Tangled Reins

Chapter Fourteen

Dorothea would have given everything she possessed to know how long Hazelmere had been standing there. Across the room her eyes locked with his. Then, smiling faintly, he straightened and crossed to stand before her, taking her hand and kissing it, as was his habit. Dorothea struggled to master her surprise as the usual light-headedness swept over her. Under the warm hazel gaze she blushed. Hazelmere retained his clasp on her hand as he turned to view Edward Buchanan.

Fanshawe had been standing immediately behind Hazelmere and had entered the room in his wake, pointedly shutting the door after him. Cecily, with a suppressed squeal, had run to his side.

The arrival of their lordships left Edward Buchanan, at least temporarily, with nothing to say and nowhere to go. He was barely able to believe the evidence of his eyes, and all trace of intelligence had left his face, leaving it more bovine in appearance than ever. With the rug effectively pulled from under him, he stared in mute trepidation at Hazelmere, who stood, calmly regarding him, a considering light in the strange hazel eyes.

‘Before we continue this singularly senseless conversation I should point out to you, Buchanan, that, on her marriage, Miss Darent’s estate remains in her hands.’

Cool and precise, Hazelmere’s words affected Edward Buchanan as if a bucket of iced water had been dashed in his face. For a matter of seconds sheer astonishment held him silent. Then, ‘Why, that’s…that’s… I’ve been grossly deceived!’ he blustered. ‘Lord Darent has misled me! And Sir Hugo!’

Cecily, Fanshawe and Dorothea received these interesting revelations in fascinated silence. Hazelmere said, ‘Precisely. That being so, I think you’ll need a holiday to recover from your…exertions, shall we say? A long holiday, I should think. On your estates in Dorset, perhaps? I have no wish to see your face again, in London or anywhere else. If I do, or if it comes to my ears you are again indulging in the practice of abduction or in any way inconveniencing anyone, I’ll send your letters to the authorities with a full description of what took place. As all the notes are in your handwriting, and one is very conveniently signed, I’m sure they’ll take a great interest in you.’

The steely words effectively reduced Edward Buchanan’s grand plan to very small pieces. With his great chance fast disappearing downstream, he glanced wildly, first at Fanshawe and Cecily, and then at Hazelmere, Dorothea at his side, her hand still firmly held in his. ‘But the scandal…’ His voice trailed away as he encountered Hazelmere’s eyes.

‘I’m afraid, Buchanan, you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension.’ The tones were icy enough to chill the blood in Edward Buchanan’s veins. He suddenly recalled some of the other stories about Hazelmere. ‘The Misses Darent are on their way to visit Fanshawe’s and my families on our estates, escorted by their maid and coachman. Fanshawe and I were delayed in leaving town and so arranged to meet them here.’ There was a slight pause during which the hazel eyes calmly surveyed Mr Buchanan. ‘Are you suggesting there is anything in that which is at all…improper?’

Edward Buchanan paled. Thoroughly unnerved, he hastened to reassure the Marquis, the words fairly tripping from his tongue. ‘No, no! Of course not! Never meant to imply any such thing.’ One finger had gone to his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight. Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative. ‘It’s getting late. I must be away. Your servant, Misses Darent, my lords.’ With the sketchiest of bows he made for the door, slowing as he realised that Fanshawe still stood with his back to it. At a nod from Hazelmere, Fanshawe opened the door, allowing an agitated Edward Buchanan to escape.

Instantly the sounds of a hurried departure reached their ears. Then the main door of the inn slammed shut and all was quiet.

Inside the parlour the frozen tableau dissolved. Cecily openly threw herself into Fanshawe’s arms. Dorothea saw it and wished she could be similarly uninhibited. As things were, she felt barely capable of preserving her composure.

‘Oh, God! What a nincompoop!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Why’d you let him escape so easily?’

‘He’s not worth the effort,’ replied Hazelmere absentmindedly, his eyes searching Dorothea’s face. ‘Besides, as he said, he’d been misled.’

Dorothea, trying to look unconscious of his meaning and failing dismally, tried to steer the conversation into lighter fields. ‘Misled! I’ve been trying for weeks to get rid of him. If only I’d known!’ It suddenly dawned on her to wonder how Hazelmere had known. She felt strangely giddy.

