Tangled Reins and Other Stories

by Stephanie Laurens

  Thoroughly appreciative of the situation, he could not resist remarking, ‘Rather heavier weather tonight, Miss Darent?’

  For an instant the hazel and green eyes met. Then Dorothea, in a voice every bit as languid as his, replied, ‘Why, no, my lord! I find it all most entertaining.’

  ‘Trying it on just a little too thick, my child,’ he murmured.

  Dorothea hit back, wide-eyed innocence writ large on her face. ‘My lord! Such cant terms. How improper!’

  Hazelmere laughed, then immediately returned to the attack. ‘If we’re to discuss impropriety, my dear, why is it that, try as I might, I cannot recall a conversation with you that has not been improper?’

  She caught that up easily, murmuring with complete self-assurance, ‘I should have thought the reason for that was obvious, Lord Hazelmere.’

  As their glances once more caught and held, Hazelmere saw complete enjoyment of the moment reflected in her eyes. That was the second time he had walked himself into a trap with her. He must be slipping. Nevertheless, there was hay to be made yet. Trying for a sterner tone, he said, ‘I’ll have you know, my dear Miss Darent, that I’m not in the habit of conducting improper conversations with well-behaved young ladies.’

  Not seeing where this was headed, she could do no more than show a politely surprised face. ‘Oh?’

  As the last strains of the waltz drifted across the ballroom, he whirled her to a halt. Smiling down into those glorious green eyes, he replied, ‘Only with you.’

  Eyes blazing in mock indignation, she could not keep a straight face. With a gurgle of laughter she allowed him to draw her hand through his arm and lead her back to Lady Merion’s side. ‘As I said, Lord Hazelmere, you are most improper.’

  He promptly corrected her, raising her hand to his lips, his eyes fully on hers, ‘We are both most improper, Miss Darent.’

  Later he escorted her to supper, extricating her from the figurative clutches of Lord Peterborough. As he was well practised in the art of detaching young women from the attentions of his close acquaintances, these otherwise difficult tasks were accomplished with a minimum of fuss. They shared a supper table with Cecily and Lord Fanshawe and Julia Bressington, who had the punctilious Lord Harcourt in tow. The conversation was general and decidedly hilarious. Fanshawe, with Cecily interpolating the occasional observation, described the singular scene they had just witnessed between old Lady Melchett and Lord Walsingham, when that irascible old dame had taken his lordship to task for not dancing with her niece.

  Realising that, with her limited experience of the ton, Dorothea could not be appreciating the half of the story, Hazelmere spent a pleasant five minutes filling in her knowledge, his head close to hers so as not to disturb the rest of the table.

  FOR DOROTHEA AND CECILY, the Bedlington rout was to provide a blueprint for the behaviour of the Marquis and Lord Fanshawe. Present at almost every major gathering they attended, their lordships were always among the first to write their names in the dance cards, usually for a waltz, and more often than not squired them to supper.

  While considerable attention was initially focused on them, as the days lengthened to weeks the ton became accustomed to the sight of Miss Darent in Lord Hazelmere’s arms and Cecily Darent in Lord Fanshawe’s. Their lordships put up with a considerable degree of ribbing regarding their habit of being in everything together. This they bore with equanimity, surprising their associates and convincing those gentlemen that the affairs were indeed serious. By the first week of April, three weeks into the Season and the week preceding the girls’ coming-out ball, the knowledgeable among the ton spoke of an understanding between the Darent girls and Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe. Once this point was reached, their lordships knew that a far greater degree of licence would be permitted them in their dealings with their chosen ladies.

  During those first weeks both were careful not to overstep the line at any point. Hazelmere realised that Dorothea, for all her vaunted independence, turned to his arms as to a safe harbour, knowing that there she was protected from the likes of Lords Peterborough and Walsingham. Recognising the sterling service that these gentlemen were, however unwittingly, rendering him, he did not attempt to dissuade them from trying to cut him out. He found it ironic that in avoiding what she considered their dangerous attentions she should choose to seek shelter with him, where, had she but known it, she was in far greater danger.

