Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  Bella tried to sound indignant. ‘Parcel? Well, allow me to unwrap you then, my lord.’

  ‘Arabella.’ It was a groan as she struggled with buttons and shirttails. ‘Hurry.’

  The fastenings of his breeches gave way to her fingers and she felt the muscles of his stomach contract as she slipped her hand down and circled him. He thrust into her hand, hot and hard and ready for her. They stood, locked together, not moving, his hand cupping her breast, hers encircling the powerful length of him. Bella tightened her hold.

  ‘No. Arabella… Wait.’

  ‘Your boots,’ she managed as he swept her up and dropped her on the bed.

  ‘My boots be damned.’

  ‘The covers… Oh! Oh, Elliott. Oh, my love. Yes.’ Boots, bedding, everything vanished from her consciousness as he came into her with a certainty and a possessive passion that eclipsed everything that had gone before. She was his and he was hers and nothing, it seemed to her through a daze of mounting, aching urgency, would ever be the same again.

  He drove her up, beyond breaking point into a sudden, all-consuming climax, then held her, murmuring as he moved gently within her until she was aware again, her fingers tightening on his shoulders as she said against his mouth, ‘Love you, I love you. Elliott.’

  Arabella. My love.’ Elliott kissed her back, claiming her, feeling that this was somehow the first time for them, the first time it had ever mattered so much. He forced control on himself, aware of her body, her breathing, the rising need sweeping through her again, and held on until he felt her begin to break again. ‘My love, for ever,’ he heard himself say as the passion swept him away. ‘Always.’

  26 March

  ‘Those beds will be a mass of bloom by summer.’ Arabella leaned against Elliott as they looked out of the drawing-room window on to the new flowerbeds Johnson and his men, including young Trubshaw, had cut out of the turf and were just beginning to plant up with the hardier shrubs.

  ‘It is almost the end of March, spring is in the air, Marguerite is flourishing,’ she continued. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her more tightly. It was still a shock, a joy, to know that she was his and he loved her. ‘Is it possible to be happier, do you think?’

  ‘In general, no,’ Elliott agreed, loving the way she wriggled with sensual responsiveness as he bent to nibble her earlobe. ‘I could think of ways to increase the intensity of the feeling, of course.’

  ‘You always can,’ Arabella said. As usual when she remembered that she was supposed to be a respectable viscountess she was trying to sound disapproving and failing completely. ‘It so happens that we have absolutely no commitments this afternoon, or this evening. I kept today free because of packing tomorrow for London.’

  ‘Your very first Season, Lady Hadleigh. Are you nervous?’ He was glad he had delayed travelling until the weather was better. The time to themselves had been precious. It had taken Arabella a long time to forgive herself for running away from him and to believe that the accident was somehow not her fault. He had tried to find out more about her missing sisters, to no avail, but she had turned to him for comfort and sharing the search and the emotion had brought them closer together.

  ‘Terrified,’ she admitted. ‘But you will be there so it will not be so bad. I was thinking that perhaps we could go upstairs, and er…rest this afternoon.’

  ‘How about resting right now?’ Elliott started to turn from the window, his imagination conjuring up an entire menu of unrestful things to do with his wife, then stopped. ‘Damnation, there’s a carriage coming up the drive. Are we expecting visitors? I don’t recognise the team.’

  ‘Or the crest on the door either.’ Beside him Arabella craned her neck to try to make it out. The vehicle came to a halt, the door swung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man got out. ‘I don’t know him, do you?’ she said. ‘My goodness, what an alarming-looking gentleman. He is positively swarthy, and looks so grim. What a jaw!’

  Army,’ Elliott hazarded, studying the upright back and indefinable air of authority as the big man held out his hand to assist a lady to alight.

  ‘What an elegant hat,’ Arabella said. ‘I wonder if—Meg! It is Meg! Elliott—’ She ran out of the room without waiting for him, dodged past Henlow who was opening the front door, and flung herself down the steps with Elliott at her heels. ‘Meg!’

