Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress
Lara Temple
Betrothed…to the wrong man!Building a life away from her bullying family, schoolmistress Helen Tilney needs to convince her childhood sweetheart she’s a worthy bride. Standing in her way is Lord Hunter—the man Nell has just discovered she’s betrothed to!Hunter’s offer of marriage to Nell came out of guilt, and now seems less than appealing! So when she asks for his help to win another man he agrees. Until their lessons in flirtation inspire a raging desire which has Hunter longing to keep Nell for himself…Book 1 in the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies trilogy
Betrothed...to the wrong man!
Building a life away from her bullying family, schoolmistress Helen Tilney now needs to convince her childhood sweetheart she’s a worthy bride. Standing in her way is Lord Hunter—the man Nell has just discovered she’s betrothed to!
Hunter’s offer of marriage to Nell came out of guilt, and now seems less than appealing! So when she asks for his help to win another man, he agrees. Until their lessons in flirtation inspire a raging desire that has Hunter longing to keep Nell for himself...
Book 1 in the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies trilogy
Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies
Lord Hunter, Lord Stanton and Lord Ravenscar
Three wild rakes whose seductive charms and aristocratic titles have the ladies of the ton swooning behind their fans. United by their charitable foundation to help those scarred by war, these lords are the firmest of friends.
But they guard their hardened hearts almost as closely as they do their riches... That is until they encounter three very special women.
Could these innocent ladies be the ones to tame these wild lords once and for all?
Read Lord Hunter and Nell’s story in
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
And look out for linked stories about Lord Stanton and Lord Ravenscar—coming soon!
Author Note (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress is the first book in my Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies series, about three friends who are infamous for their rakish past and supreme skill with horses. But, though this is a romance, it touches on some serious and timeless topics—among them the impact of suicide on those left behind.
The three friends are a product of their time in history—a generation shaped by a costly war and just as costly an aftermath. Many veterans of the Napoleonic wars returned to England wounded in body and mind, without an income or the ability to find employment. There were several hospitals dedicated to caring for soldiers ‘broken by age or war’—the most famous was the Royal Hospital Chelsea, established by King Charles II in 1681)—but they were a drop in the ocean after such prolonged, bloody and devastating wars that affected not just veterans but their families, and led to many unreported cases of suicide (still a serious problem in most active armies today).
My three Wild Lords share tragedies revolving around the wars, and together they establish an institution, Hope House, to help veterans and their families rebuild their lives. In this first book my hero, Lord Hunter, is emotionally scarred by his brother’s suicide after being captured and tortured in France, and his guilt at failing to protect his adored younger brother becomes a driving force in his life and very nearly prevents him from opening himself to the healing power of love. Luckily my horse-loving heroine Nell—who has a few scars of her own—is not easily dissuaded...
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
Lara Temple
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance...at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.
Books by Lara Temple
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Lord Crayle’s Secret World
The Reluctant Viscount
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride
Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
To Myrna, Mark and Arik,
who miss David as much as I do.
He couldn’t hold on but gave so much love while he did.
Contents
Cover (#uc7815d7a-2846-5ed0-8d4d-b9fe17a26b44)
Back Cover Text (#u8394601d-5a9b-5533-a9fb-6b37a9b7ee7a)
Introduction (#u0d87bf6a-3405-5f73-a58c-7a344b502096)
Author Note (#ue6b97599-2a9f-5ba4-9207-e8e3e92dac8c)
Title Page (#u4de4f8e7-abd1-5a33-914e-feccc49a70f9)
About the Author (#u7213bf9d-dcf0-5876-ad37-c65f0eddcb34)
Dedication (#u76e80ed5-2fcb-57ac-a506-cdd6d2942e28)
Prologue (#u2fdaf644-7079-5892-ab64-e57b568eb9bd)
Chapter One (#u880959de-2f4f-5b26-922a-557fa906d574)
Chapter Two (#u1017ff25-3b52-512f-ada9-d83b918ec429)
Chapter Three (#uf5fb29df-1130-5168-a659-f8a691f24de4)
Chapter Four (#u6ccfa565-b99e-5ee0-96b4-6e3c28c42284)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
Leicestershire—1816
‘You’re wanted, Miss Nell. The master has some viscount or other wanting to take Petra through her paces. Lord Hunter, I think his name was. Knowing fellow.’
‘Another one? I hope she takes him head first through a hedge, Elkins,’ Nell replied, her voice muffled as she bent to examine Pluck’s fetlock.
‘She’ll have to go to someone and he seems a fair choice—no bluster about him.’ The elderly groom smiled.
‘I don’t know why Father insists I escort his guests anyway. As head groom you are far more qualified than I.’
‘It’s simple, miss. You’ve got the best seat in the county and that gives them fellows the idea their wives or daughters might look the same if they took home one of these prime bits of blood. They won’t, no how, but there’s no harm in it. Your father’s a hard man, I know, but he’s right proud of the way you are with horses. You’re like him there, see you.’
Nell wrinkled her nose—she didn’t want to be like the brutish sot in any way whatsoever. She secured the stall door, but Pluck shoved her arched neck over the side and shook her mane. Nell relented and came back for one more stroke.
‘No, you can’t go to your mama yet. And, yes, I will go and see if he is worthy of her and if he isn’t I’ll have her toss him into a pond. You like that idea, don’t you, you little rogue? Father and Aunt Hester will skin me, but for Petra I just might find the nerve. Now I must go or I will be late and Father will be furious and then Aunt Hester will be furious, too.’
There was no way the filly could understand how serious that was, but Pluck’s head ducked back into the stall.
Her father was already in the stable yard. He was hard to miss—even braced on his cane and his face lined with pain and puffy from years of hard drinking, his height and booming voice intimidated everyone around him. However, this time he was diminished by the man who stood by his side. Not in inches—they were probably of a height and the stranger certainly hadn’t her father’s massive and blustering look. In fact, the first thing that struck her was that he was very quiet.
They hadn’t seen her yet and she watched as the stranger approached Petra. His movements were economical and smooth, and his hands, though they looked large and strong, were calm and travelled slowly over the mare as he examined her. It was just the right way to approach a high-spirited horse.
It was only when her father called her over that she looked at the man’s face. He was probably close in age to Charles Welbeck, who had just turned twenty-five the week before she and her father had gone to Wilton, but he seemed older. There were creases of weariness about his eyes and a bruised look beneath them as if he had not slept well for a long time.
She couldn’t imagine such an expression in Charles’s cheerful blue eyes. But other than that she had to admit he was almost as handsome as Charles, though in a completely different manner. She wondered if he was perhaps part-foreigner and that might account for the dark chestnut hair and the warm earth tones of his skin and the sunken golden brown of his eyes. It wasn’t a comforting face—its sharp sculpted lines didn’t make her think of princes and dancing through the night at the village fête in Wilton; it was an arrogant face more suited to the weighty matters of a beleaguered king and she doubted a glance from his tired eyes would make her think of dancing.
Not that Charles had ever asked her to dance. He hardly even looked at her for more than a kind greeting. Except for just once, when she had been fourteen. Her father had been furious at her for cramming one of his horses at the Welbeck jumping course and she had stood, humiliated and wilting under his wrath until Charles put his arm around her and said something which made the men around them laugh, but the smile in his eyes as he glanced down at her told her it wasn’t unkind. It had calmed her father and filled her with a peaceful warmth she had begun to forget existed. At that moment she had known there would never be anyone else for her but Charles.
She had no illusions her love would ever be reciprocated. Charles was perfect and she...she was a beanpole, almost as tall as he but painfully scrawny. The village boys would snigger and call her Master Neil behind her back and she was accustomed to the dismay in young men’s eyes when she was partnered with them at the informal dances held at her best friend Anna’s home in Keswick. It was only when she was on a horse that her height didn’t bother her. In fact, very little bothered her when she was on a horse.
So as she watched Lord Hunter mount Petra she hadn’t in the least thought about him as a man, or herself as an unattractive and overly tall seventeen-year-old. She was Miss Nell and she could ride a horse better than anyone—man, woman, boy or girl—in the county.
She tensed as Petra sidled at the man’s unfamiliar hand and weight and was immediately checked, but so gently that the motion was almost invisible. She couldn’t decide if his calm was innate or assumed, but she met Elkins’s gaze and shrugged. He would do.
‘Fells Pasture or Bridely field, then, Miss Nell?’ Elkins asked.
‘Fell’s Pasture, I think,’ she replied and turned to the man. He was watching them with a slight smile, clearly aware he was being weighed and judged. His eyes gleamed gold at the centre, or perhaps that was a trick of the sun, which was just catching at the edges of the trees behind her. She herself preferred light-haired men, like Charles, but Anna would probably think him very handsome.
‘Is that good or bad?’ he asked.
‘It means we presume you can stop Petra from throwing you, Lord Hunter,’ she replied, surprising herself. She was not usually so direct. ‘But if you aren’t comfortable with her yet, we can start with some easy riding. It’s just that Fell’s Pasture has a few miles of open runs and safe jumps. Alternately once you ride her I can show you her paces myself. She is probably our fastest mare and it would be a pity if you didn’t see just how beautifully she gallops.’
He cocked his head to one side with a glimmering smile that turned the lines of tension she had noticed into laugh lines. She had probably been wrong about the signs of strain; his smile didn’t allow for the presence of the darkness she had sensed.
‘I don’t think you meant any of that as an insult, did you?’
Nell stared at him, running through her words in her mind.
‘Not at all, my lord. You appear to handle her well enough, but I just want to do justice to Petra. Father must have told you she can be a little resistant at first, but she knows me and will open up more easily with me in the saddle. I merely thought you would want to see her at her best.’
‘We won’t have time to switch to side saddle anyway, so let’s just see how I manage, shall we?’
She shrugged and turned to Hilda, her mare, allowing Elkins to help her mount.
‘We don’t put a side saddle on Petra; she’s trained for a man’s saddle and weight. But as you said, we’ll see how you do.’
This time she heard the condescension in her voice and almost smiled at it.
‘I’m almost tempted to do an abysmal job of it just to see what you mean, Miss Tilney.’
He didn’t, of course, and as she watched him gallop across the field she didn’t know whether to be relieved that Petra was being delivered into the capable hands of a man who would treat her right, or disappointed that she hadn’t been given the opportunity to show him her mettle. In this one corner of the universe where she was completely capable, she rarely wished to show off, but today she felt that urge. She watched as the man stopped just short of where she and Elkins waited. There was gold in his eyes, she realised, and the colour was heightened by the clear enjoyment on his face, making him look younger.
