The Folly at Falconbridge Hall

by Maggi Andersen

  “Let’s get these damn clothes off.” He fumbled impatiently at her corset. “Why did you wear this infernal thing today?”

  She laughed and put her hand over his. “Let me help.”

  He was hers. She had been prepared to fight for him, even if it meant wrestling him away from Abigail Patterson. But it was Clara she had been afraid she couldn’t win against. She would always remain young and very lovely.

  He pulled off her corset, while she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, as impatient as he. It drew a husky laugh from him.

  His laugh sent joy spiraling through her. He had been through so much, and she longed to comfort him, with her love and her body. To ease the hurt caused him by two selfish and immoral people. She let her bloomers pool at her feet. Emboldened by her feminine power, she stepped out of them and shamelessly stripped off her chemise. Naked, she unrolled her stockings as Julian’s trousers joined the rest of his clothes on the floor.

  A moment later, they both tumbled naked onto the bed.

  His weight settled over her. Skin to skin, she hugged him close. Everything would be all right now. Her fingers stroked over his ribs, feeling each bone, more pronounced than before his trip, moving down over the curve of his lower back to his rounded buttocks, reassuring herself that he had returned unhurt. He was still a fine specimen of a man. He slipped a hand between them and stroked her, stoking the fire that burned for his touch. She opened her legs and drew him in, her thighs clasping around his hips, and he pushed into her with a groan of delight. It brought her close to crying before his thrusts carried her away. She’d felt like a cello string strung too tightly over the past months, so missing his body and this essential part of their lives.

  Julian stilled. “Don’t move,” he said, his voice strained.

  She chewed her lip. “But I want to move.”

  “Don’t … aah…” With a groan, he held her bottom and thrust into her in an urgent rhythm. Waves of bliss shuddered through her, sending heat racing to pool at the very core of her.

  Julian joined her, spilling his seed inside her.

  She loved that he’d let go and given in to his emotions.

  “That was over too fast.” His sleepy blue eyes, still capable of a fiery erotic glance, stole her breath. He rested a hand on her stomach, stroking upwards to cup a breast as their breathing slowed. “Perhaps we have made a baby.”

  She widened her eyes. “Do you want another child?”

  “I do. Do you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Vanessa grinned with delight. “But I wasn’t sure that you did.”

  Julian rose reluctantly and began to dress. He watched her pull on her stockings. “Such arousing things, stockings,” he said with a grin, bending to run a hand up her calf to her thigh.

  Vanessa was sorry when he removed his hand. The air carried the heady scents of their lovemaking. Trying to ignore the rampant desire to return to the rumpled bed and pull him against her, she put on her shoes.

  Julian went to the door and held out his hand to her. She slipped hers into his strong clasp, filled with a deep abiding love for him. Now that he was home, her new life could begin.

  The End

  A Baron in Her Bed

  Maggi Andersen

  Chapter One

  London, 1816

  He had waited so long for this. With the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth, Guy Truesdale stood on the lawn verge of Golden Square and studied number twelve across the road. The impressive size of the three-story townhouse was as he imagined, and the gardens in the square still well-ordered, but Soho was not as elegant as his father had described. It appeared to have changed considerably in the last thirty-five years, and the aristocracy of his father’s time had since moved on to more salubrious areas. In those days a fashionable countess had lived next door and had given lavish balls and dinner parties. Now the townhouse next door to his appeared to be a warehouse for musical instruments. The swell of an Italian aria emanated from an open window, sung by a tenor accompanied by the harpsichord and violin.

  The door of his townhouse, which was still leased, opened to display peeling wallpaper and scuffed tiles as two men emerged. They crossed the road and bowed to him before they walked away across the square.

  Glad the rain had held off, Guy made his way back to his hotel. Tomorrow, he would leave London for Digswell. Perhaps what he found in the country might please him more. Any hope that his father’s loving descriptions of England would make him feel less a stranger, faded, as he walked through streets which were completely foreign to him. He straightened his shoulders. He’d come here to claim his inheritance, and claim it he would. There was no returning to France now.

