Much later, when she was wrapped once more in her cloak and resting comfortably in his arms, he felt her draw a deep breath and sigh happily. He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Does that mean you’ve agreed to marry me?’
Dorothea smiled dreamily. Without looking up, she asked, ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Not really. If you don’t consent now I’ll take you to Hazelmere, lock you in my apartments and keep you there until I get you with child. Then you won’t have any choice at all.’
At that she looked up, laughing. ‘Would you?’
The hazel eyes glinted. ‘Without hesitation.’
She smiled, a slow, infinitely smug smile. She felt the arms around her tighten. ‘In that case, I’d better agree.’
He nodded. ‘Very wise.’ His eyes searched her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge her state of mind. Then he sighed. ‘I suspect I should take advantage of your contented state to tell you that the notice of our betrothal will appear in today’s Gazette.’
For a moment the implication did not register. Then she asked, ‘How on earth…?’
‘I asked Ferdie to put it in. It’s wiser to keep the tabbies happy wherever possible.’ His arm around her, he started to move towards the steps.
Feigning anger, Dorothea stopped dead. ‘So that’s why you’re so insistent I marry you!’
The arm around her tightened again, drawing her to him once more. ‘Don’t start that again. I’m marrying you, you disbelieving woman, because I love you!’ He kissed her soundly, then pulled her on to the steps. ‘Besides which,’ he continued conversationally, ‘if I don’t have you soon, I’m going to go out of my mind.’
Amused, he watched his love blush delightfully.
‘The house is over the next rise. Knowing my mother, the entire household has probably been waiting for hours.’
Dorothea was eager to catch her first glimpse of Hazelmere, and as the curricle topped the rise she looked down on the huge sandstone mansion, honey-coloured in the sun, sprawling across the opposite side of the valley. Descending the gentle slope and crossing the bridge over the stream from the lake, the curricle swept through the gates in the low stone wall separating the formal gardens from the rest of the park. Hazelmere held the greys to a trot as they followed the winding drive through acres and acres of perfectly tended gardens and lawns, past shrubberies and fountains, until the curricle reached the broad sweep of the gravel court before the main entrance.
Jim Hitchin came running to take the reins, grinning with relief at seeing the horses in one piece. He had never doubted his master would return all right and tight with the lady beside him, so had wasted no thoughts on them.
Hazelmere jumped down and lifted Dorothea down. At the first sound of wheels on the gravel, Lady Hazelmere, who had been waiting in the morning-room since five o’clock, had come to the door to welcome them. She was agog to learn just why her usually correct son had seen fit to drive through the night, apparently alone with Miss Darent in an open curricle. One look at his face warned her not to ask.
Correctly surmising that they had been up all night, she immediately whisked Dorothea upstairs to the large chamber she had had prepared. It was only then that Dorothea removed her cloak, and as she moved towards the window the light fell full on her. Lady Hazelmere rapidly revised her assessment of her son’s behaviour and, turning, shooed out her maid, who had come in to help. Instead she helped the sleepy girl to bed, lending her one of her own nightgowns and forbearing to ask any questions, even as to the whereabouts of her missing clothing. The tell-tale signs of her son’s lovemaking, showing clearly on the perfect skin, would fade by the time she awoke. No need to further embarrass the child, or to expose her to the censorious mind of her sharp-eyed maid. Her own maid, Hazelmere had informed her, along with his valet, would arrive from London later.
Leaving Dorothea already halfway asleep, Lady Hazelmere went downstairs in search of her son. Hazelmere, aware of his mother’s curiosity, knew that if she once caught him she would not let him go until she had all the story. He had therefore refused point-blank to pay any attention whatever to Liddiard and had repaired with all possible speed to his apartments before she could materialise and waylay him.
Baulked of all prey, her ladyship spent the rest of the morning in comfortable speculation on what her son and the lovely Dorothea had been up to.
Hazelmere woke to the rattle of curtains. Sunlight streamed into the large apartment. He closed his eyes again. He had left orders to be woken at one. He supposed it was one.
