Natalia's Secret Spinster's Society (The Spinster's Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

Natalia's Secret Spinster's Society (The Spinster's Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

Charlotte Stone



PROLOGUE



“Liam, put me down! You’re hurting me!”



Fourteen-year-old William Tift released her at once and Natalia Hext stepped away before straightening her dress. Settled, she righted her curls, tossing them behind her back before glaring at him. “You were holding me too tight, William.” Her sides still ached from where his fingers had dug into her. She was sure to have bruises before night came.

William held her eyes without the faintest hint of remorse in his green depths. “You wanted to fly. I had to hold you tight or else you’d have fallen.” A sudden wind picked up, blowing the tall wheat that stood around them and the tops of the trees in the distance.

Natalia’s seven-year-old thoughts moved to riding on that wind, becoming one of the birds that flew into the sunset.

William’s black hair danced in the breeze across his forehead and jaw. His skin was dark, a gold so deep it was clear he was not purely English. For her, the only English thing about him was his name. William. It was strong, though she preferred to call him ‘Liam.’

“Would you rather I had let you slip?” he asked.

Tears burned her eyes, but she wiped them away before they could become visible. “When Julius lifts me, it doesn’t hurt.” Though her cousin Julius rarely wanted to play with her, and she admitted that was her fault. She was cruel to him and his friends, even when she didn’t mean to be. She didn’t even know why she did it, but she couldn’t help it. She was even mean to William, yet he still played with her.

“I’m not Julius, Tally,” William said defensively. His hands, which always seemed larger than the other boys’, were balled at his sides. For a boy so thin, he was strong.

She looked away when the tears wouldn’t stop falling. A few drops landed on her shoes. “I know you’re not Julius.” She sniffed and wiped her face again, startled when William grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back around.

“Why are you crying?” he asked in what sounded like another accusation.

She yanked away from him. “You’re hurting me again!”

He looked down at his hands then, spreading them wide before letting them fall. “I’m sorry.”

“Vagabond,” she whispered and sniffed.

“Stop calling me that,” he growled.

She stiffened at his anger.

He looked up, and his eyes softened. “Why are you crying?”

She shook her head.

He moved closer. “Did I really hurt you?”

“No.” He had hurt her, but even she knew that wasn’t the reason for her tears. The warm wind picked up again and whistled in the silence of the dying afternoon that painted her world in reds and oranges. The straw swayed and slid across her arms. She batted it away.

“Is it your mother?” William whispered.

She pulled in a deep breath, but that only caused a tightening in her chest. “She’s crying again.” Lady Romina always cried when Lord August, Natalia’s father, would leave to visit Julius’ mother, Lady Edwina. “Why does my father go to see Aunt Edwina?”

William placed a hand on her shoulder again. Gently this time. “That’s not for you to worry about.” He gathered her in his arms. His shirt smelled of lemon and grass.

“Sometimes,” she said, with her cheek against his chest, “I wish I could leave.” Would anyone miss her? Would her brother Lorenzo miss her? He always abandoned her whenever Julius and his friends came to the country. Her mother and father wouldn’t realize she was gone. She was sure of it.

“Where would you go?” William asked.

She leaned away and looked up at him. “Why? Would you take me?”

He smiled. “Perhaps. I am, after all, a vagabond.”

She laughed. He was her vagabond. He had no title like most of Julius’ friends, but she didn’t care. “Make me fly. Take me from here, Liam.”

His hands settled on her hips. “Of course, my queen,” he said, using the name he’d given her. Sometimes, he meant it to be mean, but not today.



Today, he made her fly.








CHAPTER ONE





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March 1816



Oxford, England



The heat pouring out of the foundry, beat back the cold wind whispering up underneath Leah Wells’ thin skirts. The furnaces inside blazed with the scent of melted iron, and shouts from the workers filled the night.



Leah kept her feet moving as she waited, standing away from the beggars who stood on the other side the back door in hopes of gathering the free warmth for the night.

Months ago, that could have been her standing in the huddle of discarded wood that one of the foundrymen had been generous enough to give to the displaced souls. Had it not been for her family, she’d have been lost. Though it was also her family who’d destroyed whatever beautiful future she might have had in the first place.

Now, she was hardly any better than the eyes that glanced her way, the fire dancing light across their stained hollow faces. While her clothing was in better condition than the men and women who spoke in hushed tones to one another, she did not wear the newest fashions. Leah had done well to keep her dresses intact, stitching and mending wherever they began to fall apart, knowing it would be months before she could afford another garment of any sort.