When May Met December: An Age Gap Regency Romance

CHAPTER ONE

LONDON, 1814

MISS EVANGELINE HARTWELL

The delicate clink of bone china fills my drawing room as I pour another cup of tea for Mrs. Pemberton, whose sharp eyes survey my surroundings with barely concealed assessment. The afternoon light streaming through my windows catches the dust motes dancing above our heads, and I find myself wishing this particular gathering would conclude with similar grace.

Such a lovely home you keep, Miss Hartwell, Lady Ashworth remarks, though her tone suggests she finds something lacking. So... independent.

I smile and offer her the plate of cucumber sandwiches. At seven-and-twenty, I have learned to interpret such comments with the practiced ease of a diplomat. Thank you. I take great pride in managing my own household.

Indeed, murmurs Lady Cromwell, adjusting her elaborate turban. Though I must say, dear, we are all quite curious about your future plans. Surely a woman of your... means... must have gentlemen callers?

The question hangs in the air like incense, heavy and unavoidable. I set my teacup down with deliberate care, buying myself a moment to compose my response. These women, with their knowing glances and barely veiled interrogations, treat my unmarried state as though it were a fascinating specimen under glass.

I'm afraid I have no particular prospects at present, I reply, keeping my voice level. The admission tastes bitter, though I have spoken it countless times before.

Mrs. Pemberton leans forward, her eyes bright with what she might call concern but feels more like vulgar curiosity. Oh, my dear child! A woman of your position should not want for suitors. Perhaps you are being too particular?

The suggestion that I might lower my standards pricks at something raw within my chest, but I maintain my composure. I believe it is important to wait for the right match.

Quite right, Lady Ashworth agrees, though her nod seems patronizing. Though one mustn't wait too long. Time has a way of... diminishing one's options.

The reminder of my advancing age settles over the room like a chill. I am acutely aware that these women, some younger than I, despite their married status, view me as a cautionary tale. The spinster with means but no husband to give her life meaning.

Actually, Lady Cromwell declares, brightening as though struck by inspiration, I am hosting a ball this Thursday evening. You simply must attend, Miss Hartwell. There will be several eligible gentlemen present, including some recently returned from the Continent.

The prospect of another evening spent smiling at men who will inevitably discover my age and retreat with polite excuses makes my stomach tighten. Yet refusing would only fuel more speculation about my peculiarities.

How thoughtful of you to include me. I should be delighted to attend.

Wonderful! Lord and Lady Winfield will also be present. Such a charming couple. Perhaps Lady Winfield's happiness might inspire others to a similar fortune.

At the mention of Eleanor, my spirits lift slightly. Dear Eleanor, who married Sir Thomas Winfield at nineteen in what she privately describes as a union of mutual convenience rather than passion. Still, her presence at the ball will provide me with at least one genuine ally among the sea of matchmaking mothers and fortune hunters.

The conversation meanders through the usual topics—the weather, the latest fashions from Paris, speculation about which young ladies might receive offers this season. I contribute when required, smile when expected, and count the minutes until propriety allows me to escort my guests to the door.

When the last carriage finally disappears around the corner, I retrieve my spencer and bonnet for my daily walk. The spring air beckons, promising respite from the suffocating atmosphere of forced sociability.

HYDE PARK

Hyde Park provides its usual sanctuary, and I am delighted to spot Eleanor's familiar figure near the Serpentine. She turns at my approach, her face brightening with genuine pleasure rather than the calculated interest I have endured all afternoon.

Evangeline! How perfect. I was hoping to encounter you today. She links her arm through mine with the easy affection that has marked our friendship since our presentation at court nearly a decade ago. You look rather peaked. Difficult callers?

The usual inquisition disguised as afternoon tea, I reply with a rueful smile. Though I must thank you for providing me with an excuse to escape. Lady Cromwell mentioned you and your husband will attend her ball on Thursday evening.

Eleanor groans dramatically. Indeed, we shall, though Thomas finds such gatherings tedious beyond measure. I suspect he will retreat to the card room within the first hour, leaving me to navigate the social battlefield alone.

We stroll in comfortable silence for several moments, our footsteps echoing along the gravel path. The park bustles with the usual parade of fashionable society—ladies displaying their finest walking dresses, gentlemen on horseback nodding to their acquaintances, nursemaids shepherding children away from the water's edge.

Eleanor, I begin hesitantly, may I speak plainly about something rather... delicate?

Of course. When have we ever done otherwise?

