First to Fall: A Friends to Lovers Historical Romance (Bartholomew series Book 1) Read online

  First to Fall

  BARTHOLOMEW SERIES BOOK #1

  LANEY HATCHER

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek of Second Chance Dance

  Also by Laney Hatcher

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2022 by Laney Hatcher; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  Developmental Edits: Emerald Edits

  Editing: Write On Editing

  Cover Illustration: Blythe Russo

  Proofreading: Judy’s Proofreading

  One

  AUGUSTUS

  Hampshire, 1855

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  “Are you going to propose or shall I do it myself?”

  Ah Christ.

  Letting loose an aggrieved sigh, I regarded my oldest, dearest, and most meddlesome friend across the drawing room. Emery paused dramatically in the doorway after throwing down her gauntlet. Hands on hips, she gave me an impatient what are you waiting for glare.

  “Well?” She emphasized her point by widening her already enormous eyes.

  I still didn’t answer, merely thumbed the newspaper in my hand and resumed reading about the latest bill currently being proposed in Parliament.

  Three, two, one …

  “Augie!” exclaimed Emery as she abandoned her pose by the door and bustled determinedly into the room. Blond brows lowered over whiskey-colored eyes, my childhood friend Emery Bartholomew, middle daughter of the Marquess Northcutt, dropped onto the settee beside me. Grasping the newsprint, she attempted to garner my attention. “What are you waiting for? You need to ask me. Your family will be here any moment and we need to tell them we plan to marry.”

  I tapped my chin for emphasis. “I love how you’ve assumed I’m going along with this scheme as if it’s a foregone conclusion. We have never once discussed marriage. I only arrived home from university yesterday.”

  “Yes, but I told you in my last letter that this is the perfect plan. You and I shall marry. It will alleviate the pressure from your mother and your brother to enter the military or the clergy. And it will get my mother off my back about London and the season and balls and so on and so forth.”

  I glared at Emery and her high-handed solution to our problems. Of course my outspoken friend of twenty years would take it upon herself to create a plan and simply expect me to fall in line. Granted, that was what I’d always done. As evidenced by the multitude of Emery plots over the course of our childhood and adolescence in which I’d ended up thrown from a horse, naked in a lake, and dressed in slippered dancing heels.

  “You’re thinking about that time I put you in Patty’s shoes and forced you to waltz with me in the ballroom, aren’t you?”

  Dammit. “No.” I flicked her forehead.

  Emery squawked indelicately. “Will you let that go? I was five and you were eight and I’m sure no one remembers it anyway.” Rubbing her forehead she attempted once more, “But this plan is perfect, Augie. It solves all of our problems.”

  I considered her for a moment. Yes, she had written to me at Cambridge a fortnight ago and outlined her ludicrous strategy to wrangle our futures away from our respective families. While I appreciated Emery’s efforts and her well-meaning strategizing, I just couldn’t see making such a permanent decision at our ages. I was only five and twenty. Of course, now she thought she didn’t care about London or life among the ton. She craved a quiet existence surrounded by horses and the English countryside. Emery wanted a comfortable life with companionship right now. But what if things changed in the future? What if she decided marrying her best friend was a mistake? What happened when she changed her mind and wanted children someday? What if she met someone else and fell in love? I rubbed absently at the unpleasant tightness behind my sternum.

  I refused to condemn Emery to a contractual sham marriage just to save me from a life I didn’t want. She said this harebrained plan suited her needs as well as my own, but I couldn’t imagine that to be true. How much needling could the Marchioness Northcutt really inflict upon her daughter? Surely it wasn’t so drastic as to require a fake marriage to one’s best friend.

  “I can’t do that to you, Em,” I said quietly, looking away toward the window.

  “Do what?” she remarked, all confusion. “You’re my oldest friend. You act like being forced to see your face every day would be punishment. No one understands me like you, Augie. No one makes me laugh like you. I could actually be myself. No proper union could make me as happy as a fake marriage to you. I know it.”

  At some point during her little speech, she’d released the newspaper and grasped my arm in earnest. I knew Emery believed what she was saying. This wasn’t some misplaced effort on her part. She wasn’t placating or sacrificing herself in any way … in her eyes.

  But I knew better. I knew she deserved better. Better than some agreement, a plan cooked up as a last-ditch effort. She deserved a chance at happiness. A real chance with someone she could love. I knew love matches weren’t typical among our set. The probability of a daughter of a marquess finding true love and settling into happily ever after was unlikely. There were dowries to consider and extended families were scrutinized for suitability. Love or affection rarely factored into the equation. But if Emery had even the slightest chance … I could never take that away from her.

  And if she did find love with someone else, I didn’t think I could stand by and watch.

