Tangled Reins and Other Stories

by Stephanie Laurens

  ‘I don’t think that need concern you—’

  ‘You mistake,’ he broke in. ‘It concerns me because Helen Walford has never been, is not and never will be my mistress. So who, my credulous Miss Darent, told you she was?’

  Looking into the stormy hazel eyes, Dorothea knew she was hearing the truth. ‘The Comte de Vanée,’ she finally replied.

  ‘A man of little importance,’ he said dismissively. ‘It may interest you to know that I have known Helen Walford since she was three. However,’ he continued, moving forward so that he was standing directly beside her, forcing her to turn from the chair that up until then had been between them, ‘that aside, you have still not explained why, regardless of what you might have thought, you presumed to censure me in such a public manner.’

  Although his voice was low and even, Dorothea could not miss the suppressed anger. She knew she had been in the wrong, but his next words banished any notion of apologising.

  ‘I’ve told you provincial manners will not do in London,’ he continued. But there he stopped, for she rounded on him with such naked rage in her eyes that he was taken aback.

  ‘How dare you speak to me of manners? Explain yours, if you can! I know you’ve been dancing attendance on me purely to see if you could make me fall in love with you, just because I didn’t succumb to your legendary charm. Oh, Cousin Marjorie explained it all, so—’

  That was as far as she got. Hazelmere paled as her words struck him. But as he caught the gist of her argument the already frayed rein he had kept on his passions snapped. In one swift, practised movement he swept her into his arms and his lips came down on hers in a kiss almost brutal in its intensity. Panicked, she struggled, but, as before, his fingers entwined in her hair, holding her head still, while the arm around her tightened, locking her in his embrace. And then, in the space of time between one heartbeat and the next, the tenor of the kiss changed to one of unbelievable sweetness. Her interest caught, her lips parted in response to his subtle command and she found herself floating in a sea of sensation. Dazed, she felt desire flooding through her, growing stronger with every second, rapidly building to a force she, in her inexperience, had no hope of restraining. She realised that she was responding in the most shameless way to his ardent kisses. She no longer cared. The only thought in her disjointed mind was the hope that he wouldn’t stop.

  His lips left hers to brush kisses on her upturned face, on her forehead, her eyelids, her chin and her delectable white throat. Recapturing her reddened lips, he gently explored the sweet softness within. She moaned, the sound an audible caress, her arms slipping around his neck, her fingers twisting in his dark hair as she held him to her. Inwardly smiling, he allowed the kiss to deepen, fanning the racing flames of her desire until they coalesced into a conflagration that threatened to consume them both. Then, reaching to the depths of a passionate nature that in every way matched his own, he demanded, and received, a surrender so complete and unequivocal that he knew beyond doubt she would be his, body and soul, whenever he so desired. Entirely satisfied, he drew her closer, moulding her body to his, allowing her to feel the extent of his desire for her.

  Dorothea was nearly mindless. Some tiny part of her consciousness was detached enough to be shocked and horrified, dismayed as his experienced hands roamed over her, his practised caresses sending ripples of desire from the top of her head to her toes. The rest of her was in no mood to listen. She supposed he would have to stop some time—but oh, she would enjoy this while it lasted! Still, surely not even Hazelmere would seduce her in her grandmother’s drawing-room? Would he?

  The tremor that ran through her jolted him to his senses. He would have to leave her, and soon, if he was to leave her at all. And, as they were in Merion House and not one of his establishments, leave her he must. If he looked into her eyes he would not be able to go. And at the moment he was in no mood to talk to her. He needed time away from her to sort out what had happened—right now he wasn’t sure of anything other than his physical need for her. And that required no words to describe. He knew they had passed the point of easy withdrawal; there was no gentle way to stop now. So, abruptly bringing the kiss to an end, he released her and, disentangling her hands from his hair, put her from him almost roughly, before, turning brusquely, he walked straight to the door, picking up his gloves on the way, and, opening the door, left the room.

  In the hall he encountered Mellow. As his face had assumed its normal mien and his hair was cut in a style that disguised Dorothea’s rumpling, Mellow assumed that there had been no major fireworks. He hurried to open the door for his lordship.