Hazelmere saw her abstracted gaze. Noticing the assorted objects on the table, he seized on the distraction. ‘Have you been using the abominable Mr Buchanan for target practice?’

Dorothea, following his gaze, was diverted. ‘No. That was Cecily. But she only threw a vase of flowers at him.’

Looking to where she pointed, he saw the shards of the shattered vase. ‘Does she often throw things?’ he asked faintly.

‘Only when she’s angry.’

While he considered her answer Hazelmere picked up Dorothea’s cloak and draped it over her shoulders. ‘More to the point, does she hit anything?’

‘Oh, usually,’ Dorothea replied, strangely engrossed with the ties of the cloak. ‘She’s been doing it since she was a child, so her aim is really quite good.’

Glancing at Fanshawe, absorbed with Cecily, Hazelmere could not repress a grin of unholy amusement. ‘Do remind me, my love, to mention that to Tony some time. I should warn him of what he’s about to take on.’

Dorothea smiled nervously. Hazelmere reached around her to retrieve her gloves and handed them to her. Correctly interpreting his nod, she put them on. She looked up, to find his hazel eyes warmly smiling.

‘I think we should leave this inn forthwith. Aside from getting you and Cecily safely away, it’s by far too crowded for my liking.’

She smiled back, ignoring the little thrill of anticipation the words and tone drew forth, perfectly content to do whatever he wished, just as long as he continued to smile at her in that deliciously peculiar way. As usual, he had assumed command. But she could hardly argue with the efficient way he had got rid of Edward Buchanan. In the circumstances, she felt she could safely leave discussion of his managing ways until they had returned to London. There was still that interview to be endured, after which they would doubtless discuss what possibilities the future held. She reminded herself she still had no unequivocal proof of the nature of his feelings for her.

Hazelmere escorted Dorothea into the taproom, closely the followed by Fanshawe with Cecily. Seeing her chicks being ushered safely out, Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and came forward with Lang to hear their instructions.

Hazelmere consulted his watch. It was already close to four. In the curricle he could reach Hazelmere in just over an hour. The carriage would take closer to two. Dawn would be before six. He turned to Fanshawe with a grin. ‘I’ll leave you with the coach and Betsy, of course.’

Dorothea, who had moved with Cecily to reassure the clucking Betsy, looked up. Hazelmere smiled blandly back at her.

‘Yes, I thought you would,’ replied Fanshawe, disgusted at the thought of two hours’ frustrating travel with his love and her maid. ‘We’ll make directly for Eglemont. Cecily can see Hazelmere Water some other time. Preferably not at dawn, what’s more! To think I’m going to be saddled with this and I won’t even reap the rewards!’ He tried to scowl at his friend but could not resist the rueful laughter in the hazel eyes.

‘Never mind,’ replied Hazelmere, aware that Dorothea had missed little of their exchange. ‘I rather think I’ve got more to explain than you.’ He moved to Dorothea’s side and outlined the dispositions for the next phase of their journey. He accomplished this without explanation, and was about to lead Dorothea outside when she regained the use of her tongue.

‘But there’s no need for this at all! Couldn’t we simply go back to London?’ A long drive alone with Hazelmere had not figured in her plans.

Hazelmere stopped and sighed. ‘No.’

Dorothea waited for him to explain, but when instead he took her arm she stood her ground. ‘I realise it would not be wise for all of us to return together, but there’s no reason Cecily and I cannot go back in the carriage with Betsy, and you two can go down to your estates, then return to London later.’

Hazelmere caught the grin on Fanshawe’s face. It could hardly be missed; it was enormous. Noting the stubborn set of Dorothea’s chin and the flash of determination in her green eyes, he silenced her in the only effective way he knew. Under the bemused gazes of the innkeeper, Betsy, Lang, an intrigued and approving Cecily and a still grinning Fanshawe, he pulled her against him and kissed her. He did not stop until he judged her incapable of finding further words to argue with.

