Flight of Fancy (The Daughters of Bainbridge House Book #2) , livre ebook

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177 pages

English

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Cassandra Bainbridge has twice set aside her scholarly pursuits--once for the London Season and once for her wedding preparations. Love seems a wonderful alternative to study, until disaster strikes. When an accident brings an end to her betrothal, she heads for the country to recover from both her injuries and her broken heart. There she pursues her love for ballooning and envisions a future for herself as a daring aeronaut. But when her former fiancé slips back into her life, will she have to choose between him and her dream?Filled with the mystique of London society and the charming beauty of the English countryside, A Flight of Fancy explores what it means to find the true source of happiness and love amid the distractions of life. Readers will love the next installment in this rousing Regency series from accomplished author Laurie Alice Eakes.

Sujets

Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 octobre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441239662
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0259€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2012 by Laurie Alice Eakes
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2012
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 for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3966-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Published in association with the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.
To my husband,
who deserves to have every one of my books dedicated to him,
but especially this one.
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.
Psalm 34:18
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Laurie Alice Eakes
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
August 1812
Crowds swarmed around and jostled against the Whittaker carriage, slowing its progress from a trot to a crawl. Thick, oily smoke from torches penetrated the interior. Velvet curtains and cushions reeking of pitch felt ready to smother Miss Cassandra Bainbridge, who was already hot on this August night.
“I think we would be better off walking in the crowd than riding in here.” She clutched her rose satin reticule in one hand and gripped her fiancé’s arm with the other, as though ready to spring from the vehicle at any moment, which she was. “Perhaps we could take refuge in someone’s drawing room until these bacchanalians go home.”
Beside her, Lord Geoffrey Giles, Earl of Whittaker, chuckled and covered her hand with his. “Only you would use a word like bacchanalian to describe a crowd of drunken debauchery.”
“It is the proper word for those who have celebrated too freely with drink.” She glared at him down her long Bainbridge nose, though she could see little of his face in the gloom inside the carriage. “What should I call them?”
“The right word, of course.” Whittaker shrugged, then moved his hand from her gloved fingers to her nose, to the place where her mirror warned her a crease was already forming between her eyes.
Not that what her mirror said mattered much to Cassandra. That crease came from hours of honest study.
She gripped her reticule more tightly, as it held the efforts of her latest project the design of a balloon and leaned toward Whittaker’s hand. Since the renewal of their engagement in June, the slightest brush of his fingertips came close to distracting her from thoughts of ballooning and Greek translations, and most definitely from wild, celebratory crowds worked to a fever pitch over Wellington finally winning a decisive battle against Napoleon’s troops in Spain. If Whittaker moved his hand to her cheek
A throng of young men slammed against the side of the carriage, tilting it onto two wheels. The horses whinnied and the coachman shouted. Cassandra screamed, a short burst of a cry, and Whittaker wrapped his arms around her, upsetting her elaborate coiffeur and sending her hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her hair and Whittaker’s shoulder shielded her face against his coat lapel.
“Le’s ’ave a ride,” the drunken youths shouted in speech so slurred as to be scarcely comprehensible. “Don’ be shelfish, arishtocrat.”
“Lord Mayor’s already stingy with t’luminations.”
“More light. More light.” The chant grew deafening.
Cassandra shivered now despite the heat. The men sounded angry, not celebratory. “They’re angry over too few illuminations to celebrate the victory?”
“C’mon, Whittaker, open up.” The rattle of the door handle accompanied the command. “We ’eard yer lady.”
“They know your carriage.” Cassandra raised her head. “But why would they assault you over too few lanterns and torches and such?”
“It’s not me personally. The celebration seems to have gotten a bit rough, is all.” Whittaker stroked her hair. “Hush now. The doors are locked, the coachman and footman are armed, and I have a brace of pistols here in the carriage.”
