Lakeshire Park Read online

  © 2020 Megan Walker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at [email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

  Visit us at shadowmountain.com

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Walker, Megan, 1990– author.

  Title: Lakeshire Park / Megan Walker.

  Other titles: Proper romance.

  Description: Salt Lake City : Shadow Mountain, [2020] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: “Amelia Moore needs to secure her sister’s engagement to Sir Ronald or else the two sisters will be left destitute. The only problem is that Peter Wood has the same goal for his own sister. Amelia and Peter begin a rivalry—one that Amelia has no choice but to win—but competing against Peter makes Amelia vulnerable to losing the only thing she has left to claim—her heart”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019045245 | ISBN 9781629727349 (trade paperback) | eISBN 978-1-62973-886-4 (eBook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Courtship—Fiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.A3595516 L35 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045245

  Printed in the United States of America

  LSC Communications, Crawfordsville, IN

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover art: Lee Avison/Trevillion Images;

  Abigail Miles/Arcangel

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  Other Proper Romance Regency Titles

  Nancy Campbell Allen

  My Fair Gentleman

  The Secret of the India Orchid

  Julianne Donaldson

  Edenbrooke

  Blackmoore

  Leah Garriott

  Promised

  Josi S. Kilpack

  A Heart Revealed

  Lord Fenton’s Folly

  The Vicar’s Daughter

  Miss Wilton’s Waltz

  Promises and Primroses

  Daises and Devotion

  To my Simon,

  King of the NICU,

  for teaching me everything I know about

  hope, courage, and genuine love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Brighton, England, 1820

  My fingers held the last chord on the pianoforte a beat longer than necessary. Another morning filled with Father’s song. When he was alive, I’d play the music over and over while he read his correspondence in the morning, and he’d hum along to the rise and fall of the melody. If I played just right, I could almost hear him still, almost feel that same exhilaration that comes from childhood, where worries are few and the future full of hope.

  But the end of the song and the strike of the clock meant it was time to prepare for my stepfather, Lord Gray, who would be returning soon from his daily bath in the sea, and I was loath to give up my freedom.

  Tucking in the bench, I picked up my stitching basket from the window seat where I’d been working earlier. I carefully collected each wayward thread, making sure to leave the cushion as clean and as plush as I’d found it.

  Golden light streamed through the glass, beckoning me to tarry. Lifting my face to feel the sun’s warmth, my eyes instinctively sought out the Royal Pavilion framed inside the uppermost right corner of the window. The building sat upon the hill a quarter mile from Gray House, its exotic domes and minarets piercing the clear England sky. What I wouldn’t give to walk inside those walls, to feel the security and ease that must come from a life of such grandeur.

  “Brighton is a bit different from London, is it not?” Clara’s reflection met mine in the window.

  “A bit more eccentric, to be sure.” I turned to face my younger sister. “But far less crowded, I’ll give it that.”

  Clara sighed. “Would you believe I miss the Season already? The society, the dinners, dancing until morning . . .” A smile touched her eyes, a first since we’d arrived back in Brighton three weeks before.

  I let out a happy sigh of my own. “And falling asleep in the coach to the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone.” When had I ever fallen asleep so easily? Years ago, perhaps. Before life struck us with spades and dug up our roots.

  Clara bit her lip. “I thought for sure we’d hear from . . . someone.”

  “We shall.” I squeezed her arm, offering her my most genuine smile. But the words rang false to my ears. Three weeks with no calls. We’d met plenty of eligible gentlemen who lived within easy distance to Gray House, but still, our door was silent.

  “Amelia,” Clara’s voice was small. “What will we do if . . . What will happen if neither of us marries before—”

  “Do not worry over such things.” I tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Worrying was my responsibility.

  “Lord Gray has worsened since our return. His coughing never ceases.” Clara’s eyes were pained, her voice dejected.

  “He promised Mama he would see to our security. For all his faults, and for all his resentment toward us, he loved her. We must trust he will see his promise through.”

  Clara looked down, unconvinced.

  “Did he not give us a Season? And your dress—we haven’t had new dresses like these in years.”

  Heaven knew I’d endured headaches for a week from all his shouting when I’d pled our case. But if I could convince the man to fund both our Season and new gowns certainly I could convince him to use his connections to our benefit. Couldn’t I?

  Clara tugged on a loose curl by her ear. “Aunt Evelyn nearly ripped my silk gown to pieces when she saw it.”

  “Do not call her that. She is hardly our aunt.” I frowned. Lord Gray’s family did not claim us so why should we claim them?