  Leaving the house, Hazelmere headed across the square to his own mansion. While an observer unfamiliar with him would have detected nothing amiss, he was experiencing a degree of mental turmoil that effectively prevented him from thinking clearly. Anger, frustration, hurt pride and a peculiar sense of elation were only some of the emotions running riot in his mind. He would have to leave, get out of London, before his fevered brain would cool sufficiently to accurately assess just where they now stood. Entering Hazelmere House and seeing Mytton come forward from behind the green baize door, he paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ve decided to leave for Leicestershire immediately. I expect to return on Tuesday next. Send Murgatroyd up to me and tell Jim to put the bays to and have the curricle at the front door in ten minutes.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ replied Mytton, who, acquainted with the Marquis since that gentleman’s childhood, returned immediately to the servants’ hall to inform the household of his lordship’s orders, adding that their master was in the devil’s own temper. Without further discussion they all sped to their tasks, Murgatroyd almost running up the stairs.

  Standing before the mirror to remove the diamond pin in his cravat, Hazelmere suddenly turned to his valet, hurriedly packing. ‘Murgatroyd, see if you can catch Jim before he leaves the house. Tell him I’ve left the curricle outside Merion House. If he’s already left for the mews you’d better send one of the footmen after him and come back to me.’

  After one stunned moment Murgatroyd was out of the door and down the stairs as fast as dignity would allow. Hazelmere ruefully surveyed his own reflection. If his servants had not already realised the cause of his present mood, the fact that he had walked away and left his greys outside Merion House would doubtless clarify the issue.

  Murgatroyd reached the servants’ hall just as Jim, attired in the Hazelmere livery, was preparing to leave. Hearing his message, the entire population of the servants’ hall simply stared. Then all those with any legitimate claim to be in the front of the house headed for the street door. Opening it and looking across the square to Merion House, Mytton, Jim, Murgatroyd and Charles gazed in silent awe at the curricle.

  ‘My gawd! I’d never’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,’ said Jim.

  With much shaking of heads, they all resumed their activities, Jim crossing the square to retrieve the precious greys and Murgatroyd hurrying upstairs to inform his lordship that the carriage was being prepared.

  In the end, Jim had to walk the bays for five minutes before his master appeared. On his way downstairs Hazelmere recalled the one player in the game who did not know where he was going but should. He went into the library. His eye alighted on a pile of correspondence, delivered that afternoon. He flicked through the envelopes, leaving most unopened. His attention was caught by a plain envelope of poor quality, addressed in a strong hand to ‘Mr M. Henry’. Opening it, he scanned the enclosed pages. When his eyes lifted he remained standing, gazing at nothing, his long fingers beating a thoughtful tattoo on the desk-top. Then, with a frown, he crammed the letter into his coat pocket and sat to compose a suitably informative note to Ferdie. This was not easy. He still could not concentrate properly, particularly when reviewing that interview at Merion House. Finally he wrote a simple set of statements, informing Ferdie that he had to leave for Leicestershire on estate business and would be back in London on Tuesday
next, that Tony knew this, that he and Tony had informed their close friends of the attempts on Dorothea over lunch that day and they would assist in keeping an eye on her. He ended with a simple request to Ferdie to look after Dorothea for him.

  Signing this epistle, he bethought himself of one last item. Raising his pen, he added a postscript. He would much prefer if Ferdie could manage not to tell Dorothea of their fears for her safety. Smiling ruefully, he fixed his seal to the letter and rang for a footman. He did not have much confidence in Ferdie’s ability to distract Dorothea once she became suspicious, as she undoubtedly would long before he returned. Handing the letter over with instructions that it be delivered to Mr Acheson-Smythe’s lodgings immediately, he strode out of his house to the waiting curricle.

  RELEASED FROM that passionate embrace, Dorothea stood by the chair, too stunned to move. Hearing the front door shut, she put her fingers to her bruised lips. Her eyes slowly refocused. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she went to the door, opened it and, without even noticing Mellow, went up the stairs to her chamber.

