The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2)

The
DOWAGER COUNTESS
The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor – Book Two
 
A Reverse Harem Risqué Romance
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Sahara Kelly
 


Dedication
I would like to send my thanks to all the lovely readers who took a chance on Book One of this saga, not sure what to expect from something labelled a “Reverse Harem Regency Romance”. I hope I didn’t disappoint either Regency fans or Reverse Harem fans, and that you’ll be interested enough to follow the Wolfbridge story as it continues.
Thanks to my family, of course. Special thanks to my cat who managed to creep onto my lap whenever she felt I’d written for too long without paying attention to her. She served as an excellent reminded to take a break and blink now and again—something we writers tend to forget when the words are flowing.
And many profound thanks to my fellow writers, especially my two dearest friends. I’ve often said that writing is a solitary occupation. One person, one keyboard, and a bunch of ideas equal one book. But the comfort and solace we share when those ideas dry up (or the keyboard crashes) …those things are beyond price. I sincerely hope I do my part in reciprocating, because I sure need those virtual hugs now and again…
Author’s Note
A part of this book revolves around the Whit Sunday festivities at Wolfbridge. If you’re unfamiliar with this holiday, it was the British way of observing the Christian festival of Pentecost. Interestingly enough, I discovered that the timing seems to owe a lot to the pagan celebration of Beltane, which—coincidentally? —occurred around the same time.
While Whit Sunday isn’t really much of a “thing” anymore, except in one or two places, it used to be a special occasion—a time when the Lords of the Manors would release their workers for a short vacation. It marked an agricultural pause in the annual growing season, and was much anticipated, for obvious reasons.
There were fêtes, pageants and parades, Morris dancing, and punting matches. Races were often held for the ladies, with ribbons as prizes. By the mid to late 1800s, many factories would close for the week of “Whitsuntide”, not to give their employees a rest so much as to strip, oil and repair their machinery.
As the importance of the entire week diminished, Britain determinedly clung to the Whit Monday bank holiday, which I do recall as a holiday from school. It was finally replaced in 1971, and now the day is more commonly known as Spring Bank Holiday.
However, for those of us who grew up with it, it will always be Whit Monday!


Prologue
 
 
Laughter and music drifted over Wolfbridge Manor on the warm breeze of a late autumn afternoon. For once the weather had obliged and the harvest festival planned by the Lady of Wolfbridge and her household had taken place beneath blue skies that showed nary a hint of the appalling rains that drowned the past spring, or the bitter cold of the previous winter.
Adalyn Wilkerson was thrilled to bits, and by the end of the day guessed she must have walked a distance at least equal to the entire perimeter of her estate.
As the Lady of Wolfbridge, it was Adalyn’s place to mastermind such events, and though it had taken her a while to become accustomed to such matters, today had been a splendid success and she was exhausted but proud that all had gone so well.
“Yer did a marvel ‘ere, m’Lady,” said Mrs Barnsley, a local lady of much prestige. “I knew yer would, but ’tis good to see it ‘appen.”
“I’m so happy, Mrs B.” Adalyn rested in a chair next to the older woman. “Everyone seems to have had a lovely time.”
“Bit o’ dancin’ later, they tell me?”
“I heard that too,” she grinned. “But to be honest, I doubt I’ll be kicking up my heels. I just want to put up my feet.”
“And yerself so young…?” Mrs Barnsley chuckled. “I’d thought yon Daniel would ‘ave yer out there whirlin’ with the best of ‘em.”
Adalyn gazed across the lawn to where a tall man was talking earnestly with another tall man. “He has me in a whirl all the time, you know.”
“Ah, that’s the way it is when yer find the right one.”
“It wasn’t easy.” Another man joined Daniel. “I love them all so much.”
“If I were only twenty years younger,” sighed Mrs Barnsley.
Adalyn chuckled. “You would have every man languishing, I have no doubt.”
“I’d ‘ave every man tired out, lass, that I would.” She laughed aloud, then blinked. “Just between us, of course. Wouldn’t want Mr B. hearin’ that.”
“I quite understand.”
“Yer gonna wed the lad then?”
“Yes, I am.” Adalyn’s heart sped up at the thought. “There are matters I have to take care of first, though. Because once I marry, I must leave Wolfbridge.”
“Aye. I ‘eard somethin’ about that,” Mrs Barnsley replied sadly. “We’ll miss yer.”
“As will I.” She sighed. “We’re hoping to be able to live somewhere nearby, but as I said, other things come first.”
“Yer’ll be talkin’ of young Trick, then?”
Adalyn swallowed roughly. “He’s confined, Mrs B. I cannot think about leaving until he is free.”
“Jane said he’s still ‘opeful…”
“I am so thankful for Jane. She’s been a constant support to Trick—and myself—since this mess started.” Adalyn sought out the gold head and the tall slender body of Mrs Barnsley’s daughter, finding her chatting with some young mothers. “And she’s made many friends.”
“She ‘as,” nodded her mother proudly. “With them scars, it’s a good thing, since she’s standin’ taller now. Not ‘iding so much.”
The unfortunate incident that had resulted in boiling water scarring half of Jane’s face had been put to rest by the friendship and respect she now enjoyed. At least Adalyn hoped so.
“And we might