  Evelyn had been our chaperone, meeting us in London only because Lord Gray paid her royally for the task. Yet she’d kept us behind her heavy elbow at every introduction, her prized daughter directly in front of us. I had to crane my neck around Catherine
’s curls every night to carry any semblance of a conversation, forcing smiles while Evelyn told nearly every gentleman who’d inquired after my dance card that I was either too sickly or too overtired to exert myself. Catherine, however, willingly obliged every one of my suitors.

  My cheeks colored at the memory. Why had I been so quiet? So timid and so easily tossed aside? Never again.

  Straightening from the window, I refocused my thoughts. “Where have you been this morning? I did not hear you come in.”

  “Mary accompanied me on a walk along the shore. I thought perhaps the ocean could lift my spirits. The sunrise over the Channel was breathtaking.” Clara’s smile faded, and I caught her gaze lingering on the Pavilion for a moment. Her eyes looked sad and hopeless.

  My heart fell at the thought of her longing for something out of her reach. Knowing my sister—the peacekeeper, the kindest, gentlest woman I’d ever met—felt trapped in a life forced upon her was nearly more than I could bear. Mama had married Lord Gray after Father’s death to relieve us of such burdens. Only it hadn’t worked that way; our worries only escalated after she too was taken from us. And now it was my job alone to ensure Clara’s happiness. Clara’s success in society. Clara’s future.

  “Lord Gray is not far behind me, I’m afraid,” Clara said flatly, breaking the trance that held us at the window.

  I drew a heavy breath, and the familiar scent of stale smoke in the air brought me back to the present. “Then we must be quick.” I squeezed her arm and tugged her alongside me.

  Preparing for our stepfather was like preparing to walk onto a battlefield. His newspaper needed adjusting, his pillows fluffed, and his cigar box at the ready. The slightest misstep—from dropping a book to walking too heavily across the floor— could anger him.

  Sewing basket in hand, I scanned my surroundings for anything out of place. No one could find fault in this room. But Lord Gray would. That much was certain.

  As though on cue, the drawing room doors flew open with a bang that echoed through the house. Lord Gray stomped in with shoulders hunched, eyes set on his dark chair in the back corner.

  “Where is my cigar?” He bellowed hoarsely.

  “Just here.” I set my basket on the window seat and fetched Lord Gray’s cigar box from under the newspaper beside his chair. His habits were the same every afternoon, but he’d only started smoking in the drawing room since our return from London. Though I hated the smell of the smoke, and even more how it lingered on my clothes and in my hair, neither Clara nor I dared mention a word to him.

  “How was sea bathing today, Stepfather?” I asked, my shoulders tensed.

  “Cold,” he muttered. Barely bothering to clip the head, he lit a match and took a long pull from his cigar. He finally seemed to relax as he fell into his gray velvet chair.

  “Shall I fetch some tea?” Clara’s voice sounded small, pinched.

  “No,” Lord Gray growled. Without warning, he curled into himself, an alarming wheeze lifting his back up and down, up and down, followed by a deep, retching cough that rattled his breath. All was silent for a beat, and then, like the rush of an ocean wave, his voice crashed upon us. “What on earth are you doing standing around? Is there not work to be done? Look at this room, the absolute shame of it! If anyone of matter came into Gray House, they would think we live like rats.”

  I kept my voice calm, despite his rage. “Of course, Stepfather. The floor needs attending, to be sure.” I took a few careful steps backward, angling myself in front of Clara, and bent down to pick imaginary threads from the rug beneath the settee. All for guests who would never come.

  A knock sounded on the door, and our butler, Mr. Jones, walked in, bowing. “A letter for you, my lord.”

  Clara glanced at me with questioning eyes, and I could feel her wondering, hoping.

  “I shall have it.” Lord Gray steadied his voice and raised his empty hand in expectation.

  I forced my heart to settle as he broke the seal.

  It wouldn’t do to hope. Evelyn had made sure of that. I hadn’t wanted to worry Clara, but I was sure Evelyn had spoken ill of us, spreading rumors amongst the ton. Why else would we have no correspondence after spending two months in London?

  Lord Gray folded the paper into crisp lines while taking another long draw from his cigar. He endured another wheeze and another shaking cough that I could practically feel in my own lungs.

  “Tea.” His voice was hoarse and rough.

  Clara sucked in an audible breath and turned on her heels, nearly running from the room in pursuit of it.

  Lord Gray’s dreadful cough had brought us to Brighton, or rather to the healing waters of the English Channel, following in the footsteps of the Prince Regent himself. The doctor had initially diagnosed pneumonia, but after every remedy was administered and every option exhausted, Lord Gray ignored his doctor and uprooted us to Brighton. Clearly, the ocean held no magic elixir for the lungs, either.