‘Can you match that?’ he demanded, bending forward to stroke Petra’s damp neck.
Elkins chuckled and Nell didn’t need further prodding. She tossed her reins to Elkins and slipped off Hilda.
Clearly Lord Hunter hadn’t expected her to actually accept his dare because he looked disconcerted, but she just laid her hand on Petra’s muzzle and raised her brows, waiting.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked. ‘Now? But she’s probably winded and you can’t ride her in skirts...’
Nell unhooked the fastening that held the wide train of her skirt and hooked it over her arm.
‘These skirts work as well on a regular saddle. I made them myself. And far from being winded, Petra is just warming up, so instead of sitting there while she cools down, you can dismount and I’ll show you what she can do and then you will probably ask Father to buy Pluck, her filly, as well. Now, down you go.’
He dismounted meekly, still watching her with curious fascination as she placed her leg in the stirrup, swinging her other leg over, and with a practised flick cast her skirts over as well, the long folds of fabric covering her legs to her boots and obscuring the riding breeches she wore underneath. She plucked out the pin which held her riding hat and handed them to Elkins, and then she was off.
Petra didn’t disappoint her. If ever a mare flew, the grey blood mare rose off the ground, as smooth and slick as water, her small head down and extended like an arrow. Nell didn’t bother with proper lady’s riding posture, but leaned low into the shape of the horse, laughing as Petra’s mane stung at her face like a brace of tiny whips. Nell wanted that man to appreciate what he was getting, and if she managed to convince him to buy Pluck as well, it would be worth it. She hated when mare and filly or foal were separated too young.
She took Petra over the hedge at the far end of the pasture as if it wasn’t even in the way and then led her back for the long jump over the stream. When she drew up she was bursting with the excitement of the run. She could even cope with the knowledge that she probably looked a fright. Her hair was too straight to stay confined by pins and she could feel it hanging down about her face.
‘Well? Isn’t she amazing?’
He took the reins she held out to him as she swung out of the saddle and she realised he really was very tall because she actually had to look up, an unusual feeling and one she didn’t quite like since it reminded her too much of Father stalking at her. She hurried to mount Hilda, her exhilaration fading.
‘Indeed she is,’ Lord Hunter said as he stroked Petra’s sweating neck. It was easier now that she was mounted and he had to look up at her. ‘What is the name of her filly?’
‘Pluck. Well, that’s just my name for her, though Father prefers to call fillies and foals after their sires, so she’s known as Argonaut’s Filly, but that’s a mouthful, so I just call her Pluck, because she is. Plucky, that is.’
‘Like you.’
Her eyes widened.
‘Hardly. I’m the least plucky thing that ever was.’
‘Now that’s not quite fair, Miss Nell,’ Elkins interjected as they turned back towards Tilney Hall. ‘There’s none like you for throwing your heart over a fence.’
She shrugged, annoyed at herself and at them, though she didn’t know why.
‘That’s different. I know what I’m doing when I’m on a horse. You can see Lord Hunter to the house, Elkins. Goodbye, Lord Hunter.’ She rode off, feeling very young and foolish she had succumbed to showing off. He had been kind about it, but she still felt ridiculous.
She hoped her aunt didn’t have one of her whims and insist she dine downstairs because then he would see how wrong he was about her pluck. She wasn’t yet formally ‘out’ in society and she rarely dined with guests, which suited her just fine because those occasions when her aunt did demand her presence were sheer purgatory. Her father’s temper was nothing next to Hester’s vindictiveness.
* * *
Just when Nell thought the hour of danger had passed, Sue, the chambermaid, rushed into her room.
‘Her majesty says you’re to join the guests for supper, Miss Nell.’
Nell shook her head, desperately trying to think of some way to avoid this disaster, and Sue clucked her tongue.
‘There ain’t nothing for it but to go forward, chick. Hurry, now. Luckily I added a flounce to your sprigged muslin and it isn’t quite so short now, but you’ll have to keep the shawl over your shoulders because there’s nothing we can do now about the fact it won’t close right.’
‘I can’t... I won’t!’
‘You can and will. There isn’t aught else to wear, chick. Really, your father should know better but men are fools. That’s right—best heed me. Men are fools and you’re better a mile away in any direction!’
Nell stood like a seamstress’s dummy, rigid and useless as Sue busied about dressing her in her one decent muslin dress with its childish bodice and equally childish length. Though Mrs Barnes was an excellent cook, neither she nor Sue were capable seamstresses and the new flounce was clearly crooked and this would surely be the night the straining fabric would finally give way to her late-budding bustline. She would sit down and there would be a horrible rending sound and everyone would look at her and her aunt would sneer and oh so kindly suggest Nell go change and perhaps ask her why she had insisted on wearing that dreadful old dress and really she despaired of the girl because no matter how hard she tried to make her presentable there was only so much one could do with such a hopeless long meg... Nell would leave the room and of course not return because she had no other dress that was suitable for evening wear and because she couldn’t face their contemptuous and condescending stares and sniggers, and tomorrow her father would rant at her for having humiliated him in front of his guests and for being as dull as dishwater and less useful.
‘I can’t do it. I can’t. She is just doing it so she can make a fool of me again. I won’t.’
Sue squeezed Nell’s hand.
‘I wouldn’t put it past her but it will be worse if you don’t go. Here, don’t cry now, chick. Think—in two days you’ll be on your way back to school.’
Nell pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
‘I wish I could go tonight. I hate coming here. I wish I could stay with Mrs Petheridge always.’
‘Well, Ma and I are glad you are here summers at least.’
Nell scrubbed her eyes and blew her nose.
‘Oh, Sue, I didn’t mean I don’t love you and Mrs Barnes. You know I do.’
‘Aye, you don’t have to say a thing, chick—we know. I wish for you that you could stay there year-round. Lucky your aunt doesn’t know how much you like that school or she’d have you out of there in a flash. Proper poison, she is, and no mistake. Now go stare down at your nose at the lot of them. Lord knows you’re tall enough to do just that. Bend your knees so I can get this over your head, now. Goodness, what do they give you to eat in them Lakes? I swear you’ve grown a size since you had to wear this just a month back.’
Nell chuckled and slipped her arms into the sleeves, struggling against the constricting fabric. Thank goodness for Sue. She was right—Nell could survive two more days.
This optimistic conviction faded with each downward step on the stairs. Her aunt was already in the drawing room and the familiar cold scrape of nerves skittered under Nell’s skin, almost painful in her palms and up her fingers, like sand being shoved into a glove. She kept her eyes on her pale slippers peeping out and hiding back under her flounce as she made her way to the sofa where she sat as meek and as stupid as a hen, praying that was the worst people thought of her.
The door opened again and out of the corner of her eye Nell saw two pink confections enter the room, followed by an older couple. She had learned to look without looking and she inspected the two pretty, giggling girls and their mother, who wore a purple turban so magnificently beaded with sparkling stones Nell couldn’t help staring.
‘Stop gawping, girl!’ a voice hissed behind her. ‘Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut or I’ll send that slut of a maid of yours packing, cook’s daughter or not! And pull that shawl closed. You look like the village tart with your bosom spilling out like that. Ah, Mr Poundridge, and Mrs Poundridge! So wonderful you could come for supper. So these are your lovely daughters! Do come and meet Sir Henry’s daughter, Miss Helen. She is not yet out, but in such informal occasions she joins us downstairs so she can acquire a little town bronze. Sometimes I wonder what we pay such an exorbitant amount to that school for, but what can one do but keep trying? Perhaps your daughters could give her some hints on the correct mode of behaviour in company. Oh, what lovely dresses! Do come and meet our other guest tonight, Viscount Hunter...’
Nell kept her eyes on her clasped hands as her aunt sailed off, dragging the Poundridges in her wake, only daring to raise her head when she heard her aunt’s voice mix with her father’s. None of them was looking at her except Lord Hunter. He stood by her father, flanked by the old suits of armour Aunt Hester had salvaged from the cellars, and together they looked like Viking and Celtic warlords under armed escort. She hadn’t seen him when she entered because she hadn’t looked and her mortification deepened as she realised he must have seen everything.
Nell’s eyes sank back to her hands. The gritty, tingling pain and the clammy feeling was still climbing, and though it hadn’t happened quite so badly for a while, she knew there was nothing to be done but wait it out. If she was lucky it would peak before her legs began to shake. She tried to think of Mrs Petheridge and her friends at school, but it was hard. Her left leg was already quivering. She wanted to cry at how pathetic she was to let this woman win each time, but self-contempt didn’t stop her right leg from beginning to quiver as well. Think of brushing down Petra. No, Father was there, glaring. Think of Mrs Barnes and her cinnamon bread... No, her mother had died with an uneaten loaf by her bed, so she could smell it. Of Charles’s sweet smile as he helped her mount the first time they had come to the Wilton breeders’ fair; of how he had put his arm around her when Father had raged. If he were here, she might be able to bear this...
Two days. Just today and tomorrow. Her right leg calmed and she pressed her palm to her still-shaking left leg. In two days she would see Anna and sit in Mrs Petheridge’s cosy study with the chipped tea set and ginger biscuits, helping the girls who cried for home or who threw things, because she was good with them. She breathed in, her lungs finally big enough to let the air in, and the clamminess was only down her spine now and between her breasts under the scratchy shawl.
‘Your father has agreed to sell me Pluck as well. Will you miss her?’
The sofa shifted and creaked as Lord Hunter sat and she looked at him in shock.
‘What?’ Her voice was gritty and cramped and his golden-brown eyes narrowed, but he just crossed his arms and leaned back comfortably.
‘I went to look at her as you suggested and I have to admit she is a beauty. By the length of those legs she might even turn out to be half a hand taller than her mother, but time will tell. I’m hoping she will win me points with Petra. What do you think?’
Think. What did she think? That any minute now her aunt would come and sink her fangs into her for daring to talk with someone. What was he talking about? Petra and Pluck. He was taking Pluck, too. It had been her idea. Yes, yes, she would miss her, but she would be gone by then, just two days. Oh, thank goodness, just two days. Just two. Say something...
‘I think...’ Nothing came and her legs were starting to shake again.
‘Do you know I live right next to Bascombe Hall? Were you ever there?’
Why was he insisting? She wished he would go away! Bascombe Hall...
‘No. Mama and Grandmama didn’t get along.’ There, a whole sentence.
‘No one got along with your grandmama. She was an ill-tempered shrew.’
She stared in surprise. How did he dare be so irreverent? If she had said something like that...
