Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1) Read online

  Beneath Springs Rain

  Ashton Brides, Book 1

  Rebecca J. Greenwood

  About the book

  Miss Eliza Moore has fallen.

  Once a pursued heiress, now she’s far worse than the poor relation—vicious rumors have caused her to be cast out onto the streets.

  Lord Daniel Ashton has been in love with Eliza since his youth. When he learns she has been ruined, he races to save her by offering his hand in marriage.

  Eliza agrees to the marriage only to thwart the machinations of a lecherous villain. She doesn’t trust anyone with her heart, not even a man with kind eyes and strong arms who claims to love her beyond reason.

  Will Daniel be able to help Eliza feel safe again after the betrayals of her life? Is he doomed to forever love his wife, but to never receive her love in return?

  Beneath Spring’s Rain is a clean Regency romance with a threatening villain and closed-door intimacy between a married couple. Join Eliza and Daniel in their journey to happiness together.

  Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except in the form of brief quotations for the purpose of review. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents portrayed in it are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

  Front cover design by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  Editing by Laura L. Walker

  www.rebeccajgreenwood.com

  First edition

  Contents

  Beneath Spring’s Rain

  About the book

  Table of 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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Author’s Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Other Regency Romances by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Five weeks before April 24, 1817

  The butler stood in the doorway of her cousins’ rented London townhouse.

  “I have been instructed to not allow you entrance, miss. Only to give you this.” He handed Eliza Moore a folded note and shut the door in her face.

  She stared at the closed door in disbelief.

  The March wind struck the exposed portions of her neck. The black ribbons of her bonnet whipped in the wind, and the skirts of her dark pelisse pressed against her legs.

  The scent of rain was in the air. Heavy clouds rolled overhead.

  Her heart beat an uneasy rhythm in her chest. Her stomach trembled.

  There must be some mistake. This did not make sense.

  Her hands clenched around her leather folio and crinkled the folded sheet of paper. She lifted it with a shaking hand and read the simple inscription: Miss Moore.

  She took in a deep breath of heavy London air to steady herself, and opened it.

  Miss Moore,

  We have discovered your ruination. We think it best that our young ladies, Miss Broughton and Miss Margaret Broughton, not be tainted by association and cohabitation with one who has a reputation as tarnished as yours. You are no longer welcome in our home.

  Inform us of the direction of your next establishment, and we will have your trunk and belongings delivered there post-haste.

  Your cousin,

  Mrs. W. Broughton

  Eliza felt her knees buckling. She might fall. She stumbled over to the railing and held onto it with one hand.

  There had to be some mistake. What ruination?

  Yes, there were foul rumors, but that was all they were. She had not done anything wrong. This was a mistake!

  She clenched the folio of newly purchased sheet music to her chest and steadied herself. She raised her hand to the door knocker and slammed it down three times.

  She waited.

  Another three.

  She continued. She pounded and pounded with the knocker. No one answered the door.

  The vibrations of the metal rang through her hand, making the bones ache. She switched her folio to the other hand and knocked with her left.

  Calm. Civilized. Of good breeding.

  When Eliza had left the house scarcely an hour before, the maid who had accompanied her on her shopping expedition had been unusually quiet. Eliza had asked her if something was amiss, but all she said was, “No, miss.” She had avoided Eliza’s gaze.

  No one answered her knocks. The house was silent and still. The window curtains did not even twitch.

  The blank windows of the other townhomes on the street, well kept but still only on the acceptable edge of Mayfair, stared accusingly down at her.

  The maid had disappeared. Scurried down the basement stairs to the servants’ entrance, probably.

  The servants’ entrance.

  Eliza looked down over the front entrance railing to the stairs that led to the servants’ access door.

  She abandoned the main entrance and clung to the railing on the steep and narrow stairs down into the basement level. The walls on either side rose up around her. Above her head was a narrow slot of sky cumbered with heavy gray clouds.

  The brickwork landing was scrubbed clean and empty. She swallowed down the tightness in her throat and knocked firmly at the servants’ door.

  It opened a few moments later. A scullery maid Eliza had never met before looked at her with wide eyes.

  “Who’s that at the door, girl?” The voice of Cook bellowed from inside the kitchen.

  The girl squeaked.

  Should Eliza force her way past this timid girl? Yes. Eliza shouldered her way past the girl with a murmured, “Pardon me.” She was almost to the kitchen when the large, aproned bulk of the Broughtons’ London-hired cook blocked her path.

  “Oh, no. We’ve got strict instructions, girl, and you’re not entering this house this way or any other. The mistress won’t have the likes of you here anymore.” Her face contorted with scorn. “Now, scat!”

