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  REUNITING LADY MARGUERITE

  A Regency Romance

  Lydia Pembroke

  ©Copyright 2019 Lydia Pembroke

  All Rights Reserved.

  License Notes

  This Book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  Disclaimer

  This story is a work of fiction any resemblance to people is purely coincidence. All places, names, events, businesses, etc. are used in a fictional manner. All characters are from the imagination of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Table of 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

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lydia Pembroke

  Here is Your preview of Book 4 in the Lower Nettlefold Dunsmore House Series Rekindled Hope for Miss Georgette

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  Miss Margaret Loxley basked in the balmy summer afternoon, sitting up against the leathery fabric of the colourful tent. She sipped from a cup of elderflower cordial which had been gratefully given to the troupe by one of the day’s earlier spectators.

  She smiled as the sweet and earthy flavour tingled her taste-buds, reminding her of childhood days spent in Hexham. It refreshed her parched mouth and dry throat as she let the sun’s warmth drift across her face, drawing her deeper into a soporific haze.

  “Sleeping on the job, are we?” A voice distracted her from her serene daydream.

  She blinked her hazelnut eyes open and smiled.

  “I was merely enjoying the brief respite, Mr. Edgbaston.”

  “And supping all of our gifts, I see?” He chuckled, the sound light and carefree. “And how many times must I ask you to call me Drake. There are no airs and graces within the Halcyon Players.”

  Mr. Drake Edgbaston was a curious man, with dark curls and piercing blue eyes. Many thought him handsome and somewhat roguish, and whilst Margaret agreed with the latter part, she was not so certain of the former. There was an air of menace about Drake that she had never been able to dispel within herself, and she had seen him get into his fair share of drunken brawls, to prove her theory. However, he had always been kind and courteous to her, ensuring that she had her own private quarters whenever they took to the road, perpetually venturing towards the next town, and the next, and the next.

  “It is remarkably pleasant to sup elderflower cordial in the height of summer, Mr. Edgbaston. I could not help myself.” She cradled the cup in her hands, lest he take it from her. Although her childhood had not been a happy one, she held onto a handful of pleasant memoires. Hiding behind the convent with a stolen bottle of cordial and drinking it in the warmth with a group of the girls, in the same position as her. Singing hymns in midwinter, with snow falling outside the church windows. Oh, how she adored the snow. The smell of it, the feel of it, the crispness of it underfoot, when it had freshly fallen.

  But it was summer now, and thoughts of snow were far away. She clearly remembered her final week at the convent, in which she had been sent to town on an errand, only to discover that a travelling troupe of players and singers had arrived in the square. She had quite forgotten her task and had joined the gathering crowd to watch them. It was in that moment that her life had changed, at the age of nineteen. She had joined the players prior to their departure from Hexham, at the agreement of Drake, who had been charmed by her innocence and her sweet, clear voice. And she had never thought to look back.

  She was certain, even now, that the nuns would have been furious at her stealthy escape, but they had not raised a finger to bring her back into the fold. She had caused them enough trouble, and they had likely been glad to see her gone from their care, after the initial surprise.

  “We take the stage in ten minutes, just to warn you. I hope that pretty voice of yours is suitably prepared?”

  Drake smiled, a strange glint in his blue eyes.

  She nodded.

  “Always, Mr. Edgbaston.”

  “Miss Loxley, please. It is Drake.”

  “I would prefer to call you Mr. Edgbaston, for you are intent on calling me Miss Loxley. It is the proper thing to do,” she insisted.

  “Then, I see our battle must continue.”

  He laughed and turned away, disappearing behind the tent.

  Setting down her cup and getting to her feet, Margaret smoothed down the olive green of her gown and plucked away the motes of dandelion and rapeseed flowers that had drifted from the fields beyond. The town was named Waterham and was nestled deep in the English countryside. She had spied signs for two other towns nearby, named Upper and Lower Nettlefold, and she imagined they would soon travel there, too, to perform to the charming country folk. Checking her reflection in the crooked mirror that hung from the back of the tent, she fixed a few of her unruly fair curls and tucked them back into the olive-green ribbon that she’d tied about her hair.

  She readjusted the lace choker around her neck, setting the green glass jewel in the direct centre, before lifting the tent flap and ducking inside.

  The usual chaos was afoot within. Grown men in dresses hurrying to apply circles of rouge to their grizzled cheeks, whilst the rest recited lines over and over, in a vain attempt to get them to stick within memory. Margaret revelled in the pre-performance hubbub.

  She would find as seat on one of the low, milking stools as she watched them. These eight souls had become her brothers and her family over the last six years, and she adored every single one of them. Although, she did miss the company of women from time to time.

  “Are we ready?” Drake entered the tent and looked at his players.

