Eventually, though, the port had its effect, and Gabriel’s eyes drooped. Raphael smiled at him, glad to see his brother happy.
“Off to bed with you, Gabriel, before you fall asleep in the chair.”
Gabriel started, then placed his near empty glass on the side table with exaggerated care, nodded, and rose.
“I like her, Raphael, and I rather think that you like her more than you say, too. That’s good, you should have someone to care about that way. Good night to you.” Yawning, he left the room.
Raphael stood, open-mouthed in surprise for a moment, before turning and pouring himself a brandy that he felt a sudden need of.
It was very late, and the enjoyable evening would end soon. If she was going to do this, now was the time.
Sera rose and asked for the direction of the necessary, then quietly exited the room. But she did not follow the directions given. Instead, she made her way down the hall to the slightly ajar door of the room that she had seen Raphael enter, when they left the dining room.
Her heart beat hard, thumping almost painfully in her chest, and her palms felt damp with nerves. But she was determined. He might reject her gesture – if so, at least she would know where she stood. But he might not, and in that case, the future might hold things she had once though lost to her forever. At least there would be a chance.
She pushed the door open gently, stepped in, and just as gently pushed it closed behind her. The soft click of the closing door brought him round, from where he stood staring into the flames of the fire, to gaze instead, at her.
The soft amber colour of her gown made her golden eyes glow more brightly than usual, and the deep red highlights in her hair shone in the lamplight. He waited, bemused, as she walked to him and stopped.
“Raphael…” her voice had the same soft huskiness he had heard in the stable, but this time it was some emotion, not smoke, that had roughened her voice. He shivered at the sound, feeling it deep within him, in the place that had ached for her, all these sennights.
“I… I wanted to give you something.” Her voice shook a little, but her smile was breathtaking. She lifted her reticule and undid its strings. Raphael watched, intrigued, waiting. Sera opened the reticule to its fullest extent, reached in, and very carefully withdrew something.
“Your hand, if you please.”
Still bemused, he complied, holding out an open palm.
Delicately, as if handling a tiny bird, or something equally fragile, she laid something on his hand.
He dragged his eyes away from her face, and looked. On his hand lay a tiny favour, a heart made from beautiful antique lace, adorned with tiny beads of crystal and ruby, all stiffened by a piece of old, old vellum of the highest quality. If he had thought the favours she made for their business exquisite, then this was a step above and beyond them again.
He raised his eyes to hers, and she smiled, shyly, with uncertainty, but with something in her eyes that he had dreamed of, and barely hoped could ever be real.
“I made this some years ago… before… I put all of my wishes and longings into it, all of my memories of my grandmother, and the good things in my life, into this, made with her lace. It was a promise to myself, through all of the bad things. The heart of me. Now, I want to give it to you. It is near midnight. In but a few minutes, it will be Saint Valentine’s Day. Please, accept my Valentine.”
She stopped, and simply stood, watching his face. She was afraid, shaking, terrified that he would reject this, more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life, and by her own actions. But she would not presume – she would wait upon his response.
Raphael lifted the tiny thing and studied it. It was imbued with the scent that he had come to know as hers, it was, in its way, as utterly beautiful as she, as much from its simplicity as from its complexity. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. Then he slid it carefully into the pocket inside his jacket, close against his heart. Perhaps his dreams had a chance, after all.
“Thank you. This is a gift beyond price. I will treasure it, as I treasure you, always.”
He held out his hand again, and this time she placed her own in his. He drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms as he had in the stable, and tilted his face against her hair, the silky softness and the scent of her arousing him, as no other woman had. After a moment, he raised his hand, and tilted her head up. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and something more. Her lips were soft and inviting, reddened where she had nibbled at them in her nervousness.
He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, his lips exploring the shape of hers, his tongue caressing, and then, after a moment, she responded, her lips opening to him, her body pressing to his, her hands coming up to encircle his neck, to tangle in his hair. The kiss deepened, and everything faded away, but the feel of her in his arms, and the taste of her on his lips.
As the clock gently chimed midnight, and it became Saint Valentine’s Day, towards which they had both worked so hard, they explored each other in a kiss that went on, and on, and on. Neither wished to stop, for stopping might require words again. For now, the possibilities for their future, which were contained in touch, taste and scent, were all that they wanted, perhaps all that they would ever need.
The End.
Read more of Raphael and Serafine’s story in ‘Winning the Merchant Earl’ coming in late 2017.