  I rolled my shoulders back, prepared to do battle, and turned on the settee to face Emery fully. “But what if that changes? You’re only two and twenty. What if you go to London like your mother wants and meet someone you actually want to marry? You could miss out because you foolishly proposed to me before you even took a chance.”

  Her face scrunched up like she smelled something foul. “But that’s what I’m trying to avoid. I don’t want to go to London. I don’t want to dance at balls or have tea with gossipy chits. I don’t want to promenade in the park.” This statement was accompanied by a mocking wave of her gloved hand complete with pretentious inflection in her tone.

  I snorted a laugh. “You’re ridiculous. Most girls live for that sort of thing.”

  “Well, not this girl.” Tone serious and eyes sober, she continued, “You’d be saving me too.” I started to protest but she forged onward. “I know you believe this proposed arrangement to be all one-sided. That I haven’t considered the options or my future. That I’m only being impulsive. But that’s not true. I … I can’t live that life, Augustus. I won’t.”

  I ruminated on Emery’s words, and not just what she said
but the way in which she said it. She was the fun one, the outgoing personality. Emery was magnetic and charming, occasionally outlandish. She wore a smile more often than her favorite riding boots. It was a rare thing to see her somber and serious. And rarer still to detect a hint of vulnerability.

  Perhaps … perhaps we could …

  Cursing myself for taking advantage of a weak moment, I firmed my resolve. Turning back to Emery, I opened my mouth to voice my final objection when she extended her fingers and covered my lips. I pulled in a startled breath as she spoke. “Just think about it, okay? I realize I was too hasty. You’re home for months. A proposal doesn’t have to happen tonight, at our first Bartholomew/Ward Disaster Dinner of the summer.” As the pads of her fingers pressed gently against my mouth to still my impending interruption, Emery’s gaze drifted to my lips and stayed there a beat longer than appropriate. Shaking herself, she met my eyes once more. “Besides, our families will need time to see us together, to believe that we want to marry. We can’t just spring it on them. They’ll never believe it.”

  I growled against her fingers. Oh, was that the plan? Pretend affection and infatuation in order to gain support from our families. My frustration grew unchecked, and I had only myself to blame.

  Emery’s eyes widened at my expression and she jerked her hand away before I snapped out, “What? You expect me to follow you around like a besotted fool?”

  She paused, considering. “Well, I wouldn’t say fool, but I can work with besotted.”

  “You want to lie to our families? Make them believe that we’re in love, is that it?” I asked incredulously.

  Her brows furrowed in confusion, matching her tone. “Why are you so upset?”

  “I’m not upset. I didn’t realize this plan involved a performance. And attempting to deceive everyone we know with ill intent.”

  Sighing dramatically, Emery attempted to do what Emery always did: wrestle control of a situation. “Our intent is not ill! This plan is best for everyone. Gads, you act like we’re trying to swindle them out of their fortunes.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her short-sighted explanation. “So you’re planning on lying to them for the rest of our lives?”

  “Well … I …” She blustered and cleared her throat several times. I scrutinized her odd reaction as she coughed and reached for my dish of tea on the low table before us. I stiffened as she leaned across my lap and looked to the ceiling for patience and tolerance and whatever else might be up there.

  After a fortifying slurp—ladylike as always—followed by a grimace, Emery replaced the teacup. “That could use some sugar.”

  Refusing to get pulled into a decade-old sweet tea debate, I merely raised a brow in her direction.

  “Fine,” she acknowledged in exasperation, while refusing to meet my gaze. “I hadn’t planned that far ahead.”

  There we are.

  I laughed without humor. “Em, I know you mean well. But let’s just forget about this for now, survive the first dinner of the summer, and maybe we can sneak in a ride in the morning.” I was attempting to distract her with the promise of her beloved horses.

  Her elegant blond brow rose as she pursed her lips. “You’re trying to distract me.”

  I rolled my eyes but a genuine laugh escaped. This girl—this woman—knew me so well. There was a comfort in being in the presence of friendship so profound. Someone who knew all your stories and instigated most of them. Emery was my home, my foundation. She knew me inside and out, could read my expressions and my intentions with unerring ease.

  So I was continually surprised that she hadn’t yet figured out I was hopelessly in love with her.

  The Bartholomew/Ward Disaster Dinner was served promptly at eight o’clock on a mild June evening at Laurel Park. I was in attendance with my elder brother, John Ward, the current Duke of Kendrick, and my mother, Amelia Ward, the dowager duchess.

  Emery was seated across from me, with Lionel Bartholomew, the Marquess Northcutt, at the head of the table and our mothers facing one another. Em’s elder brother, Silas, was away on the continent for the summer and I’d heard Genevieve, the youngest Bartholomew, wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be joining us. She was probably faking it. I wished I had thought of that.