  Eliza’s eyes widened, but she drew herself up to her full height, several inches taller but several stones lighter than stern-faced Cook, and stood her ground. “I beg your pardon?” She straightened her neck and tilted her he
ad up. She had never in her life been spoken to in such a way by one of the servants’ class!

  “You heard me! A girl who’ll go a-whoring ain’t welcome.”

  “A-whore—!” Her voice caught in her throat. “This is infamous! I have never, would never—!” Her heart pounded roughly against her ribs, her knees trembled. She hadn’t! She swallowed and forced rational speech to get past her blocked throat and scattered mind. “What proof? What witness of this horrid accusation does Mrs. Broughton have?”

  “Plenty enough, I’m sure. Out! Don’t want your taint any further.” Cook’s heavy rolling pin smacked against her beefy hand, the muscles in her forearms flexing. She moved forward, her bulk pressing into Eliza’s space.

  “James and Phillip, show ‘er out.”

  The footmen, tall and imposing, came into view with narrowed eyes and set faces.

  The scullery maid had scuttered away from behind her.

  The imposing three advanced. Eliza uttered weak protests to unlistening ears and inched backwards. They did not stop until Eliza found herself through the door and on the roofless landing once again. The door slammed behind her. The sound of the bolt sliding home rang with a resolute clank.

  Eliza stood motionless. A drizzle of rain reached her bonnet and shoulders. Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and her stomach was a roiling knot of horror. She fought down panic. What would she do? Where could she go?

  She forced herself to walk back up the steps. She stood sightless at the top, the street a line of closed doors before her. Her brain churned in fruitless circles.

  A sound of traces jangling alerted her to the presence of a dark coach waiting near. It was too well-appointed to be a hackney but had no identifying marks. It stood a few yards from her, its horses stamping, the coachman well-bundled from the chill March afternoon with a muffler around his face and a hat pulled low.

  The street was otherwise empty.

  The door to the coach swung open, and a man descended from it without assistance from a footman. Her heart seized, stuttered, and began pounding blood into her ears. It was the Earl of Crewkerne.

  “The lovely Miss Eliza Moore. It is a pleasure. Always a pleasure.” He tipped his tall hat and ran his eyes over her. His lips twisted up and his blue eyes hooded.

  Her skin crawled as his gaze went over her. Everywhere his eyes lingered left her feeling like insects ran over her skin.

  He was a handsome man despite being middle-aged, his well-cut blond hair hiding any touches of grey, lines of dissipation only beginning to mar his even features. The cut of his clothes and the jewels that flashed in his cravat and on his little finger proclaimed him a nobleman of taste.

  She had once welcomed his attentions. But she hadn’t known, as she did now, what those attentions entailed.

  “What do you want?” She took a step back, pressed against the wrought-iron railing behind her.

  He smiled, and the sight of it soured her stomach.

  It was the wrong question.

  He turned his mouth down and raised his brows in exaggerated sadness. “I have discovered your unfortunate circumstances. Most alarming. But I felt in my heart that I could offer assistance to you. To alleviate your unfortunate predicament.”

  She tightened her lips and looked away from him. She would not answer this man.

  “You have been ruined, my dear.”

  “I have done nothing!” she snapped.

  “Have you not? But the whole of London knows of the sweet kiss we shared. It is most unfortunate that Mrs. Clayton stumbled upon us in our private moment. I feel culpable for your alarming predicament. For news of it has spread, and as these things do, all London now talks of you. The tales have expanded, and I’m afraid, become more lurid with each telling. I do have something of a reputation in the Ton.” He took two steps towards her.

  She swallowed, her hands clenched, and edged away.

  “Now a simple kiss has become whispers of special services you’ve given several gentlemen. Most interesting services.”

  “I have done no such thing!”

  “Ah, but they believe you did. And your esteemed cousins no longer welcome you in their home. So you see, my dear, though you may not have participated in all the Ton is accusing you of, that does not matter.” He paused, looked at her with a semblance of pity. “Where will you go, Miss Moore?”

  “I have friends.” Her voice trembled.

  “Of those currently in town, who could afford to take you in? Your friends, though they have been friends for years, will not want your taint as well.”

  He stepped closer, mincing forward with his cane, his finger at his chin. “Let us think. The Misses Keele? They can’t afford to, though they might disbelieve the rumors. They are not rich enough to risk ruin.”

  She clutched the leather folio before her as a shield.

  “Mrs. Smith-Jeffreys? Her husband would not allow her to associate with one so fallen.” He smiled a wicked smile. “Of course, a brothel would welcome you at once. Food, shelter, and a warm bed—one warmed by many men.”

