Dawn In My Heart

CRITICAL PRAISE FOR

RUTH AXTELL MORREN

LILAC SPRING

“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about nineteenth-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing an historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Grace in Thine Eyes

“Morren’s engrossing style is sure to please her readers as well as win over new fans. This pleasing saga has likable characters and just enough tension to satisfy gentle romance enthusiasts.”

—Library Journal

WILD ROSE

Selected as a Booklist Top 10 Christian Novel for 2005

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

—Booklist

“A beautiful, believable love relationship…Richly defined characters and settings enhance this meaningful novel.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“An uplifting and spiritual tale of small town life in turn-of-the-century New England. Wild Rose is a gentle, but poignant offering from Ms. Morren and proves that she is an author to watch in the coming months. This is a book you will not want to miss!”

—Romance Reviews Today

WINTER IS PAST

“Inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…. [Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”

—Christian Retailing

“Ruth Axtell Morren writes with skill, sensitivity and great heart about the things that matter most…. Make room on your keeper shelf for a new favorite.”

—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author

“Faith journeys are so realistic, all readers can benefit from the story. Highly recommended.”

—CBA Marketplace

Dawn in My Heart

Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mora,

Without you,

I’d still be waiting around, hoping to be published…

Without me, you’d be…

Well, God knows…

Here’s to obedience and discipleship.

Contents

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

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, 1814

T ertius Pembroke, Fourth Earl of Skylar, observed his future bride across the drawing room.

“She’s a comely lass, isn’t she?” his father, the Marquess of Caulfield, asked in the false hearty tone Sky recognized as the striving-to-please one when he wasn’t at all sure his news would be well received.

When Tertius said nothing, his father went on. “Look at that porcelain skin, those exquisite arms, the dainty turn of her ankle.” He was positively gushing now.

Sky surveyed Lady Gillian Edwards, determined to find some fault with his father’s choice. He took a critical appraisal, from the crown of her brunette curls cut in the latest short fashion to the tips of her silver slippers.

What he found in between was in no way displeasing. Pale skin delightfully tinged pink at the cheeks bespoke untouched innocence. A pleasant tinkling sound reached his ear when she laughed at what the young dandy beside her was saying.

Comely indeed, he thought, noting the even white teeth.

“A true English rose,” his father added.

A low-cut evening gown revealed a creamy bosom. There was nothing inordinately immodest about the fashionable neckline, just enough to whet a man’s appetite. A silver ribbon cinched in the high-waisted white gown.

“Well, haven’t you anything to say?” his father demanded. “Didn’t I tell you I’d picked the best for you?”

“So you did.” At that moment, the young lady’s glance strayed to him. The two stared at each other across the room. He weighing, judging. She caught in midsmile, a smile that slowly died as it wasn’t returned, and she stood transfixed, as if uncertain what to do next.

Then the moment passed. His father nudged him on the elbow. “Come, Tertius. I told the duchess we would be here this evening to present you to her daughter.”

Skylar made no reply, having become resigned if not wholly convinced of his duty to marry and produce an heir. He’d made it clear to his father earlier that he would commit to nothing until he’d seen the young lady.

“Duchess.” Bending over her hand, his father greeted the stately woman seated near her standing daughter at the opposite end of the drawing room. “Delighted to see you. As always, you are looking more splendid than all the ladies present.”

His father’s eloquence grated on Sky’s nerves. He, in turn, bowed over the duchess’s gloved hand.

“Lord Skylar, my youngest son. It has been long since you last met, nigh on ten years, I believe.”

“Lord Skylar.” The Duchess of Burnham gave Tertius the barest nod while directing her comments to his father. “I remember. He was making his mark here in London.” The elegant, middle-aged woman appraised him. “You are much changed, my lord.”

Sky knew the words were not a compliment. “The tropics,” he replied. “They either kill you or leave you a wrecked shell as you see me now.” He gave a thin smile, having learned it was better to preempt an intended insult by stating it plainly. That usually gained one a temporary advantage.