  He watched her carefully over the weeks of balls and parties and saw no sign of partiality for any other gentleman’s company. He knew she enjoyed being with him; her eyes told him so every time he thought to gaze into them, which was often. What he did not know was whether she was in love with him. There was an elusive quality about her that for all his wide experience he had never before encountered.

  Still, there was plenty of time. The rush of the coming-out balls would occur in the next few weeks. Afterwards the activities of the ton normally settled to a more comfortable pace, and such matters as marriage could be concluded in a more restful atmosphere.

  As the Season progressed, Dorothea found herself in a curious quandary. Lord Hazelmere was the most fascinating man she had met. He was always attentive in a subtly understated manner that she appreciated far more than the suffocating endeavours of her younger admirers. He was, quite frankly, the only man she had ever, in the remotest recesses of her mind in the darkest hours of the night, considered marrying.

  It had not needed Lady Merion’s none too subtle hints to make her realise that the Marquis had singled her out, his continuing attentions making it clear that he was seriously courting her. But he had done nothing to further his interests beyond the tentative stage. She had a sneaking suspicion that, because she had not appeared to succumb to his quite considerable charm, he was laying siege to her susceptibilities, holding her tantalisingly at a distance until she acknowledged his attraction. She was a challenge and, as such, had to be conquered. Then his arrogant pride and imperious manner would, she felt, be quite insupportable.

  There were even rumours of a bet being placed on the outcome of their contest of wills. Unwise in the ways of betting, she had no idea if this could be so, but she rather felt it rang true of the scandalous Marquis.

  However, the questions that increasingly occupied her mind were concerned with his reasons for choosing her. They were starting to disturb her sleep. He had to marry some time, that much was obvious. But why her? Was he in love with her or was she merely convenient? How did he see her? A challenge to be overcome, a suitable connection, the granddaughter of one of his mother’s closest friends, a woman of common sense, not so beautiful as to require constant vigilance? Or did he see something more? By all the tenets of her class, it should not matter one jot. But to her it mattered a great deal. She was in the enviable position of not having to wed unless she wished it. But, if their relationship continued to develop along its present course, refusing him if and when he offered might prove difficult. But when it came to ascertaining Hazelmere’s motives she faced a problem—how could she tell? He was a man of considerable experience and ready charm. If he merely wanted a conformable wife, one who would interfere little with his established pursuits, then it would be, she reasoned, entirely in character for his arrogant lordship to choose, as the easiest route, to make a country miss fall in love with him and so more readily accept his suit.

  Her inability to divine his motives was frustrating. Still, as things stood, there was little she could do. The reins were at present very much in his hands. With little scope for manoeuvre, the best she could do was enjoy his company and leave all difficult questions until they demanded an answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SATURDAY before the Darent sisters’ coming-out ball saw them riding in the Park, a daily treat organised by the enterprising Ferdie. He was now firmly established as their chief mentor and guide through the shoals of the Season, and had reached the position of being regarded by Dorothea, Cecily and even Lady Merion as part of their household.
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  The previous week he had decided that the Misses Darent would look well on horseback and had presented himself at Merion House with horses especially for them. Dorothea loved riding and even Cecily enjoyed a gentle canter, so he had not been disappointed with their reception of his idea. Within ten minutes both girls had changed into the elegant riding dresses Celestine had concocted and were on their way to the Park, escorted by the proud Ferdie and his shadow, Mr Dermont.

  Attired in a severe sage-green outfit that showed off her figure to admiration, her glossy curls topped by a soft felt cloche with a beautiful peacock plume curling around her head, Dorothea had easily controlled a frisky bay mare. Cecily, quite happy with her docile palfrey, had been a picture, turned out in a pale blue tunic with fur trimming over a darker blue skirt with a matching fur hat. Their first excursion had been a resounding success.

  This afternoon, riding easily beside Ferdie, Dorothea heard herself addressed in a familiar, gently mocking voice.