Two gentlemen have shown interest in me over the past months. Mr. Fitzwilliam seemed quite taken initially, calling twice weekly and sending flowers. Then, rather abruptly, his attentions ceased entirely.

Eleanor's expression darkens with understanding. Let me guess—he discovered your age?

"More specifically, he discovered that at seven-and-twenty, I am considered past my prime for bearing children. His mother made some pointed inquiries about my... fertility... and suddenly his weekly calls became monthly, then stopped altogether."

The presumption! Eleanor's cheeks flushed with indignation. As though you were a broodmare at Tattersall's.

Mr. Covington followed a similar pattern. Initial interest, then withdrawal once the mathematics of my age became clear. I pause, gathering courage for what I must say next. They want young wives who can provide them with numerous heirs. I understand the practical considerations, but...

But it doesn't make the rejection sting any less, Eleanor finishes gently.

Precisely. I could have married at eighteen, you know. Lord Hartwell pursued me quite ardently during my first season. But then Papa died so suddenly, and I found myself inheriting more wealth than I had ever imagined. The responsibility overwhelmed me entirely.

You were grieving and barely more than a child yourself.

I spent the next several years learning to manage investments, understanding property law, and discovering capabilities I never knew I possessed. Now I can discuss business matters with my solicitor as an equal, review household accounts without confusion, make decisions about my future based on reason rather than desperation.

Eleanor nods approvingly. Independence suits you, though I suspect it intimidates certain gentlemen.

Perhaps. But Eleanor... I stop walking, turning to face my dearest friend. I cannot help but long for things that seem increasingly beyond my reach. I want children desperately. I want to be a wife, to share my life with someone who values my opinions and... and my physical presence.

The confession hangs between us, bold and dangerous, even spoken to my closest confidante. Eleanor's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't recoil from my unseemly honesty.

I appreciate your companionship more than words can express, I continue, but I yearn to be touched by a man, to experience the intimacies that marriage provides. Is such desire terribly wanton?

Eleanor considers this carefully before responding. Not wanton, merely human. Though I must confess, the realities of marriage often fall short of romantic expectations.

Surely you and Sir Thomas share some affection?

A shadow crosses Eleanor's face, the kind of private sorrow she rarely reveals even to me. Thomas is kind and courteous, but our union serves practical purposes rather than passionate ones. He often retires to his own chambers, claiming it prevents disturbing my rest.

She pauses, her fingers twisting the ribbon of her reticule. Eight years wed, and not a single child to show for it. Not for lack of desire on my part—I've longed for a nursery filled with laughter.

Oh, Eleanor, I whisper, covering her hand with mine.

The intimacies required for children are... infrequent between us, she continues, her voice dropping further. At first, I thought time would change matters, but they never did. We've settled into a pattern of companionable distance. I suspect it's simply the way of aristocratic marriages these days—separate lives conducted under one roof.

Her eyes meet mine, bright with a determination that masks deeper hurt. So you see, Evangeline, one can have the marriage certificate without gaining the warmth of true intimacy.

The revelation disappoints me more than I care to admit. Even Eleanor, who achieved the married state I so desperately desire, finds it lacking in the very intimacies I crave most—not only physical closeness but the profound connection that creates new life. My longing for children seems suddenly more complex, more vulnerable to circumstance than I had imagined.

As Eleanor and I continue our leisurely circuit around the Serpentine, a chorus of giggles and squeals erupts from a cluster of young ladies near the water's edge. The sound carries across the park with such enthusiasm that several other walkers pause to investigate the source of excitement.

Good heavens, I murmur, following Eleanor's gaze toward the commotion. What has captured their attention so completely?

Three gentlemen on horseback veer from the designated bridle path, their mounts' hooves striking the soft grass with muffled thuds as they ride directly toward the animated group. The boldness of abandoning proper etiquette to approach the ladies so brazenly sends another wave of delighted squeals across the park. Even from this distance, I can observe the young ladies' fans fluttering with increased vigor as they whisper behind gloved hands and steal glances at their decidedly unconventional visitors.

Such audacity! Eleanor murmurs beside me, her tone mixing disapproval with grudging admiration. They're riding straight across the lawn as though park regulations mean nothing to them.

To be young again, I remark with a mixture of admiration and melancholy. Look at their unguarded delight. When did I last feel such pure excitement at the mere approach of handsome gentlemen?

Eleanor adjusts her hold on my arm, studying the scene with greater interest. Indeed, they appear quite overcome with pleasure. Though I suspect their reactions have less to do with youth and more to do with the particular gentlemen commanding their attention.

