Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress

by Lara Temple

  With a squeal of excitement, Lily dashed out of the room, her gown floating and sparkling around her like angel’s wings. Rose took a quick glance at herself in the glass before she followed, to make sure she looked presentable and tidy.

  Presentable and tidy were about all she could hope for, she thought wryly. Unlike Lily, she had not inherited their mother’s blond curls and pink cheeks, her petite plumpness. Rose was taller, thin to the point of sharpness, with light brown hair that refused to hold a curl no matter how long it was subjected to the tongs, and skin that had turned ever so slightly golden while working in the garden. Her eyes were not too bad, she thought, with a small spark of hopefulness. A green-hazel that looked emerald in some lights, when she did not have to wear the horrid spectacles. Sadly, those had become more and more necessary of late, especially when sitting up sewing in the lamplight.

  She smoothed the sleeves of her gown and reached for her gloves. Unlike Lily’s new dress, Rose had redone an old gown of their mother’s for herself. The olive-gold satin, plain and lustrous with only a single row of gold embroidery at the hem, suited her much better than the current style for frothy pale muslins and ruffled sleeves, and her needle had managed to take in the fuller skirts and puff out the sleeves a bit, yet she feared it would attract whispers of ‘unfashionableness’ and pity for the poor Parkers.

  ‘Ah, well,’ she told herself. ‘Fashion is something you could never really aspire to, Rose dear.’

  She laughed, straightened the ivory comb in her upswept hair, slid her creamy Indian shawl over her shoulders and followed Lily out the door.

  The party downstairs was just beginning, the first arrivals sweeping through the front doors and gathering in the marble-floored hall, leaving their wraps with the footmen, calling out merry greetings to each other.

  Rose peeked over the gilded banister to the scene below. She had always loved Barton Park, the home of her mother’s distant cousins, the Bancrofts, even though they so seldom got to visit. It was a beautiful house, not too small and not too grand, built on elegant, classic lines and filled with comfortable furnishings and plenty of books and art. A true family home for many generations, soaked through with stories and emotions and hopes. It had fallen into some disrepair for a few years, but under the care of the current owners, Jane, Countess of Ramsay, and her sister, Emma, it had found new life.

  The gardens beyond the tall glass windows were equally lovely, especially on such a soft, warm summer’s evening. Chinese lanterns shimmered in the trees, lighting up the pathways and the colourful tumble of the flowerbeds as carriages bounced along the gravel drive to the waiting doors.

  Rose studied the crowd, a laughing, beautifully dressed throng gathered around Jane and her husband, the magnificently handsome Lord Ramsay. Jane looked as if she had belonged there at Barton Park for ever in her elegant dark blue gown, shimmering with lavender beads. She greeted each new arrival with a happy cry, sparkling with laughter before she passed them to her younger sister, Emma, a blonde angel much like Lily in her grey satin gown. Emma, too, smiled, though it was quieter, more unsure. When they were children, Emma had been quite the daredevil, but now she had returned to Barton as a young widow, trailing something of a scandal in her wake. Rose quite adored her, even as she worried for her.

  The growing throng appeared a bit of a blur to Rose without her spectacles, but she glimpsed Lily near the open doors to the drawing room, where the music was drifting out above the hum of laughter. Their mother stood beside her, the plumes of her striped turban nodding merrily as she laughed and chattered, but Lily didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. She bounced on the toes of her dancing slippers, searching each face around her eagerly before falling back again.

  Oh, dear, Rose thought. Mr Hewlitt had probably not made his appearance yet. She tiptoed down the stairs and slipped into the crowd, intending to make her way to Lily and their mother. She was stopped when Jane spotted her.

  ‘Rose, my dear, do come and meet someone!’ Jane said, grasping Rose’s hand and drawing her forward. Jane was the kindest of women, but always most assiduous in her hostess duties. She would never just let a wallflower be a wallflower.

  Rose flashed a quick smile at Emma, who smiled back uncomfortably. She looked as if she wanted to run for the safety of the comfortably shabby library as much as Rose did.

  But then Rose turned to face Jane’s newly arrived guests—and froze. All thoughts of fleeing, all thoughts at all, were quite gone.

