The Captain's Disgraced Lady

by Catherine Tinley

  The room was silent as he perused their contents. Juliana, her mind whirling, could barely take it in.

  ‘That is a copy of the marriage entry in the municipal register, as well as two certificates of authentication,’ stated Mama. ‘I travelled to Brussels before the battle in order to get these documents.’ Her voice was soft, but determined. ‘Not for myself, you understand. For my daughter.’ She turned to Juliana. ‘I could not tell you before, until I had the proof. My love, you are not illegitimate. The papers prove it. I wish we had been able to marry in a church, but it was not to be. Until Mr Mason explained the validity of a legal marriage—even if it did not take place in a church—I had no idea there was no stain on either of our reputations. However, until I had this proof, I could not challenge those who doubted me—including my own father.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I shall look forward to telling him about this!’

  Juliana shook her head slowly. So much was now clear. Mama’s behaviour, her sudden transformation from timid mouse to fearless avenger, her insistence that they travel back to Brussels on the eve of war...

  ‘What does this mean, eh?’ Mr Wakely looked grey. Juliana almost felt sorry for him.

  Mr Mason was unperturbed. ‘As I made clear from the beginning of this process, there was no guarantee Mrs Wakely would turn out to be the true heir. Indeed, I specifically cautioned you both against living on the expectation. You have been provided with a home and a generous allowance for almost a year.’ He glanced down at the documents relating to the Milfords’ marriage. ‘If these documents are authentic—which, on first reading, they seem to be—then Mrs Fanton, John Milford’s daughter, will be confirmed as the heir.’

  Mrs Wakely made a high-pitched keening noise. Mr Mason cleared his throat, then continued, a little more loudly. ‘Mrs Fanton might choose to be generous and gift a small sum on Mrs Wakely—say, a thousand pounds?’

  Epilogue

  With a sigh, Juliana relaxed against Harry. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her back, skin on warm skin, and now his arms were closing around her, cuddling her securely. She adjusted the soft blanket that covered them both, then rested her arms over his. He nuzzled her hair, then planted a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

  Juliana smiled. She had never known such happiness was possible.

  They had just left their rumpled bed and moved this chaise-longue to the window bay of their bedroom at Glenbrook Hall, as the low window would allow them an unfettered view of the stars on this clear autumn night. They had blown out the candles and the only light now was the starlight gleaming through the window.

  They had retired hours ago, as was their habit. As master and mistress, they were free to keep their own hours, and as newlyweds still, no one could be surprised at it. This was their pattern when they could—retire early, then spend hours awake, enjoying each other’s company.

  They had both settled into their new life at Glenbrook Hall as if it had been meant for them—which Harry insisted it was. Mrs Campbell and the estate steward both adored their new mistress and master.

  ‘And why should they not,’ asked Juliana, ‘when we have replaced the Wakelys?’

  Harry was no longer troubled by visions of Badajoz, and his demeanour since Waterloo was markedly different. Gone was the shallow flirt—he barely noticed young ladies now and was unfailingly and indiscriminately polite to females of all ages and dispositions. His mischievous character remained intact, however, and he mercilessly teased his bride as they both went about the business of adapting to their new and unexpected roles—Gentleman Farmer and Lady of Glenbrook.

  Juliana had taken up fencing again and was becoming ever more proficient under Harry’s tutelage. She was completely unafraid and resolved to become an expert fencer. He drove her as if she was under his command as Captain, and she responded with determination and dedication.

  Harry had not taken up embroidery.

  Tonight, her husband was in a tender mood. As Juliana gazed at the skies, he murmured in her ear all the love that was in him. Moved, she turned to face him and they kissed, long and slow.

  ‘Harry!’ She sighed. ‘It seems incredible still that we are here together, man and wife, and that you can say such things to me!’

  He was tracing with his finger a small cluster of freckles on her arm. Briefly, he leaned forward and kissed them, each freckle in turn. ‘A constellation,’ he murmured, ‘just as beautiful as those above us.’

  ‘You really do love me, don’t you?’ she said stupidly. It was evident in every word and gesture, and her heart swelled with it.

  For answer, he gestured at the glimmering stars outside—thousands of individual points of light creating a tapestry of wonder. ‘You see these stars. How long have they shone in the heavens?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And how long will they shine into the future?’

  ‘I don’t know. A long, long time.’

  He looked intently into her eyes, his glittering darkly in the starlight. ‘I will still love you when they are gone.’

  And as she leaned forward to kiss him, Juliana knew. She had found her home.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story you won’t want

  to miss the first instalment in

  Catherine Tinley’s

  THE CHADCOMBE MARRIAGES series

  WALTZING WITH THE EARL

  and, out soon, Olivia’s story

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CARRYING THE GENTLEMAN’S SECRET by Helen Dickson.

