Page 1 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #1)

Chapter One

FEbrUARY 20, 1817

I t was a cold Thursday afternoon, and Colonel Edward Halstead stood alone in the garden of his estate, staring at the bed of roses. The bushes were stripped bare by winter’s hand, their branches skeletal and dormant. He brushed his gloved hand carefully along one stem, avoiding a large thorn.

“Sleeping the winter away,” Edward murmured aloud, his voice the only sound in the quiet of the well-manicured garden. “I miss the vibrancy you bring to this place. Enjoy your rest, but come awake again as soon as you can.”

He ought to have been in his study, poring over the reports from his man of business, making financially responsible decisions for the care and keeping of his home, his accounts, and the people who relied upon him. Instead he found himself lost in thought, his mind tangled with the same familiar worries which had plagued him all winter.

The rhythmic crunch of shoes on gravel broke into his thoughts before they could take him down a familiar and unproductive path. Edward turned to see a footman approaching, the servant’s breath clouding in the frosty air.

“Sir, a letter has arrived. The messenger said it is of the utmost importance.” The young man extended a thick folded paper, sealed with deep red wax, his gloved hand trembling slightly from the cold.

“Ah, thank you, Samuel. Is the messenger still present?” Edward accepted the missive and studied the unfamiliar seal, a stylized P with a laurel wreath encircling it..

“No, sir. He went on his way, quick as anything.” The young man stood at attention, and Edward almost chuckled. He never asked his servants to act so similarly to the soldiers he had once commanded. He supposed it was something about himself which brought it out in them.

Breaking the wax with a snap, he unfolded the letter and studied its contents. His jaw tightened as he reached the heart of the matter: the death of Mr. Anthony Price, a man who had saved his life on the battlefield—and the unexpected news that Edward had been named in the man’s will as guardian to Price’s only daughter, Daphne.

The words blurred slightly as Edward’s grip on the paper tightened. He had not seen Price in…goodness, near a decade. The man had been a good soldier, and almost impossibly, a better friend. Price had left the military long before Edward had dared do the same, and the last two years of his civilian life he had spent putting everything in order. Had put off seeing old friends. He had, in fact, buried himself in other responsibilities. And now, from beyond the grave, he had left Edward a most daunting responsibility.

A child. But what did Edward know about children? Especially the female sort?

Edward read on. The girl was to arrive at Briarwood House in three days’ time, accompanied by a female relative. The solicitor’s tone left no room for negotiation, nor any time to protest the decision. Edward’s guardianship was not a request, but a legal obligation.

He exhaled heavily, the cold air stinging his throat. “A child,” he muttered aloud, folding the letter with deliberate care. When he had last seen Price, had the man mentioned a daughter? Yes. He had. And his wife had passed away. Edward sent his regrets to the family, in the midst of a battle that had nearly seen him captured. Details had certainly slipped away from him.

Dash it all. His life had gone through too much upheaval, he had been injured too often, to remember the details of other men’s lives. Did that make him a monster? Perhaps. Here, Price had left Edward the most important thing a man could have—a child bearing his name—and Edward could not even remember the particulars of Price’s life.

He owed Price his own life. The man had saved him from certain death with a well timed push. Edward would not refuse, even if the option were presented to him in that moment.

“Send word to the housekeeper,” Edward said to the waiting footman, his tone brisk. “I must speak with her at once. We’ll need to prepare rooms for two guests—one of long duration.”

The footman bowed and departed, leaving Edward once again alone with his thoughts and the hibernating roses.

This would change…everything. Briarwood had always been his haven, the one place where he could escape the weight of his past. Now, it seemed, it would become a household of responsibilities, a new little face, and unknown challenges.

Edward turned back to the garden, his thoughts heavier than the gray clouds overhead. What had possessed Price to leave a daughter in the care of an old soldier like Edward?

He winced. “I am hardly in my dotage, I suppose,” he muttered to the gravel path beneath his boots. At eight and thirty he had his health, a strong physique, and mental fortitude. Many a man his age began new ventures surely far more daunting than caring for a child. He could likely find a governess or a school for the girl, if he couldn’t provide what was needed in his own home.

“Poor little mite,” he muttered, tucking the letter into his coat. “Losing her father, having to come live with a stranger.” And here he was, already thinking of how he might send her away.

The letter had mentioned she would arrive in the care of a female relative. Having another person intrude in his home caused him the briefest moment of annoyance. He could send the woman on her way, he supposed, but it seemed cruel to deprive Daphne of all family mere days after she lost her father. Perhaps he could convince the woman to stay—take responsibility for the child.

He frowned and pulled the paper out once more, reading over it to see if the relative had been named. But no, the solicitor had left out that detail.

