She looked up at him with softened eyes.
“I am sorry. I fear you must be feeling the loss of Cynthia,” she said gently.
“Cynthia?” He laughed cynically. “I feel nothing for Cynthia but that she has come by her just deserts! What in the world makes you suppose that I ever gave her one serious thought, or can spare a single regret for a female whom I was determined not to marry in the first place? Did not all this trouble over my father’s secret marriage arise because I’d refused to fall in with his wishes in that regard? Cynthia may go to the devil, for all I care!”
All at once her heart felt so light that she wanted to dance for joy. She turned a mocking face upon him.
“And yet I was certain that you must have changed your mind about that, seeing how attracted by her you appeared to be when you were waltzing together at her come-out ball,” she said, outrageously.
“Nell, you little wretch!” He stopped abruptly, advancing on her in a threatening manner that recalled their childhood days. “So you think to pay me out in my own coin, do you, you saucy madam!”
Laughing, she put out her arms to ward off the threatened attack. And in a moment, he had gathered her unresisting to him, pressing his lips against her bright hair.
“Nell — oh, Nell!” he murmured, incoherently. “My darling — my lovely girl!”
She snuggled closer. “But, Tony,” she said plaintively, into his chest, “why do you not kiss me properly? I’ve been wanting you to — oh, for ages and ages!”
Her words set his pulses leaping, but he told himself he must be careful not to alarm her by too much ardour. She was young, innocent, and infinitely precious to him. So he tilted up her face and kissed her gently on the lips. That fleeting contact, though soft and tender, was so charged with emotion that it left their senses swimming.
He would have released her then, not quite trusting himself to sustain his gentleness if she remained any longer in his arms. But Helen, looking for something more masterful from her childhood hero, tightened her own arms about him and freely offered her lips again. This time he could no longer resist the urge to crush her to him and kiss her in quite another style; far from being dismayed, she responded eagerly.
After an interval, he held her a little way from him, smiling down at her tenderly.
“Dearest Nell, how could I ever be such a fool as to suppose I thought of you as a sister?”
“I always knew I didn’t want you as a brother,” she answered, somewhat breathlessly. “But it was a long time before I really understood why. You see” — she gave a little laugh — “I thought it was because you tried to interfere too much in my affairs!”
“A husband has the right to interfere even more than a brother,” he warned her, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, I will try my best to be a dutiful, obedient wife,” she said, blushing a little. “But pray don’t positively forbid me to do things, will you, Tony? I fear it brings out all the contrariness of my nature!”
“Not much chance of that,” he replied, putting on a glum expression. “You’ll have me eating out of your hand, I daresay.”
“I’d like to see that! Why, when we were children it was always the other way about, and I was your slavish disciple!”
“Ah, but you’re a woman now, Nell, and a very lovely one. Tell me, dearest, how will you like to be a Viscountess?”
“Oh, that’s of no account to me — but I shall like extremely to be Anthony Stratton’s wife,” she replied shyly, burying her face in his chest.
He clasped her once more in a strong embrace.
In this very wood, thought Helen, a little girl once dreamt that her Prince would come; and now he holds her in his arms, and they will nevermore part. But even that thought vanished in the next moment, as all but the intoxication of their love was forgotten.
Patch had wandered off long since, but now he returned in search of his mistress. Seeing her held captive, he leapt forward with a growl to her defence.
The pair moved apart, laughing.
“Down, old fellow!” ordered Anthony. “You’d best accustom yourself now to this kind of thing.”
Helen bent down to pat the dog. “Silly boy,” she whispered, in his cocked ear. “Can’t you see I like it?”
Patch settled himself down beside them with an air of resignation. He might as well make himself comfortable, for it looked as though they would be here for some time. There was no accounting for humans, even the best of them.
***
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A NOTE TO THE READER
It’s wonderful to see my mother’s books available again and being enjoyed by what must surely be a new audience from that which read them when they were first published. My brother and I can well remember our mum, Alice, writing away on her novels in the room we called the library at home when we were teenagers. She generally laid aside her pen — there were no computers in those days, of course — when we returned from school but we knew she had used our absence during the day to polish off a few chapters.
One of the things I well remember from those days is the care that she took in ensuring the historical accuracy of the background of her books. I am sure many of you have read novels where you are drawn out of the story by inaccuracies in historical facts, details of costume or other anachronisms. I suppose it would be impossible to claim that there are no such errors in our mother’s books; what is undoubted is that she took great care to check matters.
The result was, and is, that the books still have an appeal to a modern audience, for authenticity is appreciated by most readers, even if subconsciously. The periods in which they set vary: the earliest is The Georgian Rake, which must be around the middle of the 18th century; and some are true Regency romances. But Mum was not content with just a love story; there is always an element of mystery in her books. Indeed, this came to the fore in her later writings, which are historical detective novels.
There’s a great deal more I could say about her writings but it would be merely repeating what you can read on her website at www.alicechetwyndley.co.uk. To outward appearances, our mother was an average housewife of the time — for it was usual enough for women to remain at home in those days — but she possessed a powerful imagination that enabled her to dream up stories that appealed to many readers at the time — and still do, thanks to their recent republication.
If you have enjoyed her novels, we would be very grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads so that others may also be tempted to lose themselves in their pages.
Richard Ley, 2018.
MORE BOOKS BY ALICE CHETWYND LEY
THE EVERSLEY SAGA
The Clandestine Betrothal
The Toast of the Town
A Season at Brighton
THE RUTHERFORD TRILOGY
A Reputation Dies
A Fatal Assignation
Masquerade of Vengeance
OTHER NOVELS
The Jewelled Snuff Box
The Georgian Rake
The Guinea Stamp
The Master of Liversedge
Letters For A Spy
Tenant of Chesdene Manor
The Beau and the Bluestocking
A Conformable Wife
At Dark of the Moon
An Advantageous Marriage
The Intrepid Miss Haydon
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The textual sources from which I have drawn information for the writing of this novel are too numerous to be listed here. I would, however, like to place on record my deep gratitude for the assistance received from the following:
D. G. Bompas, C.M.G., M.A. Secretary, Guy’s Medical School; Stephen Green, Curator, Marylebone Cricket Club; The Staff of Hillingdon Borough Libraries. Eastcote Branch; and Graham K. H. Ley, who suggested the theme.
A.C.L
/> Published by Sapere Books.
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Copyright © The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley, 1979
The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted their right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80055-142-8
A Regency Scandal Page 49