The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “I am,” she whispered. “I have never been so happy.”

  “I will try to make you happier yet. Come.” He rose from the table, still holding her hand, and in almost courtly fashion, conducted her from the parlor to the stairs. The shouts and laughter from behind the taproom door did not disturb her as she climbed the stairs with her husband and walked along the passage to the bedchamber which had been his on their first visit.

  Either Hanson or one of the inn staff had lit the lamp and made it welcoming, laying night gowns on the bed and toiletries on the dresser. Alvan left her to light a few candles. She wanted to move forward and sit on the bed, but it seemed her legs would not carry her.

  Alvan shrugged off his coat and tossed it on chair, then came back and took both of her hands, raising them to his lips, one after the other. “Do you love me?” he asked softly.

  “You know I do.”

  “And you trust me now?”

  “I have always trusted you.”

  He bent his head and very gently kissed her mouth. It was sweet and heady and she parted her lips to enjoy it. The heat of desire surged within her, melting and yet more forceful than she had ever experienced.

  Too soon, he raised his head, a faint smile playing around his lips. He began to speak, but Charlotte was suddenly beyond words. From pure instinct, she reached up and took back his mouth with pure hunger.

  Groaning, he closed his arms around her and dragged her close against his body. His growing hardness excited her beyond belief. His mouth was different, too, wild and abandoned as it moved on hers, devouring and demanding.

  She gasped for air, throwing back her head and felt his lips tracing sensual, arousing patterns down her throat. He pressed her hips into his with one hand, while the other swept around to caress her breast, slipping beneath the fabric of her old riding habit which had somehow become unfastened. When his mouth found hers once more, her whole body flamed in barely understood passion.

  With one tug of his hand, her habit fell around her elbows. His arms enclosed her, sweeping her off her feet. He strode to the bed, and when he laid her upon it, the habit and stays were gone. With another shocking sweep of his hand, her chemise whipped over her head and vanished.

  Her breath came in wild, short pants as he paused, his eyes ravishing her.

  “My God, you are beautiful. And mine.”

  “You feel beautiful, too,” she said, her hands roving under his shirt over his smooth, hot back which seemed to undulate to her every touch.

  He sat back, hurriedly removing his waistcoat and pulling his shirt up over his head. His skin seemed to glow golden brown in the candle light as he bent, shoving at pantaloons and underwear. Charlotte’s heart thundered with anticipation and a need she didn’t quite understand. She could not help reaching for him with both arms, and then he was lying over her naked, skin to skin. Spontaneously, she arched into him, glorying in the heat and weight of his body, trembling as he kissed and caressed her with ever increasing intimacy.

  When he caressed between her legs, she cried out, shocked by the sudden intensity of the pleasure galloping through her. And then he was within her, moving, stroking inside and out as she shattered into joy.

  He buried his face in her hair and groaned so profoundly that she was afraid he was hurt.

  “What is it?” she whispered, when she could speak. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he gasped, raising his head and smiling as he kissed her deeply and thoroughly. “Absolutely nothing.”

  She hugged him with relief as he slid down beside her. “Good,” she said shyly. “Because you did make me even happier.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair, “I shall always aim to make you even happier.”

  She smiled at the very idea that this could be possible. Then, more anxiously, she said, “And you?”

  His arm tightened around her. “Oh, my love, did you not feel my joy?”

  She kissed him. “Yes, but I have been thinking and despite what my mother told Tommie, I don’t believe I want you to go to… to tavern wenches and stage floozies.”

  “Good.” He took her face between his hands. “I have no interest in any woman but you. Neither am I a complacent husband.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean I may not keep lovers?”

  But he must have seen the twinkle in her eye, for a breath of laughter escaped his lips. “No, you may not,” he said firmly. “Are we in agreement, wife?”

  She kissed him. “Yes, my husband,” she said contentedly.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Henrietta tripped into the blue salon of the London house, dressed in the most becoming walking dress of embroidered white muslin, and a pink spencer of exactly the same shade as the embroidery. She looked, she knew, as pretty as a picture, and she fully expected her mother to tell her so.