‘That’s better,’ he said with approval, surprising her further. ‘I understand you inherited the property from your grandfather, but that your father is trustee until you come of age. Since she never made any bones about telling everyone she had disapproved of her daughter’s marriage to Sir Henry, I’m surprised she didn’t find a way to keep you from inheriting.’
‘She did try, but the best she could do was enter a stipulation that if I died before my majority at twenty-one, my cousin inherits. Once I’m twenty-one there is nothing she can do.’
‘Well, with any luck she’ll kick the bucket before that and save you the trouble of booting her out of the Hall.’
She pressed her hand to her mouth, choking back a laugh. Surely he hadn’t said that! And she hadn’t laughed... She rubbed her palms together as the tingling turned ticklish. That was a good sign; it was going away. Had he done that on purpose? He couldn’t have known.
‘I keep hoping she might actually want to meet me. Is she really so bad?’
His mouth quirked on one side.
‘Worse. I know the term curmudgeon is most commonly applied to men, but your grandmama is just that. You’re better off being ignored.’
Oh, she knew that.
‘Had you ever met my grandfather?’
He nodded.
‘He was a good man, very proper, but he was the second son and he only inherited it when your great-uncle died childless. Those were good years for us.’
‘Why?’ she asked, curious at this glimpse of the relations she had never met.
‘Well, the Bascombes control the water rights in our area, which means all our crops are dependent on them for irrigation and canal transport, and for those few blissful years we had a very reasonable agreement. When he died your grandmother made everyone in the area suffer again. Thankfully your father is trustee now, which means he has the final say in any agreement.’
‘But if I’m the heir, I can decide now, can’t I?’
‘Not until you’re twenty-one and by then you will probably be married, so do try to choose someone reasonable, will you?’
A flush rose over her face and she clasped her hands again. Charles’s smile shimmered in front of her, warm and teasing.
‘I don’t think I shall be married.’
‘Well, you’re still young, but eventually—’
‘No,’ she interrupted and he remained silent for a moment. He shifted as if about to speak, but she made the mistake of looking up and met her aunt’s gaze. Pure poison, Sue had said. She pressed back against the sofa and drank in some air. The man next to her shifted again, half-rising, but then the door opened and the butler announced supper.
* * *
Hunter smiled at the pretty little brunette who was chirping something at him. She didn’t require any real answers and he could cope with her flirtatious nonsense to her utter satisfaction with less than a tenth of his attention.
Tomorrow he would have to return to Hunter Hall. It had been cowardly to escape the day after Tim’s funeral, but as he had watched his brother’s grave being filled with earth, the thought that it was over, all of it, pain and love, hopelessness and hope, had choked him as surely as if it was he being smothered under the fertile soil. He had needed some distance and the negotiations with Sir Henry over the fees for access to the waterways controlled by the Bascombe estate had provided an excuse to disappear. At least in this Sir Henry appeared to be reasonable, unlike his dealings with his daughter, and it appeared they would not be required to pay exorbitant waterway fees to the Bascombe estate, at least until the girl inherited.
No wonder Sir Henry had let drop that he was concerned his daughter, who would come into the immense Bascombe estate in four years, would be easy prey for fortune hunters. After her performance that afternoon Hunter had assumed that was because Sir Henry wasn’t confident he could keep such a mature little firebrand under control. But it was clear this girl would probably throw herself into the arms of the first plausible fortune-hunting scoundrel simply to escape this poisonous household.
He glanced down the table to Sir Henry’s daughter. She was barely eating, which was a pity because she was as thin as a sapling. She definitely didn’t look strong enough to have ridden Petra so magnificently that afternoon. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he knew she was an only child, he could easily believe this girl was a pale twin. No wonder she had recoiled at being called plucky. When she had entered the dining hall that evening he had stared with disorientation at a completely different person from the pert and intrepid horsewoman. A prisoner on the way to the guillotine had more jump in their step than the pale effigy that had somehow made her way to the sofa in the corner. Her skin had been ashen under its sun-kissed warmth, almost green, and he wondered if she was going to be ill. Perhaps someone petite might have looked fragile, but she just looked awkward.
He had almost started moving towards her when her aunt had reached her, and though he had only been able to make out part of her words, the vitriolic viciousness had been distressingly apparent and the coy comments to the Poundridges had almost been worse. She had humiliated the girl in public without compunction and Sir Henry had stood unmoved as a post.
It wasn’t until he sat down by her that he had noticed she was shaking and immediately he was back with his brother. Tim’s legs would leap like that at the onset of the attacks of terror; that was how he could tell it was starting. He hadn’t even been able to hold his one remaining hand or touch him because of the constant pain. All he could do was sit there with him until it stopped. Not that it had helped in the end. To see that stare in the girl’s face and the telltale quiver of her legs had been shocking. She had finally calmed, but he hadn’t. He was still tight with the need to do damage to that vindictive witch. That poor girl needed to get away from this poisonous house.
He glanced at the girl again. She still wasn’t eating, just sitting ramrod straight, staring down at her plate. But there was a stain of colour on her cheeks as the aunt leaned towards her. She was at her again, the hag, he thought angrily. Why doesn’t her father do anything about this? If she had been his daughter he would have ripped this woman’s head from her shoulders long ago.
Something the pink-festooned brunette said to him required his attention and he turned to her resolutely. This wasn’t his affair and it wasn’t as if he had been so successful helping the people who mattered to him. It had been his father’s death that had partially released his mother from her humiliation, not any of his puny efforts to protect her. And Tim... He might have saved his brother’s broken body from a French prison, but he had failed on every other level. This girl was just another of a multitude of cowed women, just like his mother, beaten down until they could no longer imagine standing up for themselves. There was nothing he could do to change the trajectory of her fate.
* * *
‘Are you really fool enough to try and flirt with Lord Hunter? Do you really think someone like him will be interested in you?’ Aunt Hester hissed under cover of the conversation. Her witch’s smile was in full bloom, the one she used while spewing hate in company.
In a year this would be her life, Nell thought. She would be eighteen and for three long years until her majority she would have to suffer the whip of her aunt’s tongue and her father’s anger and indifference. No, she couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.
‘He doesn’t need your money, so don’t think you can snare someone like him just because you’re an heiress. Like mother, like daughter. That’s how your slut of a mother caught Henry, you know...’
Nell stood before her mind registered the movement.
‘You will not speak about Mama. Not a word. Not ever.’
She hardly recognised her own voice. It was low, but the room fell into shocked silence. Her aunt’s face was turning the colour of fury, but Nell was far away. Soon the walls would collapse on her, but for a moment time had stopped and she could walk through this frozen little world out into the night and keep walking until she reached Keswick.
Then she saw Lord Hunter’s face. There was a smile in his honey-brown eyes and he raised his glass towards her and time moved again and she realised what she had done. Her aunt surged to her feet, which was a mistake, because she was much shorter than Nell.
‘If you cannot behave in a ladylike fashion, you will beg everyone’s pardon and retire, Helen.’ The words were temperate but the message in her aunt’s eyes wasn’t. I’ll deal with you later, they said.
Nell almost hung her head and complied, but looking down at the purply-red patches on her aunt’s cheeks, the thick lips tinted with the pink colour she favoured, she felt a wave of disgust, not fear. She took a step back and turned and curtsied to the others.
‘I apologise for not behaving in a ladylike fashion. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Goodnight.’ She turned back to her aunt. ‘I will never listen to you again. Not ever. You have no voice.’
She heard her father bellow her name, but didn’t stop. She would leave for Keswick in the morning and she would never return.
Chapter One (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
London—1820
‘There’s no one there, miss,’ the driver of the post-chaise said impatiently as Nell stared at the empty house and the knocker-less door. How could this be? Her father’s last letter had been sent just two days ago and from London. As far back as she remembered he always spent the week before the Wilton horse-breeders’ fair in London, assessing the latest news and horses at Tattersall’s.
‘We can’t leave the horses standing in this rain, miss; they’ve come a long way.’
Nell turned back to the post-chaise. The driver was right. The poor horses had made excellent time over the last stage and they must be exhausted. But where could she go?
‘Do you happen to know where Lord Hunter resides?’
The words were out before she could consider and the driver cocked a knowing brow.
‘Lord Hunter, miss? Aye, I do. Curzon Street. You quite certain that’s where you’ll be wanting to go? Not quite the place for a respectable young lady.’
Nell breathed in, trying to calm her annoyance and fear. Nell knew memories were often deceptive, but she had found it hard to reconcile her memory of the troubled and irreverent young man with Mrs Sturges’s report of a noted Corinthian addicted to horse racing, pugilism and light women. Nevertheless, it was clear the driver shared Mrs Sturges’s opinion of her alleged fiancé’s reputation. Mrs Sturges might teach French and deportment, but she was also the school’s resident expert on London gossip, and when Nell had received the shocking newspaper clipping sent by her father, she had immediately sought her advice. Mrs Sturges had been delighted to be consulted on such a promisingly scandalous topic as Lord Hunter.
‘He is a relation of mine, so, yes, that is precisely where I’ll be wanting to go,’ Nell lied and leaned back into the chaise as it pulled forward. She, like the horses, was tired and hungry and just wanted to sleep for a week, but she was not going to back down now. She was twenty-one and financially and legally independent, and no one...no one!...was going to decide her fate any longer. She didn’t know whether it was her father or Lord Hunter who was responsible for the gossip in the Morning Post, but she wasn’t going to wait another moment to put a stop to it.
‘This here’s Hunter House, miss.’
Nell inspected the house as the postilion opened the chaise door. It looked like the other houses on the road—pale, patrician and dark except for faint lines of light sifting through the closed curtains in the room on the right. The hood of Nell’s cloak started sliding back and little needles of rain settled on her hair. She tugged her hood into place, wondering how on earth she was going to do this. She turned to the driver.
‘Will you wait a moment?’
The driver glanced at the sluggish drizzle and a little rivulet of water ran off the brim of his hat onto his caped greatcoat.
‘We’ll see if there’s someone in, but then we’ll have to get the horses to the Peacock Inn, miss. You can send for your trunk there.’
She almost told him to take her to the Peacock as well, but the thought of asking for a room in a London posting house without maid or companion was as daunting as bearding the lion in his den.
Not a lion, she mused, trying to recall what Lord Hunter had looked like. Too dark for a lion. Too tall and lean for one, too.