  “Ready,” one of the men, a youthful fellow named Charlie, replied. He tended to play the part of the young damsel in all of the Players’ performances, as Margaret was only ever called upon to sing. Drake was of the mind that the stage was no place for a young lady, but he viewed the art of song in a different manner.

  Drake found Margaret in the gloom.

  “Miss Loxley, might you sing for us?”

  “I should be delighted.” She chuckled as she rose from her stool and followed him through another curtain, which separated the backstage area from the stage itself. Everything could be folded up and packed away into four caravans, but it always left Margaret in awe.

  Drake took her hand and helped her up the narrow stairs to the stage itself, where the audience awaited. They had set up the tent on the outskirts of the town. However, that had not dissuaded the people from congregating. New arrivals were always exciting, especially when they had some entertainment to offer. A Frenchman by the name of Emanuel sat to one side, with his harp set between his legs. They nodded to one another as he began to play, each gentle brush of the strings eliciting ethereal, otherworldly music that made her heart soar. This was the moment she loved above all others, when it was simply her, and the stage, and the harp, and her voice.

  She began to sing, and the audience fell silent. The notes came with an easy fluidity, matching the subtlety of the harp in the most exquisite way. Her voice rose high and clear, swelling across the crowd in a stirring symphony. As she gazed out upon them, wanting them to feel the sad emotion within her words, she saw their eyes widen in regard. Eve
ry single person stood enraptured. She saw mothers clutching children, and men watching in silent awe, whilst even the infants who had formerly been running about paused to listen to her.

  She reached her favourite part of the song, where she spoke of a young woman searching the forest for her lost love, when her eyes fell upon a young man, standing off to the side of the crowd. He was staring at her with such intensity that she could not bring herself to look away. He stood tall and striking, with broad shoulders and an elegant poise. His face appeared handsome and kind, with smiling brown eyes and a curling mane of golden hair. He reminded her somewhat of a lion, though not nearly so frightening. In fact, there was nothing frightening about him at all.

  He smiled and her note almost faltered. It seemed to light him up from within, making those brown eyes sparkle in the summer sunshine. Still, she pressed on, refusing to allow such a man to unnerve her. Holding her note and letting it soar from her lungs, she smiled back with bold brightness, for the song had turned more hopeful and so had she.

  Chapter Two

  Mr. Leopold Fox could not tear his eyes away from the charming songstress who had taken to the stage. Indeed, in all his twenty-five years, he had never heard a voice so endearing. There was a sadness in it that belied the young lady’s youthful years, for it spoke of a lost love that she could not possibly have endured. At least, he hoped she had not, for he did not like to contemplate such a thing.

  She smiled at me, I am certain of it.

  He was not the sort of gentleman who liked to congratulate himself, nor did he like to honour his own fortunate appearance, but he could not mistake the focus of her eyes upon him. She did not seem to be looking at anyone else in the crowd. In that moment, it seemed as if they were the only two people in existence, her song being sung solely for him.

  He wondered if he had somehow stumbled upon a strange otherworld, in which he now espied an angel in human form. She certainly resembled an angelic young lady, with her fair, blonde hair and her unusual, hazelnut eyes.

  The olive-green gown she wore was much too mature for a young lady of her age and beauty, but he supposed the choice had not been made by her.

  In truth, it felt as if serendipity had brought him here, at this very moment, for he did not live in the town of Waterham. No, he was a resident of the nearby Lower Nettlefold, some forty minutes down the road from here. He had only come to Waterham to conduct some business and had found himself following the crowd towards the Players’ tent.

  Now, he was glad he had. For, otherwise, he would never have had the charming fortune of listening to this young lady sing.

  He almost felt bereft when, at last, she turned her gaze away from him and began a new song. This one was lighter and far happier, and she addressed it to the children who had gathered at the front of the stage. They rested their little chins on the wooden panels and gaped up at her in awe. He envied their ability to get so close to her, without arousing disapproving glances.

  Felicity would adore this. He thought of the cheerful, ruddy-cheeks of his young daughter and sighed. He rarely had the opportunity to think of anyone but her, and even faced with such exquisite beauty, she popped into his mind again. For so long, Felicity had been his only family in this world. Everything he did led back to her.

  And yet, for a fleeting moment, he forgot his sole position as a father and remembered that he was a young gentleman, in his own right. He could admire the beauty of a young lady without guilt, for what could come of such a meeting?

  Nothing, he felt sure. Even so, a hint of curiosity lingered in his mind, and would not be suppressed, as she continued to sing in that enrapturing voice.

  Who are you?

  He felt compelled to find out.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Hesitantly, Leopold made his way around to the back of the tent. The performance had finished several minutes ago, and the crowd had dispersed. Several young men were loitering to get a glimpse of the young songstress, prompting him to feel a sudden surge of foolishness. He was about to turn and leave, when he heard a sharp scream pierce the air. He whirled around in time to see a horse bolt from behind the tent, with the songstress upon the saddle.

