Marriage Alliance: A charming Regency Romance

by Mira Stables

  To add to his sins, having bathed and changed and eaten a carefully chosen dinner without a word of comment, he actually fell asleep in front of the book-room fire. Fleur sat and studied him, relaxed in the abandonment of sleep, lovingly if crossly. He looked so much better. One could almost record his improvement by Mrs Melby’s moods, she mused, smiling. Yesterday the housekeeper had been quite out of temper, rather than anxious, when he had rejected the turbot at dinner. She forgot her own annoyance and sat brooding happily over the long supple length of him, sprawled in the chair, until his voice said gently, “Come here, Mrs Blayden.”

  She jumped, and stared at him indignantly, remembering all the cause she had for complaint. That was his teasing voice and meant that he was in irrepressible spirits. And he was looking at her with that gleam of grey eyes beneath the sleepy lids that she could never long resist. But tonight she was determined that she would not yield so easily. She tilted her chin at him and remained apparently deaf.

  He grinned. This was a game that they had played before. It never lasted long. One of other of them would start to laugh and Fleur would tumble into his arms to be kissed into submission.

  “Chattel!” he said provocatively. And since there was no quiver of response in the cool, prim little face, added wickedly, “Dancing girl! Come! You shall dance for your lord and master!”

  There could be no ignoring that challenge. She sprang to her feet, eyes sparkling with wrath. “Oh! If only I could! I would show you, I would teach you!”

  “What?” A hint of laughter now in the deep lazy voice.

  “That my dancing is an art, and no subject for your mocking!”

  “Dance for me, then. Behold me most willing to learn of you!”

  “You know very well that I can’t, not in this dress.”

  “You could take it off,” suggested her tormentor helpfully. “Let — er — art be uninhibited.”

  She stamped a foot at him furiously. “Yes! I suppose your mistresses that you kept here before me — still keep for all I know — would do just that! But I am your wife. A Blayden. Remember? I must behave correctly and respectably, even when my husband neglects me all day and then falls asleep from sheer boredom in my company and insults me and — and —” The fierce tirade ended, predictably, in tears.

  He was on his feet in an instant, gathering her close, pouring out his penitence. “My sweet! My little love! Not tears. Please, no! I am a rough, clumsy brute. Forgive me! Indeed I did not mean to mock or to hurt you. Come now. Smile at me! Show me that, in your royal clemency, you will forgive!”

  The distress had been real, he thought, smoothing the tear-clotted lashes with gentle lips. Something of more moment than his teasing had provoked it. He had never known her weep before, even in the pain and terror of abduction. Some nonsense about mistresses she had flung at him — but surely she would not reproach him for follies committed when she was still in the schoolroom? Her sense of fairness was one of the qualities that so endeared her to him. Nevertheless there was some trouble here that must be probed.

  The storm of sobbing was done. She lay lax and biddable against him. “And what is all this nonsense about my mistresses?” he said gently. “A shocking imputation to fling at a devoted husband! I’d have you know, ma’am, that I, too, am a Blayden and must comport myself with due propriety. I’ve never so much as thought of keeping a mistress here. Why! It is my home.”

  There was something about the simplicity of that last phrase that carried far more conviction than any vehement protest. Fleur opened tear-swollen eyes — she was not one of those favoured creatures who can cry prettily — and looked at him with an expression of mingled doubt and hope. “But everyone said —” she faltered.

  “What everyone says is generally exaggerated if not wholly false,” said her husband bracingly, “but tell me, just the same.”

  Thus encouraged the whole story came tumbling out, from what Melly had told her before they had even met to Papa-Paul’s condemnation and even the sentimental recollections of Rose’s friend. On her childish lips it made a shocking indictment. He took his time over answering it since he felt that he owed her complete honesty yet wished to present his case in its most favourable aspect.