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  Carrying the Gentleman’s Secret

  by Helen Dickson

  Chapter One

  1852

  Beset with nerves, self-doubt and just a little terror at the speed with which events had taken her over, Lydia stood beside Henry Sturgis, the man who in a few minutes from now would become her husband. The realisation of the fact struck her anew and, as it did, she asked herself again if she was doing the right thing.

  When Henry had told her he wanted to marry her, at first she had not been sure of herself, not really. The little time they had spent together had been exciting, but she had resolved to make no resolutions. With the death of her mother one year ago and after a lifetime of fending for themselves, to unite in such intimacy with another human being was a hard step for her to take.

  Why? she asked herself. Why was it so difficult? Why was she so sensitive to committing herself to the challenging
emotions of love, honesty and trust? Other people didn’t have a problem with it. Why should she?

  Fear! Fear of what? Of moving forward, she supposed, of letting another person into her life and pledging herself to them. Pledging yourself meant holding another’s heart in your hand, of offering a secure place where anything was possible and everything between the two involved was understood. Pledging yourself meant facing what life had to offer together in the name of love. The problem was, she didn’t know if she wanted to. It was a risk, like leaping into a void, with no idea what she would find there.

  Would it work? That was the question. Unable to make up her mind whether or not to marry Henry, she had decided she would carry on with her work as normal and see how things turned out. But Henry was in a hurry and after further persuasion from him and the resurrection of an unwelcome ghost from her past—a ghost in the shape of her father, who had cruelly abandoned her as a child and now wanted to reinsert himself into her life, which she wanted to avoid at all cost—she had relented, trying to convince herself that Henry was the living promise of all she desired and her escape from fear. But she wouldn’t think of that now. Not here. Not now, not ever.

  The minute she had said she would marry him, Henry had set the wheels in motion with what she silently considered indecent haste. She’d had no say in the necessary arrangements. Two days hence they were to travel to Liverpool to take passage for America. Henry lived in America and his father was very ill. Should anything happen to him, he didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Atlantic. It was for this reason they had come to this Scottish village called Gretna Green, the first changing post over the border, which was also a fashionable and romantic place for couples to marry immediately and without parental consent.

  Now they faced the self-appointed priest who, for a substantial fee, had agreed to oversee the ceremony. The house where they had chosen to be married might not be as sanctified as a church, which Lydia would have preferred, but in the hushed quiet of the room and with the requisite two witnesses hovering behind them, it had all the solemnity she could wish for.

  Lydia wore a costume of vibrant raspberry, simply styled and unadorned, with a well-fitted bodice. Her bonnet with its wide semi-circular brim, decorated with a small bunch of pink and white rosebuds, matched the dress. A profusion of black curls escaped the confines of the bonnet and caressed her face.

  The priest leaned forward. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

  Lydia nodded dumbly.

  ‘Yes,’ Henry was quick to reply, unable to hide his impatience to get the proceedings over with as quickly as possible. ‘Get on with it.’

  Lydia looked at the priest when he asked them if they were of marriageable age. Yes, they replied. There was a disturbance at the back of the room as the door was flung open and someone entered.

  ‘Halt the proceedings.’

  Lydia thought she must be mistaken. She thought she had heard someone say the ceremony must be halted. Startled, she turned at the same moment as Henry. It was simply unreal—the people, the priest, the sunshine streaming through the window. Two men had entered the room. The taller one who had spoken strode towards them. She looked him over openly. His tall, broad-shouldered physique radiated stamina and command, seeming to dwarf the other inhabitants of the room.

  ‘Can this not wait?’ the priest said crossly. ‘You are interrupting the ceremony.’

  ‘With justification.’

  A sudden silence fell over the room. Lydia felt the cold at the back of her neck. It insinuated itself and slithered like tentacles down her spine. She stared at the man who had made the announcement.

  ‘What justification can there possibly be that allows you to burst in here and interrupt a wedding ceremony?’ Lydia retorted sharply with a fine cultured accent like cut glass, her gaze passing over the intruder with cold disdain.

  The man’s gaze flicked from Henry to her, regarding her with an arrogance that was clearly part of his masculine nature. His eyes narrowed dangerously and his lips curled fractionally, but what passed for a smile was merely a polite obligation and a cool, dismissive one at that.

  ‘I apologise for any inconvenience caused, but I have justification enough—as you will, I am sure, soon agree. This man is not who he says he is. Had I not come in time he would have committed a criminal act.’