When Dorothea’s wits finally returned she was on the box-seat of Hazelmere’s curricle, the Marquis by her side, smartly heading his greys out of the inn yard, setting them on the road leading south. She glanced up at his profile, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. Her determination to force a clear declaration from him grew. Aside from anything else, if what had just occurred was any indication of how he planned to settle disagreements between them in future, unless there was some balance in their relationship, she would never win any arguments at all. Her mind made up, she reviewed her options.

The road between Tadworth and Dorking was narrow but otherwise in good condition. Which, reflected Hazelmere, was just as well. The hedges on either side cast shadows over the road, and despite the silvery moonlight he could not see far ahead. And his love would not remain silent for long. One glance as they left the inn had convinced him that she was merely gathering her forces. He glanced at her now and found her looking speculatively at him. Her brows rose in mute question.

He smiled back and returned his attention to his horses. He had no intention of initiating a conversation. Let her make the first move.

This was not long in coming. ‘Are you ever going to tell me just what has been going on?’

Thinking ‘No’ by far the safest answer, he regretfully settled for, ‘It’s a long story.’

‘How long before we reach Hazelmere?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Plenty of time to explain, then. Even with your greys in hand.’

‘But we have to reach Hazelmere Water before dawn.’

‘Why?’

Glancing down at her lovely, confused countenance, he smiled reassuringly. ‘Because that’s the supposed reason for this midnight jaunt, and so at least one of you, having been so insistent on seeing it, had better do so. Just in case someone like Sally Jersey, who has also seen it, asks for a description.’

Raising her eyes to his face, Dorothea asked in weary resignation, ‘Just what is this tale you’ve woven? You had much better tell me from the beginning if I’m supposed to convince the likes of Lady Jersey of the truth of it.’

Content to keep the conversation on relatively safe ground, Hazelmere obliged. He started by telling her what happened after she had left Merion House. ‘You’ll have to remember to make your peace with Ferdie.’

‘Was he terribly bothered?’

‘Incensed.’ He sketched the outline of the story, omitting to tell her that they were supposedly betrothed. He spent some minutes impressing on her the magnitude of Fanshawe’s and his sacrifices in saving Cecily’s and her reputations. Hearing her chuckle over Ferdie’s mission to spread the tale far and wide, he hoped he had diverted her mind from what he had not explained.

Recovering from her giggles, Dorothea mentally reviewed what she had heard, her eyes fixed on the offside horse. This midnight drive was possibly the best chance she would ever have of extracting information from Hazelmere. In normal circumstances, his physical presence was so distracting that it was a constant battle of mind against body to formulate sensible questions, let alone combat his evasive answers. But, since he was now perched on the box-seat beside her, his hands occupied with the reins and his attention divided between his horses and herself, the odds were more even. She would certainly have to encourage him to take her driving more often in future. Silent, they passed through Dorking and into the country lanes leading to Hazelmere. Bringing her gaze back to his face, she said in the most non-committal of tones, ‘What were the other notes Mr Buchanan had sent?’

He recalled a comment of Ferdie’s that she had a habit of asking questions so it was impossible to sidle out of them. Resigned to the inevitable, he answered, ‘He made two previous attempts to abduct you. That was something I didn’t foresee when I decided to convince the ton of my interest in you.’

The moonlight had completely faded and sunrise was not far off. They had crossed the Hazelmere boundary, and the look-out over the ornamental lake known as Hazelmere Water was not far ahead.

After a considerable pause while she tried to analyse his actions in all this Dorothea said, ‘I take it the first was the Bressington masquerade?’

‘Yes. There’s nothing you don’t know about that, except I knew it wasn’t a joke. That was why I was suddenly so ridiculously attentive, even attending that boring party that Sunday. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been able to learn your engagements. Did you know one of my footmen is walking out with your maid?’

Dorothea regarded him with a fascinated expression. He grinned and continued, ‘The second attempt was at the picnic you attended with Ferdie. He forgot to give you a note delivered while you were there. It was unaddressed, so he opened it when his man found it the next day. It was supposedly signed by me, but Ferdie knows my signature and so he brought it to me. Tony was with me at the time, so after that both of them knew.’

‘When did the rest of your friends find out?’

Impossible to deny it. ‘On Wednesday, at a luncheon. I had to leave town, and Tony and Ferdie couldn’t hope to keep you in sight all the time.’

