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Prologue
London, 1812
Captain Harry Tate did not know why he felt compelled to tether his mount and limp into St. Clement's that morning. Quite clearly, it was another sign he would soon be meeting his Maker. He still could not believe he hadn't died at Badajoz along with hundreds of his men. God, but he could still smell their burning flesh, still hear the death cries of men who had served under him, still picture the mounds of mutilated bodies. Good English soldiers.
He was but five and twenty years of age, but he knew in his heart he would not live to twenty-six. For he would return to the Peninsula on the morrow. It was his duty. The words of the slain Lord Nelson were in the minds and hearts of all Englishmen. "England expects that every man will do his duty." His leg was finally healing. He must return.
It was almost as if death had followed him to London. For Annie was dead now, too. Beautiful Annie who'd sung her silly songs on the stage with every man in the audience lusting after her. Yet it was he who'd won her affections, he who had become her protector, he who had killed her.
He meant to say a prayer for sweet, loving Annie, whose dancing eyes were closed forever. The huge timber doors squeaked as he opened them. Though the church was dark, the crucifix at the front of the church seemed illuminated, beckoning him down the nave to the sacristy. He knelt at the altar rail and began to pray for Annie's soul.
As well as his own.
Then he realized he was not alone. A soft whimpering was very close. Had Annie's distraught friend followed him? He spun around. A very pretty young blonde he'd never seen before sat weeping on the front row.
He went to her. She was dressed as a gentlewoman. "Pray, is there something I can do to assist you?"
Her gaze lifted and swept over his regimentals as her head shook before she buried her lovely face in her hands.
What in the blazes should he do? He could not force himself on the poor girl, but he could not leave her like this, either. She could not be more than twenty and looked as if—well, she looked as low as he felt.
Captain Harry Tate was too accustomed to commanding. "Miss, I'm quite sure things cannot be as bad as. . ." Then he thought of what could make one so low. "Pray, have you lost a loved one?"
She shook her head, her face still buried in her delicate hands.
Then—if one were keeping score—he was more unfortunate than she because he had recently lost a loved one. Not to mention all his men who'd died in battle. "Then things can't be all that bad."
"Oh, but they most decidedly are," she said in a cultured voice. This lady was no doxie.
She must be pregnant. That was it! He could see she wore no wedding ring.
The poor creature must have been thrown out of her home. Perhaps he could help her. He was, after all, the son of a viscount. Any number of resources—not the least of which was financial—were at his disposal. Surely there was something he could do to dispel this poor creature's gloom. "I am not going to leave this church until you tell me what distresses you so. I may be able to offer assistance."
"I think not," she managed in a strident voice. "You, sir, are a man, and at present I am out of charity with men!"
She is pregnant. And even with her pale blue eyes swimming in red, she was a stunner.
Captain Harry Tate did not make idle threats. He sat next to her, his spine stiff, his arms folded across his chest. "I will not leave until you reveal to me the nature of your distress."
She said nothing. She blew her nose into a lace handkerchief, and it appeared as if her tears had quite vanished. They both sat there silently in their own sorrowful states, staring at the crucifix.
When it appeared she was not going to speak to him, he decided to initiate a conversation. "As it happens, miss, I have recently lost a loved one. I regret that I could not have been with her at the end. I feel culpable in her death. It might assuage my guilt if I can help another lady in distress. And I give you my vow, I'll not. . ." He lowered his voice. After all, this was the Lord's house. He disliked speaking of such in church, but he thought he must. "I vow I'll not try to . . .to take improper liberties. It's obvious you're a gentlewoman." Even if she had gotten herself pregnant.
Now her shoulders began to shake with more sobs.
He was deuced unhappy about the poor girl. And since he knew he faced death in Spain, he had nothing to lose. "If your child needs a father, I will marry you before I leave tomorrow. Will that solve your problem?"
Her shoulders began to shake even harder, but now they shook with laughter! The chit was laughing at him.
Finally she dabbled at her eyes with that lacey handkerchief and looked squarely at him. "Sir, that is very gallant of you, but I am not in a family way."
His brows lowered. "You're not in the family way, and you haven't lost a loved one, what, pray tell, could cause you such distress?"
* * *
She hadn't meant to speak to him. He was, after all, a complete stranger. But he was also a gentleman. And now he had proven to be an honorable gentleman—the first she had encountered since her dear papa's death the previous year.
That this man would, first, vow not to seduce her, then so honorably offer marriage to a woman he'd never before seen was astonishing. What a kind soul he must be.
And how tortured he must be by the loss of his loved one. He obviously did not believe he would ever again find love. Which was very sad.
What a prize he would be for some fortunate woman. In her nineteen years, Elizabeth Hensley had never seen a more handsome specimen. And it was not just his alluring uniform on a tall, powerfully built body. He was possessed of dark brown hair and piercing black eyes. The finely sculpted lines of his patrician—and exceedingly attractive—face were softened by a deep cleft in his chin.
