Regency Masquerades: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Six Traditional Regency Romance Novels of Secrets and Disguises

by Brenda Hiatt

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he tapped on the library window.

  “Is Harold back yet?” he murmured once Elaine let him in.

  “No. Lord Carrington will join us when your cousin gets here. Burgess will allow the proper anxiety into his voice when he tells him that you have not returned, even though you had an appointment with the steward some time past.”

  He nodded, his face strained. She could imagine how tense he must feel, waiting here to face a killer.

  “How is Helen?” she asked, not wanting to think about what might happen.

  “She is doing better.” One hand rested on her back to guide her closer to the fireplace, and Elaine could feel it tremble. “She regained consciousness about half an hour ago, but remembers nothing of the accident.”

  “That is just as well,” she murmured, trying to keep her mind on business. It was difficult, for Mark had pulled her into his arms and now rested his cheek on her head. She might have pulled away, but this was no flirtation. He needed to hold her for his own comfort.

  “I thought she was dead,” he murmured now, tears choking the tortured words. “For nearly an hour, I thought she was dead.”

  “So did I,” she admitted, sliding her arms around his waist. “But it was not her time. God must have something better in mind for her.”

  “A comforting thought.” He pulled back a trifle to look at her. “I am so thankful you were there to help. I would have been lost without you.” Giving her no chance to respond, he took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

  At least it started gently. Elaine had no thought of refusing him. She opened her mouth at his request, opening her heart and soul to him as well. Mind-numbing languor filled her, to be replaced by sizzling excitement as he groaned and pulled her closer.

  Everything about him was perfect, from his hard-muscled body and demanding lips, to his pounding heart that raced in unison with her own, to the thoughts that even now were forming in his mind.

  He lifted his head to gaze deeply into her eyes, his own blazing greener than she had ever seen them, open, without barricades, clear to his heart. “Elaine—” One hand reached up to caress her cheek.

  The door handle jiggled. Carrington burst into the room to find two anxious people standing at either side of the fireplace.

  “He just arrived,” Richard reported. “Burgess is suggesting that he tell me that he has not seen you. I am worried about your disappearance.”

  Mark nodded and faded into a corner where he would be unnoticed from the doorway. Only a single branch of candles burned on the desk.

  “Enter,” called Carrington in reply to a rap.

  “You wished to see me, my lord?” lisped Harold, sounding bored.

  “Your cousin is missing. Did you see him when you were out this afternoon?”

  Harold shook his head.

  “Where did you go?” pressed the marquess.

  “Through the village and into the next one. My groom discovered an inn there with an excellent ale—light and flavorful. Its qualities approach a German wine I sampled some months ago.”

  “How about earlier when you were out on the moor?” asked Elaine idly, wondering how anyone could seriously compare ale and wine.

  Harold jumped, for he had not noted her sitting in the wing chair by the fireplace. “The moor?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, I saw you when I was out sketching. You circled around as far as Lookout Peak. Did you not see Lord Bridgeport there? He had intended to walk in that direction.”

  “No.” Harold had paled.

  “Not very observant, are you, Cousin?” growled Mark, stepping into the light. “Of course, you could not really see who was approaching because you were hidden on top.”

  “You can’t be here,” gasped Harold, swaying as the last vestige of color left his face.

  “How wrong you always are,” stated Mark coldly. “You failed, Cousin. Again.”

  “How did you escape? There was no way out.”

  “You checked, didn’t you?”

  Harold’s head betrayed the faintest nod.

  “You slimy bastard!” snapped Mark, grabbing his cousin by the shoulders and slamming him into a wall. “You nearly killed my daughter this afternoon. For that alone I should turn you over to the runners and let you rot in Botany Bay for the rest of your miserable life. But she is not the only one you’ve harmed. How many other traps were sprung by innocent bystanders?”

  “What?”

