The Seduction of an
English Lady
Cathy
Maxwell
For Jean Duguid,
my other mother
Contents
Opening Passage
Chapter One
The faint scratch at the front-door keyhole caught Lady Rosalyn’s…
Chapter Two
“What did you do after she slammed the door in…
Chapter Three
Rosalyn rose slowly to her feet, uncertain if she was…
Chapter Four
Rosalyn stood the moment she heard the gentlemen outside in…
Chapter Five
Kissing her was madness.
Chapter Six
The next day was Sunday, and a more perfect spring…
Chapter Seven
Colin wasn’t certain he’d heard Lady Rosalyn correctly. “You want…
Chapter Eight
Sitting in the pony cart, having a moment of panic,…
Chapter Nine
What else could go wrong?
Chapter Ten
Rosalyn stiffened like a board in his arms, and Colin…
Chapter Eleven
Colin heard the crash inside the room and threw open…
Chapter Twelve
Colin went very still, surprised by what was happening and…
Chapter Thirteen
Rosalyn held on to the side bar of the phaeton…
Chapter Fourteen
Confronted by Lord Loftus’s anger, the thought struck Colin that…
Chapter Fifteen
Rosalyn’s kiss was the blessing Colin needed. It soothed him…
Chapter Sixteen
“You’ve arranged what?” Colin asked, stunned by Rosalyn’s news. He’d…
Chapter Seventeen
Colin had seen destruction in his life. He’d witnessed whole…
Chapter Eighteen
Rosalyn was beside herself. If she didn’t catch up with…
Epilogue
Colin and Rosalyn decided to change the name of their…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Romances by Cathy Maxwell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Nestled in the very heart of England, where the Hodder and Ribble rivers meet, is a valley so green and unspoiled, it sparkles like a gem of the realm.
Here, in the ancient hunting forests, once home to wolves, wild boar, and witches, or by village greens bordered by bubbling brooks and stone-built cottages and guarded by the ruins of Norman keeps, life has its own pace. There are those who will never leave, not even the boundaries of their own village.
And then there are those who, even if they travel afar, must return….
Chapter One
Lancashire, England
April 5, 1816
The faint scratch at the front-door keyhole caught Lady Rosalyn’s attention as she passed through the center hall on the way to her front parlor. She paused, listening.
There it was again…as if someone were trying to unlock the door, which was not locked.
Rosalyn had just left her companion, Covey, as she was finishing her breakfast in the back morning room. Cook was in the kitchen and Bridget, the maid, was upstairs gathering the laundry. The other member of their small household, Old John, Cook’s husband and the gardener, never used the front door, nor did any of them, Rosalyn herself included. The front door was for company, and she wasn’t expecting any.
She put her hand around the brass candlestick sitting on a table by the door.
Whoever was there realized the door was unlocked. The handle turned.
She lifted the candlestick over her head. The stub of the candle in the stick fell out, bouncing off her shoulder and onto the floor. She would usually chase it down—there wasn’t enough money to waste anything, including candle stubs, in her household—but this time, she had other concerns.
The door started to open. A swirl of damp, chilly air swept around her skirts. She mustered her courage, held her breath, ready to swing—and stopped.
It was no disreputable rogue who stood in her doorway, rather a well-dressed gentleman. He had to remove his hat and duck to come in her narrow door without bumping his head. His shoulders were so broad that he temporarily blocked out the light of the first good sunny spring day they’d had in April.
The gentleman looked startled to see her. There was a day’s growth of stubble on his jaw. Buff leather breeches hugged horseman’s thighs, and his marine blue coat was cut to perfection. He was a Corinthian, a Fashionable.
What was he doing at Maiden Hill?
His gaze followed up her arms to the candlestick she wielded with wicked intent. He held up a hand, warding her off. “I’m sorry. I see I’ve startled you.”
Rosalyn had two instantaneous thoughts: the first, that she’d never met this gentleman before, and the second, that in spite of a shadow of unshaven whiskers, he had to be the most undeniably handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. The mud splattering his boots, the tangled curls of his dark hair, and the loose, devil-may-care knot in his neck cloth told her she was right in thinking he was not from the Valley. He’d apparently been riding hard and for some distance.
Suddenly self-conscious of her own countrymade dress in a serviceable gray broadcloth, she demanded, “Who are you?”
“I’m the new owner of this house. I say, do you mind putting down that candlestick. You look ready to crack my skull with it.”
“The new owner—?” Rosalyn started to lower the candlestick and then raised it back up again as her common sense rejected his claim. He couldn’t be the owner—she was! “Leave now peacefully before I-I—” She hesitated, at a loss for words. Before she did what to such a giant?
Nor was he afraid. “Before you beat me around the ears until I’m bloody?” he suggested helpfully, his tone amused. “Or grab me by the scruff of the neck and toss me out?”
Rosalyn didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The rich, deep masculinity of his voice sparked something inside her she’d thought long dead or at least put in its proper place—a very definite interest in the opposite sex.