  ‘Bella!’ The modish matron dropped reticule and parasol and launched herself at Arabella. ‘It is you! We’ve found you at last. Ross, see, it is Bella! You look so beautiful…’

  She burst into tears. Bella burst into tears. Elliott skirted round the two women sobbing in each others’ arms and held out his hand to the other man. ‘Hadleigh.’

  ‘Brandon.’ The men shook and turned back to regard their wives.

  Elliott thought vaguely about handkerchiefs and then decided he would wait for the emotion to subside a trifle. ‘How did you find us?’ he asked.

  ‘My wife was lining drawers and using a pile of newspapers that had mounted up while we were, er…otherwise engaged,’ Ross Brandon said. ‘She saw her sister’s name and there was no stopping her. We went to your Town house first, found the knocker off and Meg insisted on setting out immediately. She was too impatient to write and wait two days for a response.’

  Bella turned, wreathed in smiles despite her tear-streaked face. ‘Elliott, it is Meg and she is Lady Brandon now!’

  ‘I rather gathered that,’ he said with a grin, holding out a handkerchief. ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘I’ll just get the nursemaid and the baby,’ Brandon said, going back to the carriage and helping a young woman with the baby asleep in her arms to alight.

  ‘Oh, how perfect.’ Bella hung over the infant. ‘Is it a boy? How old is he?’

  ‘Six weeks,’ Meg said. ‘Charles Mallory Ross Brandon.’

  ‘And my daughter is twelve weeks old. Come in… come in and see her, her name is Marguerite Rafaela Calne and she is beautiful.’ Bella towed her sister towards the door, talking non-stop. ‘But, Meg, it is so long, almost seven years. There is so much to tell—where shall we begin?’

  It took almost three hours to learn the basic facts about the years they had spent apart. Bella wept again when she heard that Meg had been deceived into a bigamous marriage with James Halgate and then left destitute in Spain when he was killed in battle. She had encouraged her sister to elope with her childhood sweetheart and he had proved to have feet of clay. But if it were not for that tragedy Meg would never have met the man she was so obviously passionately in love with now.

  The tale of how she had met Major Ross Brandon on the quayside in Bordeaux and nursed his wounds in return for her passage back and how they had fallen in love and married, defying scandal, had her flinging her arms around her brother-in-law’s neck and kissing him. He might look dour and frightening, but Bella soon realised he adored Meg and doted on his son and she was determined to love him in return.

  It was more difficult to tell her own story, for she could not reveal the truth about Marguerite’s father to anyone, not even her sister. ‘I behaved very imprudently,’ she confessed, blushing. ‘And Marguerite was born seven months after the wedding.’

  ‘I think it very romantic,’ Meg said, beaming at Elliott. ‘It was love at first sight, was it not?’

  ‘Do you know,’ Elliott said, smiling at Bella, ‘it may well have been.’ She smiled back. No, she knew it had not been that, but somehow this was better: deeper and truer.

  ‘But what can have happened to Celina?’ Meg asked anxiously. ‘I know she ran away in June 1813 because Patrick Jago, my enquiry agent, found out that much.’

  All I know is that she went to an aunt I had never heard of, a sister of Mama’s. And, Meg, I am so sorry if this is a shock, but Elliott and I think that Mama did not die, as Papa told us, but ran off with another man.’

  Meg was shocked, but less surprised by that suggestion than Bella had been. But then, Bella thought, her younger sister had seen a good deal mor
e of the world than she. It was a comfort to talk about it though, to hold her sister as they grieved again for their mother. ‘We must advertise for Lina,’ she said. ‘We cannot give up. One day we will be reunited.’

  ‘Tired?’ Elliott asked as they finally went to their room. They had talked themselves to a standstill that evening and Meg and Ross had retired to bed, leaving young Charles tucked up in the nursery next to Marguerite.

  ‘I am too excited to sleep,’ Bella admitted. ‘I just want to cuddle and enjoy being so happy.’

  ‘Just cuddle?’ He raised one dark brow and a warm glow began to spread through her.

  ‘To start with,’ Bella said demurely. ‘Have I told you, Elliott Calne, just how much I love you?’

  ‘Possibly not for a few hours,’ he admitted, as he stood in the middle of the room and shed his dressing gown with his usual total lack of modesty. ‘I am open to being reminded.’