  “Your traps, Cousin. Things like the cliff path that injured one of my tenants, the coping stone that narrowly missed Miss Thompson, the poisoned mushrooms that could have killed the entire household, and so many more.” His grip tightened until Harold could barely breathe.

  “You don’t understand,” cried Harold. “I had no choice. If I cannot raise ten thousand pounds by next week, I’ll lose everything.”

  “And so you stoop to murder.”

  “It’s your own fault. You refused to help me.”

  “My fault! I have no obligations to fund your profligacy.”

  “Lording it again?” demanded Harold bitterly. “I should be Bridgeport. I am older than you. My father was firstborn.”

  “He wasn’t, and he got more than his expected share as it was,” Mark reminded him. “My father turned over nearly three times as much as Bridgeports normally allot to second sons. He even deeded over the wealthiest of the unentailed estates.”

  “Only because he felt guilty for cheating Father out of the title.”

  “Devil it! Where did you get such a preposterous notion?”

  “You cannot deny it!” shouted Harold. “Mama knew. She told me all about it. She was Lady Bridgeport until your unspeakable mother forced Papa into exchanging names and positions. And you condoned it. You stole my inheritance!”

  “Your sanity is slipping, Harold,” growled Mark. “My parents were married in London before the entire ton fully six months before yours were. Whatever tripe your mother fed you is pure fiction.”

  “It’s not!” he shrieked. “You cheated. You all cheated. But I can get it back. Four gypsies confirmed it. Fate is behind me. A simple accident to redress all wrongs and I am Bridgeport!”

  “What you are is crazy.”

  “You owe me my rightful place!” Harold twisted, and Mark pinned him more firmly to the wall.

  “I owe you nothing, especially after enduring years of your enmity, your rumor campaigns, and now this.”

  “Rumors?” Harold sounded on the verge of denials.

  “Don’t think I am ignorant of who has been behind every derogatory story ever circulated about me, and that includes the most recent crop of tales. I overlooked that bit of spite. I even overlooked the way you have been using my name to fleece gullible gamesters. But nothing will induce me to overlook murder.”

  With a roar, Harold whipped out a knife and stabbed the earl. Elaine screamed and tried to grab Harold’s arm. Carrington leaped forward to tackle him. In seconds it was over. Harold lay on the carpet, securely tied up, the knife kicked well out of reach. He was sobbing broken threats and curses, raving on again about his father’s stolen patrimony, and vowing vengeance for a host of imaginary slights. Carrington kicked him once before opening the door to summon Burgess and Willy, who had been waiting in the hall. Elaine ignored the villain as she bound up a gash on Mark’s arm. Burgess, Carrington, and Willy carried Harold out of the room.

  “What will happen now?” asked Elaine, succumbing to shudders once the excitement was over.

  “It depends on Harold,” said Mark with a sigh. “If he has gone completely round the bend—as it looks like he might—we can lock him in an asylum. Otherwise, I will have to prosecute him for attempted murder. It won’t be easy, but he cannot be allowed another chance. I had considered shipping him to the Indies, but I can hardly condone exposing another population to his tricks.”

  “True,” she agreed softly. “That man has no concept of honor.”

  “Indeed
.” He drew her close and smiled into her eyes. “Does your concern mean you might care for me just a bit?”

  “I care for all people.”

  “Some more than others, I hope. I must ask it again, my dear. I do so damnably want to marry you.”

  “Why? Surely you are not still piqued over being jilted.”

  He laughed. “You might lift that awful curse that has hung over my head all these years. After all, you started it.”

  “Of all the absurd reasons to offer matrimony!”