‘Did it never occur to you to tell me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. But I couldn’t see what good it would do.’ Seeing her frown, he sighed. ‘Who could know if and when the next attempt might be made?’

The silence on his left was complete. After a minute he risked a glance and found she was regarding him quizzically. ‘You’re quite abominably high-handed, you know.’

He smiled sweetly and replied, ‘Yes, I know. But only with the best of intentions.’

The curricle topped a gentle rise and just beyond the crest Hazelmere turned the horses on to the grass verge, cropped to form a look-out. ‘And that,’ he announced, ‘is Hazelmere Water.’

With the sun breaking over the distant horizon, the scene spread beneath her feet was breathtakingly beautiful. He jumped down from the curricle and tied the reins firmly to a bush. He lifted her down and together they descended a flight of shallow steps cut into the escarpment. These led to a small plateau beneath the crest where a stone bench stood by an old oak. An uninterrupted view of the valley below unfurled at their feet. Hazelmere Water was a large ornamental lake edged by clumps of willows. There was an island in the middle with more willows, and a summerhouse, painted white, showing through the lacy foliage. Swans cruised slowly on the gentle currents of the stream that fed the lake from one end and exited at the other.

As the sun climbed higher the colours of the scene changed constantly from the first cool sepia tones through the warm pink tints of early sunrise and the golden glow of increasing light, until finally, as the sun cleared the hills behind the lake and shone forth unhindered, the bright greens of the grass and willows and the deep blue of the lake showed clear and intense.

Seated on the bench, Dorothea watched in speechless delight. Hazelmere, beside her, had viewed the sight on many occasions. He still found pleasure in it, but today had eyes only for the woman beside him. Returning to London with the firm intention of settling their past and future in one fell swoop, he had found that, instead of waiting patient and secure for him to declare himself, his independent love had gone haring off in the middle of the night to do battle with Edward Buchanan. It really should not have surprised him. While he had little doubt she would have handled the matter after a fashion, her disposition to manage matters her own way had given him an irresistible opportunity to bring their frustrating courtship to its inevitable climax. But now, despite her apparent calm, she was defensive. To be trying to keep him at a distance after all that had passed between them seemed rather odd, even for his independent love. He watched her; delight in the scene before her glowed on her expressive face. Inwardly he sighed. He was going to have to find out what it was that was worrying her. The reins of this affair of theirs had continually tangled; he couldn’t remember when he’d had so much difficulty with a woman. And now he had a sneaking suspicion that, while he had thought he had got the reins untangled and running free, they had somehow got snagged again.

With the sun riding the sky, Dorothea turned towards him, her eyes glowing. ‘That was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen! I’m afraid Lord Fanshawe will have to bring Cecily here at dawn after all.’

Hazelmere had lost interest in Fanshawe and Cecily. ‘Just as long as it’s you who tells him so. Having consigned him to two hours in that carriage with Cecily and your Betsy, I fear I’m not at present riding high in his esteem.’

Dorothea, suddenly breathless, looked down and found that he had hold of her hand. She felt him move to draw her to him. Knowing that if he kissed her she would lose any chance of retaining sufficient control to force any admission, positive or negative, from him, she resisted. He immediately stopped. For a moment silence, still and deep, engulfed them. Dorothea, her eyes downcast, did not see the long lips curl into a wry smile. Hazelmere could think of only one way to precipitate matters, so he took it. ‘Dorothea?’ His voice was entirely devoid of its usual mocking tone. ‘My dear, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Despite the fact that she had expected the question, for one long moment she thought the world had stopped turning. Then, her eyes still locked on his hand, gently clasping hers, she struggled to find words to extricate herself from the predicament the question had landed her in. How typical of him! If she simply said yes, she would never learn the truth.

‘My lord, I am sensible…very sensible of the honour you do me. However, I… I am not convinced there is…any real…reason or…or basis for marriage between us.’ In the circumstances, Dorothea felt quite pleased with the outcome. Nicely vague.