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 8 novels, with the third 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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(coming soon)
Redeeming the Marquess
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Healing Lord Barton (coming soon)
Loving the Bitter Baron (coming soon)
Rescuing the Countess (coming soon)
Attracting the Spymaster (coming soon)
Here is your preview of
His Majesty’s Hounds – Book 1
Sweet and Clean Regency Romance
Arietta Richmond
Having broken his fast at the inn that morning, Hunter Barrington, tenth Duke of Melton, had decided that he would ride for the last leg of his journey, because he was heartily sick of the stuffy carriage and of his valet’s mournful mien.
This worthy, whom he had hired following his friend Raphael’s advice (for it seemed that his business was a source of excellent information, not just imported goods), had vainly tried to turn him into a dandy during their short stay in London. Hunter smiled thinking of Bulwick’s dismay when he had flatly refused to use the cane that Bulwick had tried to foist upon him, or to buy the inordinate number of fobs, which it was fashionable to attach to one’s watch chain. After years in the field, his taste in dress was so simple that it could be called austere. Not so long ago, a day with clean clothes had been worth savou
ring, so all of this fuss seemed rather ridiculous to him.
Poor Bulwick had been horrified when he had declared his intention to ride.
“You can’t possibly do that, my Lord,” he had whispered.
“You will reach Meltonbrook Chase in a dishevelled and mussed condition. You will get a head cold, of a certainty. And, my Lord, if I may presume to comment further, the road is in very bad condition and frozen all over.”
“Fustian!”
Hunter had exclaimed, shrugging away his valet’s concern.
“It will do me good. Look after my luggage, Felton. I’m off.”
The road, in his opinion, was quite good – certainly a vast improvement on trampled battlefields and roads in a war zone!
So, without further ado, he had swung onto his horse, leaving the bewildered valet with his mouth still open in protest.
For the first few miles, the ride had been exhilarating. Warmly clad in his greatcoat, beaver hat and fur lined gloves, astride his dapple grey stallion, he had delighted in the cold wind and in the speed-blurred landscape, as he let the stallion run off his energy.
The feeling of freedom, however, did not last long and had already vanished when Meltonbrook Chase appeared in the distance. It was the first time he had seen his family estate since his father, the late Duke, had purchased a commission for him, as was traditional for a second son.
Hunter could remember, perfectly well, his father’s stern admonitions, imparted before sending him on his way to London, and hence to the Peninsular and war.
“Honour first of all, my son. Honour means more than life to our family. Never tarnish it, never demean yourself, never show a streak of the yellow. Remember, an officer and a nobleman must be an example for his men. England must stand against the French tyrant. Your commitment must be wholehearted. Your days as a dissipated and wild young buck have ended. Do you understand?”
’I thought I understood, Father, but I didn’t. Only later, I did. Oh, yes, later I understood, all too well, what you meant.’ Hunter’s thought was wry, and a little sad.
He was so absorbed in his musings that he was barely registering the landscape. It took some time for him to realise that he was inside Meltonbrook Chase’s expansive park. He reined in his horse, and stopped to look at the wintry landscape around him.
The silence was profound, broken only by the cawing of a crow, somewhere in the woods, and by the soft murmuring of the nearby brook.
The grounds were immaculate under the heavy pall of snow, the ice-traced tall poplars, which surrounded the lake, shining like silver filigree under the setting sun’s slanting rays.
“I’m home.” he thought, steeling himself for his first meeting with his family, after so many years.
Riding into the deserted stable yard, it seemed surreal that he was actually here – and even more surreal that his father and brother were gone, that all of this was his now.
He dismounted, the icy gravel crunching under his feet, as a brawny groom, in a leather coat, came running toward him.
“Master Hunter! Master Hunter! Is it you? Is it really you? At long last you’re home again!” The man suddenly checked and lowered his head.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I’ve been overfamiliar, but me happiness made me tongue run away with me, it did, old fool that I am.”
“Never you mind, Nick. Master Hunter it is, if you wish it, as long as you keep it just between us. You know how stuffy my mother can be… Now, this is Nuage.…“ he gestured to the horse, which snuffled curiously at the old groom. “I bought him in France, and a valiant fellow he is. Take good care of him, will you? Go with Nick, my boy, he’s a good one.”
Nick stroked the horse’s silky coat and took the reins.
“Always been a good judge of horseflesh, Master Hunter. Since you was a stripling, you was. Come along Nuage, a good rubdown is what you need right now. And what about some clean straw to lie on and some oats to chew?” Talking to the horse, the head groom disappeared around the corner toward the stable, as the carriage, bearing his valet, and his meagre luggage, drew up before the house.
~~~~~~~~
Nerissa looked at her reflection in the tall mirror and sighed.
She would never be an Incomparable, and that was that. Her colouring was all wrong, she was too tall and her face was too angular. In the pale pastel colours that were deemed fashionable for young ladies, she faded into insignificance.