  “I wasn’t—claiming that as a reason,” he added when she frowned. “The ultimate revenge is yours, my dear nemesis. I love you, Elaine. It is something I never thought could happen, but somehow you have slipped past all the walls I built around my heart. Not only do I want to marry you, I want to live with you. I cannot ignore my Parliamentary obligations, so we would have to be in town on occasion—which I know you do not care for—but most of the year we would stay elsewhere. Bridgeport Abbey is a delightful estate, and will be even better once we erase my mother’s touch. Please, Miss Mary Elaine Merriweather Thompson, artist extraordinaire, I need you.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the truth of the words. His expression was open, without artifice. But her own fears still pressed close. “When all is said and done, marriage is nought but legalized slavery, and you have shown that you are capable of both pique and underhanded coercion.”

  Mark’s blood ran cold, but her eyes contained much more than fear—and who could blame her for hesitating after the example her father had set? “Neither of us wants to be dominated, love. My own dread of it makes yours easy to understand. Before we say our vows, I will make you independent. You will be able to walk out any time you desire. And don’t ever think that I would try to curb M. E. Merriweather. I have too much respect for your talent to even consider it.”

  “You are so very different from the face you show the world,” she said with a smile. “Your poetry speaks to me in many ways, probably because your real character is so close to mine.”

  “You mentioned once that you detected pain, anger, and loneliness in my writing. I had never acknowledged them myself, but you were right. My mother inflicted pain every time we met, eliciting rage in return. Countering it required building walls around myself. But living apart as I have always done has left me lonely. Now that I know you, I cannot face remaining in such a state. Don’t make me beg, though I will if I have to.”

  She reached up to lay a finger against his lips, and smiled. “He hath importuned me with love, in honourable fashion.”

  “Shakespeare, Hamlet, one of Ophelia’s speeches,” he said, nipping her finger. “And I importune you as well. What must I do to prove myself?”

  “I would never ask you to beg, Mark. And I know that you will never be the tyrant my father was. I would be proud to call you husband.”

  Happiness blazed in his eyes before they moved too close to see them clearly. His lips took hers fiercely, possessively, passionately. She clung to his shoulders, her wobbly knees no longer able to support her. Euphoria drove away all thought, leaving only compelling heat and excitement. She could feel similar emotions flooding him. It wasn’t until several minutes later that she realized she was no longer standing, but was sitting on his lap in a large wing chair.

  “I love you,” she whispered as he nuzzled her neck, one hand entwined firmly in her hair.

  “I should have married you years ago,” he managed huskily.

  “It would never have worked then,” she reminded him. “I was insecure, uneducated, and terrified. You would have taken me to Westron and left me there.”

  He laughed. “Probably. More fool me. What should a fool do with so good a woman?”

  “Shakespeare, Othello. You mean you don’t know? What shocking ignorance for a man of your reputation!”

  “Oh, I know, all right.” His eyes burned into hers. “And I am taking no chances this time, my love. Cramer can get a special license from Doctor’s Commons. He should be able to get it here within the week. I doubt I’ll let you out of my sight until our wedding—and certainly not afterward. We will have no repeat of our last betrothal.”

  “Never.” She pulled his head down for another kiss. “All that remains is to get rid of these pesky guests.”

  “Easy. I do believe that Helen has something contagious. They will be gone by morning.”

  “Except Lord Carrington and Anne,” she suggested. “We must observe the proprieties.”

  “In the eyes of the world,” he agreed, the laughter lighting his face telling her all she wanted to know as he drew her into another heady embrace.

  THE END

  Books by Allison Lane

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider posting a review at your favorite online bookstore or book discussion site, so like-minded readers can find it, too.

  Here are more books by Allison Lane for you to enjoy.