  No matter the household hosting, main entrees could be counted upon to be lavish and over-the-top. Elaborate one-upmanship was the name of the game. Our intimate party of six had been seated for at least an hour with no end in sight.

  With Harriet Bartholomew, Marchioness Northcutt, the hostess for this particular evening, one could expect a multitude of long and drawn-out courses featuring a plethora of meats, sauces, jellies, vegetables, and wines to choose from. Venison was fashionable currently and would undoubtedly show up later in the meal. Lady Northcutt always served roasted asparagus with breadcrumbs and made a great show of mentioning the dish to my mother as she was served by the footmen. “Amelia, I have your favorite!”

  My mother detested asparagus. “Why, thank you, Harriet! Always so thoughtful and considerate.” But she’d rather choke down four bites of asparagus than let our hostess know she’d landed a hit.

  Ah, dining with friends. Always a lovely time.

  Our families had been neighbors for decades. My late father had been friends with the Marquess Northcutt since boyhood. Their respective wives had reached their odd friendship through proximity and—mostly innocent—competition over the years.

  Next was the fish course. Salmon, naturally. My brother, John, was allergic. Luckily he was too far in his cups to consider the food being served nearby.

  Apparently Emery hadn’t eaten all day judging by the speed and intensity with which she was consuming nearly everything. My friend must have caught my mother’s disgusted sneer as Emery slathered a comical amount of mint jelly on her lamb because she looked over and shot me a wink before continuing her path of destruction. I hid my silent laugh and mirthful expression behind my wineglass.

  These dinners had become commonplace over the years. Monthly during the summer months, almost always a holiday gathering near Christmas for the Bartholomews and Wards, with the standard house party attendance once a year at my family’s estate as well as Emery’s, and finally a few spur-of-the-moment meals sprinkled throughout the year to celebrate someone’s birthday or other such memorable occasion.

  We were all used to the ridiculousness at this point. This overwhelming competition between our mothers was ludicrous. They endeavored to serve the most stylish and sought-after dishes while also striving to annoy the holy hell out of their guests with food choices that forced true ingenuity in order to avoid them and, in some cases, circumvent allergic poisoning.

  While the women were friendly in most regards, they were also a perfect example of how nonsensical relationships were among the ton. Friends were not trusted confidantes but competitors. Any little reaction was deemed a win and the injured party must not show fear or disdain or any other negative emotion.

  Gossip was rampant among aristocrats in England, and there seemed to be no loyalty, even between friends. No one was safe from the spread of tall tales and outright lies to improve one’s position over another. I often detested our society and the utter absurdity of it all. Seeing this display so often between our families rarely garnered more than an eye roll from Emery or myself, but that was equally frightening for we’d obviously been conditioned to our surroundings. This was not normal and yet we behaved as if it were, and merely did our best to survive each encounter.

  I’d known from an early age that these exchanges were unsettling and something other. And I’d been fortunate enough to receive kindness and healthy examples of relationships early in life from other sources.

  Perhaps recognizing the irrationality seen between our mothers helped me appreciate my friendship with Emery. It was genuine and perhaps the only true thing in England. We knew our mothers’ behavior was lunacy, but they kept playing the game. And we remained dismayed yet faithful spectators. Emery and I wou
ld likely review the events of the evening later and award fictional disaster dinner points to the parties involved. A winner would be named and we would once again question the sanity of our mothers.

  But I found I couldn’t completely regret the time wasted at these tragic affairs. Emery and I had first bonded across the dining room table and then solidified that bond through hours of amusement. We learned early on that one must maintain a sense of humor in the face of irrational dinner parties.

  It was my ability to be honest and open with Emery that I prized most. Well, not that honest. If she knew about my feelings … I don’t know what would happen. But it was too risky a scenario to contemplate. I refused to lose her.

  Change was a frightening concept. The unknown was equally worrisome. And the combination of the two was unfathomable. If Emery found out I loved her, desperately and hopelessly, that knowledge could potentially wreak havoc on our friendship. I couldn’t allow that. It was another reason why Emery’s proposal and the very idea of marriage had my heart racing inside my chest. There were so many variables and I couldn’t plan for any of them.

  Determined to focus on getting through dinner, I took a deep breath and looked to Emery once more. She glanced up from her plate with a smile aimed my way, but it was quickly replaced by a frown. I don’t know what expression she read on my face but I imagined it was some reflection of the utter panic I felt at the idea of losing her in any way, even if she were to become my wife. Her latest scheme had the capacity for spectacular failure. If we were to wed, and I’m not saying I’d agree to it, could we still remain friends as we were right now?