  ‘What a very accomplished young lady you are, Miss Darent.’

  Turning to meet the frankly admiring gaze of the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea felt herself blushing. But, setting eyes on the beautiful black gelding he was riding, she involuntarily exclaimed, ‘Oh! What a magnificent animal!’

  The magnificent animal took exception to her tone but was effortlessly held. ‘And with good taste, too! Which is more than can be said of this brute at present. He’s not been out for three days and is in an evil temper.’ The hazel eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Why don’t you come for a gallop, Miss Darent?’

  Sorely tempted, she glanced around for her mentor, to find that Ferdie had unaccountably vanished.

  ‘Afraid?’ came that mocking voice again.

  Dorothea threw caution to the winds. ‘Very well. But which way?’

  ‘Follow me.’ The black leapt forward down a wide ride reaching into the depths of the Park. Although the gelding was the superior animal, Hazelmere rode a great deal heavier than Dorothea. She was an accomplished rider and so was not far behind as he drew up in a wide arc in the clearing at the end of the ride. Not as strong, she pulled up in a wider arc, closer to the trees. A low branch swept her hat from her head.

  Both were laughing with exhilaration as Hazelmere rode to where her hat lay and dismounted to retrieve it. She rode back and waited as he picked it up and dusted off the plume. Curling the feather in his hand, he walked to her side, but instead of handing the hat to her he reached up to place his hands about her waist.

  ‘Come down, Miss Darent.’

  She considered refusing but had no idea how to without sounding missish or, worse, coquettish. Feeling the strength in the hands resting lightly at her waist and finding the hazel eyes amused as ever, she decided that boldness was her only answer. She slipped her feet free of her stirrups, and without effort he lifted her down to stand in front of him.

  ‘Stand still,’ he commanded and, freeing the long hat pin, expertly inserted it through her coiled hair to secure the hat in place. He ran his hand over the plume to settle it back around her face.

  Dorothea found that she was looking into eyes which no longer laughed but glinted strangely. Mesmerised, she felt her own thoughts scatter to the four winds. She was acutely aware of the man before her and little else. She wondered for one moment if he was going to kiss her. But the next instant the mocking look returned and she was lifted back on to the mare.

  ‘At least I’ll return you to Ferdie in every way as immaculate as when I inveigled you away from his side.’ The cynical tone sounded odd to her ears.

  Deflatingly bewildered, she felt a spurt of anger that he should tantalise her, only to withdraw at the last moment. She frowned and then nearly gasped as the indelicacy of her thoughts struck her. She wheeled her mount, horrified that he would see her blushing and guess the cause.

  Hazelmere remounted, and without comment they moved back along the ride, soon falling into an easy canter. He had seen her delicate brows draw together but attributed the response to anger at his actions rather than frustration at his reticence.

  They emerged from the trees and by unspoken consent turned up a slight rise and halted, looking for the others. The rest of the party was not far distant. Lord Fanshawe had joined the group and was deep in conversation with Cecily. Even from her present distance, Dorothea could see that her sister was entirely captivated. Ferdie and Mr Dermont had been joined by two cronies and all four were aimlessly wandering further and further from the dallying couple. It suddenly dawned on her that Ferdie’s judgement might not be infallible.

  Assailed by sudden guilt, she realised that she, too, had been remiss. It would not be easy to explain why she had been alone with the Marquis of Hazelmere in a deserted ride. Thankfully she did not think they had been seen. But to leave Cecily virtually alone with Fanshawe in the middle of the Park! Really! Where had Ferdie’s wits gone begging?

  A deep chuckle from beside her brought her green eyes back to Hazelmere’s face. The mocking gaze held hers steadily. ‘You really can’t blame Ferdie, you know. He would be as protective as you could wish were any others involved. But he would never see Fanshawe or myself as potentially threatening.’