  Lady Merion, hearing her footsteps, came out of the morning-room. Five minutes after Ferdie had left her she had come downstairs. There was, she had felt, a limit to how long she could leave Dorothea alone with Hazelmere. All had been silent in the drawing-room. Taking a deep breath and waving Mellow away, she had opened the door. Seeing Dorothea locked in Hazelmere’s arms, she had immediately closed it again. With a decidedly pensive expression, she had informed Mellow that she would sit in the morning-room and if anyone should call he was to show them in there. Now, glimpsing the retreating figure at the top of the stairs, she sighed. With a resigned air she rang for tea.

  Despite her ignorance of the details of the recently conducted interview, she thought Dorothea would need at least half an hour to cry herself out. Far too wise to try to talk sense to a young lady in the first flush of tears, she calmly reviewed what she knew of the afternoon’s events. None of it made a great deal of sense. She would have to extract sufficient details before she could begin to understand what it was about; she was too old to leap to conclusions.

  Finishing her tea, she went purposefully upstairs.

  REACHING HER BEDCHAMBER, Dorothea shut the door, threw herself on her bed and gave way to her tears. For the first time in years she wept unrestrainedly, a mixture of relief, bewilderment and pent-up emotions pouring from her, disappointment and a barely recognised frustration lending their bitter flavour to her woe. For ten minutes the storm continued unabated. Finally, through exhaustion, the whirling kaleidoscope that was her mind slowed down and the racking sobs died. She was propped up against her pillows, dabbing ineffectually at her brimming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, when her grandmother knocked and entered.

  Seeing her normally calm and collected granddaughter in the shadows of the bed, her large eyes enormous and swimming in unshed tears, Hermione walked over and plumped herself down on the end of the bed. Dorothea gulped and whispered, ‘Oh, Grandmama, what am I to do?’

  Recognising her cue, Lady Merion responded briskly. ‘The first thing you’ll do, my dear, is to wash your face and get yourself a fresh handkerchief. Go on, now. You’ll feel a great deal better.’ As Dorothea rose she continued, ‘And after that I think we’ll have a long talk. It’s time you explained to me just what you and Hazelmere have been about.’

  At that, Dorothea’s green eyes returned to her grandmother’s face, but she made no comment. While she washed and dried her face, and then ransacked her dressing-table for a clean handkerchief, the capacity for rational thought returned. Her grandmother undoubtedly deserved an explanation. But there were so many questions still unanswered. Pensive, she returned to her seat on the bed.

  Lady Merion opened the conversation with a simple request to be told all about it.

  Dorothea grimaced, then drew a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Last night, at the ball, the Prince … well, it was obvious he believed … knew, that … there is … a … connection between myself and Lord Hazelmere. I realise, now, that most people know that some sort of … understanding exists between us.’

  ‘After that first waltz at your come-out, I should think they would!’ snorted Lady Merion.

  ‘Waltz?’ echoed Dorothea in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

  Lady Merion sighed. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’ She eyed her granddaughter shrewdly, then said, ‘Over the past weeks your feelings for Marc Henry have been becoming daily more visible. Oh, I don’t mean you wear your heart on your sleeve! Far from it. But no one, seeing the two of you together, could doubt your interest in him. And, given his attentiveness since the start of the Season, his intentions have been quite clear. Why, after your ball, he told me he would offer for you. In his own good time, he said. Just like him, of course.’

  Dorothea listened to her grandmother’s explanation, comprehension dawning. It occurred to her that she could do a great deal worse than to appeal to her experienced grandparent for further clarification. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I wondered whether he was … well, merely looking for a suitable bride. He must marry. I gather his family have been badgering him for years to do so.’ Resolutely she drew a deep breath and brought forth her most secret fear. ‘When he met me in Moreton Park woods I think he got the idea from something I said that I had no expectations of marrying. And when I didn’t behave like all the others I thought maybe he felt I would do.’ She paused, gathering strength to continue. ‘I wondered if he thought that, as I didn’t have any great hopes of marriage, I’d be happy to enter into … I suppose the correct phrase is “a marriage of convenience”, which would leave him free to continue with his mistresses as before.’

  Lady Merion’s face went blank. Then she threw back her head and laughed. When she could command her voice she said, ‘Well! I’m glad Hazelmere’s carefully orchestrated wooing has got the result it deserved.’

