Improper Ladies: The Golden FeatherThe Rules of Love

by Amanda McCabe

  Rosalind laughed, and sipped at her own brandy. Its warm sharpness was comforting. She had been more shaken by the encounter with Lord Athley’s spy than she cared to admit. “I do believe it was you who created most of the excitement today, Georgie, drawing a sword on the man like that. You seemed like a lady pirate from a hundred years ago.”

  Georgina shrugged. “I am rather sensitive about people threatening my family and friends—even people who are so unsubtle in their spying that it is all rather a joke.”

  “Indeed. I do hope Lord Athley was not paying him a great deal. Or perhaps he could get his money back?”

  Georgina snickered. “Oh, Rosie, you made a joke! You must be feeling better.”

  “I am feeling quite well, thank you.” And, strangely enough, she was. The shock of discovering that Michael’s father had set a spy on her—on her, the dullest woman in Town!—had faded. She felt only a still, centered calm, and an odd urge to fall on the floor laughing.

  “That is good. Everyone knows that Lord Athley is truly a cranky old eccentric, but this goes beyond that. It is worthy of Bedlam.” Georgina drank the last of her brandy and put the glass down on the table beside her. “I do hope that this incident will not affect your good opinion of Lord Morley, Rosie. He is a good man, and he does seem to care about you so much.”

  Rosalind smiled at her serenely. “Of course not. Lord Morley is not liable for his father’s faults. He is entirely his own man.” Indeed, Rosalind had come to a decision concerning Michael and herself before she even discovered the truth about the spy. Seeing how truly pitiful his father was had only increased her resolve. She knew truly that she had made the right decision, and she would not be swayed from it.

  “I am surprised that Lord Morley and Lady Violet are the offspring of that lunatic at all,” Georgina mused. “They are both so very charming.”

  “Perhaps their mother had a chere ami,” Rosalind suggested. “At least I hope the poor lady did. I am sure she deserved some happiness in her life.”

  Georgina stared at her, wide-eyed. “Rosie? Do you have a fever? You do not sound at all like yourself today.”

  “Do I not?” Rosalind tilted her head, considering this. “Funny. For I feel more like myself than I ever have before.”

  Georgina shook her head, obviously perplexed. “You should go to bed for the rest of the day. I am sure a rest would do you good.”

  “I am not a bit tired.”

  “Then have some more brandy.” Georgina leaned across the table to pour more of the amber liquid into both of their glasses.

  As Rosalind took a small sip, there was a quick knock at the drawing room door. “Lord Morley is here to see Mrs. Chase, Your Grace,” the butler announced.

  “Ah, yes, right on time. I do like a man who has a sense of timing,” said Georgina. “Show him in.”

  Rosalind sat straight up in her chair, a nervous excitement that had nothing to do with the liquor dancing up her spine. She reached up to pat at her hair, and pushed stray curls back into their pins.

  “I see that is my cue to depart,” Georgina said. She stood and gathered her silk shawl about her as Michael came into the room. “Lord Morley, how lovely to see you again. You must excuse me, as I promised my daughter I would read to her before her nap. But Mrs. Chase would certainly enjoy a nice long chat with you.” With that, she breezed from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Rosalind hoped she was not listening at the keyhole. She smiled a bit at the image of her elegant friend kneeling on the floor, straining to spy on them, as she stood and held her hands out to Michael.

  He was certainly every bit as handsome as he always was, with his dark hair tousled by the wind and an emerald twinkling from the folds of his mint green cravat. Yet there was an agitation about him, a nervous energy that fairly crackled in the air around him. He took her hands tightly in his, but did not raise them to his lips. They just stood there in the middle of the room, hands clasped, like figures in a tableau vivant.

  Rosalind herself felt oddly unable to move, or talk, or even breathe. She had rehearsed so carefully in her mind what she wanted to say when this moment came. That was gone now; she remembered not a syllable. She saw only him. He alone filled all her mind.