Although not surprised, Hazelmere still felt as if he had been winded. How on earth had she come to that wonderful conclusion? Clearly he was going to have to explain a few things to his beloved. Assuming it was his motives she question, he went direct to that issue. ‘Why do you imagine I want to marry you?’

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, she felt forced to reply truthfully. Now was no time for missish sentiment. ‘You have to marry. I gather you want a conformable wife, to give you heirs and manage your households.’ She paused, then added, ‘Someone who would not interfere with your present lifestyle.’

For once, he missed the oblique allusion. ‘There’s nothing in my present lifestyle that marriage to you would disrupt.’ For some reason, far from reassuring her, the statement seemed to have the opposite effect.

Dorothea gulped. For one instant she almost convinced herself that she didn’t want to know. Then she shook her head. ‘In that case, I really don’t think we…would suit.’

Hazelmere was entirely at sea. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he heard the catch in her voice. Foreseeing an unprofitable and probably distressing time ahead if they continued in this roundabout fashion, he decided to gamble all on one throw. Cutting tangled reins was the fastest way, after all. Provided you could hold the horses afterwards. Possessing himself of both her hands, he drew her around to face him. ‘If you’re adamant that is true, then of course I’ll not press you. But, if you wish to convince me what you say is so, you’ll have to look at me, my love, and tell me you don’t love me.’

Her heart had sunk like lead at his first sentence. The second threw her into total disarray. How could she do that? In the long silence that ensued she could feel his eyes on her, still warm. If she looked up she would lose.

‘Dorothea?’

Mute, all she could do was shake her head.

‘Why? My dear, you’ll have to give me some explanation.’ His voice, unbearably gentle and stripped of its usual lightness, brought her close to tears. She tried to look up and failed. Wrenching her hands free, she stood and took a few agitated steps, stopping beside the trunk of the oak. Her scheming was turning this into a nightmare. Heavens! What on earth had she started?

Hazelmere watched her. Clearly she was struggling with some imagined demon, but he could hardly deal with it unless she told him what it was. Calmly he stood and strolled to stand behind her. Taking her by the shoulders, he firmly turned her to face him. One hand at her waist held her lightly while the other gently tilted her face up. She stubbornly kept her lovely and far too revealing eyes lowered. ‘Dorothea, why won’t you marry me?’

Impossible not to answer. In the end, in a voice so small that she could hardly recognise it as her own, she said, ‘Because you don’t love me.’

For nearly a minute Hazelmere, dazed, remained perfectly still. Then enlightenment dawned, and with it came relief. Dorothea, equally immobile, suddenly felt his hands shake. Startled, she looked up and saw, to her disbelieving fury, that he was laughing! Really laughing! Outraged, she flung away. Or tried to, but he had seen her intention in those beautiful eyes and held on to her, pulling her roughly into his arms and holding her, hard, against him. Rage seared through her, leaving her strangely wan. Then his voice, muffled as he spoke against her hair and still shaking with suppressed laughter, reached her. ‘Oh, sweetheart! What a gem you are! Here I went to the most extraordinary lengths to convince the entire ton, or at least all those who mattered, that I was irrevocably in love with you and the only person who didn’t notice was you!’

Already stiff and unyielding, she went rigid. She looked up. ‘You don’t love me!’

The dark brows rose. The hazel eyes, still laughing, gently quizzed her. ‘Don’t I?’

She tore her eyes from that mesmeric glance. If she was ever to learn the answers she had to pose the questions. ‘What about that bet?’ she asked, trying to sound scornful and not succeeding in the least.

He propped his shoulders against the oak, still holding her against him. ‘Young men with too much money and not enough sense. There are always bets on such things. It’s nothing new. There are bets on Fanshawe and Cecily, and Julia Bressington and Harcourt, and a few other couples, too.’

Her eyes had returned to his during this explanation. ‘Really?’

He nodded, smiling. She dropped her eyes to his shoulder while she considered that. Hazelmere studied her face. When she remained silent he continued, ‘Furthermore, my love, I feel constrained to point out that, had I been seeking a suitable and complaisant wife, I would hardly choose a lady whom I have had to twice rescue from scandalous situations in public inns.’