Do you recognize them? I crane my neck slightly, trying to discern features at our considerable distance.

Two of them, certainly. Eleanor's voice carries a note of knowing disapproval. The fair-haired gentleman is Lord Atwell—charming but utterly without substance. His primary accomplishments include an impressive collection of gambling debts and a talent for avoiding his creditors. The dark-haired man beside him is Lord Blackwood, whose reputation precedes him into every drawing room in London.

What manner of reputation?

The sort that makes mothers lock away their daughters and husbands regard their wives with suspicion. He is devastatingly handsome, possessed of considerable charm, and completely without moral restraint regarding the fairer sex. Eleanor's tone suggests she speaks from reliable intelligence rather than mere gossip. The third gentleman I do not recognize, though his appearance suggests he moves in similar circles.

I observe the trio more carefully as they dismount with practiced grace. Even at this distance, their combined appeal is undeniable—each possessing the kind of masculine confidence that draws feminine attention like moths to flame.

They are all remarkably handsome, I admit, feeling heat rise in my cheeks at my own boldness. Small wonder those poor girls appear so flustered. I confess, I should be quite excited myself if such gentlemen directed their attention toward me.

Eleanor shoots me a sidelong glance filled with gentle amusement. My dear Evangeline, you speak as though you were ancient rather than merely seasoned. I suspect you would hold your own quite admirably in their company.

Perhaps, though I fear my excitement would stem from different sources than theirs. I gesture toward the young ladies, who continue their animated display. They dream of romance and adventure. I would simply appreciate the novelty of masculine attention that doesn't immediately calculate my remaining childbearing years.

The gentlemen abandon their horses to the care of waiting grooms and begin walking alongside the cluster of admirers. Their path curves in our general direction, following the popular promenade route that circles the water.

Should we alter our course? I suggest, noting their approaching trajectory. Give them more space for their... activities?

Absolutely not! Eleanor's response surprises me with its vehemence. This is a public park, and we have as much right to utilize these paths as anyone. Let them navigate around us if necessary.

Her determination amuses me, and we maintain our steady pace while the group draws nearer, their voices carrying more clearly across the diminishing distance.

The young ladies' laughter tinkles like wind chimes, punctuated by deeper masculine tones that send unexpected warmth through my chest. I find myself watching one gentleman in particular—the dark-haired man Eleanor identified as Lord Blackwood. His movements possess a leonine grace that captures my attention despite every rational thought warning me against such foolish fascination.

His profile, when he turns to address one of the ladies, reveals classical features that might have inspired Renaissance sculptors. Strong jaw, Greek nose, and eyes that seem to sparkle with mischief even from our considerable distance. When he laughs at something one of his companions says, the sound reaches me like warm honey, rich and entirely too appealing.

My heart begins an erratic rhythm that has nothing to do with our leisurely walk and everything to do with the approaching presence of this undeniably attractive stranger. Each step that brings him closer seems to intensify the peculiar fluttering in my chest until I fear Eleanor might notice my agitation.

The group draws closer still, and I cannot seem to tear my gaze away. Something about his bearing, the confident way he carries himself, the easy manner in which he engages his companions—it all combines to create an almost magnetic pull that defies explanation.

My pulse thunders in my ears as the distance between us continues to shrink, and I wonder desperately if this unprecedented physical reaction to a complete stranger might be visible to casual observers.

One of his companions glances up at Eleanor and me as we approach, offering a polite nod in our direction before guiding his portion of the group to veer right with practiced gentlemanly courtesy. The second gentleman follows suit, steering his admirer rightward with a murmured word that sends her into another fit of delighted giggles.

The remaining young ladies notice our approach as well, their eyes assessing Eleanor and me with the swift calculation of youth, determining whether we pose any threat to their monopoly on masculine attention. Finding us sufficiently wanting—no doubt due to our advanced ages and married or spinster states—they drift right alongside their companions with careless dismissal.

The young miss presses closer to Lord Blackwood's side, her lips nearly brushing his ear as she whispers something that makes his eyes darken with interest. Whatever scandalous confidence she shares captures his attention so completely that he remains utterly oblivious to his companions' rightward movement.

I instinctively drift left to give the approaching group more space, Eleanor following my lead. The young ladies have already begun shifting rightward with their gentlemen escorts, creating what should be a clear path between us. Lord Blackwood, however, remains oblivious to this choreography of social navigation, his attention entirely captured by the young miss clinging to his left arm. Her whispered confidences hold him spellbound, his dark head inclined toward her as he walks straight ahead, unaware that his companions have altered their course.