  She gripped the reins as if her life depended on it, frantically trying to bring the horse to a halt. But it would not slow. Instead, it charged along across the field, heading for the distant Nettlerush River. The whites of the beast’s eyes showed, letting him know that something had spooked the poor creature.

  Without thinking, he sprinted for the nearest horse he could see— a haltered chestnut mare which grazed beside the tent. Using the skill at horsemanship which he had gained in his youth, he scooped up the dangling halter rope and leapt onto the mare’s back and urged it to follow the bolting horse. The creature obeyed the dig of his heels as he pushed it onwards, his thighs gripping the mare’s bare back in order to prevent himself from tumbling off.

  He caught up with the fleeing horse some minutes later, and drew up beside the frightened songstress. She gazed up at him with pleading eyes, her knuckles white as they grasped onto the reins.

  “Help me!” she begged, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “Everything will be all right,” he promised, as he drew closer to the horse. Reaching out, he snatched at the horse’s reins and began to pull it into a hard circle, slowing it as he did. It resisted, then slowed, half rearing in protest as it finally came to a halt, almost tipping the songstress from the saddle. His hand shot out to stop her from falling as the cooperative mare stood steady beneath him.

  The horse came back down to the ground with a hefty thud. It whinnied in distress, but it was no longer running wild. Leopold slid from the back of his horse and hurried to the front of the distressed animal. There, he held tight to the bridle and looked into the horse’s eyes, whispering soothing words to it, and smoothing his hand along the noble snout in an attempt to calm its fractious nerves. It shook its head several times, before stilling.

  “The creature is calm now,” Leopold said, keeping his hand on the reins in case it bolted again. “Please, allow me to lead you back to the tent, Miss—” He did not know her name, for she had only been introduced as ‘The Songbird’. It was no doubt intended to increase the mystery surrounding her, but he longed to know her true name.

  “Margaret Loxley, Sir. Miss Margaret Loxley.”

  He smiled. “Like Robin the Hood?”

  “It is not my given surname.” She blushed faintly. “I chose it when I joined the players.”

  “And what is your real name, Miss Loxley?”

  She shrugged with a sudden sadness.

  “I do not have one.”

  How very peculiar. He did not press the matter as he turned the horse around and began to lead it back to the tent. The horse he had commandeered followed obediently, no doubt eager to return to her peaceful grazing.

  “Might I know your name?” Margaret asked.

  He smiled.

  “Mr. Leopold Fox, at your service.”

  “I must thank you for your quick actions. I should hate to think what might have happened, had you not ridden after me in so heroic a manner.”

  “As would I, Miss Loxley.”

  “You were watching me sing, were you not? I believe I saw you amongst the crowd.”

  He nodded. “I was. I must say, you have a rather charming voice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fox. It is the only gift I have been blessed with.”

  “I find that somewhat difficult to believe, Miss Loxley.”

  She dropped her gaze and he wondered if he had been too bold.

  He realised that she likely encountered a hundred young, infatuated gentlemen who wished to know more of her, and flattered her with pretty words. And yet, he did not wish to be the same as those young men.

  “What were you doing upon this horse?” he asked, searching for another avenue of conversation.

  He wanted to hear her speak again, for her normal voice was almost as sweet as her song.
/>   “I often ride after a performance, in order to regather my thoughts.” She paused. “And, ordinarily, to avoid anyone who may wish to speak with me. I do not intend to be discourteous towards their kindly-meant intentions, it is only that I often find myself rather emotional after I have sung, and I get somewhat embarrassed when people see me in such a state.”

  She grows more charming by the second.

  “Was the horse spooked?”

  She nodded. “A young man sprang out from behind the tent and alarmed it. My gelding is usually a calm and gentle beast, but I believe that he was frightened and sought to escape the perceived danger.”

  The gelding gave the truth to her words – it had settled completely, and walked along, steady and calm. He released his hold on its rein, allowing her the dignity of controlling her own mount – but he watched it carefully, lest it startle again.

  “Horses are easily alarmed,” Leopold replied.

  “I must say, if it is not too bold, I am rather impressed by your skill. It is not every gentleman who could ride without a saddle, and not fall to the ground.”

  “That is very true. In my youth, I was quite the horseman, though I find less opportunity these days. I used to practice a great deal, and I am pleased that I could find some use for such abilities, after all this time.”

  He thought back to much happier days, in which he had charged through fields and woods without a saddle, revelling in the freedom of being alone— man and beast, and nothing more. They had been simpler times, in which he had been content and carefree, with no weight upon his heart. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he would dream of those days, though they now felt as if they belonged to another man entirely.

  “If only we were a circus, and not a troupe of players, I would have to insist you joined us.”

  She chuckled softly, her hands still gripping the reins more tightly than usual. He could sense her continued anxiety, though she covered it well.