  She threw him an exasperated glance and headed off towards her sister. As she approached, Fanshawe looked up in surprise and lifted an enquiring eyebrow at Hazelmere, close behind. Dorothea did not need to see his answering laughing grimace to realise that, as far as her sister and herself were concerned, if Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe were present the ‘safety in numbers’ maxim was unlikely to apply.

  Seeing her quick frown, Cecily smiled sunnily, not the least bit discomfited, but she willingly brought her mount alongside as Dorothea turned towards the gate.

  At that moment they were joined by Edward Buchanan, mounted on a showy cob. Hearing the news that the Darent sisters rode every day in the Park, he had conceived the happy notion that, while he might not shine in the ballroom, Miss Darent could not fail to be impressed by the vision of himself on a mettlesome steed. Unfortunately for him, his mettlesome steed, hired from a commercial stable, was far from elegant, being too long in the back and with a noticeable tendency to throw one leg.

  Pulling up beside the group, he bowed to Dorothea. ‘Well met, Miss Darent.’

  Dorothea inclined her head, an action she managed to infuse with an arctic iciness. ‘Mr Buchanan. I’m afraid we were on the point of returning to Cavendish Square.’ Hazelmere’s lips twitched.

  ‘No matter, dear lady,’ said Edward Buchanan, airily gesturing. ‘I’ll be only too happy to join your escort.’

  Dorothea nearly choked. Short of refusing him point-blank, there was nothing she could do. Her face a mask, she was forced to introduce him to her companions. The Marquis merely raised one black brow in acknowledgement, and Lord Fanshawe was similarly reticent. Neither showed any inclination to surrender their positions flanking the Darent sisters to Mr Buchanan. Dorothea almost sighed in relief, then tensed as she saw the gleam in Edward Buchanan’s eye. As they walked their horses towards the gate he launched into a discussion of harvesting techniques.

  This time he had badly misjudged his victims. Hazelmere, brought up from infancy to the management of the vast Henry family estates, and Fanshawe, not yet come into his patrimony but already involved in running the Eglemont acres, both knew more about that topic than he did. Between them they efficiently rolled up the subject, then turned an inquisitorial light on Mr Buchanan himself. Under a subtle pressure he had no defence against, he found himself admitting that he possessed a country holding in Dorset. No, not particularly large. How large? Well, actually, quite small. Livestock? Not a great number. No, he had not yet launched into breeding.

  Her side aching from suppressed laughter, Dorothea glanced back at Ferdie, just behind, surprising a beatific grin on the guileless face. Mr Dermont, too, appeared strangely entertained. And Cecily, who had not previously encountered Mr Buchanan, was ecstatic. Her grin left no doubt that she understoo
d their lordships’ tactics. Dorothea returned to her sphinx-like contemplation of Mr Buchanan’s difficulties, presently being added to by Fanshawe. Her eyes strayed to Hazelmere’s face and, as if sensing her gaze, he looked down at her. The expression of unbridled hilarity that glowed for a moment in his eyes very nearly overset her.

  Then Mr Buchanan, desperately seeking to change the subject, and by now conscious that his mettlesome mount could not hold a candle to any of the others in this group, said, ‘I’m most impressed with the quality of your horses, Miss Darent. I take it they’re hired?’

  ‘Why, yes. Ferdie gets them for us.’ She turned to Ferdie as she spoke and was surprised to see a peculiarly blank, not to say wooden, expression on his face.

  ‘Ah. And which stable do they come from, Mr Acheson-Smythe, if I may make so bold as to enquire?’ asked Edward Buchanan.

  ‘You use the Titchfield Street stables, don’t you, Ferdie?’ said Hazelmere.

  Ferdie started. ‘Oh! That is, yes! Titchfield Street!’ Dorothea wondered what on earth was the matter with him.

  Hazelmere, well aware that there were no stables in Titchfield Street, and further, that, as far as he knew, there was no Titchfield Street in the metropolis, smiled amiably on Mr Buchanan as they reached the gate.

  Mr Buchanan, seeing the smile, decided that he had borne enough in the interests of his future for one day. Suddenly recalling a pressing engagement, he regretfully took his leave of the party.