by Sophia James
Pride goeth before the fall.
The quote came from nowhere, but it unsettled her and made her worry. Was it even possible to stay as happy as she now was for ever? Or was there some celestial truth that balanced out luck and ill fortune so that one did not have too much and another too little?
She breathed out and looked at herself in the mirror. Money did have a particular way of softening all the edges and presenting one in a light that was...peculiar. That was the only word she could think of. She could not imagine walking anywhere in a dress such as this or indeed even relaxing in it.
One night, she whispered to herself. This night. And then we will be gone.
* * *
As soon as she arrived she felt an undercurrent that she did not recognise. Winter by her side felt it, too, for his hand tightened across hers and he stiffened.
‘Your parents and your sister are not here yet. Were they expected to be late?’
‘I did not think so.’ Her own glance took in the many corners of the room trying to find them. ‘Perhaps the journey took longer than they imagined. There has been a lot of rain lately.’
He nodded and led her over to the side of the main room to stand near a pillar that had been decorated in gold ribbon and the leaves of some plant she did not recognise.
Julia Heron came over to her side immediately.
‘Papa said to tell you that he would like a word, Lord Winterton, if I was to see you before he did. He is over by the dining table in that far corner. I could wait here with your wife if you wish me to?’
Green eyes skated over her own and she saw in their depths a worry. ‘I’ll be gone only a moment, Flora. If you stay here?’
‘Of course. I shall talk with Julia for we have much to catch up on.’ She tried to keep her tone as light as possible, but a dread had wrapped itself around her heart and would not let her go. She squeezed her hands so tightly together that the crescents of her nails began to sting as they dug into the back of her fingers.
‘What is it your father wishes to say to my husband, Julia?’
‘I think it is a warning. There has been some gossip...’ She stopped and smiled tightly. ‘But I am sure it is all a misunderstanding and will be resolved forthwith.’
‘A misunderstanding?’
‘There has been talk that the Viscount may not have a reputation quite as spotless as others believe it to be. Nonsense, of course, and as it only requires a firm denial there will no doubt be a swift ending to any rumour.’
The kidnapping. Florentia knew without a doubt that this was what Julia spoke of. Had the Urquharts talked? Had their marriage finally been the catalyst that allowed the couple to put together memory and come out with accusation? She looked around to see if she could see Winter and was glad to find his tall form threading its way back through the crowd and towards her.
His face was a mask of indifference and she knew instinctively that he was furious. Still, as he reached her he kissed her hand, all attention and easy smiles.
Deception and deliverance was all in the charade, he had told her once, and he was a man who understood the shifting sands of complicity.
‘I hope everything is all right?’ Flora tried to match her tone to his. ‘For the orchestra should be striking up a waltz soon and I would love to dance.’
He looked at her at that and she knew he understood in her airy conversation that she perceived the truth of what was happening here.
Julia looked relieved. ‘The Urquharts are such prattle mongers and such a far-fetched accusation could not possibly be true.’
‘Gossip holds a life of its own, Miss Heron.’
‘Which is exactly what I said to Percy Urquhart when I saw him the other day. Why on earth would Florentia marry a man who had ruined her? What possible motive would she have for doing that? He did insist that the scar you carry on your neck, Lord Winterton, substantiated the stories he had heard. Some fracas in an inn by all accounts. Papa assured him it was all made-up shilly-shally and that you were at that time busy with army matters.’
Flora felt her husband’s hand tighten about her fingers. Together they might weather this if the Urquharts did not make a scene and accuse them directly.
A moment later she knew the futility of such a hope.
‘You have a fine sense of the absurd, Winterton, by creeping into the ton with your newly earned money after causing such an outcry all those years ago. To kidnap a young lady and throw her into your carriage as you did was reprehensible and lawless. You deserve to be hanged for it. No offence, Lady Florentia, but if he is coercing you in any way now would be the time to admit it.’
His voice boomed out. Not a quiet assassination of character but a very public one. Flora held on to Winter’s hand as if it were a lifeline in a rough and dangerous sea.
‘I think you are mistaken, Urquhart. Or drunk.’ Now Winter’s talons were out as well, though his voice was much more quiet than that of Percy Urquhart.
‘I can prove it. We were walking with Dan Collins that day and he is here standing beside me. He says it was you, too, and would sign any legal form to swear so.’
Around them other voices were adding to the allegations, a wealthy and respected family of the ton like the Urquharts against the dissolute and far more scandalous Wintertons. The taint of new money was undoubtedly in the equation, too, and the ton had cut their teeth on the dreadful antics of James Waverley’s father.
He was like a wolf surrounded by a pack of yapping hounds, all out to draw blood and make menace. But if she noticed the darkening of his pale green eyes she doubted anyone else would.