  What would the rule be? she asked herself. She had no idea. She could scarcely even remember what a rule was.

  “Is that true? Would you enjoy a—chat with me?” he asked thickly.

  “I—well, yes, I suppose. I did hope you might call at some point today.”

  “I wanted to come at the break of daylight! Oh, Rosie, there were so many things I wanted to say to you. I could have written an epic! Now I find that I must begin with this—I apologize.”

  Rosalind opened her mouth, all set to answer him—and she tripped over her tongue. That was not the question she was about to reply to! “You apologize? Michael, whatever for? Are you ...” A chill settled an icy grasp around her heart. “Are you withdrawing your offer to me?”

  “What!” His clasp tightened convulsively. “Never, Rosie. You shall not escape from me as easily as that. I saw my father this morning, and he told me something so abominable, so evil, I could not credit it even from him.”

  “Did he tell you about the man he paid to follow me?”

  “Yes. But how did you know?” Michael’s face darkened. “Did the bast—the earl come here? Did he threaten you?”

  Rosalind laughed. “No, indeed! In fact, Georgina drew a sword on the poor hired spy and threatened to, er, ‘spit him like a wild boar.’ Your father was obviously too cheap to pay for a true master spy, because the man acknowledged the whole scheme to us at once.” She laughed again, at the memory of his terrified expression when Georgina brandished her blade.

  Michael laughed, too, though it was decidedly bitter. “And you were not angry at all?”

  “Of course I was angry. No one likes to be followed about, and for him to involve Georgina and her family was truly infuriating. Yet it helped me to see something even more clearly.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  Rosalind smiled up at him. “That I love you and want to spend my life with you. That you could become the man you are—so openhearted, and kind, and funny—after growing up with such a father is nothing less than a wonder.”

  Michael threw back his head and laughed, and this time there was no trace of bitterness. There was only a pure, crystalline joy. “Say it again!” he demanded.

  Rosalind giggled. “What part?”

  “The part where you said you love me.”

  “I love you! I adore you. And I will marry you, before you come to your senses and see what a poor choice you have made.”

  “I have made the best choice, for I am marrying the most beautiful woman in England, and the most clever and the bravest.” Michael sat down on the nearest chair and pulled her onto his lap.

  Once she would have been truly appalled. This was a most blatant violation of the rules! A lady should never behave like a tavern maid, especially not in a ducal drawing room. Now she giggled like a schoolgirl, and twined her arms about his neck. “The bravest?”

  “Most ladies after meeting my father would run the other way,” he answered, nuzzling a kiss against her throat. “Not you, my redheaded Valkyrie. My beautiful defender.”

  “Then it would seem we are well and truly betrothed,” Rosalind said, with a happy sigh. All her doubts, her old weaknesses, were fallen away. This was the right thing to do—this was her future.

  Michael took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. He turned it over—and paused. “If we are truly betrothed, my Rosie, then where is your ring? Never say my father’s spy stole it from you!”

  “Of course not.” Rosalind reached up into the tight long sleeve of her gown and pulled out the ring. She placed it in his hand. “It is silly, but I just wanted you to put it on my finger again, now that there is no doubt about either of our feelings.”

  He grinned at her. “Very well. Mrs. Rosa
lind Chase, will you marry me?”

  “Viscount Morley, I will.”

  Michael slid the ring back onto her finger, where it dazzled in the sunlight from the tall windows. He lifted her hand and kissed it lingeringly, moving his lips over her fingers. “You are truly mine now.”

  Rosalind leaned her cheek against the silk of his hair. “As you are mine?”

  He stared up at her intently. “I am always and forever yours, Rosie. When will you marry me? Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “I am sure I could procure a special license. Perhaps the Waylands would let us have the wedding here?”

  Rosalind was quite sure Georgina would be delighted to have the wedding here, and would immediately launch into arrangements. It was a good thing Georgina’s taste was so excellent, for Rosalind’s own head was spinning far too much to think of licenses and flowers and cake. “It is all so sudden ...”