  Traditional Regencies

  The Rake’s Rainbow

  The Impoverished Viscount

  The Prodigal Daughter

  The Unscrupulous Uncle

  Lord Avery’s Legacy

  The Second Lady Emily

  Devall’s Angel

  Too Many Matchmakers

  A Clandestine Courtship

  Double Deceit

  The Beleaguered Earl

  Kindred Spirits

  Madcap Marriage

  Birds Set

  A Bird in Hand

  Birds of a Feather

  The Seabrook trilogy

  The Notorious Widow

  The Rake and the Wallflower

  The Purloined Papers

  The Three Beaux

  Emily’s Beau

  (Book 1 in the Three Beaux)

  Two Beaux and a Promise

  (Parts II and III of the Three Beaux and a novella)

  Regency Holiday Novellas

  Allison Lane’s Christmas Collection

  (Three novellas)

  A Regency Holiday

  (Novellas by Lynn Kerstan, Allison Lane, Rebecca Hagan Lee, and Alicia Rasley)

  Historical Romance set in the Regency

  Portland Chronicles

  Seducing Eden

  The Duchess’s Diary

  Excerpt from The Rake and the Wallflower

  Leaning against the wall behind a screen of palms, Mary pulled a tiny sketchpad from her reticule. Catherine wanted her to leave it home, but she needed to escape nearly every evening, either to recover her composure or relieve boredom. Its pages captured scenes she wanted to remember and transformed disasters into humor.

  Under her flying pencil a picture of Eden evolved—lush plants, bubbling streams, mouthwatering fruits, and a poisonous snake curled around the branch of an apple tree. Its face bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Griffin.

  Smiling, she turned to a new page and began drawing a common chaffinch. It wasn’t a particularly interesting bird, but one had landed on her window ledge yesterday and cocked its head as if amused, evoking a laugh.

  Gray hugged the wall, careful not to brush the branches as he followed the palms toward the card room. He’d traversed half the distance before he realized he was not alone. A young lady was also hiding.

  Curses exploded through his head. He was neatly trapped. Or was he? She almost looked like a companion or governess, though she could not yet be twenty. As he watched, she added lines to a picture, the tip of her tongue protruding past her teeth. She couldn’t be sketching the ballroom, for she never looked at it. She might have been alone in a field for all the attention she paid her surroundings. Odd. Very odd.

  Curiosity is dangerous, warned his conscience.

  Ignoring it, he peeked over her shoulder, then inhaled in surprise. She was a talented artist and a student of natural history. Who else could draw so well from memory? A chaffinch perched in a gnarled apple tree, head cocked perkily to one side. A few lines evoked rough bark, soft feathers, and lustrous fruit. But he could see why she was fr
owning. The bird’s beak was too thick, pushing it slightly off balance.

  “Try this,” he murmured, grabbing the pad.

  “Oh!” She whirled, one hand to her breast. “I d-didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “Not so loud.” He rubbed out the beak. Brisk strokes reshaped the appendage, bringing the bird to life. “That’s better. Are you from the west country?”

  She nodded. “How did you know?”

  “That is the only place you find apples that shape. Those in the east are rounder. You are an accomplished sketch artist.”

  “I—” She blushed.

  Gray knew he should leave before someone spotted him—clothes notwithstanding, this girl was clearly quality, and unmarried quality at that. But he couldn’t do it. Obviously she didn’t recognize him. She was not flirting or swooning or regarding him as Satan. It had been too long since he had talked with a young lady—or relaxed while talking to anyone. His reputation overshadowed every contact.

  He idly turned pages. A sparrow hawk, a hedgehog, a caricature—

  “Egad, that is Wigby to the life. We were schoolmates.” He chuckled. She had sketched him as a stork. Very appropriate, as the dandy was tall and very lean, with thin legs and a long pointed nose. No amount of padding could cover his defects. The next page depicted Lord Edward Broadburn as a charming pouter pigeon, so overburdened by a thrust-out chest that he teetered on his feet.

  “Sir— My l-lord—” She stammered to a halt.

  He knew his manners were outrageous—she was an innocent, for God’s sake—but something about her drew him. Her presence behind the palms told him she was shy, though her sketches displayed a wicked sense of humor. Four years ago he would have set her at ease. And maybe he still could.

  “My apologies,” he said softly. “But I must wonder why so talented a lady is hiding in the shadows. London is not filled with ogres.”