  Astonished, Lydia stared at him. ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  From the tone of his voice and the set of his head and shoulders, Lydia knew that he was going to tell her the truth of the matter that was the reason for his intervention and her instinct told her that it was going to be worse than her worst imaginings. She stood rigid beside Henry, scarcely daring to breathe, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘It is my duty to inform you that this man you were about to marry already has a wife.’

  Uncomprehending, Lydia felt her eyes widen and she stood immobile as a marble statuette as time drifted by in this sunlit room. In the time it had taken him to utter the words, all the devastation and bitterness of her expression could not be concealed.

  There was a ringing silence. Nobody in the room said a word. Henry’s face had faded to the colour of dough. He was the first to recover. His mouth formed a grim line and his expression was guarded and wary—not unlike a small boy’s who has committed a wrongdoing and suddenly realises he has been caught out.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded, his gaze fixed on the intruder. ‘And what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Surely I don’t have to spell it out?’ the tall stranger said, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘Of all the stupid, irrational— Have you lost your mind?’

  In the face of such intimidation, Henry was visibly shaken, but it only lasted a moment. ‘Damn you,’ he uttered, his mouth forming the words which were barely audible.

  Lydia tore her eyes from the stranger and looked at the man she had been about to wed, telling herself that whatever was happening had to be a mistake, that it was some kind of nightmare. It could be nothing else, but the stranger wore an expression of such steely control that she knew he was telling the truth even though she couldn’t comprehend it just then.

  ‘Do you know this man, Henry? And how does he know you? Answer me.’

  Henry was emanating enough antipathy to suggest he not only knew this man, but that he was likely to commit violence. Anger had replaced his initial shock. Ignoring the woman he had been about to marry, he took a step towards the man, his back rigid and his fist clenched by his sides.

  ‘You followed me. Damn you, Golding!’ he snarled. ‘Damn you and your interference to hell.’

  ‘And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I didn’t think it was asking too much when I insisted you remain faithful to Miranda—after all I have done for you. If it were not for me, your noble pile would have fallen into ruin and you would be living on the family farm, eking out a meagre living off the land. Instead of that you are living the life of the lord you were born to be and still chasing women.’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  The man didn’t so much as flinch. ‘It wasn’t difficult. You left my sister. She became bored and followed you to London. When she failed to locate you she came to me. I decided to pay a visit to your club where your friends were most accommodating with the truth. What lame excuse did you intend giving your wife for your absence?’ He spoke with an edge of aggression in his voice, which suggested that he was a man used to being answered at once.

  ‘I would have thought of something.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. You’ve become rather good at lying to her. Damn you, Henry, you were about to become a bigamist.’

  ‘Until you stepped in. You could not have orchestrated your arrival with greater skill or better timing.’

  ‘I will not ask for an explanation—the situation speaks for itself. But how the hell do you think
it would stand up in a court of law? Now I am here and though I am tempted to kill you, the love I bear my sister forbids it. Any wife faced with one sexual scandal after another would have her faith eroded in the man she married. She has just grounds to divorce you for this, but I doubt she will. She has a will of iron and your unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour since your marriage has only hardened her further. She is Lady Seymour of Maple Manor, a member of the peerage and no matter what you do to her she means to keep her place in society. Damn it, man, you have hurt her deeply. I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

  He switched his attention to Lydia, bearing down on her like a tidal wave, his thick, dark brown hair, with just a hint of silver at the temples, gleaming in the light of the sun slanting through the windows. Tall, lean of waist with strong muscled shoulders, attired in a dark frock coat and cravat and light trousers, his gaze with a touch of insolence passed over her. His mouth tightened and his eyes, cold and unfriendly, flashed dangerously as he glared at her.

  He studied her as Lydia studied him. She felt herself chafing under it.

  ‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing,’ he exclaimed irately, ‘careering round London with a notorious rake before embarking on this mad escapade?’

  Lydia felt a swelling of righteous anger, a powerful surge of emotion to which she had no alternative but to give full rein. After all, she was as much a victim of Henry’s cunning as his sister. Her eyes flashed as a blaze of fury possessed her and added a steely edge to her voice. ‘None of this is my fault,’ she flared, suddenly furious at having some of the blame shoved on to her. ‘I had no idea Henry had a wife—or that he was a notorious rake since I do not inhabit his world.Polite society is outside my normal sphere, sir. Nor did I know his real surname is Seymour. I only know him as Henry Sturgis.’

  The man stood with his hands on his hips, his light blue eyes like ice set in a deeply tanned lean face with a strong determined jaw and his voice like steel. ‘I wasn’t accusing you, Miss...?’