For The Lady 0f Lowena (A Cornish Romance Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2019

  For the Lady of Lowena by Deborah M. Hathaway

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed by any part or by any means without written consent of the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by Draft Horse Publishing

  ©Copyright 2019 by Deborah M. Hathaway

  © 2019 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  © Cover Photo by Dan McBride Films, Inc.

  First Printed Edition, September 2019

  This book is a work of fiction. All character names and personalities are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-7334820-1-1

  Table of Contents

  Books by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Pronunciation Guide

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Stand Alone Novels

  A Secret Fire

  When Two Rivers Meet

  To Warm a Wintered Heart

  A Cornish Romance Series

  On the Shores of Tregalwen, a Prequel Novella

  Behind the Light of Golowduyn, Book Two

  For the Lady of Lowena, Book Two

  Belles of Christmas Series

  Nine Ladies Dancing, Book Four

  For my dear friend,

  Rachel Hawks.

  Thank you for inspiring me

  to be a better writer

  and for being there for me every step of the way.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Lowena – low-WHEN-uh

  Fynwary – fin-WARE-ee

  Gwynna – GWIN-uh

  Golowduyn – goal-oh-DEW-in

  Tregalwen – treh-GAWL-when

  Rudhek – RUE-thek

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, July 1815

  Bright sunshine glinted across the turquoise sea like light on glass. The incoming tide battered the rocks that stood strong near the shoreline, but the rugged pillars remained unmoved. Above, herring gulls and sparrows cried their shrill songs, anxious to have their voices heard, though the ocean’s roar didn’t acknowledge them, nor did the wind sailing toward the land.

  And yet, at the edge of the cliffside, sitting astride his chestnut horse, Mr. Frederick Hawkins did not miss a single sight or sound. His blue eyes swept across the sea as his senses hungrily took in his surroundings—the smell of the salty water and the sound of the wind whispering in his ear.

  Can you feel it, Frederick? the wind seemed to say. That is freedom.

  He drew in a deep breath. Hope swarmed his soul. He could already see the carefree days he would have, the moments of pleasure he was sure to find in Cornwall, all with the mighty sea as his backdrop.

  This place…it was nothing like London. There were no towering, brick buildings in sight. No carriage-filled streets. No glass windows boasting of expensive goods within shops—goods ladies and their mothers were so anxious to purchase.

  No, this wasn’t like London.

  And he was certainly relieved because of it.

  He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward. “Let’s move farther down. I have an inkling you might fancy a run on the beach as much as I do.”

  The horse nickered in response, the wind ruffling his mane.

  They moved toward the beach and the soothing movement of the water. It had been a long while since he’d seen the sea. A year, to be exact. Last time, his visit had only lasted a single day.

  Now he wasn’t visiting. He was staying. He had purchased an estate and would remain in Cornwall for the foreseeable future. Longer, if he had the fortune of seeing this view every day.

  Of course, Mother had not understood his desire to be near the sea, nor to purchase a second home, particularly in Cornwall.

  “You are already so busy with Dawnridge, Freddy,” she’d said, referring to the family estate in Bedfordshire. “You hardly ever visit me in London any longer, so when will you find a spare moment for your poor mother when you have two estates to run?”

  “I will manage fine, Mother,” he’d responded. “And you could always come to Cornwall if you wish to see more of me.”

  She’d muttered some excuse then rapidly changed the subject. Unlike Frederick, she did not enjoy the idea of living in seclusion and peace, away from the noise and bustle of London. In truth, he’d chosen Cornwall for that very reason, because Mother would “never step foot in such an isolated county.”

  He loved her, of course. But every so often, a son needed time away, distance. Enough space to think for himself and make his own decisions without his mother breathing her own wishes into his ear.

  Frederick rolled his neck to dispel the tension rising up his shoulders. He didn’t travel over three hundred miles to have Mother’s very-opiniated desires still give him a headache. In fact, he’d come to Cornwall for a very different reason. And after he signed for his new estate, he would set out to accomplish his next task. The task of finding a wife.

  Not any female would do. After all, Mother had thrust him into the arms of many a fine woman, both in Bedfordshire and London. He didn’t want to marry just a “fine” woman who cared more about her clothing than the thoughts and feelings of others. He was looking for someone different, someone real. A woman who was not afraid to be herself, especially with Society watching her. A woman who was brave enough to take her boots off and feel the sand in her toes and the wind in her hair.

  A woman…quite like that one.

  His head tilted to the side, his lips curving as he eyed the woman on the beach nearby. She lay on a purple blanket stretched out across the sand. Only her skirts were visible—a parasol blocking his view of her torso up—but her bare feet basked in the sunshine. Her stockings and footwear rested at the edge of the blanket nearby.