Whatever the case, he was unlikely to be happy about her appearing on his doorstep at nine in the evening. However, if he had a hand in this outrageous stratagem, he didn’t deserve to be happy. She still found it hard to believe the handsome and wealthy rake described by Mrs Sturges really wanted to wed her at all, especially after her shocking behaviour four years ago, but it was equally hard to believe a columnist would dare fabricate such a libellous faradiddle.
She climbed the last step, gathering her resolution, when the door opened and golden light spilled out and was immediately obstructed by a large shadow. She stepped back involuntarily and her shoe slipped on the damp steps. She grabbed at the railing, missed and with a sense of fatality felt herself fall backwards. She instinctively relaxed as she would for a fall from a horse, adjusting her stance, and she managed to land in a crouch on the bottom step. She pushed to her feet and brushed her gloved hands, glad the dark hid her flush of embarrassment. The figure at the top of the steps had hurried towards her, but stopped as she stood up.
‘That was impressive.’ His deep voice was languid and faintly amused and she glanced up abruptly. Apparently she did remember some things about her betrothed.
‘Lord Hunter...’
‘Impressive, but not compelling. Whatever is on offer, sweetheart, I’m not interested. Run along, now.’
Nell almost did precisely that as she realised the driver had been true to his word and was disappearing down the street at a fast clip. She drew herself up, clinging to her dignity, and turned back to the man who was thoroughly confirming Mrs Sturges’s indictment.
‘That’s precisely the issue, Lord Hunter. I am not interested either, and the fact that you don’t even recognise the woman that according to the Morning Post you are engaged to only confirms it. Now, may we continue this inside? It’s cold and I’m tired; it was a long drive from Keswick.’
At least that drew a response from him, if only to wipe the indolent amusement from his face. The light streaming past him from the house still cast him into a shadow, but she could make out some of the lines of his face. The dark uncompromising brows that drew together at her greeting, the deep-set eyes that she couldn’t remember if they were brown or black, and the mouth that had flattened into a hard line—he looked older and much harsher than she had remembered.
‘Miss Tilney,’ he said at last, drawing out her name. ‘This is a surprise, to say the least. Where is Sir Henry?’
‘I don’t know. May we talk inside? It is not quite...’ She paused, realising the irony of suggesting they enter his house to avoid being seen on his doorstep. His lips compressed further, but he stood back and she hurried into the hall, her heart thumping. Everything had been much clearer in her mind when she had been driven by frustration and anger and before she had made a fool of herself tumbling down the steps.
‘This way.’
He opened a door and she glanced at him as she entered. She went towards the still-glowing fireplace, extending her hands to its heat and trying hard not to let her surprise show. How had she managed to forget such a definite face? Had she remembered him more clearly, she might have reconsidered confronting him alone. She had vaguely remembered his height and the bruised weariness about his eyes; even his irreverence and his tolerance of her skittishness. But she hadn’t remembered that his brows were like sooty accusations above intense golden-brown eyes or the deep-cut lines that bracketed a tense mouth. If she had grown up he had grown hard. It was difficult to imagine this man being kind to a scared child.
‘Lord Hunter,’ she began. ‘I—’
‘How did you get here from Keswick?’
She blinked at the brusque interruption.
‘I came post. What I wanted to say was—’
‘In a post-chaise? With whom?’
‘With a maid from the school. Lord Hunter, I—’
‘Is she outside?’
‘No, I left her with her family in Ealing on the way. Lord Hunter, I—’
He raised a hand, cutting her off again.
‘Your father allowed you to travel from the Lake District to London and come to my house in the middle of the night, unattended?’
He spoke softly but the rising menace in his voice was unmistakable.
‘My father knows nothing about it. Would you please stop interrupting me?’
‘Not yet. What the...? What do you mean your father knows nothing about it?’
‘My father sent me a letter on my birthday informing me I have apparently been betrothed for four years. I wrote back and told him I most certainly wasn’t. His response was to send me this clipping from the Morning Post.’ She fumbled inside her reticule for the much-abused slip of paper and shoved it at Lord Hunter. He took it, but didn’t bother reading it.
‘And rather than communicating your...distaste in a more traditional manner, you chose a melodramatic gesture like appearing on my doorstep in the middle of the night?’
Although his flat, cold voice shared nothing with her aunt’s deceptively soft but vicious attacks, Nell felt the familiar stinging ache of dread and mortification rising like a wave of nausea. She gritted her teeth, repeating for the umpteenth time that Aunt Hester had no power over her and that she was no longer a child. She was twenty-one and very wealthy and she was done being treated like chattel.
‘Do you find it more melodramatic than concocting this engagement behind my back and keeping it from me for four years? You have no one to blame but yourself!’
That might have been going too far, Nell told herself as his stern face lost some of its coldness, but she couldn’t tell what the increasingly intent look on his face portended.
‘Clearly,’ he said, still maddeningly cool. ‘Where are you staying in town?’
Some of her bravado faded at the thought of the disappearing post-chaise.
‘Nowhere yet. I thought Father was in town, but the house is empty and the post-chaise is taking my trunk to the Peacock in Islington.’
The gloves jerked in his hands again.
‘I see. And now that you have delivered your message in person, what do you propose to do?’
Nell had no idea. She was miserable and confused and hungry and she wanted nothing more than to sit down and cry.
He moved away from her and for a moment she thought he might just leave her there and her shoulders sagged, almost relieved. But he merely strode over to the bell-pull and gave it a tug. At least in this her memory had been accurate—he walked lightly, unusually so for someone of his size, but it just added to that sense of danger she had not associated with him at all from their meeting all those years ago.
‘Sit down.’
He tossed his gloves on a table and took her arm, not quite forcing her, but it was hard not to step back and sink into the armchair. It was as comfortable as it looked and for a moment she contemplated unlacing her shoes and tucking her cold feet beneath her, leaning her head against the wings, closing her eyes... Perhaps this would all just go away.
He stood above her, even more imposing now that she was seated. Neither of them spoke until the door opened.
‘Biggs, bring some...tea and something to eat, please.’
‘Tea?’
Nell almost smiled at the shock in the butler’s voice. Lord Hunter glanced at him with a glint of rueful amusement just as the butler caught sight of Nell. All expression was wiped from the butler’s face, but something in his stoic expression reflected the brief flash of amusement in his master’s eyes and Nell didn’t know whether to be relieved by this first sign of some softer human emotion from the man she was engaged to.
‘Tea. Oh, and send Hidgins to the Peacock and ask him to retrieve—’ He broke off and turned to Nell. ‘Let me guess—you gave them your real name, didn’t you? I thought so. To retrieve Miss Tilney’s baggage. Discreetly, Biggs. But first have him drive by Miss Amelia to tell her to wait up for me; I will be by within an hour with a guest for the night.’
Nell started protesting, but the butler merely nodded and withdrew.
‘I can’t stay with you!’
‘Don’t worry; I never invite women here and certainly not my betrothed. I will take you somewhere a damn sight more respectable than the Peacock is for a country miss with no more sense than to try to stay at one of the busiest posting houses in London without a maid or chaperon. You may not want to marry me, but I’m damned if I am going to have the woman whose name has just been publicly linked with mine create a lurid scandal through sheer stupidity. I admit your father and I agreed on the engagement four years ago, but I understood he would discuss it with you and inform me if there was any impediment to proceeding and that in any case it wouldn’t be relevant until you came of age.’
‘Because I wouldn’t inherit Bascombe until then, correct?’ she asked, not concealing her contempt.
He breathed in, clearly clinging to his calm.
‘Correct. I don’t see anything outrageous in wanting to ally the Bascombe and Hunter estates. I admit I should have probably discussed the matter with you myself, but since you disappeared from Tilney and since I was in mourning at the time, it seemed sensible to let your father discuss the issue with you. I had no idea he hadn’t done so and I had nothing to do with that gossip in the Morning Post. Believe me, I am suffering as much as you from that nonsense.’
Nell shrugged, her anger dimming, but not her depression.
‘That was probably my father’s heavy-handed way of trying to force my submission, but it won’t work. If I have to personally demand the Morning Post issue a retraction, I shall do so.’
‘No, you won’t, not unless you wish to escalate this into a full-scale scandal, which I, for one, prefer to avoid. We will deal with this discreetly and that means if you want my co-operation you will go to my aunts and once you are rested we will discuss our options. Until then I suggest we put a moratorium on this discussion. I never decide on important matters when I am tired, hungry and upset. I suggest you adopt this policy, at least for tonight.’
Nell didn’t answer and the tense silence held until the butler entered with a tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.
‘We don’t have any sweetmeats, I’m afraid, sir,’ he said as he placed the tray in front of Nell and she smiled gratefully.
‘Never mind. I don’t like sweetmeats. This is perfect.’
The butler’s brows rose, creating a row of arched wrinkles on his high forehead. Again she saw the glimmer of amusement in the glance he directed at his master.
‘You don’t like confectionery, miss?’ he asked as he poured the tea, and both the action and the question surprised her. ‘Such a distaste is uncommon in young women, if you pardon the impertinence, miss.’
The scent of steaming tea was heavenly and her mouth watered. It occurred to her this particular servant was allowed a great deal of latitude, which surprised her given Lord Hunter’s controlled demeanour.
‘If my aunt is to be believed, my not liking sweetmeats is the least of my peculiarities. Thank you.’ She took the cup and saucer he held out to her.
‘You’re welcome, miss. But eat those sandwiches, do. Anything else, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Biggs. That is more than enough.’
Nell once again heard the mocking note in Lord Hunter’s voice.
‘Very good, sir. Shall I also send a message that you are...otherwise engaged?’
A flash of annoyance crossed Hunter’s face.
‘Yes, do that.’
Biggs bowed and withdrew.
‘I’m sorry I ruined your plans, but really there’s no need...’
‘It doesn’t matter. Eat something and I’ll take you to Amelia.’
‘I really don’t think...’
‘We’ve established that already. Eat up. And next time you plan to stay alone at major posting houses, use an alias. I suggest “Mrs Jones, widow”. Widows are granted more leeway.’
Nell was tired in body and soul, and disheartened, and miserable, and his brusque, matter-of-fact approach pushed her over the edge. Even the sight of the food wasn’t enough to counter the fury that caught her. She put down her cup and saucer with more force than grace and stood up.
‘What useful advice. I will apply it at the next hostelry. In fact, I will try it right away. Goodnight, my lord. Have a lovely life and when you speak with my father tell him to have a lovely life as well.’
He blocked her path, his hand closing on her arms firmly but without force.
‘Don’t be a fool. Come, I will take you to my aunts and tomorrow we will figure out what to do with you.’