  Lady Overton, however, was gazing out of the window at a hackney which had just deposited a prodigiously elegant young lady and gentlemen in the street below. “They are coming here,” she said in surprise. “It is a little early for morning callers.”

  “Who are they?” Henrietta asked with a hint of impatience, for she had been promised a new ballgown on the strength of a wealthy baronet’s interest in her.

  “I can’t see their faces. Go and listen, Henrie, so we’ll know whether or not to take off our bonnets again.”

  Obediently, Henrietta went out onto the landing and glanced downstairs. The Duke of Alvan stepped over the front door. The lady beside him was dressed in a stunning shade of deep, dark blue, the jauntiest little hat perched on her shining dark hair. Whoever she was, she had taste, style, and beauty. As though sensing Henrietta’s scrutiny, the lady tilted her head and looked up. She looked vaguely familiar—those large, curious eyes and expressive, humorous mouth. For an instant, the radiant beauty of the lady prevented recognition.

  Then her name spilled in astonishment from Henrietta’s lips. “Charlotte? Charlotte! Mama, it’s Charlotte and the duke!”

  Charlotte smiled and walked toward the stairs with confidence as well as impetuosity. She was exquisite.

  “Duke, what duke?” demanded her mother, hurrying out into the passage.

  “Alvan,” Henrietta said blankly.

  “But what is Charlotte doing here? Is everything well at ho—” Lady Overton broke off, her jaw dropping. “Good God, Charlotte, where did you get that ravishing gown? Why in the world are you here?”

  “I got the gown from my husband, and we are just in London for a few days before sailing up the coast to Lincolnshire in Alvan’s yacht.” Charlotte arrived on the landing, the duke behind her.

  “But… but why?” Lady Overton said, bewildered.

  “Wedding trip,” Charlotte said succinctly. “I could have written, but we came almost as quickly as the post. His grace and I were married by special license on Tuesday.”

  Lady Overton swayed until Charlotte steadied her with an arm at her waist.

  Henrietta knew how her mother felt. “You?” she said in disbelief. “You and the duke?”

  “Well, you must admit she looks well on it,” her mother said tartly, clearly recovering from the shock. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Felicitations would be well received,” Alvan drawled.

  “Oh lord, you’ve set me all at sixes and sevens! I’ve never been more surprised in my life, but I am thrilled to welcome you to our family, Alvan.” To prove it, she gave him her hand and offered her cheek to kiss.

  “Perhaps you’d better sit down for the next news.” Charlotte said, drawing Henrietta with her back into the salon away from the flapping ears of the servants. “Which is that Thomasina is engaged—truly this time—to Lord Dunstan. The bans will be called on Sunday.”

  Henrietta, who had been preening herself as the center of the family’s attention for several weeks, felt her nose distinctly out of joint. “Then both of you will be married before me,” she said indignantly.

  “Henrie, you’re seventeen and
have been out for a month,” Charlotte said dryly. “I don’t believe you’re on the shelf.”

  No, it was Charlotte who had been on the shelf since before she was even old enough to marry. For the first time, Henrietta questioned the way they had thought about Charlotte, and the way she had been treated.

  “You were never unmarriageable,” she said in surprise.

  “People aren’t,” Charlotte said, “if they meet the right husband. Or wife. And if one doesn’t, I believe one can still be happy and useful.”

  “But you’re much happier being married,” Henrietta said shrewdly. “I can see that just by looking at you.”

  Charlotte smiled and took Alvan’s hand. “I have exactly the right husband.”

  Looking from her shining eyes, to the way Alvan’s fingers closed possessively around Charlotte’s, Henrietta rather thought she did. Unexpectedly, she felt happy for her once-sickly sister. More than that, she felt as if she were seeing her afresh, which wasn’t entirely comfortable.

  Her mother said in awe, “My daughter the duchess. I never thought it would be you, Charlotte.”

  “Neither did I,” Charlotte said lightly.