  Was she asleep? She had to be. Otherwise she would be more bothered about the water inching closer and closer to her heels poking off the edge of her blanket.

  He glanced beyond her to the far end of the sand. The beach was only accessible from his side, due to steep cliffs on the other. The waves had already reached the small formation of rocks that separated him from the woman. If she didn’t move soon, the path would be completely taken by the waves.

  There was nothing for it. He would have to wake her, if only to warn her of the potential danger approaching.

  He rode down the rest of the sloping pathway to the beach before dismounting and looping his horse’s reins around a thin rock. Then he headed toward the woman, crossing over the rocks and sand.

  As he approached, he regarded her, curious. She lay on her back with an unopened book on her stomach. One bare hand rested on the book while the other stretched out beside her, holding two blue gloves.

  Her bonnet was placed at her side, the ribbon wrapped securely around her wrist, and the handle of
her dark blue parasol was stuck deep into the sand. The fringe along the edges fluttered in the light breeze.

  The woman had intended to sleep, as was evident by the precautions she had taken to not have her belongings blow away with the wind. With her footwear removed, she appeared to be very much at her leisure.

  He hesitated to wake her, not wishing to disturb her obvious slumber. As the next wave reached the tip of her blanket, however, turning it a shade darker, he knew he could not prolong the inevitable.

  “Miss?” She didn’t budge. He spoke louder. “Excuse me, miss?”

  Her body twitched. Then a gasp sounded from beneath the parasol, and she sat up right, bumping her head against the shade. “Oh!”

  He fought off an amused grin. “My apologies, miss.”

  Still seated, she pressed dainty fingers against her brow and turned toward him in surprise. His heart tripped. She was even prettier than he’d imagined. Smooth black ringlets decorated her temples and enhanced her light, flawless skin. She squinted as she looked up at him, preventing him from noting the color of her eyes framed with thick, dark lashes.

  She gasped again, this time scrambling to her feet. The soft blush on her cheeks matched the color of her parted lips.

  She was beautiful, the kind of woman that gentlemen enjoyed discussing over port around the dinner table. But in his experience, if a woman was this beautiful, she was guaranteed to be trouble.

  He hadn’t come to Cornwall looking for trouble. He’d come for peace and quiet. And, of course, a wife untouched by London.

  He took a step away from her, his voice level despite the sudden wariness coming over him. “Forgive me for startling you, miss. I would have left you undisturbed, but the tide is coming in.” He motioned to the water lapping at her blanket.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured, tugging the blanket out of the waves’ reach before facing him again. “I must thank you, sir. My mother would have been terribly displeased to see me returning home with wet skirts again.”

  Her voice was smooth, like a soft breeze blowing through tall grass, and her smile, charming. Too charming. Why was he staring long enough to even know it was too charming?

  He looked behind him to the rocks. A wave splashed high into the air, spraying water farther up the sand. “I’m afraid you may be celebrating prematurely. I suspect you may not be able to leave the beach without coming into contact with a few waves first.”

  “Goodness.” The worry in her tone brought his eyes back to her. Her lips pulled to one side. “I suppose I deserve a bit of scolding. I should not have fallen asleep in such a silly place.”

  She appeared genuinely distressed. But what could he do without involving himself in ways he was not sure he wished to? “I would offer you the service of my horse, but he would not cross safely over the rocks.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t wish for you to risk his well-being for my sake. After all, what is a man without his horse?” Her eyes twinkled. They were blue. Light blue. “No, I will be brave and endure another lecture. But thank you again, sir, for preventing me from becoming stranded here altogether.”

  She picked up her belongings from the blanket. Frederick chewed the inside of his cheek. He had been taught from a very young age to do anything he could to help a woman in distress. Even if that meant going against his better judgment and helping in ways he knew, somehow, would lead to trouble.

  Was she trouble though? The women he’d known in London had not hesitated to use their feminine charms to trick gentlemen—himself included—into doing their every bidding. But he was in Cornwall, not London. Women had to be different here.

  He pushed aside his reservations and took a step toward her. “Why do I not bring your belongings across the rocks for you first? Then I will return and carry you across myself. That way your mother will have no knowledge of your time of leisure on the beach.”

  His heart hastened as a smile lit her face. Why was he having such a reaction to her? He’d seen beautiful women before. Of course, no one with such lovely eyes and dark hair.

  “Oh, would you?” she asked. “I would forever be in your debt.”

  He picked up her blanket and shook it free of sand. “It is no trouble, I assure you.”

  He draped the blanket over his arm and retrieved the rest of her items from her hands—book, gloves, parasol, and boots. Where had her stockings gone? He gave his head a little shake. He didn’t need to know that.

