“It is the nineteenth century, after all, my dear,” she told Lady Loynton. “Why should two youngsters not marry, if they are suitable and if they love each other? The age of purely arranged marriages ended a long time ago…”
The afternoon turned into evening and the guests took their leave. Soon, Nerissa went upstairs and her maid helped her to peel of her sumptuous wedding dress, to don a rather daring diaphanous nightgown, and to unbraid and brush her hair.
In his dressing room, Hunter was also undergoing preparations, assisted by Bulwich.
Once ready, he knocked the door and Nerissa opened it. The room was dimly lit by the dying embers and Nerissa’s face shone like the new moon, surrounded by the golden halo of her hair. Hunter buried his hands in the silky stuff and kissed her. His hands slid down over her shoulders to the thin fabric, through which he could feel her smooth, firm flesh, free at last from stays and bulky gowns.
Daringly, Nerissa undid the belt of his silk banyan and gasped, discovering that he was not wearing a nightgown.
“Fie, sir!” she complained, laughing. “Are you not ashamed?”
“Come here, wife,” growled Hunter, also laughing at the expression on her face. “You’ve teased me long enough!”
Willingly, she came into his arms, and they kissed, again and again, their hands exploring, their bodies entwined, as the garments they had been wearing slid to the floor in a discarded heap.
(You’ll find a taste of book 2, “Intriguing the Viscount” just after the ‘About the Author’ section in this book!)
Arietta Richmond has been a compulsive reader and writer all her life. Whilst her reading has covered an enormous range of topics, history has always fascinated her, and historical novels been amongst her favourite reading.
She has written a wide range of work, from business articles and other non-fiction works (published under a pen name) but fiction has always been a major part of her life. Now, her Regency Historical Romance books are finally being released. The Derbyshire Set is comprised of 10 shorter novels (6 released so far). The ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ series is comprised of 7 novels, with the first having just been released.
She also has a standalone longer novel shortly to be released, and two other series of novels in development.
She lives in Australia, and when not reading or writing, likes to travel, and to see in person the places where history happened.
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When you do, you will receive a free copy of the subscriber exclusive novella ‘A Gift of Love’, a prequel to the Derbyshire Set series, which ends on the day that ‘The Earl’s Unexpected Bride’ begins.
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London lay under a deep cover of snow, but everyone seemed to share a feeling of carefree happiness. This was the first Christmas after the end of the long Napoleonic Wars. Waterloo, the mother of all battles, had ended with a resounding victory and, after many years spent fighting, the surviving soldiers had returned to their homes. For most, there was much to celebrate this Christmas, and choirs could sing “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” giving full value to the truth of the joyous words. But for some, that joy was tempered by other concerns…
Offering his arm to his mother, Lady Pendholm, Lord Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, entered Lord Baildon’s townhouse. A footman hurried to relieve them of their outer garments.
They joined the receiving line, and soon they were announced, and went on to join the crush in the ballroom.
Their appearance was followed by a sudden hush, after which conversations resumed, with a slight edge to them. Nobody knew a lot about the new Lord Pendholm, who had only recently returned from the wars on the Continent, to resume his life, and to succeed his brother, the former Viscount Pendholm, who had died in a rather scandalous way, a few months previously.
It was common knowledge, among the ton, that the deceased Lord Pendholm had been something of an unsavoury character. His prowess as a gambler was legendary and it was whispered that he had not restricted himself to respectable gentlemen’s clubs like White’s or Watier’s, but had also attended disreputable gaming hells, associating with shady personages, usurers, swindlers, crooks and all manner of riff raff.
Another, darker rumour circulated among the gentlemen: that the late Lord Pendholm had had a nasty penchant for violence against women. All of the demi-monde had suddenly ostracised him, after he had viciously beaten a famed soi-disant French courtesan, and Mrs Tennant, a notorious Abbess, had banned him from her house of pleasure. All these juicy tit-bits were whispered behind fans and in dark corners, while Charlton and his mother circulated amongst the guests.
Lady Pendholm was in her early fifties and still a beautiful woman. She was silver haired and slender and her son knew well that, under an air of refined gentility, she hid the resilience of a steel blade, the same quality that flashed in her greenish brown eyes when she perceived how they were being oh-not-so-very-subtly snubbed by the ton.
She lightly squeezed Charlton’s arm, a silent warning not to react. Lord Pendholm looked around, to see if any of his friends were there, but he knew that was a forlorn hope.