“You have my deepest condolences on your brother’s demise,” the duchess said in the silence.

Skylar inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge her remark. He took time to observe his future mother-in-law. She was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, her beauty skillfully maintained with the aid of cleverly applied cosmetics, her honey-hued hair not revealing any gray.

He gave his attention to her daughter. Lady Gillian was petite, brunette to her mother’s fair hair and, not quite as slim but shapelier than her mother, dressed in white muslin adorned with silver ribbons. Up close she presented even more distinctly the picture of youthful innocence than she had from across the room. Her pink cheeks contrasted prettily with her dark hair. Her neck, slim and pale, led the eye downward to the creamy expanse of shoulder exposed by the wide scalloped neckline.

She did indeed appear to be of superior quality. Trust his father to choose well. As the marquess had described her, she was “exquisitely fashioned, in good health, untouched.” In short, all the endowments required in a wife of a peer of the realm.

His father beamed at him. “What do you think, Sky, isn’t Lady Gillian a pretty lass?”

“She’ll do,” he said, wanting as always to put a damper on his father’s perpetual good humor.

He hadn’t noticed the color of Lady Gillian’s eyes until that moment, but as she turned their dark-lashed focus on him, he was struck by their pale green. Wintergreen, he thought, taking in their icy hue, rimmed by a dark spruce. She looked as cold as an icehouse, he thought, comparing her to the warm, honey-toned women of the Indies, with their open nature and easy embraces.

Knowing it was up to him to initiate the act of courtship, he asked her, “May I entreat you to take a turn about the room?”

She gave a slight bow of her head. Like mother, like daughter, he thought, comparing her condescension with the duchess’s.

He held out his arm and she placed her hand around it, barely resting her weight upon it. Slowly they promenaded the long, guest-filled drawing room, as his father’s voice trailed after them. “See there, what a handsome pair they make.” He could be speaking of a matched set of bays. “I knew they would be agreeable to the arrangement.”

Sky led Lady Gillian about the room as the tinkling strains of Telemann vied with the babble of voices in the background.

The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder. She was looking away from him, and he realized she hadn’t looked at him since that first straight-on stare.

He had no clue how to court a young lady of the ton. He hadn’t even done so back in his days as a young buck in London society, preferring the company of tavern wenches. And now it had been at least a half dozen years since he’d said anything meaningful to a young chit barely out of the schoolroom.

He cleared his throat. “Is this your first season?”

“No, my lord,” she replied, not deigning to turn toward him.

“Your second?” he asked blandly.

The deep-fringed eyes stared up at him. “It’s my third.” The tone dared him to make anything of the fact.

Something about her haughtiness impelled him to bait her. “Hanging out for a title?”

“Putting off the state of matrimony as long as possible.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought a young lady’s sole ambition was to make a match approved by society?”

“If there were a worthy candidate, I might have changed my mind.” When he continued studying her, she said, “It appears you have avoided the state longer than I. How old are you? Forty? And still not wed?”

“I’m sure the duchess has made you aware of my five-and-thirty years,” he said, irritated that he felt the barb.

“Painfully,” came the acid reply.

Wondering at her animosity, he said, “I have not ‘avoided’ the state, as you misjudge. In my case, there was no undue hurry. I was not in search of a fortune or anyone’s good name to improve the Caulfield line. That responsibility rested upon my elder brother’s shoulders. I could take a more leisurely approach to matrimony. A young lady hasn’t that luxury. Her bloom quickly fades and soon she is what the gossips term ‘on the shelf.’”

“I can assure you, my lord, I am far from on the shelf!” The hue of her cheeks deepened. “I have had plenty of offers, but I, too, could afford to wait. Just as you, I have no need of someone else’s title or fortune.”

“It appears we are well suited then. We should be grateful for our parents’ having taken the trouble of the selection of partner out of our hands.”