  Dusk turned to evening, hastening his footsteps. He decided on a shortcut and hurried down a shadowy laneway which, by his calculations, would lead into a main thoroughfare.

  He was halfway along it when the sound of running feet, made him spin around. Two men appeared out of the gloom and advanced towards him.

  Guy moved back until his shoulder brushed the wall. “What is it you want?”

  When neither of the men answered, cold sweat gathered on his brow. His glance flicked ahead to where the laneway joined a busy road. “Répondez-moi,” he demanded. His throat tightened in fear.

  “’e’s the one all right,” one of them murmured. They separated and each took a menacing step closer, blocking off any avenues of escape.

  The moon sailed above the narrow gap between the buildings and shone on the knife held by one of the footpads.

  Guy drew his swordstick. “Back away.”

  At the sight of it, they stepped back apace, hesitated, and stood regarding him.

  A feint might work. When he had them off guard he would run for it. He moved away from the wall and drew circles in the air with his sword. “Come on, you want to fight? I’m willing.”

  “’e can’t take both of us,” the tallest of the two said.

  “Yer, but he could run one of us through,” the other replied. “And we weren’t paid enough for that.”

  “Shut up, you fool.”

  Surprised, Guy stilled, his heart thudding in his ears. “Who paid you?”

  “Say nothin’,” the tall man warned. He then whispered something to his companion.

  He watched them, his swordstick at the ready. Did they mean to kill him?

  As the taller man raised his arm to throw the knife, Guy lunged to the left. A pistol shot blasted through the confined space, rattling the nearby windows, and the knife clattered to the ground.

  The tall man shrieked. “I’ve been shot.”

  “Hey, you there!” Highlighted by the light from the street behind him, a caped figure strode towards them from the main thoroughfare, a pistol in each hand, one smoking. “Next time I’ll aim to kill.”

  The injured man snatched up his knife and the pair scuttled back the way they’d come.

  As their footsteps faded into the night, the gentleman tucked the pistols into the pockets of his multi-caped greatcoat. He walked towards Guy. “I saw them follow you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster, but I turned the corner and wasn’t sure which way you went.”

  With a swell of gratitude, Guy sheathed his sword, shelved his suspicion, and bowed. ”I am indebted to you, monsieur, one obviously needs to be well armed in London.”

  “It is wise to be on your guard; footpads will tackle an unarmed man.”

  Guy clutched his cane. He had been armed, and it had not deterred them.

  “We’d best get out of this dark place.” The man led the way towards the lit street. “New to London? I don’t advise you to walk alone around these parts.”

  “Oui. I arrived from France this morning.”

  “You can’t think much of us, an attempted robbery on your first day.”

  “There was more to it than a robbery.” Guy studied his rescuer. He was of a similar age to himself, mid-thirties.

  The big fair-haired man raised his brows. �
��The war might be over, but not all of the English can forgive and forget.”

  A grim smile tugged at Guy’s mouth. “I’m sure that’s so, my friend.” He remembered the footpad’s words ‒ he’s the one. It was him they were after. Who would want him dead here in England?

  “Where are my manners?” His rescuer held out his hand. ”John Haldane, Earl of Strathairn.”

  Guy shook his hand. “Guy Truesdale.”

  The earl’s brows met in a perplexed frown. “Truesdale? Why, that means you’re a…”

  Guy nodded. “Fortescue, oui.”

  “A relative of the baron?”

  “I am Baron Fortescue.”

  “Why this is grand news! Your father and mine were close friends.” John frowned. “But this means, of course, that your father is dead. I’m sorry. Not by the guillotine one would hope.”

  “Not directly.” They crossed the road. Under the circle of light from an oil lamp, Guy gazed into John’s smiling eyes. “I am indebted to you. I hope to repay you should we meet again.”