  Bemused, Dorothea looked at her expectantly, but her grandmother waved aside the unspoken question. ‘My dear Dorothea, I came into the drawing-room this afternoon while you and Hazelmere were … somewhat engaged. In my experience, a man contemplating a mariage de convenance does not set out to seduce his prospective bride before proposing.’ A grin of unholy amusement still lit her ladyship’s sharp face. ‘After the way Hazelmere’s been behaving over you, my dear, I should think you must be the last person in the ton to realise he’s in love with you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hope and a sneaking suspicion that it was all too good to be true warred in Dorothea’s breast. Hope won, but the suspicion was not entirely vanquished.

  Lady Merion broke in on her thoughts. ‘Ferdie mentioned some misunderstanding over Helen Walford.’

  ‘The Comte de Vanée told me she was Hazelmere’s mistress. He denied it.’

  Lady Merion almost groaned aloud. She closed her eyes. Finally opening them, she asked, her tone resigned, ‘You asked him, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, he wanted to know why I cut him in the Park,’ said Dorothea, rapidly regaining her normal equilibrium. ‘He said he’d known her since she was a child.’

  ‘So he has. Helen Walford’s father is a distant connection of Lady Hazelmere and, as a child, Helen often spent her summers at Hazelmere. In age she is some years younger than Ferdie. She was something of a tomboy, and she often plagued Marc and Tony, who treated her much as they treated Alison. As I recall, they were always hauling her out of some scrape or other, and with no very good grace, I can tell you!

  ‘Helen unfortunately made a most unsuitable marriage. Arthur Walford was a rake and a gamester. He killed himself, much to the relief of everyone. No one knows the full story, but Hazelmere was involved. Helen once asked him how her husband died. He told her she didn’t need to know but should content herself with the fact.’

  ‘That certainly sounds very like him,’ said Dorothea, sniffing. Clearly Hazelmere’s habit of managing things was a long-standing and deeply ingrained characteristic.

  ‘Anyway, Hazelmere has always tre
ated Helen exactly as he does Alison. I assume he was astonished that you thought she was his mistress?’

  Recalling his face at the time, Dorothea nodded. ‘But why did the Comte de Vanée tell me she was?’

  ‘My dear, I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to the malicious tongues of certain people you meet. There are more than a few who’d like to cause trouble for Hazelmere and will seek to use you to do it.’ Her ladyship paused, eyeing her granddaughter’s elegant profile. ‘Incidentally, I would not, if I were you, ever bring up the subject of Hazelmere’s mistresses. I grant you, he has had a few. Well,’ she amended, realising the inadequacy of this description, ‘more than a few. A positive parade, in fact, and all of them the most gorgeous of creatures! But, my dear, Hazelmere’s mistresses are very definitely not your concern, and if he follows in his father’s footsteps they’ll be confined to his past. It’s highly unlikely, given how much in love with you he is, that you’ll find yourself having to turn a blind eye to such liaisons in the future, unlike so many other ladies.’

  Dorothea inclined her head in acknowledgement of this excellent advice.

  Lady Merion, watching her, saw tiredness creep over the pale face. She leaned forward and patted Dorothea’s hand reassuringly. ‘My dear, you’re worn out. I’ll have a tray sent up, and you really should have an early night. We’ll have to consider how best to go on but I think we should leave further discussion until tomorrow.’

  Dorothea, feeling strangely wrung out and curiously elated at the same time, nodded her acquiescence and kissed her grandmother’s cheek before Lady Merion, suddenly feeling her age, left the room.

  When Trimmer brought her dinner tray to her, Dorothea, contrary to her expectations, was feeling quite hungry. Nibbling the delicate chicken, she pondered her state. None of what had happened should have been a shock. But the fact remained that things had changed. Somehow, hand in hand with the Marquis of Hazelmere, she had stepped from the safe shores of fashionable dalliance into a realm where forces stronger than any she had ever known seemed set to steal her very soul. Thinking of how she had felt in his arms that afternoon, she shivered. He would never let her forget how much she wanted him. He had certainly won that bet. Some part of her rational mind suggested, faintly, that she should be incensed over his subtle machinations which would so easily have overridden any objections from her. But the truth was … The truth was that she had no objections. None at all.