  Lady Overton drew her down on the sofa beside her and hugged her convulsively. “Do you forgive me, Charlie?”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Charlotte said, kissing her mother’s cheek.

  Lady Overton gave a little gasp and a slightly watery smile as she drew back. “But this is wonderful! We ignored the diamond in our midst and you have saved us anyway!” She bestowed a more dazzling smile upon Alvan. “I knew you were comfortable with us, I just didn’t quite understand why! So, what was it that drew you to my Charlotte? Her kind nature? Her sense of fun?”

  “Yes,” Alvan allowed. “And more, much more.” He hesitated, then gave a faint, crooked smile. Henrietta didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile before. “When I was with her, I felt… whole.”

  “So did I,” Charlotte said in wonder.

  “Goodness,” Henrietta said, awed. This was more romantic than any novel she had ever read. “Two lost hearts finding each other.”

  Charlotte’s gaze met Alvan’s, and for an instant, Henrietta was overwhelmed by the intensity of love she read there. And then laughter sprang up, too.

  “At the Hart,” Henrietta exclaimed, delighted to understand. “They should change the spelling of the inn!”

  “Villin says it is a lucky house,” Alvan recalled.

  Charlotte smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “I believe he is right.”

  The Sinister Heart

  Unmarriageable

  Book 2

  Mary Lancaster

  Chapter One

  On a moonless night, the familiar inn looked somehow strange and unwelcoming. Had Cecily been of a fanciful nature, she might have described it as menacing. Fortunately, she was the most practical and sunny natured of young women, so she merely took her aunt’s arm and led her inside.

  The wall of noise and smells hit her at once, for the door from the entrance hall to the public taproom was wide open. However, at least it also enabled the innkeeper to catch sight of his noble customers, too, for he hurried toward them at once, shouting to his underling to take his place, and closed the door behind him.

  “Your ladyships,” he exclaimed, bowing low. “What a pleasant surprise. I’m sure we’ve had no word of your coming.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Cecily’s aunt, Lady Barnaby, said dryly. “It was not our intention until an hour ago when one of our wretched horses went lame. We’ve had to toil our way to you, the nearest shelter. We require a bedchamber each, and your private parlor.”

  The innkeeper, who rejoiced in the name of Villin, looked dismayed. “Your forgiveness, ma’am, but I have only the one bedchamber in the whole of the inn, and the parlor is taken, too.”

  “Drat,” Lady Barnaby said crossly. “I suppose we would not care for the coffee room at this time of night either. Well, our hands are tied. We shall take your one bedchamber and whatever dinner you can find for us.”

  At that moment, the parlor door opened and the innkeeper’s wife came out carrying an empty tray. Beyond her plump, comely person, Cecily glimpsed several men bathed in the somehow mysterious glow from scattered candles. Most were seated around a table in the middle of the room, but one man stood by the fire, leaning carelessly against the mantel shelf. Although his dress looked to be that of a gentleman, he wore it extremely casually, with his cravat loose and his coat unbuttoned. Neither did the coat fit with fashionable snugness across his broad shoulders. Clearly, it was made for comfort rather than appearance.

  He seemed to be ignoring the men at the table, who, from her one hasty glance, gave Cecily a vague impression of tense malevolence. While they drank and talked with quiet intensity, the gentleman scowled at the hearth, his expression dark and brooding. His lean jaw was shadowed with stubble. His raven-black hair, too long for fashion, fell carelessly forward over his high forehead. In all, he looked a little like one of Lord Byron’s heroes, and was handsome enough besides, to make Cecily’s heart skip a beat.

  As though he heard the anomaly, he glanced up, unerringly straight at Cecily. His lips curved. Some dangerous light glinted in his eyes like fire. And then Mrs. Villin closed the door on the room and Cecily breathed again.

  “Here’s my wife who’ll show you to your bedchamber,” Villin said with relief. “And my daughter will bring you up some dinner in just a few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Cecily said, glancing once more toward the parlor door.

  “Bless your ladyships, what a pleasant surprise,” Mrs. Villin said, handing her husband the empty tray. “Just a shame we’re so busy tonight, for we didn’t expect you. Visiting at Audley Park, were you?”