Fight or flight. That realisation made her sick for she knew Winter would attack until he could do no more. For her honour. For their family. It was not his name that would keep him fighting, but hers. If he lost this battle she would lose her own protections and she knew he would never allow that.
Another voice suddenly rose across the others and when she turned she saw her father and mother with Maria and Roy pushing through the crowds.
‘You are an idiot, Urquhart, and you always were.’ Her father’s tones were clear. Her family had come to stand beside them now, forming a ring around Winter. ‘If there is anyone in all of this world who would know the whelp who tried to kidnap my daughter it would be me. I shot the man in the shoulder. I saw him die right there in front of me, his blood running across the cobblestones in a river and I have been brought to bed with regret ever since. For the taking of a life. A young life, for the man could not have been more than twenty. So do not talk to me of such foolishness, for in the death of Florentia’s abductor lay a sorrow for my family that is still new and green. I remember his face as if he were here standing next to me, the dark brown eyes, the light hair, that longish face. The screams of anguish as I dispatched him to hell. No insincere and foolish assertions shall ever take that from me.’
‘Perhaps I remember wrongly, Lord Albany.’ Collins spoke. ‘I, too, think his hair was lighter and his eyes darker. In fact, I am sure of it now.’
The crowd wavered and withdrew, the chatter building of Albany’s loss, a high penance for a concerned father. The ground swell of opinion changed and altered. It was suddenly not Winterton and Albany who were at fault here, but the mean-minded and imprudent Urquharts.
* * *
Winter felt the change and knew the support of a family who had much reason to hate him. He was overwhelmed by such assistance because it had been seldom in his life that he had ever felt such succour from anyone. Save Florentia.
His wife shimmered beside him in her navy gown, her hair against the darkness of fabric like silk and honey. He had felt her fear and her terror, yet not in one tiny movement had she shown it to anyone. No, she had stood beside him and held his hand as she smiled, unmovable and solid.
With a family like this a
round him he could do anything.
Roy slapped him across the back as the others chatted. ‘You owe the old Earl a drink,’ he said quietly.
‘I do.’
‘Maria told me that I was to bring a knife tonight and if it came to a fight I was to use it on whoever threatened you.’
‘You knew of the Urquhart allegations?’
‘They have been swirling for a week or more now around the salons of London town according to Frank Reading. I found that out when we arrived yesterday afternoon from Kent.’
‘God.’
‘It’s over. Albany saw to that quite nicely, I think.’
The Earl had come across to him now. ‘That is the last of it, Winter. We will never mention any of this again.’
‘Thank you.’ The shake in his voice was clear, but Florentia’s father ignored it as he stopped a footman with a tray of newly poured wine and asked for it to be shared around.
‘Let us drink to the future,’ he said as they all took a glass. ‘To the years ahead. May they be full of laughter, wisdom and wine.’
Winter tipped his head and drank deeply and when he looked over Florentia was doing exactly the same.
* * *
‘It’s finished. The past cannot touch us again.’
‘Not after your father’s performance. One of the finest actors I have ever seen in a theatre or out of one.’
She laughed. ‘He was often in plays before he met Mama. I think it was she who put a stop to it.’
‘He was magnificent. Perhaps your own talent as a thespian comes directly from him?’
She felt his feet pull away from underneath Faith’s stomach. The puppy had crawled on to the bed the moment they had arrived home and they had no heart to remove her.
‘A family is a wondrous thing,’ he said softly after another moment, ‘for it comes in all forms. A wife who is as beautiful as she is clever. A dog who does not know the meaning of obedience. A father-in-law who looks like an owl and has become an eagle. Maria with her worry. Roy with his knife. Your mother. They were all there today for me, by me, supporting me despite the truth being exactly as they knew it wasn’t. Without them...’
‘That will never happen. The thing about a family is that for good or for bad you have them for ever.’
‘I love you, Florentia. I love you more than life itself.’
She felt him turn and his arms came around her to pull her close. Bodies had eloquence, too, she decided as his strength closed in and she knew without words exactly what it was that he promised.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you might also like Sophia James’s stirring quartet
THE PENNILESS LORDS
MARRIAGE MADE IN MONEY
MARRIAGE MADE IN SHAME
MARRIAGE MADE IN REBELLION
MARRIAGE MADE IN HOPE
And make sure you look for
Sophia James’s short story
MARRIAGE MADE AT CHRISTMAS in
ONCE UPON A REGENCY CHRISTMAS
anthology!
Keep reading for an excerpt from CINDERELLA AND THE DUKE by Janice Preston.
