Scandals of Lustful Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Meghan Sloan

  “Who is this gentleman?” she breathed.

  Her father took a deep breath. “He is Louis Montague, the Duke of Warwick.” He stopped, letting his words sink in.

  Hetty felt even more confused. A duke? A duke wanted to marry her? She was disgraced. It made no sense whatsoever.

  She had never heard of the Duke of Warwick, whoever he was. At least, she didn’t think that she had ever heard of him. The name did not sound familiar to her at all. Why on earth would a grand duke, who could marry any lady that he liked, seek her out, and put in an offer of marriage, knowing that she was not free to marry?

  “I still do not understand,” she said eventually, shaking her head. “Papa, did you seek him out, in some way? How could he even have known about what has happened and that my husband deserted me?”

  “He heard the rumours,” replied her father, staring at her steadily. “You must realise that this could not be contained indefinitely, Hetty. Your mother and I have avoided most social situations, so as not to be forced to talk about it, but the wider community do know. Frank Blackmore’s family know, and we cannot control who they speak to about it.”

  Hetty’s flush deepened. Of course, she should have known that. She did know it. But she had not wanted to think about it. To think that her personal life was being bandied about the community, that the scandal was spreading. She had wanted to put her head into the sand and ignore it entirely. But it was part of the reason that she wanted to join a convent so fiercely – she knew that it could not be contained forever. She wanted to run ahead of it before it engulfed her entirely.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why does this gentleman want to marry me?”

  Her father smiled slightly. “He claims that he has met you, Hetty, and was charmed by you,” he said slowly. “Unfortunately, he was not in a position to offer for your hand, previous to your engagement. But now that your …. Circumstances … have changed, he wanted to put in the offer immediately.”

  Hetty was dumbfounded again. She racked her mind, trying to remember if she had ever met the gentleman. She would have thought she would recall quite clearly if she had been introduced to a duke. But once more, she came up with nothing.

  “It is a great honour,” said her father, looking pleased. “A great honour, indeed. And a far cry above the life of servitude which would await you at a nunnery. You would have prestige and honour above anything that you could imagine, Hetty. Just think.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” she said quickly. “Restoring my reputation? You are embarrassed by me, I know …”

  Her father sighed heavily. “Hetty, you know that would never be my primary concern. Your welfare is far more important.” He paused. “But we may be able to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. We can contain the scandal, through a new engagement, and increase your status at the same time. We could douse the scandal when it is still an ember before it flares into a fire …”

  She felt a chill fall through her. He wanted to place her in the hands of another man. A man that he knew nothing about. A man who could do the same thing to her that Frank Blackmore had done. A man who even if he did not do that, might treat her badly in other ways.

  She could not endure it. She could not endure any further pain at the hands of a man.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously, as a surge of panic overtook her. “No, I cannot do it. You cannot ask it of me, after what was done to me …”

  “Hetty, listen,” said her father sharply. “His Grace is not Frank Blackmore. He is a peer of the realm, well respected, with a vast estate just over the county border, in Hampshire. If you agree to marry him, you will be well protected, wealthy, and have status above your wildest dreams. You would sacrifice that, to go to a convent, to take on a life that I know you do not truly want?”

  “You do not know anything about what I want!” she cried, feeling as if her heart was about to break in two, once again. “I trusted Frank Blackmore. I thought that I would be married until the day that I die. And he lied to me.” Her eyes were wild. “He lied to me the whole time that we were engaged. He discarded me like refuse. He never cared about me. All that he wanted was my money. And you expect that I would smile delightedly, at the thought of being handed over to another man, who I know even less about than I did my husband?”

  “You cannot think that every man is like your rake of a husband, Hetty,” said her mother, looking stricken. “Not all are untrustworthy. Most are honourable, my daughter. And with this marriage, you could redeem your reputation! You could become the wife and mother that you always wanted to be!”

  “I no longer want those things, Mama,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “I have spent the past weeks since my desertion, dealing with the fact that I will never have them. I am resigned to the fact that I shall never be a wife and mother. And now you wish to turn it all around, in an instant, and think that I should be grateful?”

  There was silence in the room. And then, her father sighed. “His Grace is here now, Hetty. He arrived while you were on your walk. He is waiting in my study to speak to you.”

  Hetty felt her mind begin to reel again. In the space of fifteen minutes, they had told her that this gentleman wanted to marry her and that they wanted her to consider it seriously. That was shocking enough. But now, they were telling her that the gentleman himself was in their home and had been here the whole time.

  But before she could open her mouth to say that she would not see him, there was a noise at the doorway.