  John slapped him on the back. “Nonsense, Fortescue. Where do you stay?”

  When Guy told him, John said, “Not one of our best hostelries. You must come home with me.”

  “I couldn’t presume …”

  “Not another word. Father, if he still lived, would have been justifiably angry if I failed to offer you hospitality. We reside in Berkley Square and have plenty of room. Feel free to stay as long as you wish. I’ll send a servant around for your luggage.”

  “Merci. I plan to travel to the country in a day or two.”

  “Your seat is to the north, Hertfordshire I believe.”

  Guy nodded. “It borders Sherradspark Wood in Digswell.”

  An empty hackney turned the corner, and Strathairn stepped into the road to hail it. As the jarvie pulled up the horse, Strathairn gave directions and whipped open the door.

  Guy settled on the squabs beside him. “Je suis dans votre dette,” he said with warmth. “You are most généreuse.”

  “In my debt?” Strathairn dismissed the sentiment with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense, Baron. It’s been my pleasure. But once my sisters get a look at you, I may change my mind.”

  Guy frowned. “I’m not sure of your meaning.” He had always been proud of being half English, but since he arrived in England, he’d felt terribly French.

  “My dear fellow. If you aren’t used to ladies fighting over you, you soon will be.”

  Guy shook his head.

  *****

  With the thrill of expectation, Horatia took out the clothes hidden in the back of the clothespress. The maids had finished their work and gone downstairs, she would not be disturbed.

  She removed her morning gown and donned the buckskin breeches. They slipped over her thighs like a second skin, hugging her derrière and hips. Men were lucky to have clothes that offered so much freedom. But then, they had much more freedom than women to enjoy. She pulled the cotton shirt over her head and shrugged into the grey wool coat, the loose cut disguising her breasts without the need of binding. A black ribbon secured her chestnut hair in a queue and the knitted green scarf around her neck and chin concealed her throat.

  The shabby square-cut wide-brimmed black hat, rifled from the back of her father’s armoire, shadowed her face. Horatia stared at her reflection, and her heart beat faster. Only her brown eyes beneath straight dark brows were familiar. Glad for once that nature had given her a tall boyish figure, she sat to pull on the boots.

  She had discovered the men’s clothes in a cupboard after they moved into the house. Although she had meant to give them to the church, something had made her try them on. The change in how the clothes made her feel was remarkable.

  An exhilarating sense of independence stole over her, a rebellious, guilty pleasure. No longer did Miss Horatia Cavendish, spinster daughter of Colonel Cavendish, appear before her in the glass. She’d been replaced by a young man, able to go anywhere unaccompanied. She must still be careful, for they lived a mere few miles from the village, and a stranger in these parts stood out like a cuckoo in a dovecote.

  Horatia’s father planned to stay the night in London and would be gone until tomorrow. Since he’d retired from the army, he had developed an intense interest in his finances and often visited his solicitor. She hated to deceive him, but every time he was away from home, she could not resist donning the clothes to ride his stallion, The General. After Father had refused her Aunt Emily’s invitation to chaperone her for a London season, Horatia had felt so stifled it had become imperative to have a secret life of her own.

  With the riding crop tucked under her arm, she left by the servant’s door and walked to the stables. She held a finger to her lips and the groom, Simon, chuckled. “Looks like snow, Miss Horatia.” The big fair-haired man went to fetch The General from his box. Horatia trusted Simon with her secret. She would trust him with her life if it should come to that.

  Simon led the chestnut out and put her father’s saddle on him. The General whinnied and dug at the ground with a hoof, eager for a canter. Horatia patted his nose. “You don’t mind a bit of snow, do you, fellow?”

  “The General will be glad of some exercise, and knowing you ride like the very devil, I daresay you’ll return before the weather turns.”

  She grinned. “I’ll be back in time for tea, Simon. Rest assured.”