When she made no reply, he mused, “Three seasons…Aren’t you concerned the gossips would have commented on you by now?”

She flashed him a look of anger. “I had no need to be! My mother has been very particular of whom she has allowed to pay court to me. When your father approached her, she viewed your suit favorably.”

“How fortunate for me.”

“As my mother has pointed out, apart from our difference in age, we are social equals in every way.”

She feigned a cool facade, but contained some fire in her, he thought in grudging admiration. Beneath that exquisite bosom beat a proud little heart—perhaps as proud as his own. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about diluting his bloodline with inferior stock. “We should suit admirably by all conventional wisdom,” he concluded.

Her dark eyebrows drew together in a slight frown. “As to that, I have no opinion. I trust, as is customary, we shall each go our own way once we are wed.”

“Do you?” he murmured. “That depends,” he added softly.

She disengaged her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “Lord Skylar, I think we should be clear on this point. I have agreed to this betrothal because, as my mother has so sensibly explained to me, you are Lord Caulfield’s heir, which means I stand to become the Marchioness of Caulfield someday. Apart from your advanced age, you possess all the qualities suitable for a good match.” She gave him the same kind of appraising look her mother had. “In short, my lord, you’ll do.”

Ah. Comprehension dawned. He had offended the chit and now she was striking back. She had spirit, and he liked that. Better than a simpering deb.

He smiled at her. “And did your mother further explain that, together, we need to produce one healthy male heir—a feat my dear, departed brother Edmund, for all his other accomplishments, was not able to achieve. What think you? Shall we manage it?”

She seemed unfazed. “It remains to be seen.”

“I would say, rather, it remains to be done.”

Her color rose to her already rosy cheeks until it suffused her whole face and neck at this direct reference to their marital duties. Tertius was almost sorry he had spoken so quickly, but he needn’t have worried. She rallied admirably.

“You, my lord, are disgusting.” With that pronouncement, she wheeled away from him and marched back toward her mother.

The next morning, Gillian paced back and forth in her bedroom. Her opinions about the insufferable man she had been introduced to the evening before had not changed overnight. Each time she thought of his words “she’ll do!” she was outraged afresh.

“Mother, he’s ghastly! You can’t make me marry him.” Gillian stopped in front of the chaise where her mother lounged in her embroidered silk dressing gown.

She shuddered at the memory of Lord Skylar’s supercilious way of looking down at her from his great height while he pronounced some shocking statement in that lazy drawl. And that last ungentlemanly remark! Oh, it didn’t bear thinking on!

“Don’t speak nonsense,” her mother replied, examining her buffed nails in the morning light. “Lord Skylar is the best catch of the season now that he’s inherited his brother’s title.”

“Well, let someone else have him…if they can stomach his company,” she added under her breath as she resumed her pacing. She shook her head at the sprigged muslin her maid held out to her.

“He’s positively gothic. He reminds me of some creepy villain with those black eyes and hair and those gaunt cheeks. When he looks at me, I feel as if he sees right past me.”

“It’s a pity Lord Skylar doesn’t have his brother’s looks,” her mother conceded, “but he’s just got over a terrible fever. Who knows what malady a person can pick up in the Indies? But after he’s been in London a few weeks, he’ll put on some weight and be in the pink of health, just in time for the wedding, you’ll see.”

“I doubt his manners will improve on further acquaintance.” Gillian stopped long enough to remove her dressing gown and allow the maid to help her into the jaconet morning dress in pale green with the rows of pink ribbons along the hem.

“Oh, come, he was perfectly amiable to me.”

“He might have behaved so with you, but with me, he was most provoking.”

“Then you must exert yourself to be extra charming,” her mother replied.

“It will take every ounce of my resolve, which I confess isn’t any too strong at this moment,” she added, tapping her foot impatiently as the maid laced up her gown.

“The fact remains, it’s time you were wed. Don’t forget you’ll soon be twenty-one and that bloom will fade.”