  They all turned around, shocked. A man was standing there. A tall man with dark hair and flashing green eyes.

  “Please excuse me,” he said slowly. “I hope that I have not startled you.”

  Chapter 5

  Louis Montague, the Duke of Warwick, hovered uncertainly in the doorway. He wasn’t sure at all if he should have intruded in this manner. Mr Arnold had asked him to stay in the study so that he and his wife could talk to their daughter about his proposal prior to him seeing her. But he had grown restless, and the temptation of seeing her again had become too much, in the end.

  He wasn’t disappointed. She was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. Her thick, chestnut coloured hair hung in a long plait over one shoulder. She was dressed simply, in a pale primrose yellow day gown, suitable for home. Her complexion was luminous, flawless, so pale that it resembled porcelain. And she turned shocked blue eyes on him, now.

  He saw those eyes widen in sudden recognition. So, she did remember him. They had only met once, many years ago, and then only briefly. But the image of her had stayed with him ever since, almost burnt upon his retinas.

  Suddenly, he was back there, in that ballroom. A grand ball at a country estate, miles from here. He had not even been sure that he was going to attend it until the last minute. But he had been eternally grateful that he had decided to travel to that house. The memory of her had been one of the few things that had got him through the last, troubled years.

  ***

  Louis had not been flush with wealth in that year. His father had only died six months prior, leaving the duchy of Warwick in vast debt. While the title was old and revered, he knew that things were dire. If he could not turn it around, very soon, then he would be forced to sell off his ancestral estate, piece by piece.

  The thought of it almost killed him.

  On that November night, that year, he had been staying at a friend’s house, in Wiltshire, feeling about as low as he had ever felt in his life. It had been Gatwick’s idea, to attend the ball, springing it on him at the last minute. He had resisted, for a long time, knowing that he wasn’t in the mood for dancing and socialising. But his friend had insisted, and eventually, he had relented.

  The house they had gone to had been crowded, heaving with the local community, all done up in their finest. He had sighed, heavily. He knew what these provincial balls were like. Soon, he would be swamped by people, all eager to fawn over him, as soon as they
realised that a duke was in their midst.

  That was when the idea suddenly occurred to him to introduce himself as someone else entirely.

  In a flash, he had informed Gatwick. It would be a lark to pretend to be a commoner. No one in this district knew who he truly was, and he would probably never see any of them again, anyway. He wasn’t in the mood to be the centre of attention. Gatwick had smiled, playing along. They had come up with a nom de plume – Mr Vincent Cassidy, from Hampshire – and so the game had begun.

  They had woven through the crowd towards the ballroom. And that was when he had seen her.

  She was standing slightly away from the crowd, staring at the dance floor, with an abstracted expression on her face. He could still recall in minute detail what she had been wearing. A lavender silk gown, with a high bodice. Her chestnut hair was curled over one shoulder, scattered with tiny white flowers. At that moment, she had turned around, staring straight at him.

  His heart had dropped to the ground.

  Her face. It was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, and full, rosy red lips. But it was her eyes, which arrested him the most. They were large, cornflower blue, with long, curling dark lashes. Those eyes seemed to reach into his very most soul.

  He hadn’t waited a second longer. His legs had taken him towards her before his mind even registered it.

  She watched him as he walked across the floor towards her. She didn’t blink, and she didn’t smile. She simply gazed at him curiously.

  He was right in front of her, bowing slightly. “I am sorry for the intrusion,” he said in a low voice. “I do realise that I should wait for a formal introduction. But the sight of you has compelled me to dispense with the usual formalities.”

  She kept gazing at him, her head tilted to one side as if she could not quite make out who or what he was.

  “My name is Mr Vincent Cassidy,” he said slowly, voicing the lie for the first time. “From Hampshire. And you are?”

  She blinked those long, curling lashes. “Miss Henrietta Arnold, sir. I reside in this district. My family home is only miles away from here.”

  “Miss Arnold,” he said, bowing again, his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  She hesitated, gazing at him steadily. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought that she might refuse him. But then, she inclined her head slightly. He held out his arm, and after another moment’s hesitation, she took it.

  The dance was a quadrille. They barely touched, as they moved through the familiar steps of the dance, but he felt like they were in some kind of bubble, where everyone else melted away, and only the two of them existed. He could not keep his eyes off her the whole time. Other things about her were coming into sharp focus, now: the tilt of her chin, her long neck, her hands with delicate, slender fingers, as they rested upon his arm.