  A gentleman had just stepped through the front door and what a gentleman he was. He looked rather like something Rose would picture in one of the romantic French novels Lily liked to read aloud in the evenings—a man tall, dark and mysterious. His expression was quite solemn and wary as he studied the crowd, as if he was thinking of possible battle lines rather than dancing.

  He certainly did have the bearing of a soldier, lean and ramrod-straight, his shoulders strong beneath the cut of his dark blue evening coat, his sun-darkened skin set off by a plain white cravat. His hair, so dark it was almost a blue-black, like a winter’s night, waved back from his forehead, and his eyes were a velvet brown. He had a strange stillness, a perfect watchfulness, almost a—a menace about him, but one that was enticing rather than frightening. He was quite unlike anyone else she had ever seen.

  ‘Harry, how delightful you could come tonight after all,’ Jane was saying, once Rose could tear her attention away from the man’s mesmerising handsomeness and hear the roar of the party again. ‘We did hear you were off to battle in Sicily.’

  ‘A soldier has to keep busy however he can.’ The man smiled as he bowed over Jane’s hand and it quite transformed him. He went from wary stillness to sunny charm in an instant, a dimple appearing in his sun-browned cheek that made Rose want to giggle like a schoolgirl. ‘But it seems they don’t need my assistance at this very moment. How could I resist the chance to see you again, Lady Ramsay? It’s been much too long since you brightened the dull London ballrooms. Hayden is a beast to keep you away.’

  Jane laughed and waved her lace fan at him. ‘Silly flatterer. I know you are merely counting the seconds until you can escape to the library for a brandy with Hayden and a talk about your beastly battlefields. But it’s lovely to see you again all the same, safe and sound. And you, Charles! Where on earth have you been keeping yourself?’

  Rose was able to tear her gaze from the dark, poetic brooder for a moment to see another man standing just behind him. He was also tall, also handsome, with a cheerful smile and bright golden hair, and the same brown eyes as the first man. But though he was just as good looking, he did not have the same frightening magnetism.

  ‘Nowhere as useful as my brother, I assure you, Lady Ramsay,’ he said with a bow. ‘But I haven’t had a proper dance in ages and, unlike Harry, I miss it more than I can say.’

  ‘That is one thing I can promise here. I hired the best orchestra from miles around.’ Jane drew Rose and Emma forward. ‘Emma, Rose, may I present two of our neighbours? Captain Henry St George, who was a great hero at Waterloo, and his brother, Mr Charles St George. Gentlemen, this my sister, Mrs Emma Carrington, and my cousin Miss Rose Parker.’

  Charles was the first to bow to them, with grand courtly flourishes that made Rose laugh and even had Emma smiling. ‘Ladies, I fear that unlike my dashing brother I am hero of very little except the billiards room, but I do claim some proficiency at waltzing, if you will do me the honour?’

  Emma did laugh—the first time Rose had heard it since the young widow had returned to Barton—but Rose could still not find a way to tear her attention completely away from Captain St George. How very intriguing he looked, with his wry flash of a smile!

  ‘Do you live near Barton, Miss Parker?’ he asked, his voice low and deep, almost rough. He watched her closely, as if he listened only to her in the whole room.

  ‘Oh,’ Rose answered,
and for an instant it was as if every word she had ever known flew out of her mind. She had to laugh at herself; it was quite unlike the sensible nature she usually prided herself on. Yet she comforted herself that no lady could surely be entirely immune from such a pair of eyes when they were focused so closely on oneself.

  ‘Not too far,’ she said. ‘We used to visit often when we were children, my sister and I, and hunt for treasure with Jane and Emma.’

  He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Treasure? That does sound intriguing.’

  ‘Oh, it was!’ she said, absurdly pleased to have ‘intrigued’ him. She found she wanted more than anything to make him smile that smile at her again. ‘It is a wonderful old tale, about the lover of a Royalist soldier, Arabella Bancroft, hiding a royal fortune on the grounds of the estate, in the hope she and her love would one day be reunited to spend it together. Or something like that. We were quite hazy on the details when we were children.’