  When his arms were full, he took a step back. “I’ll return in just a moment.”

  He climbed over the rocks, careful not to stumble with her eyes upon him, then deposited her belongings near his horse and returned to her side.

  “Shall we?” he asked, watching the imminent waves draw closer. He didn’t need to look at the woman to remind him how attractive she was.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He closed the distance between them in two steps and deftly scooped her up from the sand. She let out a soft squeak, sliding her arms around his neck. Her bonnet, the ribbons still looped round her wrist, rested against his back.

  This would be a rather easy rescue. She was even lighter than he’d expected. Though he could do without her arms cutting off his breathing.

  He cleared his throat. “When you are settled, would you mind loosening your grip around my neck?”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She relaxed her hold of him. “Will that do?”

  He nodded. “Yes, thank…you.”

  Blast. He’d looked at her again, and now he was far closer to her than before. With their eyes level, he could see the blue more distinctly. Blue, like the clear, shallow water of the sea in the morning light.

  “Are you comfortable?” His voice broke. Was he fourteen years old instead of his four and twenty?

  She nodded. “Very comfortable, sir. Thank you.”

  Finally, he tore his gaze away, securing his arms around her once more, his right arm holding her legs and his left encircling her back, then he ventured forth. He walked as smoothly as possible, though even her slight weight made him sink deeper into the wet sand. His gait slowed and her bonnet tapped against his back with each step.

  He needed to think of something else to say before he stole another glance at her. Knowing his foolishness, he’d probably fall if he got lost in her eyes again.

  “I should have introduced myself earlier,” he said. “Mr. Frederick Hawkins, at your service. I do hope you will forgive me for not bowing, as it would be a shame to drop you.”

  “That it would be,” she returned. “I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, and not only because of your rescuing me. I should like to tell you my own name, as well, but I hardly think it proper, under the circumstances. We ought to wait for another to introduce the two of us.”

  Was she in earnest? Frederick stared at her profile, the slightest curve to the tip of her nose, the corners of her eyes creased. So she was teasing. “My apologies, miss. I should not have divulged my own name then. However, in my defense, I thought we had already dispensed with propriety. After all, I am carrying you across the beach rather intimately without another person or boot”—with a toss of his head, he motioned to her bare feet poking out from the end of her skirts—“in sight.”

  He saw her smile from the corner of his eye. “I was hoping you had not noticed the irony,” she said, “but I see you are too observant, sir. Observant and rather strong. Tell me, do you often rescue women in such a way as this?”

  Her voice was light, lilting. It was a tone he’d heard in London before. Heaven help him, but her words were actually proving to capture him.

  “Not women,” he answered. “But dogs, yes. Some of my hounds have an unnatural fear of water and require me to carry them across rivers, which is decidedly unhelpful during a fox hunt.”

  Her laughter rang out, reminding him of church bells chiming forth in celebration. He wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

  “I certainly prefer carrying you, though,” he continued, “as you w
hine—and wiggle—far less.”

  “How relieved I am to hear I am easier to manage than a hound.”

  His eyes met hers. He could feel himself slipping. Not his footing, but his strength to keep away from this intriguing woman.

  He reached the rocks, but rather than risking dropping the woman on the slick, jagged ends, he moved around to where the edges trailed out into the deeper waves. With the water mid-calf, he stepped carefully to avoid any splashes upon the lady’s dress.

  A wave rushed in, pulling the sand from beneath his boots, but he remained steady. “May I ask you a question, miss?”

  “Of course, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Did you come out here with the intention to read or to sleep?”

  Her eyes jumped to his. She seemed to search for an answer before responding. “You are far too observant for your own good, sir. I’m afraid you have caught me out again. The book, I admit, was a guise so my mother would allow me to go out of doors. Reading in general proves very dull for me, but The Female Instructor is by far the worst thing I have ever read. I only allow Mother to believe that I appreciate the horrendous words so I am allowed a moment away from stitching or practicing that dreadful pianoforte.”

  She stopped with a deep sigh before her eyes widened.

  Frederick stared in surprise. Most ladies flaunted their talents, never daring to admit they disliked popular pastimes, for fear of being seen as unaccomplished. This woman had simply blurted her confession without hesitation. How refreshing. Though, the blush gracing her cheeks revealed her discomfiture over her confession.

  He ought to speak again to ease her embarrassment. “So your mother. She allows you to read on the beach so long as she believes you are reading material that will prove to better yourself?”

  She brought her bottom lip between her teeth before speaking. “Well, in actuality, she still believes me to be reading in the gardens.”

  “Ah, so that is why you must return home with dry skirts.”