Lord Hunter Barrington, Duke of Melton, was spending Christmas with his family at Meltonbrook Chase and would arrive later, at the beginning of the Season; Mr Raphael Morton, as a wealthy Cit, was not normally invited to the ton’s entertainments, despite the very real fact that he could buy off many an aristocrat, with change to spare; Lord Geoffrey Clarence was undoubtedly suffering under the grinding heel of his brother, Lord Alfred Clarence, Marquess Woodford, who was rather forcefully focussed on educating poor Geoff in his responsibilities as his heir; Lord Barton Seddon and Lord Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford were off somewhere together, probably buying horses to improve Gerry’s stock at his new estates.
Charlton sighed. The unlikely group known as His Majesty’s Hounds had formed during the war, as a very select unit, a closely knit association of men of different, and priceless, talents. Their friendship had been forged on the anvil of many harrowing experiences and was invaluable for all of them. It was second nature for each of them to look for the other Hounds when in any difficult situations, or when faced with potential conflict. And this, his first public appearance at a social function since his return, was making Charlton feel on edge, his perceptions keenly alert, all of his fighting instincts to the fore.
He smiled bleakly. This first skirmish, though important, was not decisive by any means.
He had many battles ahead to fight and win, if he wanted his family to regain the social standing they’d once had and which his brother’s behaviour had called into question.
And win he would, Charlton vowed: Harriet, his baby sister, a lively, spirited, pretty young thing, would not be looked at askance. He was an honourable man, from an honourable line: he would not allow one rotten apple to ruin it for them all.
Something caught Charlton’s attention, pulling him out of his thoughts, and into the moment. Maybe because he was thinking about war, it seemed significant - it was a man, somewhat older than Charlton, a slim, elegant figure, clad entirely in black, with a ruby signet ring on his finger and a sharp, aquiline profile.
It was the ring that created the association in Charlton’s mind. It was the same ring, or a very similar one, as he had once seen on the hand of a man who had been pointed out to him as a French agent. Was it really him? And, if so, whatever was he doing in London, attending a Christmas ball?
As he considered the puzzle of the mysterious guest, the crowd parted, revealing a young lady standing beside an older one and looking around with a half excited, half scared expression. A simile flashed through Charlton’s mind - the shell opens to reveal the pearl.
He paused, looking at her, and the crowd vanished, the noise quieted, time itself stopped. She was petite, but lushly curved, with a heart shaped face, a small pointed chin, a pert upturned nose and a wide brow with perfect, dark, wing shaped eyebrows.
Her skin was as translucent as mother of pearl, her eyes reminded him of the colour of the gentian violets he had once seen on the Swiss Alps, before the war. She was tastefully dressed in a jonquil satin gown, trimmed with white lace, elbow length white gloves and dainty white kid slippers.
A bony lady in Pomona green elbowed him as she moved through the crush, and brought him out of his reverie. After a perfunctory “Your pardon, my Lady”, and without losing track of the unknown enchantress, Charlton looked for his mother, in the hope that she might know her, and therefore be able to introduce him.
Lady Pendholm was talking with her long-time friend Sir Arthur Bowscale, a distinguished gentleman in his sixties, who owned a ramshackle mansion near Pendholm Hall, their country seat, and who, thanks to his acquaintance with a number of influential peers, had been able to smooth over most the unpleasantness and the scandal following Michael’s murder.
Lady Pendholm looked at her son and was surprised to see the normally calm and steady young man fidgeting.
“Did you want to speak with me, my son?” she asked graciously, her expression curious.
“Yes, Mother, if you please. Would you be as kind as to tell me whether you happen to know that young lady over there, the one dressed in jonquil satin?”
Lady Pendholm peered through her quizzing glass.
“The one near the portly lady in slate grey?”
“Yes Mother, that one. Do you know her?”
“Hmmm, no, I do not think so. I have never seen her before, which is strange. I thought I knew almost everybody. The ton, after all, is the most parochial group I know. My curiosity is piqued. Come, my son, let us look for our hostess and ask her.”
Lady Catharine Baildon, a vivacious and slightly garrulous sixtyish woman, was chatting with Lady Magda Wilmson, and telling her, in painstaking detail, all about her younger nephew’s exploits and vagaries.