  ‘I feel I have a family at last.’ Bella removed her négligé and drifted closer, enjoying the heat in his eyes, the tenderness with which he reached out to draw her to him. ‘I have a husband who loves me, a beautiful daughter and now a sister again.’

  ‘Come here and cuddle me, then,’ Elliott said, his voice husky.

  ‘No,’ said Bella, standing on tiptoe to kiss the sensual curve of his lower lip. ‘No, I think I need to kiss you all over and tell you between each kiss how much I love you.’

  ‘That sounds an excellent plan,’ Elliott murmured, backing away until they fell on to the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. ‘Just so long as I can kiss you back. I may not have fallen in love at first sight as your romantical sister believes, but my conscience has never served me a better turn than when it told me to marry you, Arabella Shelley. I could not have found a wife I loved more if I searched the globe.’

  And so she began to kiss him and their voices became murmurs and their touching became urgent and finally they lay entwined as the candles guttered and the room became dark and still and full of love.

  Innocent Courtesan To Adventurer’s Bride

  Louise Allen

  Author Note

  Celina Shelley is the youngest of the Shelley sisters and the shyest. She’s always thought of herself as timid, compared to headstrong Meg and stoic, determined Bella, but her one act of rebellion lands her in a quite shocking and scandalous place, and from there she faces not just ruin but headlong flight from the law. Somehow Lina has to find reserves of courage she never knew she had. Discovering them surprises her almost as much as it did me!

  I knew I had to find a sanctuary for her, and I literally stumbled on it in Sheringham Park on the north Norfolk coast, which became the inspiration for Dreycott Park. The house and park belong to the National Trust now, and the house is not open to the public, but you can walk in the park and climb to the top of the hill and the windswept gazebo as Lina did.

  And it seemed right to give the shy sister a rakish adventurer for her hero. Both Lina and I fell head over heels for Quinn Ashley and I hope you do too as her adventure—the final episode in The Transformation of the Shelley Sisters—unfolds.

  DEDICATION

  For AJH—free at last!

  Prologue

  London—March 4th, 1815

  ‘You, my dear Miss Celina Shelley, are most definitely an asset of the business.’ Mr Gordon Makepeace folded his hands on the desk blotter in front of him and smiled.

  Lina had never seen a crocodile in the flesh, but she could imagine one very clearly now. ‘I believe you mean that I am an asset to the business, Mr Makepeace. That is, I hope that by keeping the accounts and managing the housekeeping here at The Blue Door I am repaying some of my debt to my Aunt Clara for taking me in.’ She looked at the closed door that communicated with her aunt’s rooms. ‘I really should go and see how she does. I was on my way to her when you arrived.’

  ‘I do not think so.’ The smile had vanished. ‘We don’t want you catching whatever it is she has, do we?’

  ‘My aunt has a chronic disease of the stomach. That is hardly contagious.’ Lina stood up and went to the connecting door. It was locked.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Shelley.’ The vague feeling of discomfort that had been almost unnoticed under the greater anxiety about her aunt became a chill shiver of alarm.

  Twenty months ago Lina had run away from her miserable home life in a Suffolk vicarage to find refuge with her aunt. She had known of her only from one letter written to her mother years before and it had been a severe shock to discover that Aunt Clara, far from being the respectable spinster of her imaginings, was Madam Deverill, owner of one of London’s most exclusive brothels.

  But Lina had burned her boats now; there could be no going back to the wretched safety of the vicarage, back to one of the only two people who loved her, the sister she had run away and left. Her father would never allow her over the threshold and the scandal of where she had been would tarnish her elder sister.

  Lina had fled impulsively, snatching at the tenuous lifeline of that hidden letter. She had been so utterly miserable, she had felt so trapped, that escape was all she could think of, especially after Meg, her other beloved sister, had left. Now her conscience nagged her with the knowledge that she should not have left Bella alone.