Then memory returned and the events of the early morning swam into focus. The severe lips curved in a smile of pure happiness. A discreet cough interrupted his recollections. He reluctantly opened his eyes and located Murgatroyd, standing by the bed, disapproval in every line.
‘I wondered, my lord, what you wished me to do with these?’ From finger and thumb hung suspended a garment, which, after a few moments of total bewilderment, Hazelmere recognised. ‘I found them in the pocket of your driving cloak, m’lord.’ Never, in all the years he had been valeting, had Murgatroyd had to deal with such an occurrence. He was badly discomposed.
Raising his eyes to the face of his henchman, now devoid of all expression, Hazelmere sternly repressed the urge to laugh. As soon as he could command his voice he said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I suppose you had better return them to their owner.’
Something very like shock infused the countenance of his imperturbable valet. ‘My lord?’ Incredulity hung in the air.
‘Miss Darent,’ supplied Hazelmere, sorely tried.
Murgatroyd assimilated this information, his face wooden. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and had almost reached the door before Hazelmere spoke again.
‘Incidentally, Murgatroyd, Miss Darent and I are to be married in a few weeks, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to such happenings.’
‘Indeed, my lord?’ Murgatroyd’s breast seethed with a whole range of emotions. He had never before valeted to a married gentleman, preferring the regularities of bachelor households. It was the reason he had left his last position. But he had been very comfortable in Hazelmere’s employ. And Miss Darent, soon to be her ladyship, was a very lovely woman. And the Marquis was…well, Hazelmere. The rigid features relaxed into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m sure I wish you both very happy, my lord.’
Hazelmere smiled his acknowledgement and dropped back on to his pillows as Murgatroyd left in search of Trimmer.
The next five days passed in a rush of activity. Hazelmere had decreed they were to be married at St George’s in Hanover Square in just over two weeks. There was a wealth of detail to be discussed and decisions made. A constant stream of couriers passed between London and Hazelmere, carrying orders and information. On that first afternoon Tony Fanshawe and Cecily dropped by on their way back to London. On hearing the news, Cecily was ecstatic; Betsy promptly burst into tears.
From Lady Merion came the news that the whole town was a-buzz with the tale of their trip to Hazelmere Water and, far from there being any undesirable comment, everyone was describing it as the romance of the Season. As Dorothea refolded her grandmother’s letter Hazelmere smiled wickedly across the breakfast table. ‘Just as well they’ll never know what really happened at Hazelmere Water.’
Dorothea gasped, then, outraged by the knowing look on his face, threw a roll at him. Ducking, he protested, ‘I thought only Cecily threw things!’
They decided to return to London on Monday. Hazelmere spent Sunday afternoon with Liddiard. He would only be able to spare a single day in the run-up to their wedding for dealing with any further business. Liddiard was to be in ultimate charge of all his estates until they returned from their wedding trip to Italy.
Dorothea, time hanging heavy on her hands, went to sit in the sunken rose garden. It had been five days since they had arrived; five days since that morning above Hazelmere Water. And in those five days Marc had been politely attentive bu
t curiously distant. They had exchanged nothing but the most chastely light kisses—no passionate embraces, no delicious caresses. It was ridiculous! What on earth was the matter now?
A swish of silk skirts heralded Lady Hazelmere’s approach. The two women had become firm friends. With a smile her ladyship settled herself on the stone bench beside her soon to be daughter-in-law, and, as was her habit, took the bull by the horns. ‘What’s the matter?’
Used by now to her ways, Dorothea grimaced. ‘It’s nothing, really.’
Lady Hazelmere’s shrewd eyes studied the younger woman. Then she made an educated guess. ‘Hasn’t Marc slept with you yet?’
Dorothea blushed rosily.
Her ladyship laughed musically, then reassured her. ‘Don’t get upset, child. I couldn’t help notice you were missing a rather vital article of clothing when you arrived. I presume you didn’t set out from London like that?’