Shots rang out at that moment, the crack of a pistol, the boom of a blunderbuss fired into the air. Whinnying again, the horses lurched forward. Without Whittaker’s arms around her, Cassandra would have slid to the floor. She grasped his shoulder with one hand and twisted her fingers through her reticule strings with the other.
The jostling and demands ceased, though the crowd did not disperse.
“Perhaps we should have gone home with Christien and Lydia,” Cassandra said, maintaining her hold on her fiancé and folded plans. “Christien is a trained soldier, after all.”
“But this was the first opportunity we’ve had to be alone together for a week.” Whittaker flashed her a smile, then kissed the crease between her brows. “This wedding is keeping you from me so much I think we should have eloped like your sister.”
“They did not elope.” Cassandra rubbed her head against Whittaker’s shoulder. “They simply got married by special license. But this is my first marriage and Mama wants everything just so.” She shuddered. “I hate every dress fitting and shopping excursion as much as I dislike this crowd.”
Her ears strained for signs of the rough youths returning. She could distinguish nothing of them over the general din of the throng.
“Where will I wear all those gowns in Lancashire?” she added.
“You will need them when Parliament is in session and we are in town.”
“But that’s not until spring.”
“With the Americans declaring war, it is going to be this autumn.”
“But you promised.” She started to pull away.
“I did not declare war.” Whittaker tightened his hold and kissed her cheek.
“And all spring the Luddites kept you away.”
“I did not go smashing up looms either.” He kissed her lips.
She decided to stop arguing with him for the moment. She forgot about the rowdy revelers outside the carriage. This, after all, was why Cassandra had taken Whittaker’s equipage instead of sharing one with her elder sister and her new husband to be alone with her fiancé for a few minutes of tenderness, for some time of forgetting that Mama wanted her to buy one more fan or pair of gloves, that Whittaker’s mama needed to introduce her to half a dozen more relatives, that Cassandra herself wanted to talk to her fellow aeronaut enthusiasts about her design. She simply wanted to remember this man whose glance, whose smile, whose touch, turned her heart to tallow. She needed moments like this like she needed nourishment for strength and air for breath.
Except he robbed her of breath.
Gasping, laughing, she drew back from his embrace and began to cough. Nearby, something larger than torches blazed, the smoke heavy and sharp, thick inside the carriage. Around them, laughter and cheers had turned to bellows and protests, commands and threats.
Cold perspiration broke out beneath the sleeves of her pelisse and trickled down her spine. “Whittaker . . . what’s wrong?”
“I cannot be certain.” He leaned forward and lifted a corner of the window curtain. “A fire. That is obvious.” He sounded calm.
Cassandra moved to the other side of the carriage so she could peek out the curtains too. Fire indeed. A carriage blazed in a side street. Men and women swirled around it, roaring incomprehensible but angry-sounding words, as though about to burn a body in effigy or worse.
“This was a celebration for Salamanca,” Cassandra protested. “Why the anger?”
“Too many people and too much spirits combined can cause trouble.” He knelt before her and took her hands in his, letting the curtains fall over the window, leaving them in darkness a private, sheltered cocoon despite the smoke. “We will be out of it soon and safely back to Bainbridge House.”
“I was hoping we could go to the Chapter House. It’s perfectly respectable, and I have my plans to give ”
“I am not taking you to a coffeehouse tonight. Your friends will have to wait for their balloon plans.” Beneath the tumult around the carriage, Cassandra thought he muttered, “Forever.”
They had enjoyed such a pleasant evening with Lydia and her husband, she did not want to argue with Whittaker. He did not like her ballooning enthusiasm, but she would change his mind once they were married. Then she would have more freedom to move about, not constantly under her mother’s eye. Whittaker, not Father, would dictate her movements, and Whittaker was no dictator.
Unless he did intend to stop her from pursuing aeronautics.
She pursed her lips and squeezed his gloved fingers with her own, then released one of his hands to clutch at her precious reticule. “I think Lancashire will be perfect for ballooning once the harvest is in. All that flat land and the sea breezes.”
“I think,” Whittaker said, “you will have no time for balloons once we are wed. Mother intends to leave the running of the house to you. She wants to travel, visit friends, but with the trouble with the Luddites, she has been afraid to do so.”
“But ” Cassandra released his other hand. “I know little of household management. I thought she would be there, help me. Geoffrey, when were you going to tell me this?”
“Mama was going to when she takes you to Gunter’s tomorrow.”
“Oh, that.” Cassandra did not admit she had forgotten