“My dearest Sylvia!” she gushed. “How nice to see you again, after your terrible ordeal… and here is Lord Pendholm… What a handsome gentleman you have become, my dear Charlie! Excuse me if I seem overfamiliar, but I saw you in your swaddling clothes and you will allow an old woman her vagaries… So, you are back from the wars, at long last, and high time it was for that beastly Frenchman to be bundled up and sent halfway to nowhere to live or to die as he pleases… We must find a nice girl for you straight away, my lord, you need to settle down and have a few children of your own… Will it not be a treat, my dear Sylvia, to hold a baby again, all warm and cuddly? I dote on my Eddie’s brood… five of them, up to now, and I could swear dear Dorothy - you know, Eddie’s wife – is breeding again…” Half amused and half vexed, Lady Pendholm succeeded at last in stemming her friend’s seemingly unstoppable flow of words.
“Will you indulge my curiosity, my dear Catharine? You know that I have been out of society for more than eighteen months now, in our time of mourning - you must bring me up to date. Nobody is as knowledgeable as you are about what is going on with the ton. For instance, who are those two ladies over there? I cannot seem to remember them.”
Lady Baildon, who was very short-sighted but too vain to use a quizzing glass, squinted. “The young one in jonquil satin is Lady Odette Marmont, and the older one in slate grey is her aunt, Lady Farnsworth. Poor Odette has no mother to look after her - orphaned, you know – and Lady Farnsworth - her mother’s sister, you know – is chaperoning her. Almost on the shelf, she is. Already twenty-two and not even betrothed. Very shy little mousy thing, not spirited at all. Would you like me to introduce you?”
Lady Pendholm smiled. One could always count on Catharine for a bit of harmless meddling.
“If you would be so kind, I would be delighted, I’m sure.”
With the majesty of a frigate under full sail, Lady Baildon ploughed through the crowd, with Charlton and his mother in tow, and reached Lady Farnsworth and Lady Odette.
Seeing their hostess approaching them, Odette opened her eyes wide and seemed on the point of bolting, but Lady Farnsworth put a restraining hand on her elbow and hissed “Are you set on disgracing me, you wretched girl? Behave yourself! You are not a cowering, mistreated scullery maid, you are a Lady and like a Lady will you comport yourself. Now, stop fidgeting, stand straight and try to be gracious.”
“Good evening, Lady Farnsworth, how are you? I would like to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine, Lady Sylvia Edgeworth, Viscountess Pendholm. And this is her son, Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm. You might have heard that his elder brother, the former Lord Pendholm, died of late. They are just out of mourning and re-acquainting themselves with society life.”
Lady Farnsworth smiled. She was a formidable looking woman, with a white streak in her dark hair, piercing grey eyes, a strong chin and an imposing Roman nose.
“My dear Lady Pendholm, how do you do? I do feel for you, my dear husband died not long ago and, between war and mourning, we have not been attending society for a long time. Lord Pendholm, I am honoured to meet you. I’m told you are a war hero and that all of us should be grateful to you for having rid us of the Scourge of Europe. May I introduce you to my dear niece, Lady Odette Marmont? She is the daughter of my dear departed sister. She is here with her father, the Comte de Vierzon. French aristocracy suffered many indignities at the hands of the Corsican parvenu and rejoice with us at his defeat.”
Odette looked at Charlton and, caught by his gaze, had to restrain herself from staring.
He was a very handsome gentleman, with his wavy locks the colour of a ripe chestnut, rich with golden highlights, and his rich, warm chocolate eyes, where golden motes danced, but what Odette perceived was a compelling quality about him, a feeling of energy held on a tight leash, a strong magnetism emanating from the core of his being. He was the most intensely alive person that Odette had ever encountered.
While Odette and Charlton looked at each other, their wits askew, the three older ladies were engaged in a lively chat.
“Do you see the black clad gentleman over there, the one talking with Lord Stanmore? He is Odette’s father, the Comte de Vierzon.”
Charlton snapped out of his besotted trance and looked at Odette’s father. It was with deep disquiet that he recognised the gentleman he had previously noted. A French agent? An enemy spy? Or simply a French aristocrat, reinstated to his rightful standing by Napoleon’s defeat?
‘It is not my issue to worry about anymore,’ he thought. ‘Now I have other fish to fry’. Yet the sense of disquiet remained, even as he found his gaze drawn, irresistably it seemed, back to the remarkable blue violet of Lady Odette’s eyes.
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Claiming the Heart of a Duke: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 1) Page 8