  “Sit,” Lord Gray snapped at me. His fingers twirled the cigar, his eyes watching its embers blaze at the tip, lips pursed.

  I sat in the chair beside him and nervously straightened the pink linen skirt of my dress.

  “This letter is from Sir Ronald Demsworth of Hampshire. A well-spoken man clearly besotted by one of you.”

  My jaw threatened to fall open. Sir Ronald? The smiling, curly-headed young man Clara had chattered about incessantly? The one who’d inherited both a title and a Royal Pavilion–sized estate? Yes, he’d paid particular attention to Clara in London, but not once had he called on us through Evelyn. Why was he writing to us now?

  Lord Gray cleared his throat. “I have your interest, then? I will not waste my breath on you, Amelia, as I have already wasted enough money trying to secure a future for you—to no avail, I might add, despite affording you every luxury of a London Season. Catherine has been home for three weeks, same as you, yet she is nearly engaged. I admit I was surprised when our doors remained silent, no letters inquiring after either of you. But here we are.” He gestured briefly to the paper he held. “A baronet, no less, and an invitation to his home for a fortnight.”

  My heart jumped into my throat, and I felt a surge of relief at the idea of escape. London had seemed too good to be true, and I’d all but armored myself against the hope of leaving Gray House again so soon.

  His sunken eyes bored into mine, willing me to ask, to beg. He knew as well as I did that this invitation bore a deeper meaning, a blooming interest, and was a greater opportunity for us—for Clara—than we could possibly hope for. I also knew that neither I nor Clara had any money or means to reply affirmatively without help from our stepfather. We’d need a coach for travel, a maid to share between us, and an allowance. Asking, and certainly begging, did not come naturally to me. Clara’s reflection flashed in my memory—her sad eyes, softened from weariness and disappointed dreams.

  “Lord Gray, you have been so generous to us.” The words tasted like lemon on my tongue. “After Mama died, you’ve still protected and provided for us these past two years.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think I do any of this for you?” He spat. “Neither of you deserve this life, not with the blood of the Moores running through your veins. There is not enough of her in you to make me care beyond the promise I made regarding your protection. A promise that dies with me.”

  He’d said such things a thousand times, but the sting of such open disdain burned fresh upon my cheeks. His invocation of death lingered between us, the word billowing along with the smoke from Lord Gray’s cigar until both filled the room.

  My own life was before me, more fragile and more uncertain than I had ever imagined before, a future cracking like glass. My gaze found the bluish-gray carpet beneath his feet. “I see.”

  “Look at me,” Lord Gray demanded coldly, and I forced myself to meet his sunken eyes. I noted the darkened hollowing to
his cheekbones, the dryness of his cracked lips, and thinness of his graying hair. I wanted to look away from him, to pretend I didn’t see the truth in the labored rise and fall of his chest. But after six months with no improvements, it was glaring so obviously at me, I could not turn away.

  “Have you called for the doctor, Stepfather?”

  His countenance changed from anger to liberation. “I’ve already spoken with Dr. Wyles. He says I have no hope of recovery.” He spoke as if he were more inconvenienced than troubled by the news. “Unlike your father, you are smart. Certainly you can deduce that very shortly, everything I have will be given to Catherine’s brother, Trenton, and you will be left with nothing.”

  His words buzzed in my head like flies, blurring my vision. A tightness squeezed my chest, and my lungs fought for air.

  “Look at me, Amelia!” Urgency thundered in his voice. He waved the letter in my face, his cold eyes full of disdain. “My family will take my money and turn their backs on you when I am gone, and I would not have it any other way. Fool that I am, I bound myself for your mother’s sake before she died, or I would have rid my house of you long ago. This invitation compels me to offer one last alternative. You will go to Hampshire and secure this match. Then I shall meet Arabella again with a clear conscience.”

  “Y-yes,” I whispered, my mind swimming in thought. I’d known he resented us, known that our father had ruined his life, but I’d never imagined that his hatred ran so deep. I could no longer sit. Rising from my chair in stunned silence, my legs instinctively carried me to the door.

  “And you haven’t much time to prepare.”

  Turning, my hand loosely gripping the door handle, I watched him take another slow pull of his cigar. “How long?”

  “It appears the letter was delayed in transit. You must leave tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  The morning sun burst through my curtains, which were open enough to allow in an unwelcome stream of light. My forehead ached from the stress of last night’s rushed gathering of a fortnight’s worth of necessities. Had I slept at all?

  I rubbed my temples as Mary tiptoed in and set a tea tray on my side table before opening the curtains the rest of the way.