He took the candlestick from her hands and smiled. She was blinded into dizziness. No man should have a smile so devastating.
Then he brought her to her senses by asking, “So, are you one of the servants?”
Rosalyn didn’t know if she could believe her ears. Yes, she was wearing the dress she reserved for household tasks and one, like most of her wardrobe, that was long out of fashion. And, yes, this morning, she’d done little more than toss her hair up in a quick knot at the nape of her neck and fasten it in place with a pin or two. Still, his question was a douse of cold reality. His appeal evaporated.
“I beg your pardon,” she countered with every ounce of aristocratic hauteur bred into her. “Who are you?”
His brows rose as he realized his mistake. He set the candlestick on the side table before saying, “Colin Mandland, Colonel Colin Mandland.”
She knew the surname. Reverend Mandland was the vicar of St. Mary Magdalene’s Church. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to tell me who you are?”
The abrupt response from someone who had just walked into her house set Rosalyn’s back up. “I am the woman who owns this house. Not you. Now, sir, I will ask you to take yourself and your rude manners elsewhere. If you don’t, I will take action.” She reached out to close the door, irritated enough to push even a big ox like himself out of the way if necessary, but he blocked the door’s closing with his arm, his next words stopping her cold.
“I bought this house fr
om Lord Woodford. I even have a key.” He held it up for her to see.
Rosalyn froze at the mention of her cousin George. She met Colonel Mandland’s gaze, praying he was jesting. He wasn’t. She took the key, wanting to touch it to prove it was real.
Alarm ripped through her. She dropped her hand from the door. “George wouldn’t?…At least, not without saying something—?”
Colonel Mandland’s expression turned sympathetic. He reached inside his coat and pulled out several folded documents. “Lord Woodford should have written you. I purchased the house a day and a half ago from him, but we’ve been talking for at least a week or more.” He held out the papers to prove his claim.
“You purcha—” Rosalyn shook her head, still unable to wrap her mind around his words. “From my cousin George?” She took the documents from the gentleman and stepped around him so she could take advantage of the morning light.
Outside, there was a vehicle Rosalyn recognized from her London days—a crane-necked phaeton, the dangerous sporting vehicle preferred by the Prince Regent and his set. The wheels were red with yellow spokes, and the paint was fresh and new.
Rosalyn had never seen one in these parts because they were dangerous for the local roads. The harness of the rig lay on the seat, along with the driving whip. The horse that had been attached was happily munching his way through the spring-tender plants of her flower beds.
He wasn’t particularly handsome, or young, horseflesh. The animal would have been bettersuited to drawing a brewer’s dray than a fashionable rig. “Please,” she murmured, “the landscaping.”
Colonel Mandland stepped outside. “Oscar, go on out.”
Oscar looked up, the leaves and roots of a sweet pea sticking every which way out of his mouth. He had to be at least sixteen hands tall. A giant of a horse for a giant of a master.
“Go on!” the colonel commanded.
Oscar grumbled his disapproval, sounding like nothing more than a disgruntled old man. He then lumbered out onto her yard, which Rosalyn did not think a better solution. She would have preferred Colonel Mandland tying the beast up.
But Rosalyn had more pressing worries than her lawn at the moment. She quickly scanned the cramped writing on the documents. They were exactly what the colonel had said, a bill of sale deeding Maiden Hill, Clitheroe, Lancashire—her home for these last four years and more—over to one Colin Thomas Mandland for the sum of five thousand and eighty pounds. The documents were signed “Woodford,” the title her cousin had inherited from her father.
Five thousand and eighty pounds? Had George taken leave of his senses? Was that all this estate meant to him?
Rosalyn’s mind went numb. When she could finally focus, it was on the colonel’s horse bending down on his knees preparing to roll on top of her prized bed of forget-me-nots, phlox, and daisies, which were just beginning to bud….
“Covey!” She wasn’t worried about flowers right now. Instead, she spun around, leaving the door open as she raced toward the morning room.
Rosalyn had only taken a few steps when Mrs. Susan Covington, a good-natured widow some forty years older than herself, came out from her breakfast, tucking a stray gray curl neatly under her lace cap. Decades ago Covey’s husband had been Rosalyn’s father’s tutor at nearby Stoneyhurst School. When Mr. Covington had married, her father had thought so much of his former tutor that he’d let the newlyweds live at Maiden Hill. The house was as much Covey’s home as it was Rosalyn’s, perhaps even more.
And Covey was very dear to Rosalyn. Since Rosalyn had moved to Maiden Hill, Covey had fulfilled the role of mother, tutor, confidante. She had become the caring family Rosalyn didn’t have. “My dear, why are you bellowing?”
“George sold Maiden Hill! Right out from under us!” Rosalyn held out the documents, her hands shaking. “This is beyond all reason. The least he could have done was tell us. I mean, the man he sold the house to, Mr…Mr….” She was so troubled that her mind went blank.
“Colonel Mandland,” he reminded her discreetly from his post by the door. He stood a respectful distance, but she sensed he was anxious to move into the house, to take it over.
