Read Online ROMANCE: Regency Romance: Fated to His Kiss (Historical Victorian Romance) (Historical Regency Romance Fantasy Short Stories) by Eva Madden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eva Madden
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in a strange loop, offering little relief and bringing only increased worry to her fevered brain. She thought she heard rain outside, but it was only rain from that day, that fateful day at the racing track on the anniversary of her mother's death. It was rain that caused that jockey who was supposed to be riding the horse her father was betting on to slip and sprain his leg badly enough so that he would not ride. On the one day where Anabelle and Isadora had agreed to come with him simply because they could not be caught in the house so rich with memories of their mother, their father had chosen to get roaring drunk and refuse to accept the jockey's decision. It was inconceivable that the horse upon which he endeavored to make his fortune would not be racing at all.
Anabelle shifted in her sleep as she saw her father shake the racetrack master by the collar as the man tried to prevent him from entering the stables. She could hear her voice and Isadora's begging him not to go, but it was all for naught; Lord Givens was like a man possessed, and he paid them as little mind as he would a fly on the wall.
From there on in, there were only flashes, like images printed black and white in the paper. Her father swinging up on the horse. Rain pelting down, all the harder as her father actually managed to pull the horse into the lead. And then that particularly sharp turn, the one where the horse slipped in the mud and its leg buckled out from under it, throwing her father from its back. The scream that froze in her throat even as she tried to rouse herself from her terrible slumber, the same scream that lodged in her throat upon the sight. Leaving Isadora behind, she had run to her father, pushing past all the medics who were trying to arrange his spine back in place. Her father, ashen and immobile on the ground, the rain pelting a merry hell on his face; all he could do was close his eyes against the onslaught and try to shape out words with his lips. Nobody stopped her as she knelt in the mud by his side, and that was when Anabelle knew that it was over, that it truly was. If there was even a hope of saving him, they would have stopped her and been rushing him to a hospital. By the time she was close enough to try and hear the words he was saying, she could tell that breathing had become a labor for him.
“Papa, it's Anabelle,” she cried, praying that he could hear her. She say him respond, and even more furtively attempt to say something. It was clear that it was vital, otherwise he would not be trying as hard, and she leaned in as close as she could so that finally, just finally, she could make out what he was saying.
He was telling her, “Marjorie likes oats.”
And with the final words that he was leaving behind him on the Earth, Lord Givens died right there and then.
“Papa?” cried Anabelle, shaking him slightly. “Papa?” she tried again, shaking him harder this time, the scream that lodged in her throat working its way free until she was crying, screaming, and shaking forever and ever, and the scream of “Papa!” carried its way through her dream and straight into the cold reality of her being.
“Anabelle,” said a male voice, clutching her sweating body tightly. “Anabelle, I'm here, wake up.”
Anabelle poked one wet eye open to discover that the shaking in her dream was also coming from her own body, and that Henry Princely had wrapped his arms around her in a vice grip that felt at once painful and comforting beyond measure. She realized, too, that she was still crying and crying out from the dream, and that everything was sad beyond measure.
“He told me what she eats,” she whispered against Henry's chest, clutching him even tighter than he was holding
Anabelle shifted in her sleep as she saw her father shake the racetrack master by the collar as the man tried to prevent him from entering the stables. She could hear her voice and Isadora's begging him not to go, but it was all for naught; Lord Givens was like a man possessed, and he paid them as little mind as he would a fly on the wall.
From there on in, there were only flashes, like images printed black and white in the paper. Her father swinging up on the horse. Rain pelting down, all the harder as her father actually managed to pull the horse into the lead. And then that particularly sharp turn, the one where the horse slipped in the mud and its leg buckled out from under it, throwing her father from its back. The scream that froze in her throat even as she tried to rouse herself from her terrible slumber, the same scream that lodged in her throat upon the sight. Leaving Isadora behind, she had run to her father, pushing past all the medics who were trying to arrange his spine back in place. Her father, ashen and immobile on the ground, the rain pelting a merry hell on his face; all he could do was close his eyes against the onslaught and try to shape out words with his lips. Nobody stopped her as she knelt in the mud by his side, and that was when Anabelle knew that it was over, that it truly was. If there was even a hope of saving him, they would have stopped her and been rushing him to a hospital. By the time she was close enough to try and hear the words he was saying, she could tell that breathing had become a labor for him.
“Papa, it's Anabelle,” she cried, praying that he could hear her. She say him respond, and even more furtively attempt to say something. It was clear that it was vital, otherwise he would not be trying as hard, and she leaned in as close as she could so that finally, just finally, she could make out what he was saying.
He was telling her, “Marjorie likes oats.”
And with the final words that he was leaving behind him on the Earth, Lord Givens died right there and then.
“Papa?” cried Anabelle, shaking him slightly. “Papa?” she tried again, shaking him harder this time, the scream that lodged in her throat working its way free until she was crying, screaming, and shaking forever and ever, and the scream of “Papa!” carried its way through her dream and straight into the cold reality of her being.
“Anabelle,” said a male voice, clutching her sweating body tightly. “Anabelle, I'm here, wake up.”
Anabelle poked one wet eye open to discover that the shaking in her dream was also coming from her own body, and that Henry Princely had wrapped his arms around her in a vice grip that felt at once painful and comforting beyond measure. She realized, too, that she was still crying and crying out from the dream, and that everything was sad beyond measure.
“He told me what she eats,” she whispered against Henry's chest, clutching him even tighter than he was holding
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