  Her shoulders curled in, her gorge rising. She would be sick. She breathed heavily through her nose. She would not vomit before this man!

  “But what a terrible picture, your loveliness and refinement wasted on the rough rabble. Out of the goodness of my heart, I offer you much better.” He came closer. Too close. He was not a tall man, and she was not a short woman, but still his threatening presence loomed over her. She pushed away from the railing and backed away from him.

  “I offer you a warm, beautiful home. Servants, clothing, jewels. A carriage. Riding horses. A pianoforte. A fine drawing room where you can entertain. The best money can buy. And a warm bed, with only one man lying in it. One who will cherish you, my beauty.”

  He reached out his hand, bare of any civilizing glove, and brushed the backs of his fingers against her jaw. She shuddered.

  “Would that not be better, my darling, than the streets? A cold corner? Or a warm brothel? Where else does a girl in ruin turn? You once greeted me with joy in your eyes, Eliza. Turn to me that way again. I offer you the world.”

  Anger kindled and flamed in her gut. Much better than this desperate cringing. Her fingers curled. She wished to claw his despicable, lying eyes out of his face.

  “And your wife?” She hissed the question between her teeth.

  “What of her? Content in the country.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I would keep you in London. This is where you shine.”

  “I am a lady, Lord Crewkerne. A lady. No man’s mistress.”

  His eyes lit, and a dangerous smile curled his lips. “A fallen lady.” And he reached for her again.

  She smacked his hand away and edged further from him. He advanced a step, and she turned, grabbed up her skirts, and ran.

  His voice echoed in the empty street. “You are mine, Eliza! Running will not change your fate!”

  She gritted her teeth, skidded around the corner and out into another, more trafficked street.

  She clutched her music folio to her chest and darted around finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, past servants and workers, uncaring that her actions appeared unladylike. Startled voices followed her.

  Her bonnet fell free of her head, and bounced on her back, held only by its black ribbons. She felt the pins loosen in her hair as her dark strands whipped around her face in the wind.

  Heavy, wet drops struck her face, chilled her forehead to aching. A deluge rained down on her from above.

  Chapter 2

  Five days before April 24, 1817

  Captain Lord Daniel Ashton waited in the brightly colored room and examined the decor with curiosity. His uncle, Theodore Harlow, had recently returned from India, and judging by the furnishings in his sitting room, had brought a large portion of the subcontinent back with him.

  An Indian butler, dressed as if he were still in India and not in England, had instructed Daniel to await his uncle in the drawing room.

  Daniel pi
voted on his jackboot heels, taking in the bright draperies edged in gold, the paintings of stylized men and women in colorful settings and exotic clothing, and the furniture with an over-abundance of pillows. Daniel was sure he had never seen so much orange and pink in one place in his life.

  Before receiving the letter that summoned him here, Daniel hadn’t been sure this uncle was still alive. Uncle Harlow was the only living relative from Daniel’s mother’s side, and had been in the East Indies since before Daniel was born. Curiosity and family feeling had brought Daniel to Brighton in answer to his uncle’s request that he visit.

  He heard high-pitched giggles and turned to the partially closed door. Two sets of dark eyes peered at him from behind the door.

  Children? Had his uncle brought Indian children to decorate his Brighton townhouse, along with embroidered and beaded silks?

  Daniel blinked at the faces and gave them a smile. He’d never seen Indian children before. His travels had so far been confined to Europe and the heat of Egypt.

  The boy ducked away at Daniel’s smile, but the small girl, bedecked with gold earrings and several bracelet bangles, gave him a gap-toothed smile, and stepped further into the doorway. She was barefoot, draped in aqua silk, and no more than six.

  He gave her a courtly bow. “Good day, miss.”

  She giggled, and gave a passable curtsey. “Good day to you, sir.” Her English was accented but clear. She scampered into the room, her steps a light dance, and stood on the rich carpet before him, a bright smile on her pretty face.

  Loud footfalls sounded in the hall, and a large figure filled the doorway. A tall middle-aged man of portly proportions and rough-skinned, ruddy cheeks strode in, his clothes the latest in British fashion for mature men in somber colors, his ginger hair cut and swept forward in a Brutus, a monocle at his eye.

  “Ah! My nephew, I presume!” His voice was a bellow worthy of a battlefield. He gave Daniel a friendly grin before the girl standing in the middle of the room caught his eye.

  “Arpita! You scamp.” He took her shoulders with large but not-ungentle hands, turned her, and urged her out of the room with a pat on her back. “Back to your ayah, and leave me to my guest, m’girl.”