She sighed again, thinking of her sister Maria, an acknowledged Beauty, who had cut a triumphant swathe through the ton during the previous Season. It had been fashionable to be in love with Maria, with her flashing amber eyes, rich auburn hair and flawless creamy complexion.
Thus, Maria had had the opportunity of choosing from amongst a veritable army of suitors and was now betrothed - very advantageously betrothed, to be sure, to a wealthy Earl, to their parents’ delight.
Donning her fur lined pelisse and her velvet bonnet, Nerissa crossed the hall and stepped into the carriage with her maid, bound to Meltonbrook Chase, where she was to have tea with her bosom bow Alyse, the Duke of Melton’s daughter.
No, not daughter, sister, she amended her thought. Hunter was Duke, now, after the untimely demise of his father and his elder brother.
She blushed. They hoped that Hunter would be home soon, for he had sent his family a message from London, but with the deep snow on the roads, he was likely delayed.
Would he recognise her? She did not think so. He had had scant interest to spare for her, to begin with, when he was a young man just back from his term in Oxford, and she was just a shy ten year old, all angles and elbows and not even a promise of feminine allure.
Nerissa leaned back on the carriage seat, closing her eyes. ‘Much good it does me to wool-gather like that’, she chided herself. ‘I’ll be lucky if I don’t find myself married to some gouty old man before the Season is over.’
She shivered, and not because of the sharp wind blowing and howling through the naked trees.
~~~~~~~~
As Hunter approached the door, the butler, a delighted expression lighting his usually impassive features, opened it. Immediately regaining his formal demeanour, Jermyn schooled his expression to a more serious face, better suited to the Butler of a great house.
“Welcome home, my lord. The ladies are in the drawing room. Follow me, please.”
“No need, Jermyn, I know the way”, answered Hunter, secretly amused by the butler’s display of self-restraint, and almost ran to the drawing room doors, suddenly unable to wait any longer to see his family.
He opened the doors, and an instant of shocked silence followed his entrance.
Hunter scanned the tableau – a morning visit frozen before him. All of his family were there (although part of his mind still expected to see his father and Richard as well), and there was someone else.
A woman he did not know, a woman who was more beautiful than any he had seen.
She had burnished golden hair, surrounding her face with a profusion of waves and ringlets, a honey and gold complexion; long, almond shaped green gold eyes, fringed by thick burnished golden eyelashes and emphasized by high cheekbones, and a tall, shapely body.
The only feature detracting from perfection, but greatly adding to character, was a rather large, mobile mouth, much more capable of expressing feelings (and temper, he suspected!) than a proper prim little rosebud. He was captivated. Her eyes met his across the room, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
He was brought back to the moment when the silence was broken by his sister Alyse, who cried out: “Hunter! Hunter, you are back! Is it really you, Hunter?” and, without any further ado, threw herself at him. His eye contact with the woman was broken, and he forgot her in the chaos that followed.
Hunter’s mother, the Duchess Louisa, half-fainting, reclined on the sofa, fanning herself and calling for her vinaigrette. His sister Sybilla, almost jigged around the table, before forcing herself to behave with greater p
ropriety. His brother, Charles, obviously tried to be the cool gentleman, but could not help but step forward and embrace Hunter, his eyes shining with held back tears.
“At long last, my son,” sobbed his mother.
“Come here, and let me look at you. Last time I saw you, you were a boy. Now you are a man. And what a man! Your father, God rest his soul, would be so proud of you…”
Moved despite himself, Hunter gathered his weeping mother into his arms.
“Shush, Mother, I’m here to stay. I’m so sorry I was not here when it would have really mattered. I feel that I have failed you all, yet it was at the time of Waterloo, and I did not even hear the news for months! I’m so sorry…”
The Duchess brushed her tears impatiently aside.
“I’m a foolish old woman, my son. This is not a time for weeping, but a time for rejoicing. God knows, we have been mourning long enough. And look who is here, Hunter. Do you remember Lady Nerissa Loughbridge, Lord Chester’s youngest daughter?”
A faint recollection of a meddlesome brat, always trying to follow him around, vaguely stirred in Hunter’s memory.
He turned his head and froze again, caught by her appearance.
Brat? She was not a brat anymore, she was a woman, and a very beautiful woman at that, more so because of her unusual colouring.
It was all he could do not to stare at her with his mouth agape. He tried to react in some polite way, and smiled, suddenly recalling one of Nerissa’s youthful misdeeds.
“Nerissa? Was it you who hid inside your brother Kevin’s portmanteau, because you wanted to come with us when we went to our hunting lodge near Cottesmore? And did we not discover you because you sneezed? Do you remember, Charles?”
Giving a Heart of Lace: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 3) Page 7