Time crystallizes as I realize our collision course. My pulse thunders in my ears as the distance shrinks—five feet, four feet, three—and still he shows no awareness of my presence. His gaze remains fixed on his companion, the corner of his mouth lifted in response to whatever scandalous comment she has just shared. When I step further left to avoid him, he simultaneously moves in the same direction⁠—

Our shoulders collide with a gentle force.

The impact spins us both slightly, bringing us face to face in a moment that seems suspended outside the normal flow of time. I look up as he looks down, his expression shifting from startled confusion to something far more intense as our gazes lock. The sudden connection steals the breath from my lungs.

This close, he is devastatingly beautiful—eyes the color of dark chocolate that seem to hold golden depths. The scent of him envelops me: sandalwood and bergamot, leather and something indefinably masculine that makes my senses reel. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and I fight the most improper urge to reach up and brush it away.

For one suspended heartbeat, something passes between us—a recognition that transcends the merely physical, as though some part of my soul has been waiting precisely for this moment, this man, this impossible collision of fate.

Forgive me, he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate through my very bones. But he makes no move to step away, those dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes heat bloom across my cheeks.

No harm done, I manage, though my voice emerges as barely more than a whisper. My heart pounds so violently I fear he might hear it, might see the way his proximity affects me so profoundly.

Something flickers in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity—as though he too feels the strange electricity crackling in the air between us. His lips part slightly, as if he means to say something more, something important…

I lower my gaze and attempt to step around him, desperate to escape the bewildering effect of his presence. But as I move, he shifts subtly, placing himself directly in my path once more. The movement is so slight it might appear accidental to anyone watching, yet the deliberate nature of his obstruction is unmistakable to me.

Startled, I look up at him again, confusion mingling with an unexpected thrill that courses through me. His expression has transformed entirely—gone is the momentary vulnerability, replaced by a smile of such devastating charm that I feel it physically. One corner of his mouth lifts higher than the other, creating a roguish asymmetry that speaks of practiced seduction and dangerous intent.

That smile—confident, knowing, utterly self-assured—tells me everything Eleanor had warned about his character. He is teasing me, playing with me as a cat might toy with a fascinating but ultimately doomed mouse. Heat floods my face as I realize how transparent my reaction must be to him, how easily he has provoked this response with nothing more than proximity and calculated charm.

I step back abruptly, desperate to regain my composure that has scattered like autumn leaves in a strong wind. My retreat seems to please him; his smile deepens, those dark eyes glittering with satisfaction at my obvious discomfort.

Lord Blackwood! The young miss's sharp exclamation shatters the moment like crystal striking stone. Her gloved hand darts out to grasp his arm with obvious possession. You've wandered away from us entirely!

The spell breaks instantly. The blonde girl tugs him around with determined force, her grip brooking no resistance as she pulls him back toward their scattered companions. Lord Blackwood yields to her insistence, allowing himself to be turned completely away from me, yet something in his posture suggests reluctance—a slight drag in his step, a tension in his shoulders that speaks of a man being led somewhere he does not wish to go.

I find myself turned as well, Eleanor's gentle touch on my elbow guiding me forward along our original path. My legs move mechanically, carrying me away from whatever sublime madness had just transpired, yet every fiber of my being rebels against the increasing distance.

We walk in opposite directions, perhaps twenty feet separating us now, the blonde girl's bright chatter filling the space between our retreating figures. The sound of her voice grows fainter with each step, though I catch fragments of her possessive commentary on the afternoon's events.

I turn my head just as he turns his.

Our eyes meet across the distance—a flash of connection that lasts no more than a heartbeat before we both snap our gazes forward again, cheeks burning. But in that brief moment, I catch something raw in his expression that mirrors the wild confusion in my chest.

My pulse thunders as I force my feet to continue their steady rhythm. Eleanor maintains her diplomatic silence beside me, though I sense her cataloguing every detail for later discussion.

The park continues around us—children's laughter, the clip of hooves on gravel, the rustle of spring leaves—but all of it feels distant, muffled, as though I'm hearing the world through water. My heart continues its erratic dance, and I marvel at how a stranger's glance could unravel me so completely in the space of a single breath.

When we have achieved what I judge to be a considerable distance from the group, I finally trust myself to speak without my voice betraying the tumult of sensation still coursing through me.