“Colonel Mandland,” she ungracefully corrected herself and gave the man her back. His startling good looks had soured in her mind. And why not? He had come to throw her out of her home.
“Mandland? After Reverend Mandland?” Covey asked.
“He’s my brother,” the colonel offered helpfully.
“Ah, yes, I see a faint resemblance. And I remember you growing up,” Covey said. “Colin, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A hell-raiser, weren’t you, Colin?” she said with her customary frankness.
He didn’t deny it. “I was different than my brother.”
“Aye, but I remember you. Everyone said you would come to a bad end, but my Alfred said you had a fine mind. We were all pleased when Father Ruley took you in hand and purchased your colors.”
“The military has been very good to me,” he responded.
“Obviously. You’ve grown some,” the older woman agreed.
Rosalyn cut through the “pleasantries.” “Covey, please. We have a crisis here. I shall have George’s head on a platter for this. To think he didn’t say a word, not even a letter—”
“Letter?” Covey’s eyes widened. “A letter came. I paid the frank.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Did I not tell you?”
“There was a letter from George?” Rosalyn demanded. “When, Covey? And where is it?” Her tone was sharper than she intended, but lately Covey had started forgetting all sorts of things, usually small details or matters that Rosalyn and the servants could manage—but this! George never wrote unless he wanted something, something that usually boded ill for Rosalyn.
“I put a letter in the pocket of my apron,” Covey said, acting on the motions as she spoke.
“The one you wore yesterday?” Rosalyn asked.
“No, yes…I’m not certain. Shall I have Bridget check?”
She spoke to the air, because Rosalyn was already on her way up the stairs, clutching the signed deed in her hand. Covey’s room was the third door on the left. This room, like all of them at Maiden Hill, was sparsely furnished with discarded pieces collected over the decades from the other estates the earl of Woodford owned. Maiden Hill was neither a large nor important piece of property, but Rosalyn had assumed that George had some sense of family responsibility. More the fool her!
Rosalyn hurried to the ancient wardrobe and threw open the doors. Covey always wore aprons around home with deep pockets. She said this helped her not to forget where she put things like her spectacles or embroidery silks. Rosalyn wondered why she hadn’t been at home when the letter had been delivered, and then remembered her meeting with the Ladies’ Social Circle. They were planning charity baskets to give out to the needy of the parish, in addition to a spring dance.
“Covey was wearing her green?…” Rosalyn ran her hands over the assortment of aprons and didn’t discover a letter.
She turned, struggling with panic. Her gaze fell on the book on Covey’s bedside table, and she saw the letter marking a place between the pages.
Flying across the room, Rosalyn pulled the letter out and broke the hastily made wax seal. George’s handwriting was little more than an indecipherable scrawl. She stared at it until she could understand he’d spent the first portion of the letter on endless excuses, all of them having to do with gambling debts. Then, in the last paragraph, he wrote that he’d been forced to sell Maiden Hill, since it was the only estate unentailed. She was directed to travel to Cornwall to take up residence with their great-aunt Agatha.
For a second, Rosalyn felt as if she’d turned into cold stone, the letter in one hand, Colonel Mandland’s deed in the other. This was the bleakest moment of her life. Worse even than her mother’s betrayal and her father’s death.
She had no home…and she could do nothing about it.
She looked at the l
etter’s date. George had written it last week. Certainly, he’d had time to travel to Clitheroe and personally explain the situation. As she was the daughter of the man whose death had given him the title, it would have been the honorable thing for George to have done—and she would have had the opportunity to talk him out of this tragic error.
Rosalyn wadded George’s letter up in one fist. The man was a drunkard who didn’t deserve the noble title of Woodford. She wished she could throw the letter in the fire and the deed to the estate along with it!
How dare George lose family assets to the gambling table? At the very least, he should have fobbed off his debtors like any other gentleman of consequence. But no! George was probably in so deep he’d had the choice between selling Maiden Hill or flying to the Continent, the fate of those who couldn’t meet their obligations and didn’t want to be thrown into debtor’s prison.
Not for the first time did she wonder why she hadn’t been born a man. Then she would have had her father’s title and control of her own fate.
Of course, there had been a time in England when no one would have dared throw a nobleman into prison for debt! Days when merchants had been only too happy to extend credit to the titled. After all, title should have privilege, and there were some things more important than money!
Rosalyn caught herself up short in her mental tirade. Yes, those days of rank meaning privilege were over. She knew that all too well. The good merchants of Clitheroe extended her credit, but she had to be careful with her pennies lest she overextend herself. Her pride did not want anyone to know just how far she, a daughter of the proud house of Woodford, had fallen.
And yet, she sensed they all knew.
Tears burned her eyes, but she forced them back. The earl of Woodford’s daughter did not cry—no matter what life handed her.
Instead, she did what she always did in times of misfortune: She considered what she could do, then attempted to make the best decision. George had blithely written orders telling her to move in with Aunt Agatha but had not provided the funds to do so. She thought of her precious hoard of coins. There was not enough to pay for a seat on the post, let alone hire a coach.
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