  “Yes,” Cecily replied, following her upstairs. “We attended Miss Maybury’s wedding to Lord Dunstan.”

  “How wonderful,” Mrs. Villin exclaimed with genuine pleasure. “And were the duke and duchess there, too?”

  “Indeed, they were,” Cecily replied, “but they have already returned to Lincolnshire. We were heading to London when one of our horses went lame and forced us to stop. So, is it the gentlemen in the parlor who have taken all your bedchambers?”

  “Some of ’em,” Mrs. Villin said, leading them across the landing to the door at the end of the passage. “Here we are, my ladies. I’m sorry you have to share, but I hope this will do for you.”

  Cecily and her aunt cast a quick glance around it. Though a little sparse of furniture, it was a large room with a huge bed.

  “It looks very comfortable,” Cecily assured her. “By the by, I’m sure I know one of the gentlemen in the parlor, but his name eludes me,”

  “Oh, no, my lady, you won’t know any of them.” Mrs. Villin sounded shocked by the very idea.

  “Why ever would I not?” Cecily asked, amused.

  “You’re a young lady,” Mrs. Villin stated. “I’ll have your bags sent up and Lily will bring you dinner presently.”

  As she bustled away, Lady Barnaby took off her bonnet and cast it on the bed before sinking onto the one arm chair in the room, and peeling off her gloves. She fixed Cecily with her sternest gaze. “What, pray, is your interest in the gentlemen downstairs?”

  One could never keep anything from Aunt Barny.

  “Curiosity, dear aunt, curiosity,” Cecily replied. “Didn’t you wonder what they were doing there so solemnly? In the middle of nowhere?”

  “Be reasonable, my dear. The Hart cannot be in the middle of nowhere when the taproom is so full of locals.”

  “Yes, but they weren’t local,” Cecily argued. “In fact, I’ve never seen such an odd set of men sitting at one table before. Did you not notice? One of them looked like a bank clerk, and the others looked largely villainous. As for Childe Harold by the fireplace …”

  “Childe Harold?”

  “The hero of Lord Byron’s poem,” Cecily said impatiently. “I give you my word, he looks ex
actly like him.”

  “Then I’m not surprised Mrs. Villin was so reticent! Drat, how are we to cope without the maids?”

  Their maids, with the baggage, had been sent on ahead to London before the accident occurred.

  “We must ‘maid’ for each other,” Cecily said flippantly. “It’s quite fun having no entourage. We can pretend to be damsels in distress.”

  “I am most certainly a matron in distress!”

  The innkeeper’s pretty young daughter, Lily, brought them dinner a little while later. Since the inn’s cooking was wholesome and tasty, Lady Barnaby’s mood improved somewhat.

  “I daresay we shall be back in London tomorrow,” she observed. “And our first caller will inevitably be Torbridge.”

  Young Lord Torbridge, son and heir of the Marquis of Hay, was Cecily’s most persistent admirer. She wrinkled her nose, acknowledging her aunt was no doubt correct.

  “So, have you made up your mind?” Lady Barnaby inquired. “Will you accept him?”

  “Aunt, he hasn’t even offered yet.” She stabbed her fork into a piece of beef with unnecessary force.

  “But if he did?” her aunt persisted. “I think you like him better than any other gentleman.”

  It was true, there was something appealing about Torbridge, though she couldn’t put a finger on exactly what. He was a high sticker in areas of propriety, which didn’t normally attract Cecily. On the other hand, he was very good natured about it, and he did make her laugh. He was just a little different from most of her suitors, who were either too pleased with themselves or too obviously fortune-hunters.

  “You are nearly one-and-twenty,” Lady Barnaby pointed out. “Torbridge is a good match, and you would be a marchioness one day. Alvan would be happy.”

  But would I? In truth, she rather liked her life as it was, carefree and amusing, with her aunt’s sudden journeys to make her life interesting. But she knew it couldn’t go on forever. Her family duty was to marry well.