  “I was twenty when I was first cast upon the Town,” he began quietly. “There were affairs — of a fleeting, casual nature, perfectly understood by both parties, just as I also tried my luck at gaming and on the race course. I can assure you that very soon it became a dead bore. And it was never suffered to intrude on my real life, here, after I had inherited Dakers from my uncle. The story of the ‘ravishing mistress’ that I keep in seclusion here” — he quoted Papa-Paul’s phrase with a wry grimace — “is pure fabrication.”

  He hesitated briefly. This was delicate ground. Though the need for absolute secrecy was happily over, long training had made him reluctant to disclose more than was absolutely necessary. “Because of my knowledge of France and my fluency of the language,” he said carefully, “it was decided that I could make myself useful by crossing the channel from time to time and bringing back first hand news of what was happening over there. My reputation for — er — gallantry — was turned to good account. The stories about my glamorous innamorata were put about deliberately to cover my absences.”

  Fleur had noticed his wariness; had, in fact, already had some inkling of the truth, since it was the only explanation that fitted the facts. So. Now she knew exactly what he had been doing in Fleurus. Guessed, too, that it was knowledge that he would gladly keep from her. Her throat felt thick and aching from recent tears and present thankfulness, but somehow she found a placid, almost disinterested voice, somehow preserved an innocent front as she said, “So that it how it was. I do wish you had told me sooner.”

  She knew that he was not wholly deceived. Such childish ignorance, such crass stupidity, must always be suspect. Luckily distraction was ready to her hand. “Then where have you been all day, if you have not been with a mistress?” she demanded severely.

  He hugged her so hard that it hurt, and said solemnly, “But I have been with a mistress. One that has held me in thrall these three years past. Today she was delivered of a fine son. I had meant to introduce you, but she was shy, you know, understandably in the circumstances —”

  At this point the indignant Fleur, perfectly well aware by the tight tuck in his cheek and the heavings of suppressed mirth that he was trying to fool her in most outrageous fashion, sat up erect on his lap and said sweetly, “Pray describe her to me, this nonpareil among females. Golden hair, I suppose, and big blue eyes?”

  “They are very large,” he agreed judicially. “But not blue. Brown. A tender, melting brown.”

  “Like toffee,” suggested his wife helpfully.

  He choked slightly but went on, “And I would describe her as chestnut rather than golden. A rich, glowing chestnut. While as for her legs! So slender, so — But I suppose it would be indelicate in me to describe them in detail.”

  “Since I strongly suspect that she has four of them, you may do so with my very good will,” retorted his wife. “Now do stop funning, Marc, and tell me properly. It’s a new foal, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me? And why haven’t I so much as set eyes on the mother?”

  He settled her more comfortably against him, stretching out long legs luxuriously towards the glowing hearth and sighing his content as he began to explain.

  The uncle who had bequeathed him Dakers had been interested in breeding racehorses and at the time of his death had owned several brood mares and some promising youngsters. Marc, lacking the resources to finance so expensive and chancy a venture, had sold them and used their price to rehabilitate the farmland and buildings and improve the quality of his stock. It was dull work, perhaps, in comparison with breeding horses, but he liked it, and it paid steady dividends if not handsome ones. Three years ago he had permitted himself the luxury of buying a yearling filly, Sweet Sorrel, bred out of one of the Dakers’ mares.

  “
She’s rising four now,” he told Fleur, “and it’s her first foal. She’s a nervous creature so we kept her away from the bustle and noise of the home stable. Job has her down at his place. It wouldn’t do for her to be upset by strangers — especially jealous females,” he threw in teasingly. “In a few days, when she has really accepted the foal, you may see my charmer for yourself. The foal’s a beauty. Dark Plantagenet is his sire. Good blood lines there. This youngster should have both staying power and a pretty turn of speed. You may amuse yourself by choosing a name for him, because he is yours, sweetheart, my Christmas gift to you. I had meant to keep my secret till Christmas Day, but trust a wife to give one no peace until she knows the whole.”