‘You will not figure out what to do with me. I am not a...a witless dummy to be manipulated. I promised myself years ago I will never again be bullied and I don’t care how tired and hungry and upset I am, because if you say just one more nasty thing to me I will walk out of here and if you try and stop me I will scream at the very top of my lungs and enjoy every second of it!’
Once again his fleeting smile flashed.
‘I’m certain you will, for a moment. But it’s not very practical, is it? You would probably call the Watch in on us and you look done in and I don’t think you want to spend the next hour explaining the whole story to magistrates and strangers, do you? Can we compromise?’
‘Compromise how?’
‘You eat up and I take you to my aunts and then tomorrow we discuss this. Calmly.’
‘That isn’t a compromise since I still do what you want,’ she said, well aware she sounded like a resentful child.
‘Yes, but tomorrow you can send me to the devil and I will not lift a finger to stop you.’
‘That’s still not a compromise.’
‘Well, it feels like one to me. What on earth are you thinking of doing? You can’t go to the Peacock, especially now I’ve sent Hidgins for your baggage, and if you are contemplating doing something so rash, I just might choose to communicate some interesting information to the landlord that will make your stay more uncomfortable than it already appears to be.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Try me. I’m damned if I’m going to have someone whose name has been tied with mine in an unfortunately public manner make a fool of herself in one of the busiest hostelries in the city.’
‘So you are threatening to compound my folly with yours? That doesn’t make much sense.’
‘Don’t start preaching sense to me, young woman. Well?’
She raised her chin, trying to find a better solution and failing.
‘Fine. For one night. Your aunts will probably think you drunk or mad and I won’t blame them.’
He smiled.
‘Not them. They’re used to my eccentricities.’
Nell felt a snide comment wavering at the edge of her tongue, but held back and sat down again. It felt so very good to lose her temper, a luxury she rarely indulged, but the truth was that he was right—she was hungry and tired and upset and more than willing to postpone coping with the consequences of her actions until tomorrow.
‘Fine. And please stop swearing at me. It is very improper.’
‘Fine. Eat up.’
* * *
Hunter watched as she finally did as she was told and took one of Biggs’s bread and cheese creations. He walked to pour himself a glass of port so she wouldn’t see his smile. Admittedly when he and Sir Henry had agreed on the betrothal four years ago he hadn’t been at his best, but he wondered how his memory could be so seriously flawed. He knew people changed a great deal in four years, he certainly had, and not for the better, but the contrast between this young woman and that girl was extreme. Despite her height she had struck him as rather mousy, all long limbs and very little else, her pale hair showing a distinct tendency to fall out of its pins and obscure her face. She hadn’t been ugly, just...awkward. He remembered her expressions more than her face, from the joyful light after that incredible gallop on Petra to the sheer terror when she had come under her aunt’s attack. Then, in that last minute when she had marched out of the drawing room, there had been something else—for a moment she had taken full advantage of her height and looked almost regal.
She wasn’t a beauty, but mousy or gawky were definitely not the right words to describe her. He wasn’t quite certain what words were applicable, but those blue-grey eyes, sparked with the fire of temper and determination and with a faint catlike slant, were anything but plain, and though she was still lean and athletic, as her limber recovery from the fall on his steps indicated, even under her countrified cloak he could see that her girlish slimness had filled out quite nicely.
In fact, as far as looks went, she was much more appealing than he remembered. But what she had gained in looks, she had lost in temperament. He certainly hadn’t remembered she was such a prickly thing, though now he could recall some of her critical comments during that ride four years ago which should have forewarned him. It appeared he had as thoroughly misread her character as he had been mistaken about her appearance.
It hadn’t taken him long to regret his agreement with Tilney, but he had comforted himself that at least he would be gaining not only Bascombe but a docile, compliant wife grateful to be saved from her less-than-satisfactory life, content to stay in Hampshire and leave him to pursue his work and other interests in London. Well, that conviction was clearly nothing more than a fantasy. There was still something skittish about her and her words about bullying were telling, but she was about as docile as she was mousy.
He savoured his port as he watched her. She might not like sweets, but she was certainly doing justice to Biggs’s sandwiches. She put down her empty plate with a slight sigh and he smiled involuntarily. She was a strange little thing. No, not little.
‘Better?’
Her mouth wavered, as if she was contemplating holding on to her anger, and then settled into a rueful smile.
‘That was the best sandwich I have ever eaten, I think.’
‘I will inform Biggs of your appreciation. He takes bread and cheese very seriously.’
‘A sensible man.’ Her smile widened and he could see that girl again who had slid off Petra after her gallop, confident and confiding, but then she was gone again.
‘He is. Now that you are fed, I have a suggestion to make. When I go to Wilton I will confer with your father and when I return we will all sit down—’
‘Wilton? You’re going to the breeders’ fair?’ Nell asked, leaning forward.
Hunter raised his brow at the interruption. Her face had transformed again and was now alight and eager.
‘Yes. I’ve gone for the past couple of years. I’m looking for a stallion to breed with Petra. Why?’
Her gaze remained fixed on him, but he could have sworn that for a moment she wasn’t there, had left her body and travelled to some place lovely and warm because her cheeks and lips lost their pallor, warming to a shade of a very edible peach, and her pupils shrank, turning her eyes more silver than grey. For a split second he thought this is what she might look like after she climaxed, full of warmth and light, afloat. Then it was gone; she looked down at her hands and pressed them together as if about to pray.
‘I will agree to your compromise. On condition.’
Oh, hell. Somehow he thought he wouldn’t like this.
‘What condition?’
‘I will come with you to Wilton.’
It was not a request. This girl was definitely not turning into the biddable bride he had thought she would be.
‘I am not saying that I agree, but may I ask why?’
She shrugged and tugged at her gloves.
‘Well, clearly we need to speak with Father about repudiating this rumour and if he isn’t in London he has most likely gone to Wilton early. Surely there is no harm in merely driving with you since we are, for the moment at least, engaged. Well?’
Well, indeed? Why should every one of his instincts be on alert? Ever since Kate had shoved the newspaper with that blasted gossip at him he had known his life was going to take a distinct turn for the worse, but somehow he had hoped he could put off dealing with this particular commitment for a little while longer. He was used to the occasional sniping column about his affairs and activities and accepted them as part of his choice of lifestyle, but the deluge that had appeared in today’s papers following the appearance of those two sentences about his purported betrothal was trying his patience. It didn’t help that Biggs had indulged his sense of humour by acquiring several newspapers and spreading them around the house carefully folded open to the most damning, including one entitled ‘Wild Hunter Bagged at Last!’, which had been borderline libellous and peppered with the initials of the women reputed to be mourning his removal from the field.
All told he had been looking forward to confronting Tilney at Wilton and telling him what he thought of his management of this affair. What he had not counted on was that Tilney had clearly never told his daughter about the arrangement or that she would descend on him from the wilds of the Lake District demanding a disavowal. He walked over to the fireplace and shoved in another log. She wanted conditions, fine.
He stood and brushed the slivers of wood from his hands.
‘Very well. As long as you meet my conditions as well. Unfortunately, as far as the world is concerned we are betrothed and to deny that now will cause precisely the scandal we’re trying to avoid. So while at Wilton we present ourselves as such until we can consider how to end this engagement without turning us into a laughing stock. In addition, my co-operation is conditional upon reaching some reasonable long-term agreement about the water rights. I’ll be da—dashed if I have to negotiate yearly fee agreements with my once betrothed or your bridegroom of choice when eventually you decide to marry.’
Hunter trailed off as she blushed so hotly she might as well have been wearing her heart fully emblazoned on her sleeve. No wonder she wanted out of this betrothal. His forced fiancée clearly already had a bridegroom in mind.
As the blush faded she canted her head to one side.
‘Somehow that amounts to quite a few more conditions than mine.’
‘I’m not negotiating. Well?’
She gave a brisk nod and he relaxed.
‘Good. Off we go, then. Just keep your hood pulled low. I prefer not to be seen abroad with such a reckless character as yourself at this late hour.’
She laughed and stood, pulling on her hood, and he felt a twinge of regret. He reached out and arranged her hood so that it better covered the silver-gold glints of her hair. Her eyes rose to his in surprise and he didn’t immediately release the soft fabric. Her irises were an interesting combination of shades of grey and blue—from slate to ice to a rim of darker blue. This close he caught her scent, something warm, like a field of wildflowers in summer. His eyes glided down towards her mouth, slightly parted in surprise. A very generous mouth. For a moment he was tempted to taste that lush curve. The memory returned of her coming towards him on Petra, her hair tumbled and her face alight, except that now his imagination embellished, it was no longer a girl but this young woman coming towards him, and now he was drawing her down onto the grass, spreading that fairy hair out on the wildflowers her scent evoked...
He didn’t move, noting with cynical amusement the enthusiastic response of his body. Trust it to show interest now that he was within arm’s reach of escaping this engagement. Whatever the case, he had no intention of acting on the urge. He stepped back and held out his arm.
‘Shall we?’
Chapter Two (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
Nell obediently kept her head down as they descended from the hackney cab. At least that had been her intention, but a quick glance at the building they approached made her look up in swift surprise and her hood slipped back. She grabbed at it, but stood staring upwards. She had expected a house similar to Lord Hunter’s or like her father’s more modest town house. This looked more like a rambling school and took up half the road on this side.
Lord Hunter noticed her shocked expression.
‘I know, not ideal, but it’s the best I can do at such short notice. Aunt Sephy and Aunt Amelia live in a separate apartment. Their entrance is down this alleyway.’
He took her hand and placed it on his arm, leading her towards a narrow gap between the building and a row of modest-looking houses scantily lit by a single oil lamp at the corner. His arm was very warm under her gloved hand and it spread a pleasant heat through her, like the comforting animal warmth of leaning against a horse in a cold stable.
She smiled at the thought. Lord Hunter would probably not appreciate being compared with a horse. In fact, she had no idea what he might appreciate. He was not at all what she had expected. Neither the perplexing young man she remembered nor Mrs Sturges’s debauched rake. There was still that rather irreverent amusement hovering in the background, and sometimes not so far in the background, but she certainly didn’t feel threatened by him. Perhaps just a little when he had helped her with her hood; something unsettling in his eyes had set off alarms, but it had come and gone too quickly for her to act on her need to draw back.