Eleanor, I begin, proud that my tone sounds almost normal, That was the first time since my debut that a man has ever made my heart flutter in such a manner.

Eleanor shakes her head with immediate disapproval, her expression mixing concern with gentle exasperation. Oh, my dear Evangeline, that man is dangerous beyond measure. He makes every woman's heart flutter—it is precisely what makes him so perilous to feminine peace of mind.

Surely you exaggerate⁠—

I do not. Eleanor's interruption carries unusual force. He is a rake of the first order, Evangeline. Lord Blackwood breaks hearts for luncheon without a backward glance at the emotional wreckage he leaves in his wake. His reputation with women is absolutely scandalous, and his conscience regarding their feelings is nonexistent.

The warning settles over me like cold water, dousing the warmth that had been spreading through my chest since our encounter. Of course, a man so devastatingly attractive would be thoroughly unsuitable—such divine packaging rarely comes without corresponding moral deficiencies.

You speak from reliable intelligence?

The most reliable. Lady Pemberton's niece was utterly ruined by his attentions last season. He pursued her with such ardent devotion that she believed herself on the verge of receiving an offer, only to discover he had moved on to fresh quarry without so much as a note of explanation.

Eleanor's grip on my arm tightens slightly. Promise me you will steer well clear of men like him, no matter how they might affect your pulse. Such creatures view women as temporary diversions rather than human beings deserving of respect and consideration.

I cannot help myself. Despite Eleanor's stern warnings about Lord Blackwood's character, despite every rational thought screaming that I should dismiss him from my mind entirely, I find myself slowing my steps and glancing over my shoulder again.

Oh, just one more look, I murmur, attempting to sound casual even as my pulse quickens again. What could it possibly hurt?

Eleanor catches my movement and lets out a burst of laughter that she quickly stifles behind her gloved hand. Evangeline Hartwell! You are positively shameless.

I am merely... observing, I protest weakly, though my cheeks burn with the knowledge that my behavior is anything but proper. It is not as though I plan to pursue the man.

Of course not, Eleanor agrees with obvious amusement, then proves herself no better than I by turning to look as well. Though I suppose there is no harm in a moment's appreciation of... aesthetic qualities.

We both pivot at precisely the same moment, like synchronized dancers executing a well-rehearsed routine. The sight that greets us makes my breath catch in my throat all over again.

Lord Blackwood walks away from us with the same unconscious grace that had first captured my attention. His long stride carries him forward with athletic ease, and even from behind, his figure commands attention. The cut of his dark blue coat emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, while his buff-colored breeches display the lean strength of his legs to perfection.

Even in retreat, he is absolutely mesmerizing, I whisper, my voice filled with reluctant admiration.

Eleanor nods beside me, her own gaze fixed on the retreating figure. I must concede the point—he does cut a remarkably fine figure.

He has such lovely shoulders, I confess, feeling heat spread across my cheeks at my own boldness. And he's considerably taller than his companions, which only adds to his commanding presence.

We continue our shameless observation as he pauses to collect his horse from the waiting groom. The way he swings into the saddle with fluid grace makes my stomach flutter anew, and I press one hand to my chest as though the gesture might calm my racing heart.

His hair is rather longer in the back than is strictly fashionable, I note, studying the dark waves that brush against his collar. But I confess it only adds to his unique appeal. There's something almost... untamed about it.

Eleanor tilts her head, considering this observation. You're quite right. Most gentlemen crop their hair with mathematical precision, but his suggests a certain carelessness about convention that is rather... intriguing.

Intriguing indeed, I breathe, watching as he gathers his reins with long, elegant fingers. Even his hands are perfect—strong and capable, yet refined enough to belong to a gentleman of leisure.

The young lady who had been monopolizing his attention during our encounter now gazes up at him with obvious adoration, her fan fluttering wildly as she attempts to maintain his focus. He leans down to murmur something to her, and the intimate gesture sends an unexpected pang through my chest.

He's speaking to her again, I observe, surprised by the note of disappointment in my own voice.

Naturally. She is young and beautiful and suitably impressed by his charms, Eleanor replies pragmatically. Precisely the sort of feminine attention a man like him expects as his natural due.

Lord Blackwood straightens in his saddle and touches the brim of his hat in a gesture of farewell that encompasses the entire group of admirers. Then he wheels his mount around with practiced skill and canters away, his two companions falling into formation beside him as they head toward the park's exit.

I watch until they disappear entirely from view, my eyes straining to catch one final glimpse of his figure among the trees. Only when he has vanished completely do I realize I