More than his good looks, though, this officer demonstrated a nobility of character.
She faced him, smiling. "You are very kind indeed, sir, to concern yourself with my well-being. I am sorry for your loss. My problems will seem insignificant compared to yours."
"Try me." His black eyes bore into hers.
She drew a deep breath. "I have spent the night in this church because I have nowhere else to go."
"Have you no family?"
She shook her head. "None. My father died last year. Because he was a poor country parson, there was only enough money left to last me until I could find a position as a governess."
"And you did?"
"Yes. I obtained a post in the house of a gentleman here in London."
"When was that?"
"Three months ago."
"But you are no longer employed at that house?"
"I fled in the middle of the night. Last night."
"I perceive the gentleman did not act like a gentleman?"
"Until he tried to sneak into my bedchamber last night, he had always conducted himself as a gentleman. But last night he was most contemptible."
"He didn't . . .?"
"No, he didn't. I told him if he didn't leave my bedchamber immediately I would scream so loud his wife and little girls would come running and judge his depravity. I waited half an hour after he left, then I gathered up my things and crept away from the house." She started to cry again.
He waited until she regained her composure, then asked, "And you have no money?'
"None."
"So, correct me if I'm wrong. You have no money. No home. And no family?"
She sniffed. "You are correct, sir. My mother and father were quite old when they became parents. They thought they would never have children." She smiled. "My mother was three and forty when I was born; my father was ten years older than she. They're both gone now."
"My dear lady, your problems are not so monumental. I believe the Lord must have led me to you today."
Her b
rows lowered. "What can you mean?" Surely he was not going to offer for her again. There was a limit to gallantry.
"Tell me," he said, "do you like children?"
What did that matter? "Of course I like children. I would be a most depraved creature did I not."
"What of babes?"
Her voice softened at the thought of holding a sleeping infant and stroking its soft downy hair. "Is there anything more precious? I will own, I have no experience with babes." Why was this man quizzing her about babies?
* * *
"Nor do I, but it seems I am now responsible for one." He had a responsibility to get the infant child away from those ladies of easy virtue.
The poor girl babe that Annie died giving life to was his.
Since he'd learned of Annie's death—and subsequently learned of the existence of his child—he'd been equally as low knowing his child would likely be raised to be a courtesan. Kitty was willing to care for her closest friend's child—providing Harry compensate her appropriately. But providing materially for the child did little to assuage his conscience.
How he had wished he could have sent the little girl to live at Farley Manor, but Harry's father was an excessively stern man who would not tolerate his only son's bastards. And Harry could hardly care for the child himself.
He fully expected to be dead before a year had passed.
This lovely young gentlewoman was exactly what he needed, and he took some comfort in knowing he was what she needed.
"You are married, sir?"
He gave a bitter laugh. "As long as I'm in service to his majesty, I would not ask a woman to throw away her future on the likes of me." He turned to her. "After I return to the Peninsula tomorrow, I'm quite certain I shall never see England again."
"You cannot be certain of such a thing! Only God knows what's in store for any of us."
"Spoken like a rector's daughter. But be that as it may, I know my destiny. I feel death closing in all around me."
Those soft blue eyes of hers held him in her pitying gaze. "Pray, don't say such things! You're a young, able-bodied, quite noble man. Now tell me, why do you say the Lord led you here today?"
It pleased him that, in her concern for him, her personal melancholy had vanished. "Because you are exactly what I need, and I believe I am what you need."
The kindly expression on her lovely face turned to wariness. Surely the very young woman didn't think he meant to seduce her! She was a clergyman's daughter, for pity's sake! "I must tell you that I'm a man of some means."
Oh, bloody hell! She looked even more anxious. Did she think he meant to set her up as he had Annie?
"What I mean," he continued, "is that I intend to once again offer to marry you in a marriage that—while perfectly legal—is not to be a real marriage in the . . . physical sense. This time, I'm not making the offer out of the goodness of my heart but because I wish to ask something of you in return."
Those beautiful blue eyes of her rounded. "I cannot think of what I could possibly offer."
"I wish for you to raise my natural child as if it were your own."
She made not the slightest reaction to what he had proposed. Had she even heard him? "I fear that when I'm dead—as I assure you I will soon be—my father would not honor such an obligation. But obligations to my wife would have the teeth of the law in them. You—and my child—would be well provided for."
"You have no idea how tempted I am to accept. I am, as you know, quite destitute, and I adore children. But this proposition would not be fair to you. I do not share your gloomy premonition. What would happen when you return from war to find yourself saddled with the unsophisticated daughter of a country parson?"
He could not help it. His lazy gaze caressed this vision of loveliness who sat next to him, and he found the prospect of returning to such a woman most welcome. "First, I'm certain I'll not be coming home. And secondly," he peered at her with a wistful longing like nothing he'd ever before experienced, "I believe any man who had a wife like you would count himself blessed."
Her lashes were cast down as a deep blush rose in her cheeks. "Then, sir, I will accept your generous offer."