  “Or we could make a dash for Gretna Green! Anything you want, Rosie. Anything—if you will only marry me. But I know you have arrangements you’ll need to make.”

  “So I do. I have already written to Miss James, one of my teachers. She is a very competent young lady, and I am sure she will be able to look after the Seminary for the next term. I only have to let Allen know, so he can be here for the wedding.”

  “Next week, then,” Michael said eagerly. “And not a day later! We will wed here, and then I am taking you to Italy.”

  Rosalind gasped. “Italy!”

  “I trust there are no objections? If there is someplace else you would rather go ...”

  “Oh, no. I have always dreamed of seeing Italy. Georgina says that Venice is the most romantic place in the world. It is so full of history, so warm and sunny.”

  “So far from my father.”

  “Indeed. Another great advantage of Italy. I have no objections at all. Perhaps Violet would care to join us? Travel can be so educational.”

  “You are an extraordinary lady, my Rosie. Not many women would want their sister-in-law along on their wedding trip.”

  “Violet is a dear. I cannot see that she would give us any trouble, unless she falls in love with some dark-eyed Italian. And Italy is very far from your father. I am sure it would vex him greatly to have us all so far out of his reach.”

  Michael gave a whoop of laughter, and kissed her again and again. And yet again, longer and sweeter. “You are a sly one. In fact, I am sure such deviousness must be against the rules,” he murmured, when he at last raised his lips from hers.

  Rosalind leaned back against his shoulder and sighed happily. “Ah, but my darling Michael, I have discovered that there is really only one rule that should never be broken.”

  He nuzzled her cheek, blowing lightly on the loose curls at her temple. “And what rule is that?”

  “The rule of true love, of course.”

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Spanish Bride

  another passionate Regency romance

  by Amanda McCabe

  Available now in the beautiful

  reissue double Regency

  SCANDALOUS BRIDES

  at penguin.com or wherever

  books are sold.

  Spain, 1811

  “I pronounce you man and wife. In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  Carmen Montero, known in her Seville home as the Condesa Carmen Pilar Maria de Santiago y Montero, trembled as the priest made the sign of the cross over her head. Her fingers were chill in her bridegroom’s grasp.

  It was done. She was married.

  Again.

  And she had always sworn to herself that she would never again enter the unwelcome bonds of matrimony! She had relished her widowhood, the freedom to live as she pleased, apart from restrictive Seville society. The freedom to work for the cause of ridding Spain of the French interloper.

  Her husband, Joaquin, Conde de Santiago, had been good for nothing in life. She shuddered still to think of his cold, cruel hands, his rages when, every month, she was not pregnant with a son and heir. At least in death his money had proved useful, working to help free Spain from the French.

  Yes, she had sworn never to marry again.

  Yet she had not foreseen that there could be anything in the world like this man.

  When she had first seen Major Lord Peter Everdean, the Earl of Clifton, her heart had skipped a beat, just as in the silly novels her friends had slipped into their convent school so long ago. Then it had leaped to life again. He was just as handsome as she had heard whispered by her friends at balls in Seville—the Ice Earl, as the ladies gigglingly called him.

  But it had not been only his golden good looks that drew her. There was something in his beautiful ice blue eyes: a loneliness, an isolation that she had understood so deeply. It had been what she had felt all her life, this sense of not belonging.

  Now perhaps she had found a place she could belong, even in the midst of war. Perhaps they both had.

  Carmen peeked up through her lashes at the man beside her, only to find him watching her intently, a faint smile on his lips.

  She smiled slowly in return, once she could catch her breath. The only word that could describe Peter was beautiful. He was as elegant and golden as an archangel, his fair hair and sun-bronzed skin gleaming in the candlelight of the small church. His broad shoulders gave a muscular contour to his red coat and his impossibly lean hips looked charming in tight-fitting white pantaloons. His rare smiles enticed women the entire length of Andalucia, and everyplace he went.