Still, it wasn’t wise to trust this man and she shouldn’t presume that she understood him simply because he was so unfashionably blunt. As someone who kept most of herself firmly out of public view, she had a good eye for identifying people whose surface differed from their interior. She could see beyond painfully shy or boisterously loud exteriors and she had used this skill time and again helping Mrs Petheridge with the schoolgirls and even with recalcitrant or challenging horses. Not that he appeared to be masking vulnerability or fear, but there was definitely something behind the urbane façade that outweighed it, and until she understood what it was she would do well not to take him at face value, no matter how charming the face.
As they weaved their way into the gloom she realised she was being all too complaisant about being led into a dark alley by a man she hardly knew. Admittedly the mention of an Aunt Sephy and Aunt Amelia didn’t exactly invoke images of rape and pillage, but still...
‘What is this place?’ she asked in a whisper, slowing her steps, but just then the alley curved into a small courtyard set around a single tree. The cobblestones glistened with the remains of the drizzle and light shone through curtains which were definitely pink and embroidered with flowers. Even in that weak light Nell could see the façade here was well tended and the tree surrounded with chrysanthemums. It was so far removed from the dour impression of the front of the building that she couldn’t help staring.
Hunter stopped as well and his hand covered hers where it lay on his arm. He stood with his back to the faint light from the window, once again a dark-on-dark shape like that first moment he had opened the door, but this time it was a different kind of shock that spurted through her. There was enough light to infuse his eyes with a startling burn of gold and his smile was so enticing that her hand began to turn under his. She froze before she could complete the gesture, but she was incapable of doing anything else but waiting for his move, as surely as if this was a game of chess and these the iron rules of a game they had engaged in.
He wasn’t doing anything, just looking down at her, but in her weary and overwhelmed state he seemed to grow, take on the dark of the night, expand and envelop her. She had never been fanciful but she imagined Lucifer might look like this the moment before he claimed a failing soul for his own. It would feel like this, too: hot, terrifying, all encompassing, seductive. If she leaned forward she might fall into that heat and be consumed by it, claimed and changed for ever. It would be inescapable.
Then he spoke and the moment broke.
‘A bit of a surprise, isn’t it?’ he said and there was nothing in his voice to reflect the swirling heat of the moment. She stepped back, pulling her hand away. It must be the weariness and the confusion, that was all. More proof that she should not trust him, even if that moment had been merely her imagination.
‘I can’t go in there!’ She heard the panic in her voice, but couldn’t help it.
He took her hand again, layering it between his own. This was no longer Lucifer, and though the warmth flowed through her, now it was soothing.
‘It’s all right. You will like them and they will like you, I promise. There is nothing to be afraid of.’
She tried to resent being spoken to like a child except that it wasn’t the patronising tone of some of the schoolmistresses. It was an offer, but the decision would have to be hers. She glanced at the pink curtains and nodded. She had little choice, after all.
He tapped lightly on a lion’s-paw knocker and the door was opened immediately by a round little man who bowed and stood back.
‘Good evening, my lord. Miss Amelia is waiting for you in the parlour. Miss Sephy has of course retired.’
Lord Hunter urged Nell up the stairs into the well-lit hall.
‘Thank goodness for that, Bassett.’
The butler’s mouth relaxed as he opened the door into a room at the back of the house and stood back to let them enter.
‘Indeed, my lord. May I bring refreshments?’
‘You may. Tea for Miss Tilney and something stronger for me.’
Nell cringed at the trouble she was causing and almost began apologising, but Lord Hunter ushered her into the parlour where a woman moved towards them with a smile in honey-brown eyes that clearly were a shared family trait. She also had her nephew’s strong brows and slightly aquiline nose. It was a formidable face, but contrarily Nell didn’t feel at all intimidated. In fact, and very uncharacteristically, Nell liked her on sight and met the woman’s smile with one of her own.
‘Amelia, this is Miss Helen Tilney. Miss Tilney, this is my aunt, Miss Amelia Calthorpe. She lives here with my other aunt, Miss Seraphina Calthorpe, who is thankfully asleep because her rampant curiosity would keep you awake until dawn if let loose. Amelia, we have an emergency. Miss Tilney needs a place to stay for a few days until she decides on her future path. May she stay here? I’ve sent Hidgins to collect her luggage from the posting house, but if he’s delayed she might need to borrow some gear from you.’
Nell was grateful for the soft light, though she was sure her flush of shame was still as apparent as in broad daylight, but Amelia’s face betrayed none of the shock and scorn Nell had expected.
‘Of course you may,’ Amelia said without hesitation, holding out her hand to Nell. ‘And you needn’t worry about your baggage. It reminds me I once lost my trunk and I was miserable because I had just bought the loveliest bonnet. Do come with me and we will have something warm to drink while Bassett is preparing the guest room. Did you travel far today?’
Nell followed her in something of a daze.
‘I...from Keswick...’
‘Oh, of course. I just realised who you are! I am not very good with the papers, but Sephy did show me the column in the Post today, or was it yesterday? I have been meaning to write you a note, Gabriel. Why didn’t you tell me this is the woman you are engaged to?’
‘Not any more. Miss Tilney plans to jilt me as soon as we can do so with minimal fuss.’
‘Dear me, what a pity. Was it something you said?’
‘I think it might be something I didn’t say.’
‘Of course. I quite understand, Miss Tilney, and I must say that though I personally adore Gabriel, I can see your point. From the age of four he was always one to go his own way and let the world follow if it can. Oh, thank you, Bassett. Just put it on the table. I will pour.’
Nell accepted the cup of tea Miss Calthorpe handed her, trying very hard not to give in to the urge to giggle at this increasingly improbable scene. She looked away and met Gabriel’s eyes and the lazy invitation to share in his amusement evoked an involuntary response in her. If ever a look said ‘I told you so’ without exciting the least resentment, this was it. She drank her tea, answering Miss Amelia’s questions as faithfully as possible, but without much awareness of what she said. She laid down her cup on the small round table by her chair, but it tilted alarmingly and the cup and saucer slid away as she watched, too tired and sluggish to even realise what was about to happen. But Lord Hunter leaned forward with a swiftness that made her jerk awake and caught the cup and saucer with a smooth motion.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, flushing, and his eyes moved over her, intense and questioning.
‘You’re tired. I’ll go see if Bassett is done.’
‘Please, don’t bother...’ she began, but luckily Bassett entered.
‘Miss Tilney’s room is ready, Miss Amelia.’
‘Thank you, Bassett. Come along, Miss Tilney. May I call you Helen, or is it Nell? Leave your cloak. Bassett will give it a good brushing. Goodnight, Gabriel. You may come by tomorrow.’
Nell allowed herself to be propelled out of the drawing room and up the stairs, resisting the childish urge to remain with Lord Hunter. It was a sign of how shaky she was that she was beginning to consider an irreverent rake a safe haven.
Chapter Three (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
‘He wandered, lost and dreaming of his love...’
Hunter turned with a resigned sigh as a tall dark figure crossed the street towards him.
‘And so it begins. Want to lampoon me out here, Raven? Or shall we wait until you can entertain Stanton as well?’
‘Both, thank you. This merits quite a bit more ribbing than can be accomplished on a doorstep. Besides, I need a drink. I just walked over from Jenny’s and I’m frozen through.’
‘Didn’t she warm you sufficiently? Either you or she is slipping, Raven. Good evening, Dunberry,’ Hunter greeted Stanton’s butler.
‘Speaking of slipping, I frankly never thought you’d take the plunge; it was a bit of a shock to have that gossip in the Morning Post pointed out to me.’
‘For me, too.’
‘You don’t remember proposing? And here I thought you had a hard head.’
‘I remember proposing. Her father and I settled it four years ago but I thought common courtesy would require he speak with me before discussing it with gossip columnists. I didn’t appreciate Kate bringing it to my attention.’
Ravenscar winced.
‘I suppose she was peeved?’
‘I was too distracted by being “peeved” myself to notice and it rather ruined the mood, so I didn’t linger to chat...’
They entered the library and Stanton glanced up from the book he had been holding, but didn’t bother rising from the sagging armchair by the fire.
‘You’re late.’
‘May I have something to drink before you begin the catechism?’ Hunter asked politely.
‘Help yourself.’ Stanton waved towards a decanter on the sideboard. ‘What happened? You two having a hard time finding your timepieces amidst the tangle of sheets?’
‘Good God, Stanton, tell me you’ve read the papers these past two days,’ Ravenscar said with disgust.
‘Of course I read the papers. A great deal more closely than you do, Raven. What does that have to do with your mistresses?’
‘Other than the political pages,’ Ravenscar corrected, taking his glass and settling in his usual armchair, his long legs stretched out to the fire that shot his black hair with a jet sheen that made his name singularly apt.
‘In that case, no. Why, has something happened?’ Stanton’s blue eyes narrowed in concern.
‘Hopeless,’ Ravenscar murmured. ‘Shall I tell him, or shall you, Hunter?’
Hunter took his usual seat as well.
‘I wouldn’t deprive you of the pleasure for the world, Raven.’
‘Thank you. It appears we are to wish Hunter happy. He is betrothed.’
‘What? When? To whom?’
‘I think “Why?” might be more to the point,’ Ravenscar replied and Hunter sighed.
‘She’s Sir Henry Tilney’s daughter and heir to the Bascombe estate. Her father and I agreed on the engagement when I went to negotiate the water rights after old Bascombe died.’
‘Wait, I remember now. You bought Petra and Pluck from Tilney. Right after Tim’s funeral.’
Eventually this reflexive stiffening of his muscles at the mention of Tim would fade, Hunter told himself for the umpteenth time.
Stanton continued, his controlled voice far worse than Ravenscar’s jibes.
‘You’ve been engaged for four years and never once mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t mention it because the engagement was...conditional. The girl was just seventeen and Bascombe’s will stipulated she inherit only when she turned twenty-one. If she died before that, married or not, the property went to some cousin. Her father agreed that it would be unreasonable to expect me to commit to a public engagement until the inheritance was legally hers.’
‘And she accepted this cold-blooded arrangement? Well, you definitely have reached the mecca of complaisant and biddable brides, Hunter. I salute you.’
‘Not quite. I presumed her father would discuss it with her, but it appears she didn’t know about it until recently, and when she balked her father decided the best way to force her hand was to make it public.’
‘Just so I understand,’ Stanton said carefully. ‘You entered into this engagement without ever asking the girl to marry you?’
Hunter rubbed his forehead.
‘I couldn’t very well make any announcement at the time anyway because of Tim. So it made sense to wait until the main reason for marrying her became valid. She was only a child, for heaven’s sake, and the last thing she was ready to cope with at that point was someone else imposing their will on her. Her father and I agreed she would be better off remaining in the care of her schoolmistress as a boarder until she inherited. The corollary was that for the past four years we’ve enjoyed the best terms on the Tilney waterways in generations. I thought it was a damn good arrangement at the time.’