  The dance ended, as it always did, and they clapped politely. He only took his eyes away from her for a second, as Gatwick descended upon him, dragging an acquaintance over to meet him. In the time it took to be introduced to the gentleman, she slipped away. When he turned back to speak to her, she was gone.

  His heart had plummeted with sour disappointment. And even though he searched for her throughout the rest of the evening, everywhere, he could not find her. She must have left almost immediately after their dance. It was the only explanation for why he could not see her anywhere.

  He had tried to forget her, for the moment, at least. For starters, with the duchy in such a woeful state, he was in no position to seriously court any lady for marriage. Nor did he have the time, while he investigated various investments, and other schemes, that would build back his wealth, without having to resort to selling off pieces of the estate. That was what he told himself, at least. When he had done so, he would find Miss Henrietta Arnold and pursue her relentlessly.

  He did not doubt that she was the woman who would become his duchess. It was ridiculous, ludicrous, to have this certainty, on so short an acquaintance. He had barely spoken to her, after all. And yet, his certainty and feelings for her grew, rather than dissipated, as time passed by. He had heard of love at first sight but never believed it before. Now, he knew that it was true.

  He put his head down and worked hard to get the duchy in a good position. He had a clear goal, now. Once he had built his wealth, he could woo her and put in an offer for her hand. But one investment that was promised to be a sure-fire winner, in wool manufacturing, turned sour. He was still a long way from being able to offer for her.

  And then, on the grapevine, he heard that she had become engaged.

  It was an awful day. His despair was absolute. How could he have not seen that this might happen? He had been waiting to woo her until he was financially solvent again, but he had waited too long. Now, she was promised to another. He had missed his chance.

  That night, he had attended a grand function, while in London. The champagne had flowed freely, and in his melancholy, he had overindulged, just a bit. Suddenly, he spotted a lady through the crowd. For a moment, he had thought it was her. It was only when he got closer that he realised it wasn’t. The lady resembled her, in colouring and build, but she did not have the same luminous beauty.

  But he was in his cups, and melancholy, thinking he had lost her forever. He was lonely. And the lady did look like her, quite a bit. Her name was Miss Rachel Carter. He shouldn’t have done it, but he did.

  It took only one night for his life to change forever.

  In the gardens of the estate, he took her, hard and fast, against a wall. Rachel was as eager as he was, and a passionate woman, biting and scratching. She most certainly wasn’t a maiden. In fact, he was sure she had done this quite a few times before.

  The next day, with a painful headache, he had regretted his lack of self-control. But he had been in extremis, after all. Everyone made mistakes. Best to just chalk it up to experience, and try to forget about it, entirely.

  Except he couldn’t forget about it. Because three weeks later, when he was back at Warwick Manor, in Hampshire, she had suddenly shown up on his doorstep, tearfully claiming that she was with child.

  She could have been lying, of course. But what was a gentleman to do? She claimed that she was carrying his child. He set her up in a small house, close to the estate. He was in no position to marry her yet, but he could modestly support her in secrecy, for the duration of her confinement. He knew that he was as trapped as a mouse in a cage.

  The dream was well and truly dead. Henrietta Arnold, the woman he had so inexplicably fallen in love with at first sight, was taken, promised to another. And now, the woman he had made love to because of her resemblance to Henrietta, was carrying his child. He was honour bound to marry her when he was able to do so.

  Rachel, however, was not happy with the arrangement. She felt as if she was being shunted off, hidden away. She did not believe him when he told her he would marry her one day, but that she must be patient.

  She bitterly told him that he was a cad, who had taken his pleasure, and now she was being forced to give birth to his bastard. She tearfully claimed that she had been an innocent maiden when he had taken her and that she had been powerless to resist his onslaught, even though she had wanted to.

  Lies. All lies. For as the months progressed, and Rachel’s belly swelled with the child, he heard the rumours about her. Miss Rachel Carter made a habit of sleeping with noblemen, hoping to snag one. He was only one in a long line of titled gentlemen.

  But still, he intended to marry her, when he could. He didn’t love her, but he would do the right thing by her. That was his pledge.

  His son Benjamin arrived early, howling into the world. The moment that he had held the tiny boy in his arms, he had been smitten. A fierce love had engulfed him, and he worked harder, determined that he would legitimise him. He told Rachel that he was very close to being able to marry her.

  But as the months passed, and Benjamin grew into a smiling, chubby deli
ght, she became less convinced of his desire to do the right thing by her. She harped at him, all the time when he came to visit them. When was he going to make an honest woman of her? Hadn’t she borne him a fine son? She barely acknowledged the boy, promptly handing him over to the wet nurse.