What could that mean?

Edward shook his head and put the letter into his pocket again, striding toward the house. Mrs. Lane would be waiting for him in his study in short order—after all, the woman ran his household with the strictness of a sergeant. She would know how to efficiently prepare for Miss Daphne Price’s arrival.

As he entered the house, handing his winter things to a footman, he looked about with new eyes. His home suited him, of course, in its simplicity. But what would a little girl think of the place? Was it too dark? Dreary? He marched down the corridor to his study, his gaze sweeping along the walls.

He had bought the house at auction two years ago, and most of the trappings had been sold separate from the dwelling. He hadn’t bothered to fill the house with much, either. A soldier for most of his life, he’d learned to travel light, live sparsely, and place value on things necessary for the day-to-day. Because of this philosophy, his house did not have the same comfortable feel to it that his friends’ homes did. Would it matter that he did not have paintings of meadows and sheep along the corridor? That he had not painted the deep green walls a more fashionable shade of…whatever was currently considered fashionable?

A child could not care for such things, surely.

As long as he set up a well-appointed nursery and school room, things would surely be fine. He would fill the child’s rooms with everything she could want—the rest of the house would hardly matter then. He owed that to Price, at least.

Edward’s thoughts swirled as he entered his study, one of the only rooms he had taken time to fill with things that brought him comfort, the faint scent of leather and aged paper greeting him like an old friend. This was the one room in Briarwood where he had allowed himself the luxury of comfort. The deep green walls, lined with shelves of books collected during his travels, instantly comforted him. He’d never been one for frivolity, but books—those were necessary. Histories, treatises on war, scientific explorations, even a few novels he knew most men wouldn’t admit to owning—were all neatly arranged with military precision on his shelves.

A roaring fire in the hearth kept the room warm, the flickering light casting long shadows over the dark wood furniture. His desk, a sturdy oak piece inherited from his father, was free of unnecessary clutter, save for a silver inkwell, a neat stack of correspondence, and a small brass carriage clock. A single chair, upholstered in worn yet supple brown leather, stood behind it. That chair had molded to his frame over countless hours of reading accounts, answering correspondence, and studying documents. It was now as much a part of him as his own clothes.

To the left of the hearth stood a battered armchair with a matching footstool, its upholstery faded from years of use and blistering sunshine. A woolen scratchy blanket, a relic from his days in the army, was draped over the back. It bore the faint scent of campfires and distant memories, and though it had no place in such an elegant room, he could never bring himself to part with it. The place was as close to a sanctuary as it was possible for a mortal man to make.

Edward walked toward the hearth, holding his hands out to warm them as he waited for Mrs. Lane to arrive.

His gaze flickered, unsettled. On the mantel above the fire a handful of mementos were arranged with care: a small framed sketch of his parents’ estate, a miniature of his mother, and a carved wooden horse gifted to him by a fellow soldier. Each item had a story, though he rarely indulged in retelling them, even to himself.

His gaze roved on. The windows, framed by heavy velvet curtains, overlooked the garden. By day, they allowed light to spill into the room, but now that dusk had fallen the panes reflected only the flames from the fire and the faint, ghostly outline of his own face.

This was his retreat, a place where the weight of the world could be set aside—at least for a time. As he took his usual place at the desk, the letter in his pocket sapped the room of its familiar warmth. Soon, this quiet refuge would no longer belong to him alone.

His gaze shifted to the large armchair by the fire. Would a child consider it comfortable? Would the stories on his shelves hold any appeal to a girl? He shook his head, dismissing the thought. This room was his alone, and it would remain as it was—a sanctuary of order in a world of chaos. Daphne would have other rooms in the house and people to wait upon her needs there. He would see to that.

A knock on the door had his shoulders relaxing. Mrs. Lane’s direction would be most helpful, indeed.

“Come in.”

Price had trusted Edward to care for a daughter. Edward would prove himself worthy of that trust easily enough—and there was always the woman coming with Daphne. Surely she would not mind giving him some advice before going on her way again. Between the three of them, they could make certain Miss Daphne Price had everything she needed to begin life at Briarwood. It would not be all that difficult. One little girl would fit quite easily into his home, and it was ridiculous of him to fret.

“Mrs. Lane,” he said, putting a confident smile in place as his housekeeper bobbed a curtsy. “We are expecting guests.”

Everything would be fine.

* * *

“Everything is not fine,” Felicity Price said tautly, trying to keep her tone calm despite her overwhelming desire to shout at the disinterested man behind her late brother’s desk. The solicitor barely looked up from the papers in front of him to acknowledge that she had spoken. “Fine, indeed! You are sending my niece to live with a complete stranger, a man she has never met before. A bachelor, too, from all accounts. She has never known her mother, she lost her father a fortnight ago, and she is at a delicate and important age—are you listening to me?”