Stanton stood up himself and moved with uncharacteristic restlessness around the room.
‘Are you saying you asked her to marry you because you felt sorry for her?’
‘I told you, there were also the water rights. Put like that I know it sounds foolish...’
‘Foolish doesn’t begin to cover... Hunter, didn’t it occur to you that making such a decision just days after Tim’s death wasn’t very wise?’
‘You do have a talent for understatement, Stanton,’ Ravenscar mocked.
Hunter rose as well and went to stand by the fire, watching the flames dance cherry and gold in his brandy.
‘Very well,’ Stanton said carefully. ‘Now that her enterprising father has forced your hand, what do you intend to do?’
‘Since I am honour-bound to stand by my offer, my intentions are irrelevant. She, on the other hand, intends to jilt me.’
Ravenscar grinned.
‘This keeps getting better.’
‘I still don’t see anything wrong in principle with marrying in order to ally my land with Bascombe,’ Hunter replied defensively. ‘It’s been done since time immemorial. Now you can take ten minutes to rake me down and then I suggest we get down to the business of finding a property for Hope House in the west country.’
‘More important than my friend making a monumental mistake?’ Both Hunter and Ravenscar straightened at the uncharacteristic bite in Stanton’s voice. He rarely used his last-chance-to-negotiate-surrender voice with them. ‘The only sensible thing about this whole fiasco so far appears to be Miss Tilney’s reaction! I make every allowance for your original decision having been made in rather trying circumstances, but do you really mean to tell me that for four years it didn’t occur to you once to seek out this girl and find out whether your decision was a wise one? I don’t give a damn about what people have done over time immemorial! I know you’ve lived your whole life thinking you can rescue people and depend on no one, but you are not as clever as you want to believe and this, let me tell you, is sheer, abject stupidity. Ravenscar I could understand cold-bloodedly deciding to marry an heiress, but you don’t even need the funds; the Hunter estate is one of the wealthiest in Hampshire...’
‘Yes, but we depend on Bascombe for the water...’ Hunter raised his hands placatingly, trying to stem Stanton’s rising outrage. It was clearly a mistake. Stanton, renowned for the lightest of diplomatic touches on the most sensitive affairs of state, rarely allowed himself to descend into blasphemy but he did so now, with all the thoroughness he applied to his diplomatic concerns. When he was done the silence was of the calibre often experienced in the studies of the better tutors. The moral point having been made, behaviours examined and condemned, silence remained to let remorse and counsel rise to the surface and prevail. Hunter had had to share quite a few of those moments at Eton with both Stanton and Ravenscar by his side. Predictably Ravenscar broke first.
‘What is she like? Ugly as nails? Heiresses usually are. When can we meet her?’
Hunter hesitated. Before this evening he would have known what to answer. After seeing her again he wasn’t so sure. She was certainly no beauty like Kate, but she was...different. Unpredictable. Intriguing. He decided to keep it simple until he knew what he himself thought. Not that it would make any difference. If he could convince her to hold her course and withstand her father’s ire, she would be someone else’s problem.
‘Not that it matters since I am about to be jilted, but she is neither ugly nor a beauty. More...unusual. I’ve never seen a woman with a better seat on a horse. On the other hand, she had a brutal harpy of an aunt living with them who reduced her to the state of a quivering blancmange, which when you’re as tall as a Viking looks just a bit bizarre. Then halfway through one of the most tedious dinners I have yet had to plough my way through she suddenly transformed into an avenging fury, told the aunt to go to the devil with biblical panache and the next day she ran back to her school without a word to anyone but the cook and groom. Then tonight she appeared on my doorstep unchaperoned and determined to consign me to the devil. I’m glad you find this so amusing,’ he concluded a bit sourly as his friends sat with various degrees of grins on their faces.
‘You would too, man, if it wasn’t happening to you,’ Ravenscar replied. ‘And I think you could call it a very auspicious beginning. Since marriage is a fate worse than death, it sounds as though you are getting a very fair preview of your future if you can’t convince her to sheer off.’
‘Thank you, Ravenscar. I can always count on you for perspective. I admit she wasn’t quite what I had bargained for when I was resigning myself to the benefits of a modest, country-bred wife who would be happy to live at the Hall tending to children and horses and leaving me to my concerns in London.’
‘Ah, the sentimental musings of today’s youth...’
‘You can be as caustic as you like, Raven. You’re one of the least sentimental people I have ever met.’
‘I have my moments. Luckily none of them involved an offer of matrimony.’
‘So what are you planning to do?’ Stanton interceded practically. ‘You need to find the girl’s father first thing.’
‘He’s likely at the Wilton breeders’ fair and the girl is raring to go there, which is lucky because the sooner I hand her over to her parent, the less likely we are to turn this fiasco into an outright scandal. If she is serious about jilting me, I will need to manage this carefully.’
‘Do you really want to nip this affair in the bud?’
Hunter shrugged. It was probably the wisest course of action. He had worn out his chivalric fantasies trying, and failing, to save Tim and his mother. Even before Tim’s death he, Ravenscar and Stanton had acquired a reputation for wild living and for accepting any and all sporting dares. After a particularly difficult midnight race down to Brighton, society had delighted in dubbing them the Wild Hunt Club. Since Tim’s death he had more than earned his membership rights in that club. He often spent his nights wearing himself down to the point where sleep captured him like the prey of the mythical wild hunts he and his friends were styled after. Whatever still remained of his chivalric impulses he channelled into his work at Hope House and he didn’t need anyone outside his friends, his work and the uncommitted physical companionship of women like Kate. The thought of being saddled with a frightened, easily bullied near-schoolgirl was so distasteful he wondered why he hadn’t just gone down on his knees and thanked his lucky stars the moment she had sent him to the devil. He had certainly been dreading the moment Tilney would come demanding his due.
It was just that he had been surprised. He had done a very effective job of putting her out of mind since that day at Tilney and coming face-to-face with her had disoriented him. She certainly didn’t act like a frightened girl, despite a few moments when he had seen alarm in her silvery eyes. As for near-schoolgirl...those lips and that body were anything but schoolgirlish.
He sighed. None of this mattered. The key was to grasp this reprieve with both hands. He would take her to her father and see if he could extract himself from this fiasco without too much damage.
‘Well, whatever you decide, I have faith in your ability to talk her into your way of thinking,’ Ravenscar said. ‘I’ve yet to see anyone get by you when you bend your mind to it.’
‘Tim did.’
The words were out before Hunter could stop them. They would have been completely out of place, except that these two men had also risked their lives to rescue Tim from France during the war and they knew what caring for Tim until his death had done to Hunter. Ravenscar’s cynical smile disappeared.
‘Tim was lost the moment that French devil of an inquisitor got his brutal hands on him. We might have managed to salvage his body, or what was left of it, but five months in that prison was five months too long. It was damn bad luck the French were convinced he knew something of value simply because he was on Wellington’s staff. They should have realised a boy of nineteen was unlikely to be privy to staff secrets.’
Hunter’s stomach clenched as his younger brother’s tortured, scarred hands appeared before him as they did in his nightmares, and his face—staring, shaking, wet with tears, begging for the release from mental and bodily pain that the opiates gave him and which Hunter had been forced to ration as Tim’s dependency grew.
‘That bastard would have continued torturing him anyway. But it was my fault allowing him to join up in the first place.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Stanton said curtly. ‘You took better care of Tim than your parents ever did since the day he was born and he wouldn’t have lasted a day after we rescued him if you hadn’t nursed him. If there is anyone in this world who should feel no guilt over Tim, it’s you. I’m damned if I know why you do.’
Hunter’s shoulders tensed as the memories flooded back. For two years he had tried everything he could to help his brother heal, but nothing but laudanum had succeeded in dimming the daily agony of his pain and his attacks of terror. Hunter would never be certain if that final dose was intentional, but he was as certain as he could bear to be. He remembered Tim’s words that night before climbing the stairs to his childhood room for the last time.
‘You’ve always been so good to me, Gabe. If there is any way to stop anyone else from going through this, you’ll do it, won’t you? You promise?’
He would have promised Tim anything at that point, if only he had made an effort to... It was pointless. After the initial shock of finding Tim dead the next morning he had spent a year full of guilt and self-contempt that he had failed his younger brother, or worse, that he had somehow willed Tim to finish it because his agony was too much to bear, and yet worse—because he could only look ahead to years of servitude to a broken boy. Eventually he had dragged himself out of that pit with the help of Ravenscar and Stanton and their work at Hope House. But his grief and guilt and sense of failure clung. He had enough distance now to know that his pact with Tilney had been formed from the ashes of his failure with Tim. Bascombe, water rights and a young woman who was clearly in need of salvation and therefore likely to be grateful for what she could receive had been presented to him on a silver platter and he had taken them, platter and all, more fool he.
‘Are you still having nightmares?’ Stanton asked, dragging Hunter’s thoughts back with unwelcome sharpness. He could feel the sweat break out on the back of his neck and he rubbed at it, but nothing could erase the sick feeling of helplessness. He knew Stanton meant well, but he wished he hadn’t asked.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Since this piece of gossip showed up?’
‘Yes.’
Both nights. The dreams were one reason he never stayed the night with his mistresses and another reason, if he needed any, why the thought of marriage was so distasteful. It was one thing keeping this secret from the women he chose to visit on his terms. He couldn’t imagine the strain of keeping his fatal flaw a secret from a woman living in his own home. The realisation that he would have to go through with this marriage was probably bringing the worst of it to the surface. It was bad enough having his friends know about them, but he could trust Stanton and Ravenscar with his weaknesses. The thought of that girl...of anyone seeing him while he was in the throes of those moments that left him soaked in sweat... It was unthinkable.
‘All the more reason to extract myself from this mess. I don’t think my bride would appreciate finding out about my less-than-peaceful nights. She’d probably run for the hills.’
‘If you found someone you cared about, you wouldn’t have to hide this from them,’ Stanton replied.
‘That will never happen.’
‘What? Loving someone or sharing your weakness?’
‘Either. What the devil are you talking about anyway? Love is just another name for dependency or lust and I’ve had enough of the former in my life and I’m quite content with what I have of the latter. I have no intention of aping my mother or brother by letting myself depend on anyone as they did on me. It didn’t do them any good, did it? Or me either.’
‘It doesn’t have to be such an unequal equation. I liked Tim and your mother, too, but they drained you dry, man. I don’t call that love.’