  She caught one of his hands and carried it to her cheek, rubbing herself lovingly against it. “You are so good to me, Marc. So much too good. And I can give you nothing in return. Not even Grandpapa’s money,” she added regretfully, “which you had every right to expect.”

  The hand that she was fondling twisted to cup her chin and turn her face to his. His expression was grave. “Do you really not understand what you have given me, beloved?” he said quietly.

  It was the first time that he had ever called her so. She savoured it so joyously that she missed a good deal of his following remarks, which was a pity since they were both eloquent and sincere, an unusual combination. However, the bit that she did hear was eminently satisfactory.

  “— a home,” said the reflective voice. “A place where a man can be at ease and always confident of support and sympathy. And laughter, too, for that is more important than I had dreamed, while even a well-deserved scolding is comforting in its way. At least it assures me that my wife prefers my conversation to my snores! As for the money — we shall do very well as we are. And perhaps Sweet Sorrel’s son will make another fortune for you. Master Robert Pennington Blayden may have your grandfather’s and we will make Blayden a happier home for him than ever it was for Deb and me. And talking of happy homes, since you have wrested half of my secret from me I may as well confess the whole. We are to expect guests for Christmas. Is your housekeeping equal to the imposition? No — not Deb. My father thinks it too risky for her, since the northern roads are already partly snowbound, though he says she may come to us in the better weather. I saw him when I was in Town last week. However, your family are less chicken hearted. They are prepared to accept the risk of being marooned indefinitely in darkest Kent in order to assure themselves that all is well with their darling.”

  He was scarcely permitted to finish. She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him vigorously. “Truly? All of them? That will make Christmas quite perfect. Not that it wouldn’t be very much nicer if we could be just by ourselves,” she added, a sample of feminine logic which made her husband smile even while he perfectly understood her sentiments.

  “I thought you would be pleased,” he told her. “I was a trifle anxious about M. Lavelle’s response to my invitation after the trick I served him, but he seems to have taken it in good part. I have arranged to bring them down on Thursday and they will be with us a sennight at least. And next, I suppose, you will wish to go jauntering off to London.”

  It was half statement, half question. Fleur accepted it gravely, along with the implication that the period of her probation was over.

  “You did promise that you would hire a house in Town and that I should go to all the fashionable parties,” she reminded him demurely.

  “I did,” he agreed. He did not find the prospect particularly enticing, but if that was what she wanted, she should have it.

  “But there is always the danger that someone might recognise the notorious Madame Flora,” she went on, “and since it is only six months since Grandpapa died I could not go to parties anyway. So perhaps we had better just stay quietly at Dakers.”

  Marc having expressed wholehearted approval of this very sensible suggestion, Fleur said, “We might go up to Town for a week or two in the spring. I know of a very good hotel that Mr Willets told me of, and I shall have lots of shopping to do by then.”

  “Shopping?” groaned her husband. “Extravagant little wretch! Why! You’ve not worn the half of the gowns I bought you but two months since!”

  “Nevertheless I shall need new ones in the spring,” she told him firmly. “And permit me to inform you, sir, that your knowledge of feminine needs in the way of apparel, and more particularly of underwear and nightrail, is entirely reprehensible.”

  He chuckled. “But you like wearing them, don’t you, love! And will be glad of my advice when it comes to choosing more?”

  She laughed, but shook her head. “To speak truth I was not thinking of clothes when I spoke of shopping,” she said slowly.

  “What, then?” he asked indulgently.

  She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “I want you to buy me a horse.”

  There was lively surprise in his face. “A horse, child? With half a dozen in the stables already, and generally too fresh to handle because they’re not worked hard enough? And a brand new foal awaiting your inspection. Not that you’ll be able to ride him of course. What kind of a horse?”

  She turned her face into his breast so that her voice was muffled. He heard her say, shyly, “Perhaps it is too soon to be making plans — but Mrs Melby is sure it is so, and indeed I think so myself. I want you to buy me a new rocking horse for the nursery at Blayden.”

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