She curled her hands into fists in her lap, trusting the folds of her skirts to hide that detail from Mr. Vole, her brother’s solicitor and executor of the modest estate left behind. He barely looked up at her when she asked her indignant question. She had learned long ago how little her protests meant when a man had already made up his mind. Once, she might’ve believed herself capable of persuading someone to wait, to stay, to choose her.

But that had been a long-ago foolishness.

“Why can she not remain here, in the home where she grew up? She will inherit it upon marriage or her twenty-first birthday, and I can remain here and look after the household. I could send you weekly reports or you can visit monthly or…” Felicity’s voice trailed away as the man shook his head at her.

“That is not how the law works, Miss Price, surely you must know that. Your brother left explicit instructions in his will. It is my duty as his executor and solicitor to see that everything is done according to his wishes and within the bounds of the law.” The man cleared his throat as his gaze dropped to the paper before him. “Miss Daphne Price is now under the guardianship of Colonel Halstead. Everything will be held in trust for her. You received an adequate sum from your late brother’s estate to set up a household of your own. After you accompany the younger Miss Price to meet her new guardian, the matter is no longer your concern.”

Though the solicitor was in truth a handsome enough man of fifty, Felicity had never felt so repulsed by a person. His words alone made her wish never to see him again.

Unfortunately it was not likely to be fulfilled.

“No longer my concern?” she repeated incredulously. “Daphne is my niece—my flesh and blood. She will always be my concern. How can I possibly hand her over to a stranger as though she be nothing more than a parcel, and leave her to an unknown fate?” Her voice rose enough toward the end of her question that Mr. Vole’s expression changed from disinterest to disapproval.

“Come, Miss Price, there is no need for dramatics. An unknown fate? Colonel Halstead is apparently quite respectable, and if your brother trusted him with his daughter’s care, you can have no objections.”

Oh, she had plenty of objections; just none that this man would hear. Why hadn’t her brother told her when he took ill what his plans for Daphne were, should the worst happen? Why had she found out a week ago during the reading of the will that her niece would be ripped from her?

“Dramatics?” she repeated, reminding herself to stay calm. “Sir, I assure you, I am not being dramatic. My niece’s whole future is at stake.”

There was no reason, apart from male stubbornness, why she and Daphne could not continue to live in this house, her home, and live their lives. Daphne was due to come out in Society—had already made her debut locally—and had looked forward to spending a few weeks in London with her father and aunt at the end of the Season. She was a lively, beautiful girl with her whole life ahead of her.

Until this moment, it seemed.

“I am certain Colonel Halstead will be mindful of your niece’s needs,” Mr. Vole said vaguely, looking down at the papers again. “He will prove an adequate guardian. If there is nothing else, I have more to attend to with the estate and your niece will need your help to pack. Good day, Miss Price.”

The disinterested dismissal hit her as a slap in the face, making Felicity draw back and press her lips closed. Living with her brother for the last several years, she had grown used to being spoken to with naught but respect—listened to, even, when she had an opinion on a matter. For a time she had forgotten that her status as an unmarried woman marked her as someone with barely more self-governance than a child—and less legal right, now, than her own niece.

Felicity rose and offered only a shallow curtsy to the top of Mr. Vole’s head before leaving her brother’s study. Once the door shut behind her, she rubbed at her temples. She felt one of her headaches coming on, but she had to fight it.

Daphne needed her.

With a stiffening of her spine, Felicity went to the staircase and ascended, ignoring the soft winter light streaming through the large windows. The sunny skies were a lie, for the moment one stepped out of doors they would be shocked through with the bitter cold of a February afternoon.

So much of life was like that. Shiny and bright in appearance, but cold and unkind in truth. Felicity had learned that with some difficulty. Now she was determined to protect her niece from the same.

But how would she manage that if this interloping stranger, this Colonel Halstead, took over Daphne’s care?

“I simply cannot allow it,” Felicity whispered, her hand on the latch of her niece’s bedchamber door. She took in a deep breath. She had to give the news to her niece that she hadn’t managed to persuade Mr. Vole even an inch. They needed to pack—and then there was the carriage ride. There was time enough to come up with something, some way of sparing Daphne the miseries of living with a bachelor who knew nothing of women and their needs.

Heavens, the man might try to marry Daphne off to the first ill-mannered fortune-hunter who asked for her hand!

Felicity knocked softly before she entered the room, knowing already she would find her niece in the same place Daphne had been when she’d left a half hour before. Sure enough, Daphne reposed in an armchair by her hearth, legs curled beneath her, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring into the fireplace as though hoping the meager glowing embers would hold the comfort she desperately needed.