‘You go too far, Stanton!’ Hunter said and Stanton raised his hands in surrender.
‘Fine. I’ve no right to preach anyway. Aside from my parents I’ve never seen evidence of the fabled beast myself.’
‘You’re too cold-blooded to fancy yourself in love, anyway, Stanton,’ Ravenscar stated, swirling his brandy as he watched them. ‘And I’m too hot-blooded. So let’s put that topic to rest and leave Hunter’s Viking bride for the morrow and focus on our business. You’ll be pleased to hear I have found a reasonable location for a new house near Bristol. It belongs to a relation of mine who has seen the light and wants to go succour the poor in warmer climes than Gloucestershire. The only problem is that it is distressingly close to Old Dame Jezebel’s lair.’
Hunter gratefully accepted the reprieve.
‘Your grandmother? Good Lord, she would never countenance a charitable institution within a hundred miles of her domain. She’ll never include you in her will if you do this.’
‘Since I am already permanently excluded from that honour, her outrage will be well worth it.’ Ravenscar winked.
Chapter Four (#u41a8b56b-af2a-5c18-9c82-a1b5e6af1656)
‘You are early, Lord Hunter,’ Bassett said as he took Hunter’s hat and cane.
‘Is that an observation or a hint, Bassett?’
‘An observation, my lord. Miss Seraphina is having her cocoa in bed, and Miss Amelia is not yet awake, having read late as usual. Miss Tilney, however, is awake and Sue has gone to tell her breakfast is served. Is there anything I can bring you?’
‘Just coffee, thank you, Bassett.’
‘Right away. Oh, the newspapers are on the table, my lord.’ He nodded at the pile on the breakfast table.
Hunter glanced up in suspicion at something in Bassett’s tone, but the butler was already on his way out, so he turned to the dreaded society pages in the rag Aunt Sephy adored. He found his name quite readily and sighed again as he read through the latest creation of the columnists who were clearly having a great deal of fun at his expense.
‘Bad news?’ a voice said next to him and he whirled around. Nell was standing just beside him, frowning at the paper. She had entered so quietly he had not even realised she was there. He held back on a childish urge to tuck the paper behind his back. Very casually he turned the page.
‘Good morning, Miss Tilney.’
‘Good morning, Lord Hunter. May I see that?’
Hell.
‘It’s just the usual nonsense. I ignore it. So should you.’
Nell didn’t look up from the paper, even though it now merely showed an advertisement for a cream to counter the ravages of the outdoors.
‘Lady F. That’s Lady Katherine Felton, isn’t it?’
Double hell. How would she know that?
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. Not that this is a newspaper, just a glorified gossip column. Aunt Seraphina lives on a diet of gossip and cocoa.’
The silvery eyes rose and he felt an uncharacteristic heat prickle in his cheeks, throwing him back to the experience of standing before Nurse and a broken window, desperately trying to hide a cricket bat behind his back. He drew himself up. This was ridiculous.
‘Shall we...?’
‘You needn’t be embarrassed you have a mistress. Mrs Sturges assures me most dandies in London have mistresses.’
‘I’m not a dandy!’
‘Aren’t you? Oh, right, she said you were a Corinthian, not a dandy. Though there doesn’t appear to be a great difference between them and I suppose they have mistresses, too.’
‘There is quite a gulf between a dandy and a Corinthian,’ he replied, annoyed at her dismissive tones and momentarily distracted from the fact that the last thing he should be discussing with his betrothed was mistresses.
‘I suppose so, but they both are rather profligate and slavishly obsessed with things that matter to no one but themselves. There isn’t anything in that column I didn’t already know. Mrs Sturges told me all about you and your exploits.’
‘My exploits!’
‘That’s what Mrs Sturges called them. She is very Gothic and talks in capital letters. I rather thought she had exaggerated, but the columnist obviously shares her opinion. She told me all about midnight races and something called the Wild Hunt Club, if I remember correctly. Strange—you don’t seem like a dissolute rake. You certainly didn’t take advantage of me yesterday, though I suppose that is not quite a criterion since I can’t imagine anyone, even if he was a rake, making advances to every woman he comes across, especially if she isn’t in the least pretty. It would be quite wearying, wouldn’t it? Particularly if he already has a mistress and Mrs Sturges said that Lady Felton is an accredited beauty. In fact, by that logic rakes would be less likely to make advances to all and sundry, wouldn’t they?’
Hunter struggled to find a reasonable response to this barrage, or even to manage his own response to her. Out of all the improper and thoroughly damning statements she had let loose with such insouciance, the one that caught his attention was her condemnation of her own looks. It was said with such matter-of-factness and with just a touch of wistfulness that he almost protested. But the need to contradict her statement was submerged by the same confusion he had experienced when facing her last night. In the light of day the difference between this woman and the girl he had thought he was engaged to was even more pronounced. The sun-kissed face looking at him in uncritical interest, though not beautiful, was remarkable in its way. Her wide grey eyes were slightly slanted and framed by the most amazing eyelashes he had ever seen, long and silky and definite and, like her brows, several shades darker than her hair. Her mouth, too, was remarkable—generous and lush and there was a faint white scar just below its right corner. Without thinking, he reached out and touched his finger to the line.
‘I don’t remember this when I saw you in Leicestershire. What happened?’
Her lips closed tightly and she stepped away from him and he could have kicked himself not only for his insensitivity but for his irrational reaction to that imperfection, a surge of concern and protectiveness that only arose with regard to the very few people he considered under his care. But if his intention had been to deflect her from her inquisition, it worked.
‘I was thrown from a horse. It was my fault. But Juniper—the horse—is fine. I know it’s ugly.’
‘What? No, it’s just—’ He broke off. There was nothing he could say to explain, to her or to himself, why he had reacted that way. Why he had wanted to touch it and the line of her lip as it curved in. He looked down at the newspaper, trying to find his footing. Then he turned back to her resolutely.
‘Why don’t we sit down, have something to eat and then talk this over sensibly?’
Her eyes glinted at him.
‘There is a pattern forming here. You appear to think I will be more amenable once fed.’
‘I certainly will be. I’m useless without my morning coffee.’
Her smile widened, but she nodded and went to the sideboard. He kept the conversation light as they ate, telling her about Petra’s and Pluck’s successes at the racing meets, a topic which she clearly was happy to explore until she had finished her last finger of toast.
‘I’m so happy they are content with you. I still miss Pluck, but I knew Father would never let me keep her, so I’m glad she is with Petra. Well, now that we’ve eaten I admit to being impatient to hear what you are planning.’
‘What makes you think I am planning anything?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m quite certain you are. You have a look.’
Hunter, who had a reputation for being unreadable at the piquet table, barely refrained from asking what this ‘look’ was, drummed his fingers on the table and wondered how to play his cards. This was not precisely how he had imagined his dealings with a near-schoolgirl would progress. For better or worse she was a bright young woman and he had better start treating her as such.
‘May I ask what you plan to do once you are freed of this engagement?’
She considered him, clearly debating whether or not to confide in him.
‘I will probably go to Bascombe, but first I will find someone respectable to act as companion or Father or...or my aunt will think they have a duty to come...’
Her voice faded and the haunted look he had seen at Tilney returned. The last time he had seen that expression before her had been on Tim’s face. Every day since he rescued him from that French hell and until the day he killed himself. Hunter uncurled his hand from the cup before it shattered. He was right to run. He didn’t need this.
‘Bar the gates, then,’ he said, a bit more roughly than he had intended. ‘Bascombe’s gates are flanked by two portly gargoyles which make the point quite vividly.’
Her eyes focused back on him and he relaxed as the edge of a smile returned as well.
‘Gargoyles?’
‘Your grandmother’s idea. At least if they were decent sculptures it might be forgivable, but they look like drunken gnomes about to fall off toadstools.’
The smile widened.
‘Then my first order of business shall be to remove them. I don’t think they would intimidate Aunt Hester anyway. She might even like them. She has the most awful taste.’
‘I remember she told me the horrific banquet room at Tilney Hall was her design. Send her the gargoyles as a gift, then.’
She half-laughed and covered her mouth to stop the sound.
‘I’d just as happily drop them on her,’ she said daringly and he smiled. ‘Meanwhile I shall write to a schoolmistress I know to come stay with me.’
‘And then?’
She smoothed the tablecloth with her finger.
‘I haven’t decided yet. But I do know I don’t want a marriage of convenience without affection or love.’
He managed to stop his expression from exhibiting what he thought about that last statement. Of course the girl would be dreaming of love. She came from a girls’ school, for heaven’s sake. The place must be a hotbed of silly novels and soulful sighs.
‘Those are two very different qualities. What people call romantic love is not much more than a glorified term for mundane physical passion and tends not to outlive it.’
She flushed, but met his gaze squarely. ‘I concede that passion is important, but love is an entity in itself. You are completely wrong to dismiss it so cavalierly.’
He raised a brow at her dismissive tones.
‘Of course I am, being so very green,’ he said quietly. There was a limit to the abuse he would take from this young woman.
‘No, you’re not green, just wrong. I may have had very little experience of the world, but I have also been very lucky. When I lost my mother I thought I would never find anyone else who would care for me as much, but now I have other people I love, really deeply love, like Mrs Petheridge and my best friend Anna, and it would be devastating to lose them. I may not expect to find that depth of feeling with a husband, but there must be elements of that for it to be worthwhile marrying. That is what I mean by love. Working in a girls’ school where children can’t help but mirror the joy or pain of their families is a fairly good arena to explore that particular topic. I have had excellent opportunities to observe the products of the kind of union this betrothal might lead to and I have excellent reasons for refusing. I grew up knowing what it is like to be insignificant and powerless and I will never put myself in that position again.’ She leaned back, her Nordic sea eyes narrowed and challenging. ‘But this discussion is pointless. Why don’t we discuss what you are really interested in—the Bascombe water rights. Well, I promise I won’t be in the least unreasonable. I don’t want to be at war with my neighbours. There is no reason why we cannot come to an agreement that is fair for all parties.’
Hunter shifted in his chair, battling the urge to give her as thorough a lecture in return. It would be cruel to take from her anything that had been so painfully won by pointing out that relations between men and women were substantially different than the kind of familial friendships she had thankfully developed away from Tilney. He knew the value of friendships all too well and he knew the pain of loss that came with loving someone who was brutally snatched out of reach, and those, thankfully, had nothing to do with the institution of marriage. To point this out would not only be churlish but counterproductive. He focused instead on her statement about the water rights.
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