She glared at her mother. Had she and Lord Skylar been consulting together? Gillian went to her dressing table and studied herself in the glass as her maid brushed out her hair. She’d always been considered pretty. More than pretty. Maybe it was her nose, not aquiline but a trifle pert, or her eyes, not a deep emerald green, but that washed-out shade she wished in vain leaned a trifle more toward blue.

She’d always thought her coloring good. Now she wondered if her cheeks weren’t too red.

As her maid arranged her hair into ringlets around her forehead and temples, Gillian looked at her in the glass. “Maybe we should try it away from the face today,” she suggested, pulling the side curls back.

“Lord Skylar’s is the kind of offer we’ve been holding out for,” her mother reminded her from the chaise.

“You’ve been holding out for,” Gillian corrected.

“Many a young girl has fared much worse in a choice of husband. You should be thanking your lucky stars old Lord Caulfield saw fit to approach us with this offer. As I said, you need to be married before you’re any older. It’s time you began setting up your own household.”

Her mother came to stand beside the maid.

“What do you think?” Gillian asked her mother.

The Duchess of Burnham smoothed back an escaping curl before nodding her approval. “It is simple, as is befitting a young lady.”

As the maid stepped away, Gillian’s mother placed a hand on her shoulder, her tone gentling. “You’ll soon see the advantages of being a matron over a debutante. You’ll have a freedom to come and go that you haven’t heretofore known.” She smiled. “If someday you meet a gentleman more to your taste, with your sensibilities…” She shrugged. “With a little discretion, you can enjoy the kind of romantic love you foolishly dream of now.”

Gillian’s further protests were stilled by her mother’s words. She shivered. Why did it seem her life was ending before it had scarcely begun? Would she never have that fulfillment she read about in romantic novels—that she’d scarcely tasted before it had been snatched from her? Would the only avenue that remained to her be to hope for some furtive alliance sometime in the distant future? She considered the ladies she read about in the society news. Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline, women who were known for their lovers, and she wondered sadly if that was the only future left to her.

She thought of the pimply faced dandies that had surrounded her at every dance since her come-out and compared them to the ideal she’d been dreaming about and waiting for for so many years. A handsome, manly officer coming back to claim her as his own.

She sighed, dispelling the futile dream. Yes, she was ready for marriage. She needed a change. Too many years spent waiting…waiting for someone she was now resigned would never appear.

Her mother patted her hand as if reading her mind.

“What you need to think about is your wedding trousseau. We shall begin making purchases immediately. I shall have Mme. Rouget stop by and measure you for your wedding gown. How fortunate for Wellington’s victory. Think of all the Paris fashions now available.

“Come, let us look at the spring edition of La Belle Assemblée. It’s full of all the latest French gowns and bonnets. Since our glorious army has driven Napoleon off the Continent, everything has a military flair.” Her mother held out the magazine to her. “Look at this riding habit with the frogged neck and epaulets.

“You must have half-a-dozen new ball gowns at least. You’ll no longer be limited to white muslin but can be much more daring in your selections.”

The thought was enticing. Gillian moved closer to her mother to look at the colored illustrations.

“You’ll need a whole new wardrobe as the Countess of Skylar. Think of the estates you’ll be mistress over. I imagine Lord Skylar will be purchasing his own residence in town and not expect you to live with Lord Caulfield, although his mansion on Park Lane is quite stupendous.”

As her mother talked on, flipping through the pages of the magazine, Gillian managed to forget her initial encounter with the cold, rude Lord Skylar and focus on the advantages of life as a young society matron.

The rest didn’t bear thinking on. Her mother wanted her married by the end of the year. A good six months away. There was plenty of time to enjoy being betrothed to one of the most illustrious names in the ton without dwelling too much on the wedding night.

“What the deuce were you thinking of, Tertius?” His father paced the confines of Sky’s dressing room as Sky finished his toilette. “From what the duchess tells me, the girl is balking at the marriage. Don’t you know how to woo a lady? Who were you living among, a bunch of wild savages in the Indies?”