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Cinderella and the Duke
by Janice Preston
Chapter One
February 1812—Buckinghamshire
‘For pity’s sake!’
The sheep darted on either side of Rosalind Allen, ignoring the open gate into the field where the rest of the flock grazed. Rosalind whirled around to see them scatter up the lane.
‘Stupid ani—’
Her jaw snapped shut at the sight of an approaching horse and rider: a stranger. Instinctively, she tugged her shawl tighter around her head and body. But at least the sheep had wheeled around on spying the horseman and were dashing back in her direction. Rosalind threw her arms wide and waved the stick she had been throwing for Hector, to try again to divert the sheep through the open gate. This time the sheep swerved through the gateway and galloped, baaing loudly, to the far side of the paddock to join the rest of the flock, who were being discouraged from joining the runaways by Hector, Rosalind’s dog, still sitting on the spot where she had commanded him to stay.
Rosalind trudged to the gate, which listed drunkenly on its solitary hinge. She tucked the stick under one arm as she hefted the gate up and struggled through the mud to close it. Only when it was latched did she recall her hoydenish appearance. Conscious of the approaching rider, she pulled at her skirts, silently cursing. When she had set out on her walk, she had hitched her skirt to mid-calf level, using a belt, to keep the hem from soiling. Apart from old Tom the shepherd, she had never seen anyone else on her walks, but now—too late—she recalled a hunting party of gentlemen from London was staying at the nearby recently sold Halsdon Manor. She’d heard the huntsman’s horn earlier in the day, but had forgotten it until now... This man must be one of that hunting party.
‘Oh, no, don’t cover up those pretty legs, dear heart.’ The voice slithered through the silence. ‘Does a man good to see such an enticing sight after a hard day.’
Rosalind stiffened as, behind her, the squelch of his horse’s hooves ceased. A worm of fear wriggled in her belly. Nothing would surprise her about the so-called gentlemen of the ton after her family’s experience with Nell’s guardian, Sir Peter Tadlow, and his cronies. Thank goodness Nell—her stepsister—was no longer at Stoney End; she had departed early that morning in their family coach to stay with her aunt, Lady Glenlochrie, in London to prepare for her debut into society. Hopefully she would be safe in her aunt’s care until the start of the Season.
The visitors to Halsdon Manor would not recognise Rosalind or Freddie, her brother, for they had never been welcome in society circles, but Nell was a different matter. Heaven knew who she had come into contact with whilst staying with various family members over the years.
Willing herself to stay calm, Rosalind finished fixing her skirts and only then did she turn to face the horseman, Hector’s stick hidden in the folds of her skirt, the rough bark reassuring against her palm. The gentleman was tall and dark with classically patrician features. His skin was unusually swarthy and he sat his sweat-stained black hunter with insolent grace. His finely moulded lips were stretched in a smile that did not touch his eyes, the darkest Rosalind had ever seen. He raked her from head to toe with a gaze full
of cold calculation that left a trail of wariness and vulnerability in its wake.
‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’
Head high, Rosalind moved to pass the horse and rider, to head back up the lane in the direction of her home. Her attempt to brazen it out failed. The man backed his horse sharply around in front of her, blocking her path—so close the smell of the animal filled her nostrils and waves of heat from its sweat-soaked skin washed over her face.
‘Not so fast, m’dear.’ The rider’s tone was sharp, his eyes intent. ‘I simply wish to introduce myself.’ He raised his hat. ‘Anthony Lascelles, at your...service.’
Rosalind’s stomach clenched at the oily insinuation in his tone.
‘I am the new owner of Halsdon Manor,’ Lascelles continued. ‘And you are...?’
‘Mrs Pryce.’ Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to adopt the guise of a widow when they moved to Buckinghamshire. Her false identity boosted her courage. ‘Now, if you will excuse me...’ She attempted once more to bypass Lascelles’s horse.
Again, he reined the black round to block her path. Rosalind gritted her teeth and glared up at him, then jerked away as he reached down to tug at her shawl. She brandished the stick, ready to do battle, then recalled Hector—no doubt still patiently awaiting her call. She smiled inside at the thought of Lascelles’s shock. She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled.
Behind her came the scrabble of claws on wood, then Hector was by her side, hackles raised, snarling in defence of his mistress. A dog of the type developed to hunt wolves in Ireland many centuries before, Hector was a magnificent animal, his head level with Rosalind’s hip. Lascelles’s horse sidled and plunged, throwing his head in the air, tail swishing in agitation as his rider paled, his eyes wide and lips tight. A skilled horsewoman herself, Rosalind sensed the black’s reaction was due as much to the tension of his master’s hand on the rein as to Hector’s appearance.
Surely Lascelles would detain her no longer?
‘Quiet, sir!’