  Her elegantly alluring aunt accepted her without a murmur, gave her a room on the private floor at the top of the house with windows that looked out to the roofs of St James’s Palace, and proceeded to treat her as a daughter. How could she go back? Aunt Clara asked her. Her father would bar the door to her. Bella was the sensible, stoical sister, her aunt said. If she wanted to leave, too, she would. But Lina’s conscience still troubled her.

  Gordon Makepeace had been a silent partner in the business ever since a crisis with a difficult landlord some years ago had plunged Clara into near-bankruptcy. His money had saved the business and now it flourished again, she explained to Lina when her niece insisted on taking over what work she could that did not involve her directly with the purpose of the establishment. Now, every month, Lina counted out the guineas that represented Makepeace’s share of the profits.

  He had been a shadowy figure up to now, but this last bout of sickness had left Madam Deverill too ill to leave her bed and he had simply walked in and taken over. ‘Why are you keeping me from my aunt?’ Lina demanded. ‘You have no right—’

  ‘I have a considerable sum invested here; as Madam is not fit to run the business at present, I have been looking at the books.’ He waved a hand at the stack of ledgers. ‘I can see that opportunities are being missed, avenues of income are not being explored. I intend to take things in hand. There will be changes.’ It was a threat, not a suggestion.

  ‘What changes?’ Lina asked. Aunt Clara would be better soon, surely? She could not intend that this man should make decisions.

  ‘There are services that are not offered. Highly profitable services.’ He raised an eyebrow as though daring her to speculate. But Lina had listened while her aunt had explained the business to her in terms that even the most innocent daughter of the vicarage could grasp. The Blue Door sold sex. Luxurious, indulgent sex accompanied by excellent food, good wine and choice entertainment.

  ‘But I will not have virgins here,’ Madam had said. ‘Or children, or girls doing things they aren’t willing to. My girls get a fair wage and I make sure they keep healthy.’ And the fierce light in her eyes as she spoke had told Lina that these were more than merely house rules. Once, long ago, she realised, someone had forced her aunt to do things against her will and that had left deep scars.

  Later she had discovered, to her stunned surprise, that her mother and her aunt had both been courtesans in their youth. At first she was too bewildered for questions, then, still almost unable to believe it, she had dared to ask.

  ‘We fell in love with brothers,’ Clara had said with a bitter twist to her smile. ‘And they seduced us and abandoned us here in St James’s, where we had innocently followed them. We were young and lost and heartb
roken and it did not take long for us to be found by a brothel keeper.

  ‘We grew up fast,’ she added, seeming to look back down the years. ‘We saved, we found wealthy “friends” and I started my own house that grew eventually into The Blue Door. Your mama, bless her, never became accustomed—she took over the housekeeping and the books, just as you have.’

  There was so much to come to terms with there. Lina asked only one question. ‘But however did Mama meet Papa?’ For surely the fiercely moral Reverend Shelley had never been inside a brothel in his life, except perhaps to harangue the occupants on their evil ways and the certainty that Hell’s fires awaited them?

  ‘She met him in Green Park. Annabelle always dressed well, like a lady. He tripped over and sprained his ankle, she stopped to offer him assistance—it was love at first sight. Then he was not the Puritan prig he grew into,’ Clara said with a sniff. ‘That came later. She never told him what she was, of course. He believed her when she said I was a widow and she was my companion. They married, he took her off into the wilds of Suffolk, they had three daughters and he became, year by year, more rigid, more sanctimonious. And she fell out of love and into a sort of dull misery with him.

  ‘I do wonder,’ her aunt had said thoughtfully, ‘if your father found out, or came to suspect, something about your mother’s past. We will never know now, although her letters tell of him becoming more and more suspicious and unreasonable. She met Richard Lovat and they eloped. She wrote to me, confident that your father would let you all come to her—you were only girls, after all. But he refused. Annabelle was beside herself—Lovat took her abroad, but she died in Italy two years later. I do not think she ever forgave herself for leaving you.’

  Now Lina felt her vision blur and she wrenched her attention back to the man on the other side of the desk. She had left Bella as her mother had left her daughters. Well, she was paying for her heedless, selfish, panic now, it seemed. ‘What do you mean to do?’ she asked, trying not to show how she felt. Like all bullies he would feed on her fear.