* * *
He'd barely had time to sleep the night before. Because his mother's aunt was married to the Archbishop of Canterbury, he'd rushed off to get the special marriage license directly from Lambeth Palace, stopping first at Rundell & Bridge to purchase a simple gold band for Miss Hensley. After that, he had forced his solicitor to open his office at night in order to draw up the marriage contracts between Miss Elizabeth Hensley and Captain Harold Tate and to make provisions for her and the child in the event of his death.
Then there was the matter of engaging the clergyman to perform the ceremony early in the morning before he had to ride off to Dover. Then he must ensure the witnesses also be at the church at seven in the morning. Kitty would serve as one – after all, she was bringing the babe—and his batman, Morrison, would serve as the other.
Before he had wearily climbed into his bed, he wrote a letter to his parents informing them of his marriage to Elizabeth Hensley, a woman of gentle birth, a woman they need never meet. A pity he could not tell them about the babe.
Not long after daylight intruded into his deep slumber, he realized it was his wedding day, and he sprang from the bed. What a very somber wedding it would be.
An hour later he collected Miss Hensley at the Pulteney Hotel, where he had seen her installed the previous night. His father would have had apoplexy had he known his son was showing up at church on his wedding day in a rented hack!
When she came down the grand stairway at the Pulteney, his mouth went dry and he almost lost his breath. In her pale blue dress that was trimmed in white lace, she looked more like a girl coming out at her first ball than a woman about to become an officer's wife. She was without a doubt the loveliest creature he'd ever seen. Had the young men back in her village of Upper Frampington—wherever in the hell that was—been completely blind? It was incredible that she had not been snatched up within a week of leaving the schoolroom.
And it was understandable how the vile man who had been her employer could have wished to bed her. Curse the damned man!
After they got in the hackney he turned and addressed her. "It has suddenly occurred to me how little I know of you, Miss Hensley. How old are you?"
"I will be twenty next month."
He nodded. "I hope you slept well."
"Of course I didn't sleep well! My mind was entirely too occupied. How about you? Did you sleep well?"
"I slept like a dead man—once I accomplished all I needed to do. My solicitor will call on you later today at the Pulteney and apprise you of the financial matters. There should be enough for you to live modestly but comfortably. My solicitor will help you in any way you desire."
"Do you have any family who will attend this morning's ceremony?"
"No. They are all in Derbyshire. I have this morning dispatched a letter to them apprising them of the marriage."
She nodded somberly.
"I'm afraid I shall have to fly as soon as the service is completed," he said.
"You will give me your direction so that I can write to you?"
He could not allow her to do so. It would only make it harder on both of them. Because of the certainty of his death. "It's best that you don't."
Her face was incredibly sad. "You must tell me about the child."
He harrumphed. "I know so little. I only learned of her existence yesterday, though I have no doubts about her paternity. She is six months of age. I left England fifteen months ago and have continued to make provisions for the child's mother."
"You were not married to her?"
He did not respond for a moment. "She was not the sort of woman one asks to become a wife." He hated like the devil having to make such an admissions to an innocent like Miss Hensley. He could not even look her in the face. No doubt, she was blushing.
"I see."
He wo
uld wager Annie's sort of woman had never inhabited Upper Frampington.
"What is the babe's name?"
"The woman who has been caring for her calls her Fanny. She saw that she was baptized after the babe's mother died in childbed. The child's name was recorded as Frances Davis."
The hackney pulled up at St. Clement's, and he turned to her, taking her gloved hands in his. "I won't be able to speak to you privately after the ceremony. I wish you—and Fanny—well."
"And I will pray for you."
Chapter 1
London, Two years later
"I'm a viscountess?" In her entire one and twenty years Elizabeth had never been more astonished. She could not remove her gaze from the aging solicitor who sat across the desk from her perusing documents. Was the poor man delusional? "Surely, Mr. Ferguson, you have mistaken me for another of your clients."
"I think not, Mrs. Tate. You are married to Harold Tate, who has ascended to the Broxbourne viscountancy upon the recent death of his father. It is likely your husband has not yet learned of his elevation, owing to the difficulty of communication to the Peninsula."
Just hearing Harry's name and learning he was still alive allowed her to relax. She had been tied in knots since receiving the summons to Mr. Ferguson's establishment. With each churn of the carriage wheels coming here, she had feared the solicitor was going to tell her that her husband had died.
And now she was a viscountess! "You are absolutely certain?"
"Absolutely. I've been retained by Lord Broxbourne's family for more than forty years."
She would love to have quizzed him about the family. She knew nothing about any of them. To query the solicitor, though, would indicate what a hideous sham this marriage was, and Elizabeth was far too proud to reveal the desperation that made her wed him.
Mr. Ferguson cleared his throat. "I also am in possession of a letter to you from the dowager viscountess. She says she will be delighted to have you for Christmas and is looking forward to showing you your new home."
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 14