In spite of herself, Dorothea grinned. ‘No.’
‘Well,’ said her ladyship, examining the tips of her slippers as they peeped from under the hem of her stylishly elegant gown, ‘Marc seems to be taking after his father in more ways than one. It’s something of a shock to think you’re marrying a rake and find instead that, at least before the wedding, you’d get the same treatment from the Archbishop’s son.’
Dorothea giggled.
‘Well, maybe not quite the same,’ amended Lady Hazelmere. ‘But all the Henry men are like that—scandalous on the one hand and puritanical on the other. It’s decidedly confusing. Mind you, I doubt there have been many virgin brides in the family, either.’
Dorothea sat up straighter. ‘Oh?’
‘A word of advice, my dear: if you don’t wish to be forced to wait the full two weeks until your wedding, you’d better do something about it. You’re leaving for London tomorrow and once there, if I know Marc, you’ll have no chance to force the issue. If, on the other hand, you break his resistance now, you should have no trouble in London.’
‘But he seems so very distant, I wondered if perhaps he—’
‘Distant? What on earth happened at Hazelmere Water?’ exclaimed her ladyship. ‘That sort of thing, let me tell you, just doesn’t happen if a man is “distant”. Marc’s keeping as far away from you as possible because he doesn’t trust himself—he knows he’s too close to the edge with you, that’s all. If you want him to make love to you before your wedding you’ll just have to give him a push.’
Dorothea, eyes round, regarded her soon to be motherin-law. The novel idea of forcing such an issue with her stubborn and domineering betrothed had an attraction all its own. ‘How?’
Tucking her arm into Dorothea’s, Lady Hazelmere smiled joyously. ‘Let’s go and look at your wardrobe, shall we?’
That evening Hazelmere arrived in the drawing-room, just ahead of Penton, as usual, to escort his betrothed and his mother into dinner. As he crossed the threshold his eyes went to Dorothea. He blinked and checked, then smoothly recovered himself.
Throughout the meal he struggled to keep his eyes away from the vision in ivory silk seated on his right. But for once his mother seemed curiously silent, leaving Dorothea and himself to carry the conversation. In the end he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. That was bad enough, but not nearly so disturbing as the rest of her. Where in hell had she got that gown? Presumably Celestine—simplicity was her hallmark. An ivory sheath with a bodice so abbreviated that it barely passed muster, with an overdress of silk gauze so fine that it was completely transparent. The entire creation was held together by a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front. He had never been so thankful to see the end of a meal as he was that night.
He watched Dorothea and his mother retire upstairs to the parlour. With a sigh of relief he went into the library. Half an hour later, settled in one of the huge wing chairs before the fire, a large brandy by his side, he was deep in the latest newssheet when he heard the door shut. Looking up, he stood as Dorothea came towards him, calm and serene as ever, a book in her hands. ‘Your mother has retired early so that she’ll be able to farewell us in the morning. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while. You don’t mind, do you?’
He smiled in response to her smile and settled her in the wing chair opposite his. She opened her book and seemed to be quite content to sit quietly reading. He returned to his newssheet.
For a while only the ticking of the huge grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional crackle from the fire disturbed the peace. Glancing up, he saw she had laid aside her book and was calmly watching the leaping flames. The light from the fire flickered in a rosy glow over her still figure, striking coppery glints from her dark hair. He forced his attention back to the newssheet.
After reading the same paragraph four times, and still having no idea what it said, he gave up. He laid the paper aside. In one smooth movement he rose and, crossing to her, took her hands; raising her, he drew her into his arms. He looked down into her emerald eyes, then bent his head until his lips found hers. The room was still; only the flames rose and fell, illuminating the figures locked together before the hearth. When the kiss finally ended they were both breathing raggedly. The hazel and green eyes locked for a time in silent communion, then Hazelmere bent to lightly brush her lips with his. ‘I love you.’
Hardly daring to speak in case the magic surrounding them shattered into a million shards, Dorothea barely breathed the words, ‘And I love you.’
