” Patrick replied, covering his lapse easily. “Though he has not followed up with his promise of a higher salary.”

  “Indeed?” The Duke frowned slightly. “That is hardly good business. After supper, we will go into the drawing-room and talk. You know I refuse to talk business at the table.”

  “Of course, Uncle.”

  Patrick observed Reggie studiously not looking at him, and inwardly chuckled. He knew the man was desperately in love with Amalia, and that his cousin merely considered Reggie a friend. He also realized that was the source of Reggie’s cold enmity toward him, even though Patrick could never aspire to marry her. The blood relationship might not hinder a courtship; however, the Duke would never consider it, even if Amalia loved him that way.