Sky opened his eyes and glanced at Nigel, his valet, who was shaving him. “No, there was your usual small, tight coterie of the well-bred. I wouldn’t call them all savages, would you, Nigel?” He arched an eyebrow at his valet as the man wiped his jaw clean and handed him a glass.

“No, sir,” the black man answered, holding out a starched muslin square of cloth for his approval.

Sky lifted his chin as the man wrapped it around his neck and began the intricate work of folding it.

“Well, whatever they were, you’re back among the civilized and grateful you should be. You at last have a purpose in life, thanks to poor Edmund’s demise.”

Tertius frowned at his father’s waistcoat. “You know, I never liked puce on you. It makes you look bilious.”

His father looked down at his middle, momentarily distracted. “No? Weston himself made it up for me.” He walked to Sky’s full-length mirror and stood in front of it, his head tilted to one side, his hands pulling the waistcoat straight. He moved his body this way and that before turning back to Sky. “The color of my waistcoat is neither here nor there. To get back to the point, all I want is for you to exert yourself, make yourself tolerably agreeable to a lovely young lady of irreproachable pedigree—”

Tertius snorted. “Who has been thrust upon me as soon as I set foot on British soil, my newly inherited title not even having a chance to settle on me.”

His father sputtered. “That’s gratitude! I find you a perfectly suitable young lady to wed. I’ve already lost one son. I’ll not let the other go without issue. You’re five-and-thirty, Tertius. You look closer to the grave than Edmund ever did.”

“I said I’d marry the chit,” Tertius returned in an even voice. “What more do you want?”

“A little cooperation. You appeared long after Edmund’s funeral,” Caulfield retorted. “You come back surly and disagreeable and looking like a victim of typhus. You can’t make me believe it was such a sacrifice for you to pull yourself away from the Indies. It certainly hasn’t done anything for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His cravat finished, Sky stood and eyed it in the glass. “I had quite a comfortable life on my sugar plantation.”

His father harrumphed. “Tending a plantation in the backwater of the kingdom, a job any good steward could do?”

Tertius’s glance crossed Nigel’s before his valet began silently putting away the morning’s toilet articles.

“Well, what do you think, Father? Has Nigel mastered the trone d’amour?” He turned for his father to inspect the white neck cloth.

His father stepped closer and peered at his neck. “Not bad. Nigel, is it?” For the first time since entering his rooms, his father gave his attention to the manservant. “Got him in the Indies?”

“It would appear so,” Sky replied.

“Don’t be impertinent. Almost everyone these days in London has a blackamoor footman—but this is the first time I’ve seen one for a valet. Did it take you long to train him?”

“Nigel was an amazingly quick study,” Tertius drawled. “From the cane fields to the intricacies of folding white linen, in what? Six months, Nigel?”

His valet’s muddy green eyes met his. “Yes, sir, that would be about the time.”

“What a fine specimen,” his father remarked, as he took a turn around the West Indian. “Look at that brawn. He’d make a fine boxer. He reminds me of Cribb. I saw him spar it out with Tom Molineaux back in “10.” Lord Caulfield stood in front of Nigel and eyed the breadth of his chest. “Your man makes ‘the Black Diamond’ look like a dwarf. Sure you wouldn’t want to put him in the ring?”

“He’s played Apollo for me at an evening’s festivities, but I haven’t as yet had him take up pugilism. It’s an idea…” Sky mused.

“Apollo? Why not Atlas?” Caulfield asked, continuing to admire the valet’s physique. “I imagine he looked splendid draped in a white toga.”

“Splendid indeed. I chose Apollo because of the loftiness of his thoughts. Atlas represents brute strength, and I believe Nigel has a bit more than that in his skull, eh?” he asked his valet with a smile before turning to shrug on the coat Nigel held out to him. He took his watch and fobs from him, along with a pocket-handkerchief.