With a heavy heart, Felicity forced a smile. “Oh, this will not do, Daph. You’re going to freeze yourself through!” She hurried to the hearth, picked up the poker, and stirred things about before reaching for the coal scuttle. “You must keep warm. Catching a chill now will make our carriage ride to Briarwood House rather miserable.”

Daphne’s head lifted slowly. Even her strawberry-hued curls looked dull and lifeless, her gray eyes tired. “We are still going to my new guardian’s home, then?”

“Yes, my dear. I am afraid so.” Felicity barely kept a grimace from her countenance. “But it will not be all bad. I believe I will stay with you for a time, to help you settle in. I doubt the man will wish to have the care of a vibrant young woman left to him all at once.”

At seventeen, Felicity had thought herself to possess the same vibrancy that, two weeks ago, her niece had exhibited. There had been years ahead for laughter, courtship, the sort of promises whispered beneath moonlit trees. But years turned quickly to obligations, and duty, and waiting for someone who never returned the way he said he would.

Daphne wrinkled her nose. “Vibrant? Aunt Felicity, we both know I am hardly that—especially at present.”

“You are vibrant, and charming, and an engaging young lady. At present, of course, is an exception. You are in mourning, and that is perfectly all right.” Felicity knelt at her niece’s chair and laid a hand on her arm.

“Everything…hurts,” Daphne murmured. “I cannot think there will be any warmth to the world again.”

“My dear girl, I know it hurts. I miss your father terribly, and I remember losing my own far too well.” Felicity pushed aside the pain she had learned to live with. “The ache in your heart means you love him, and he was deserving of that love. Anthony was a wonderful father, and he did all he could to ensure you would be safe and happy, did he not?” She watched her niece carefully, hopefully.

“He did.” Daphne sniffled and nodded, a little smile turning her lips upward. “Papa did his best to give me a good upbringing. We were so happy.”

“Then we must trust that he left you in the care of someone he in turn trusted to do the same.” Felicity gave Daphne’s hand a gentle squeeze, attempting to convince herself in the bargain. “Your father would hardly sentence you to life with an ogre for a guardian.”

A soft laugh escaped the young woman. “No, he certainly would not do that. He spoke often of Colonel Halstead in the past. He genuinely liked him.”

Felicity had no recollection of Anthony mentioning his old army friend, but she was not about to say so to her niece, not when Daphne wore a smile for the first time that day. But if her brother had liked the man so much, why had he never made certain Daphne met him?

“There, now. That is most reassuring, is it not? And I will be with you as long as you need me.” She hoped that was not a lie. Colonel Halstead might very well scoff at her suggestion that he needed help with handling and housing a young woman.

Packing up Daphne’s things in anticipation of her journey did not give Felicity much time to think. The poor girl needed to weigh the decision of what to take and what to leave in her home, what to send into storage, and what to give away. The child—and even though Daphne was in many ways out, Felicity could not help but think of her darling niece as a child—managed to keep her tears at bay remarkably well for some time, but several handkerchiefs were drenched before the maid brought up a tray of dinner for the two of them.

Felicity tucked her niece into bed as she had when Daphne was much younger, placing a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Dilly-Daph.” It was a silly old nickname, sprung from the word daffodil, years and years before…but it felt right in this moment.

“I love you too, Aunt Felicity.” Daphne smiled up at her in the dim candlelit room. “Thank you for looking after me. Truly, I do not know how I would manage all of this without you.”

Withdrawing to her own bedchamber, Felicity readied herself for bed without calling for a maid. It took her mere moments to cast off her somber black mourning gown in favor of a comfortable, warm nightgown. She slipped beneath the cool sheets and shivered a moment before the heat from her body warmed the bedding adequately. The maid must have forgotten the bed warmer. But then, given that the household had been turned upside down, and it had been all Felicity could do to console the three maids who were now without employment, she could not bring herself to do more than sigh over the cold sheets.

Felicity turned over on one side, then the other, trying to find physical comfort while her heart hurt far too much. She had lost every member of her family, all except Daphne. Her parents, years ago, her sister-in-law upon her niece’s birth, and now her brother a fortnight before.

“I cannot lose my little one, too,” she murmured to the ceiling. She had already lost too many pieces of her heart.

But what was she to do? After she delivered Daphne to her new guardian, the man might send her packing. She had no legal recourse to stay with the girl she had raised.

Felicity’s jaw set. She had to prevent that. She absolutely could not allow him to think, not for one moment, that Daphne could do without her aunt—that he, Colonel Halstead, could manage to look after a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

And so she plotted against the man who had, quite without knowing it, become her adversary.