The severely sculpted lips lifted in a decidedly wicked smile. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
Many hours later Dorothea, blissfully sated, snuggled herself against the long length of her husband-to-be. They had come up to his room; her room next door was not yet refurbished. Her clothes, and his, were scattered in a trail from the door to the hearth. They had first made love, exquisitely, on the huge daybed before the fire. Later they had moved to the even larger four-poster, where they now lay. With a soft, contented sigh she settled herself to sleep, one arm across his chest, his arm around her, holding her close.
Suddenly, in the darkness, Hazelmere chuckled. Then he shook with silent laughter. ‘Oh, God! What on earth will Murgatroyd say this time?’
Dorothea murmured sleepily and dropped a kiss on his collarbone. She had no idea who Murgatroyd was and was not particularly interested. She was too busy savouring the novel sensation of having won an argument with her arrogant Marquis. Even if she did not win another for a considerable time, she doubted it would bother her. She was bound to be far too contented to care.
* * * * *
Turn the page for more Regency romance,
charming rakes and dashing ladies
from Stephanie Laurens!
Look for
FAIR JUNO
– coming soon from MIRA Books!
Martin Cambden Willesden, fifth Earl of Merton, strode purposefully along the first-floor corridor of the Hermitage, his principal country residence. The scowl marring his striking features would have warned any who knew him that he was in a foul mood. A common saying among the men of the 7th Hussars had been that if any emotion showed on Major Willesden’s face the portents were bad. And, thought ex-Major Willesden savagely, I’ve every right to feel furious.
Recalled from pleasant exile in the Bahamas, forced to leave behind the most satisfying mistress he had ever mounted, he had landed in gloomy London to face an uphill battle to extricate the family fortunes from the appalling state they had, apparently unaided, tumbled into. Matthews, the elder, of Matthews and Sons, his and his family’s man of business, had warned him that the Hermitage was in need of attention and would not, in its present state, meet with his approval. He had thought that was all part of the old man’s attempt to persuade him to return to England without delay. He should have recalled Matthews’ habit of understatement. Martin’s lips thinned. The grim look in his grey eyes deepened. The Hermitage was in even worse case than the investments he had spent the last three weeks reorganising.
As he paced the leng
th of the corridor, the crisp clack of boot-heels penetrated his reverie. In a state bordering on shock, Martin stopped and stared down. There were no runners! Just bare wooden boards and, to his critical eye, they were not even well-polished.
Slowly, his grey gaze lifted to take in the sombre tones of decaying wallpaper framed by faded and musty hangings. A pervasive chill inhabited the gloom.
His frown now black, the Earl of Merton swore—and added yet another item to the catalogue of matters requiring immediate attention. If he was ever to visit the Hermitage again, let alone reside for more than a day, the place would have to be done up. Downstairs was bad enough—but this! Description failed him.
Setting aside his aggravation, Martin resumed his determined progress towards the Dowager Countess’s rooms. Since his arrival eight hours ago, he had postponed the inevitable meeting with his mother on the grounds of dealing with the problems crippling his major estate. The excuse had not been exaggeration. But the critical decisions had been made; the reins were now firmly in his grasp.
Despite such success, his hopes for the coming interview were less than certain. Curiosity brushed shoulders with a lingering wariness he had not thought he still possessed.
His mother, Lady Catherine Willesden, the Dowager Countess of Merton, had terrorised her household for as long as Martin could recall. The only ones apparently immune from her domination had been his father and himself. His father she had excused. He had not been so favoured.
He halted outside the plain wooden door that gave access to the Dowager’s apartments. Despite all that lay between them, she was his mother. A mother he had not seen for thirteen years and whom he remembered as a cold, calculating woman with no room in her heart for him. How much of the blame for the decay of his ancestral acres could be laid at her door? The question puzzled him, for he knew her pride. In fact, he had a good few questions, including how she would deal with him now; the answers lay beyond the door facing him.
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