  If only her father had such confidence in her on horseback. Since a fall from a horse had caused her mother’s death in India, he insisted she ride the small mare he had purchased for her. She had found the sidesaddle distinctly inferior to a man’s saddle.

  Horatia rode past the cream-colored walls of the thatched manor house, its barren garden in winter slumber. Jumping The General over a gate, she continued on down the lane. Simon had been right. Ominous grey clouds edged with silver piled up on the horizon, and there was a hint of snow in the air.

  Judging the bad weather to be hours away, Horatia turned her attention to the route she planned to take. She always rode away from the village across country where she was far less likely to be seen. The General knew the routine and took the right fork off the main road with little guidance. It was a long, straight run to the first bend in the narrow country lane, and she urged the horse into a gallop, his powerful legs lengthening his stride.

  Horatia threw her head back and laughed out loud. It felt so good to have the sleek and elegant thoroughbred, all magnificent muscle and bone, galloping beneath her and to be free with the brisk breeze washing away the sluggish disposition that overtook her when she was too long in the house.

  She hadn’t ridden like this for weeks because her father had begun to attend to business ventures by correspondence. But a matter with Lloyds needed to be dealt with in person and demanded his presence in London, where he would spend the night with her aunt in Mayfair.

  At the thought of Aunt Emily’s intriguing poetry recitals and her neat townhouse, which was just a stroll from Hyde Park, Horatia huffed a regretful sigh. So close to the museum and art galleries, indeed, all that London had to offer.

  They left the road and galloped over a meadow, drawing unimpressed glances from cows chewing the cud, and splashed through a shallow stream.

  Her father had purchased the farm, Malforth Manor, set on twenty-five acres, with the plan for an Arcadian existence after his retirement from the army. Horatia had lived there with her aunt as a child. He’d returned from India ready for a quiet life away from the stresses of London, while Horatia, at seventeen years old, was ready to tackle the world. Five years had passed since then, each more uneventful than the last. The one bright spot in her life was when her godfather, Eustace Fennimore, came to dinner and regaled them with stories of London life. But that only made her more restless. A very popular man, revered in local society, Eustace was a close friend of her father’s. For a time, they were in the same regiment in India.

  Her mother’s death had affected her father deeply. It seemed to Horatia
inadvisable to depend on another human being so completely for your happiness, that one was devastated when that person was no longer there.

  India had been so different. Her mother and father had been happy there. After spending her nursery years with Aunt Emily, she had been sent to join her parents in Calcutta. There the English had created a society as close to England’s as they could make it. They enjoyed their tea, gin to keep malaria at bay, and gathered for their beloved cricket and polo, although many ladies considered dealing with the natives something of a nuisance. It was in India that a servant had taught Horatia to ride astride when the family traveled into the higher country for the rainy season. Life in Calcutta was every bit as strict as English society, and Horatia looked forward to the rainy season every year when that tight noose was loosened.

  Above her, a sparrow hawk making lazy circles in the sky suddenly swooped on its prey. Feeling the horse’s strong flanks beneath her, Horatia rode on, lost in her thoughts.

  To relieve the boredom, she had taken to reading and writing poetry. Lord Byron in particular captured her interest. His poems excited her as no other poet did. He could never be called boring, he was so …rakish, a defiant, melancholy man, brooding over some mystery in his past.

  Steam escaping her lips, Horatia quoted her favourite poem aloud, causing The General to prick up his ears.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

  She liked that Byron saw more than mere physical beauty in this woman. He offered a tantalizing picture of what life might be. She saw her life doomed to one of dull duties, especially if she married a resident of Digswell. The one proposal Horatia had received failed to stir in her even the smallest bit of excitement. Mr. Oakley reminded her of her father, not as the gallant young officer he had been, but as he now was! Her father wished her to marry and live nearby and had been busy searching for a suitable husband. And Mr. Oakley fitted his requirements perfectly.