  ‘And did you ever find it?’

  ‘No, not even a farthing. It’s just a legend, of course, but we did have some marvellous adventures digging for it in the woods. We would climb the trees and pretend we were the Royalists defending our fortress from Cromwell, with tree trunks for cannons...’ She suddenly remembered he was a true captain, a hero of the terrible carnage at Waterloo, and felt her cheeks turn warm. ‘Not at all like real battle, of course.’

  A shadow flickered over his smile and he glanced away. ‘Much more fun, though, I would wager. Real battle is all mud and noise, I fear, Miss Parker. But trees and branches as guns—just fun.’

  Rose nervously twitched her skirts into place, feeling terrible at reminding him of such things when he was meant to be enjoying himself at Jane’s party. Not for the first time, she wished she had some of Lily’s gift of easy laughter and chatter. ‘I am sure it was. I’m sorry for bringing up any bad memories, Captain.’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘The memories are always there, Miss Parker, but they don’t plague me on a night like this.’ He paused to adjust a glove. ‘And did they ever find each other again?’

  ‘Find each other?’ she said, confused.

  ‘Arabella Bancroft and her Royalist.’

  ‘Oh. No. He never came back. I think she married someone else in the end and abandoned Barton Park.’

  ‘Then there is hope the treasure is still out there.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that,’ Rose exclaimed. ‘Perhaps it is.’

  Captain St George’s brother suddenly turned towards them with a grin. ‘Harry, I have just secured Mrs Carrington’s promise for the first dance and Lady Ramsay tells me there are not yet enough couples for a proper set. You must find yourself a partner and do your bit for the party.’

  ‘Charlie, you know I am hopeless dancer indeed,’ the Captain protested.

  ‘Of course you are not!’ Charles said. ‘Do not be an old stick in the mud again. Aren’t you all about doing your duty? Well, being merry is your only duty tonight.’

  Harry laughed, and turned back to Rose. ‘Well, then, Miss Parker. Would you be brave enough to take me on for the first dance? With fair warning that grace is not my strong suit.’

  Rose was not at all sure that could be true. He had such a lean, coiled stillness, she imagined that in motion he would be as elegant and lethal as a jungle cat. She longed to dance with him, more than she had ever longed for anything before, but she also feared he was asking only because she was the closest lady at the moment.

  Not that it mattered. When would she ever be able to dance with such a man again?

  ‘I—no, nor is it mine, Captain St George,’ she answered. ‘I do have a terrible tendency to trip over my own feet—my sister always hated sharing her dancing lessons with me. Perhaps we can figure it out together?’

  He laughed and suddenly he looked so young, so carefree. Rose imagined perhaps he was like that all the time before he went to war and became so watchful. ‘I am quite sure we can. The first dance, then, Miss Parker.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Captain,’ she answered, and suddenly felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see Lily standing beside her, her sky-blue eyes wide.

  ‘Oh, Rose!’ she cried. ‘He isn’t here yet! What if he changed his mind?’

  Before Rose could answer, the front doors flew open again as if in a stormy gale and a most fearsome figure appeared. As wide as she was tall, with iron-grey hair high-piled in the style of pre–Revolutionary France, and swathed in lace and satin, her dried-apple face was heavily rouged. Armed as she was with a carved walking stick with the head of a snarling dragon, she seemed the combination of Empress Maria Theresa and a Viking, combined with an ancient tree spirit.

  ‘Aunt Sylvia,’ Jane gasped. She hurried forward to try to help her, but the old lady impatiently pushed her away. ‘How lovely to see you. We thought you could not attend tonight.’

  Aunt Sylvia Pemberton. Rose stared at her in astonishment. She had thought the old lady, a sister of her own great-grandfather and Jane’s and Emma’s as well, was only some sort of legend, but now here she was before them. She lived in a vast house nearby, rich as Croesus and widowed for decades, but she never ventured beyond its gates. Even Captain St George seemed amazed by the sight, even after all he must have seen at Waterloo.