  Now his ring was on her finger. Tall, skinny, bookish Carmen. This extraordinary man was her husband, her lover, even her friend.

  It was all suddenly overwhelming: the incense in the church, the emotions in her heart. She swayed precariously, only to be caught in her husband’s strong arms.

  “Carmen!” he said. “What is it?”

  “I just need some fresh air,” she whispered.

  Nicholas Hollingsworth, Peter’s fellow officer and their only witness, hurried down the aisle ahead of them to throw open the carved doors. “She is probably exhausted, Peter,” he pointed out. “She rode all day to get here!”

  “Yes,” Carmen agreed. “I am just a bit tired. But the air is a great help.”

  Indeed it was. Her head was clearer already in the cool, dry night. She leaned her forehead against her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of his heady scent of wool, leather, and sandalwood soap.

  “I am a brute,” he murmured against her hair. “You should have been asleep these many hours, and here I have insisted on dragging you before the priest.”

  Carmen laughed. “Oh, I do not think I mind so very much.”

  “It was past time for the two of you to make it respectable,” Nicholas said. “You have been making calves’ eyes at each other for weeks, every time Carmen comes into camp. It was quite the scandal.”

  “Untrue!” Carmen cried, laughing. “You are the scandal, Nick, chasing all the señoritas in the village.”

  “I do not have to chase them! I stand still and they come to me.” Nicholas saluted them smartly, and turned to make his way back down the hill to the lights of the British encampment. “Good night, Lord and Lady Clifton!”

  Carmen and Peter watched him go, silent together in the warm starlit night, and in the sense of the profundity of the step they had just taken.

  They had known each other only about two months, from intermittent visits Carmen had made to the various encampments of Peter’s regiment. Yet Carmen had somehow known, the moment she had-seen him, that he was quite special.

  “I remember when I first saw you,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. The day I rode in from Seville to speak to Colonel Smith-Mason. You were playing cards with Nicholas outside your tent, in just your shirtsleeves. Most improper. The sun was shining in your hair, and you were laughing. You were quite the most handsome thing I had ever seen.
”

  “I also remember that day. You were riding hell-for-leather through the camp, on that demon you call your horse. You were wearing trousers and that ridiculous hat you love so much.” He laughed. “I had never seen a woman like you.”

  “Hmph, thank you very much! I will have you know that that hat is the height of fashion right now.”

  “I stand corrected, Condesa. But I could not believe that anyone so very lovely, so refined could be a spy.”

  “I am not a spy,” she corrected him. “I simply sometimes overhear useful information that could perhaps aid you in ridding my country of this French infestation.”

  “So that is not spying?”

  “No. It is ... helping.”

  Peter laughed, the rumble of it warm against her. “Then, I am very glad indeed that you have decided to help us. You, my dear, could be a formidable foe.”

  “Not as formidable as you.” Carmen fell silent, turning her new ring in the moonlight to admire the flash of the single square-cut emerald. Peter had told her that the ring had been his mother’s, who had died when he was a small child. “This war cannot go on forever.”

  “No.” Peter’s hand covered hers, tracing the ring with his thumb. “Are you sorry now, Carmen, that we married so hastily? Are you having second thoughts about sharing your life with mine after the war?”

  “No! Are you?”

  “Of course not. You are the only woman I have ever loved.”

  Carmen’s brow arched doubtfully. “Really?”

  His laugh was rueful. “I did not say the only woman I have ever known. You would see that for a sham immediately. But you are the only woman I have ever loved.”

  “Then you did not ask me to marry you out of some sense of obligation, after—well, after what occurred last week?”

  “Are you referring to the fact that we anticipated our wedding vows?” Peter clicked his tongue. “My dear, how indelicate!”

  Carmen couldn’t help but blush just a bit at the memory of that night, when, tipsy with brandy and kisses and a dance beside a river, they had fallen into his bed and done such incredibly wonderful, wicked things. Peter’s hands, his sorcerer’s mouth ...