  ‘I should never have ventured out indeed, Jane. A most disagreeable night and my rheumatism so terrible,’ Aunt Sylvia growled. ‘But I had to see what you have done with the old house, now that all your modern folderols have finished. You’ve quite ruined it, I must say. The windows are terrible and what kind of colour is that for walls?’ She looked around, waving her stick as if the new pale blue paint was a personal affront.

  ‘Ah,’ she went on, ‘and here is that disgraceful Emma, I see. And who is this? The Parker chits? How pale you are, girl. And the other one—too tall. Come here where I can see you better.’

  Lily did indeed look quite white under such scrutiny and she clutched at Rose’s hand. ‘Must we?’ Lily whispered.

  Rose thought of the grandness of Aunt Sylvia’s mansion and the tininess of their own cottage. She sighed. ‘I think we must.’ She glanced over her shoulder, but the Captain had quite vanished into the crowd. She could only fervently hope he remembered their dance.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lily dearest,’ she whispered. ‘We just have to say hello and then we can slip away. I am sure Mr Hewlitt will be here at any moment.’

  ‘She might turn us into stone first,’ Lily whispered back with a shiver.

  Their mother suddenly appeared at Lily’s other side, a smile on her face beneath the blond curls that peeked from her turban. ‘Girls, be very nice indeed. We might need her help one day soon,’ she hissed, before sailing forward to kiss Aunt Sylvia’s cheek. ‘Aunt Sylvia, how absolutely delightful to see you again after so long. You remember my dear daughters, Rose and Lily, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Aunt Sylvia said with a thump of her stick. ‘Still yours, are they? No husbands yet? How vexing for you, Felicity. I think we have much to talk about.’

  As if he had been given a stage cue, Mr Hewlitt appeared in the doorway, looking handsome, but blushing and flustered in his curate’s dark coat, his red hair rumpled. He lit up like the moon when he saw Lily, and hurried over to take her hand. ‘Miss Parker, I am so sorry I was delayed! I have been so looking forward to—’

  ‘And who are you, young man?’ Aunt Sylvia boomed.

  Poor Mr Hewlitt looked quite terrified, but much to his credit he did not let go of Lily’s hand. Indeed, he slid in front of her, as if to protect her. ‘I am Mr Peter Hewlitt, curate of St Anne’s, madam.’

  Rose took the opportunity to slip away from the little scene and made her way through the crowd into the drawing room. The Aubusson rugs that usually lay over the polished parquet floors had been rolled away to make a dance floor, surround
ed by conversational groupings of brocade sofas and armchairs, half-hidden by banks of palms and fragrant white flowers. The orchestra played on their dais, a soft song as dancers found their partners and footmen passed trays of champagne and claret punch. The windows were open to let in the soft summer breeze and everything was laughter and happiness for just a moment.

  Rose smoothed her skirt again, hoping against hope Captain St George would find her—and just as frightened that he would. She didn’t want to seem stammering and silly in his company, but she was sure she would. She seemed to quite forget everything else when she looked into his dark eyes.

  ‘Miss Parker? Time for our dance, I think?’ she heard his deep voice say behind her.

  She spun around to face him and his easy smile made her feel instantly more at ease. ‘Oh—of course. Thank you, Captain.’

  As Rose took Captain St George’s arm and walked with him across the crowded room, she felt something most distinctly—odd. Something she had never had an inkling of before. Parties and gowns and flirtations had never held much appeal for her, not compared to the pleasures of the piano or a good book by the fire. Parties were for her mother and sister, because watching their enjoyment made Rose happy, too. Mama and Lily had far less fun in their lives than they deserved.

  Yet now, being with Captain St George, Rose found she could have fun as well. It was quite astonishing and rather delightful. They followed the lead couple into the steps of the lively dance, holding hands, their feet nearly touching as she skipped around him. They joined hands with two other couples, moving in an intricate star until they had to wait at the end of the line. It moved in a wonderful, bright blur, the greatest fun she had ever had in a dance!

  ‘I’m sorry I’m not much of a dancer,’ he said as he spun her around, making her laugh.

  ‘I think you are quite grand at it,’ she answered. ‘But then I almost always have to practise with Lily and she does have a tendency to step on my toes rather more than I would like.’