‘But it wasn’t my fault in either case!’ protested Dorothea indignantly. She had glanced up into the teasing hazel eyes but quickly broke the connection. In a small voice she added, ‘I thought perhaps you felt being married to me would be more…comfortable than being married to Miss Buntton.’

‘Miss Buntton?’ said Hazelmere incredulously. He shuddered. ‘My dear, being married to a hedgehog would be more comfortable than being married to Miss Buntton.’ Dorothea smothered a giggle. ‘Whoever put that idea…oh, Susan, I suppose?’

Dorothea nodded. Then another thought occurred. ‘You’re not marrying me because of the…possible scandal over tonight?’

‘After I’ve gone to such lengths to ensure there’ll be no scandal? Of course not.’ As she persisted in keeping her eyes down, he added a clincher. ‘Besides, if that were so, how is it that I’ve already got Herbert’s permission to address you?’

That brought her head up. ‘You have asked his permission!’

‘My dear Dorothea, you really should strive to rid yourself of these ramshackle notions you cherish of me. I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if I didn’t have Herbert’s permission to pay my addresses to you.’

The pious tone pricked her temper. ‘What about your mistresses?’ she asked.

The hazel eyes caught hers. ‘What about them?’

She was at a loss. ‘How should I know?’ she said in exasperation.

‘Precisely!’ The dry tone left her in no doubt of what he meant. Their eyes held, then he sighed. ‘If you must know, I dismissed my last mistress when I returned to London last September, after meeting you. I’ve had enough mistresses for a lifetime. I want a wife.’

Her gaze had drifted to his cravat and her hands, trapped between them, were apparently occupied in smoothing its folds. Hazelmere sighed. ‘My dear, delightful, idiotic Dorothea, do look at me. I am trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to convince you that I love you. The least you can do is pay attention!’

Dorothea had exhausted her questions. Obediently she looked up. When her eyes once more locked with his Hazelmere nodded approvingly. ‘Good! For your information, my love, I’ve been in love with you from, I think, the moment I first saw you picking blackberries in Moreton Park woods. What’s more, my reputation notwithstanding, I am not in the habit of seducing village maids or débutantes.’

The green eyes widened. Slightly breathless, she said, ‘I thought that was part of the bet.’

Goaded, Hazelmere replied, ‘The only reason I’ve been seducing you, albeit in stages, is because I can’t seem to keep my hands off you!’ At her surprise, he continued, ‘Oh, yes! If you think I have power over you, you have just as much power over me.’

The thoroughly feminine smile that spread across her lovely features prompted him to tighten his arms around her. ‘Now that I’ve got your full attention, my love, what can I do to convince you I love you?’

Assuming his question to be purely rhetorical, Dorothea lifted her face for his kiss. His lips gently brushed hers in a series of teasingly gentle kisses that satisfied her not at all. She wriggled her hands free and drew his head more firmly to her. She felt rather than heard his satisfied chuckle, then his lips settled over hers in a long engagement that, despite his intentions, drifted deeper with each passing minute. At some point he pushed her cloak back, allowing him access to her body, still clad in the thin silk evening gown of the night before. Too soon they reached the same point they had in Lady Merion’s drawing-room. Hazelmere, still in control despite his raging desire, mentally cursed. He should not have let it go this far. There was no way he would even consider taking her here. Her first time she should remember with joy, not distaste. But he had already left her in this state once before. He couldn’t do that again.

He raised his head to look at her. Her eyes were huge and glittering, deepest emerald under heavy lids. She moved, unconsciously seductive, pressing her body against him. With a ragged sigh he turned them around so her back was against the trunk of the oak. He bent his head and his lips burned a trail to the hollow of her throat. Expertly his long fingers undid the column of tiny buttons closing her bodice and loosened the laces beneath. As his hand gently cupped her naked breast she moaned softly. His lips found hers again, letting their passions ride. There were other ways she could be satisfied. And he knew them all.

Much later, when she was wrapped once more in her cloak and resting comfortably in his arms, he felt her draw a deep breath and sigh happily. He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Does that mean you’ve agreed to marry me?’

Dorothea smiled dreamily. Without looking up, she asked, ‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Not really. If you don’t consent now I’ll take you to Hazelmere, lock you in my apartments and keep you there until I get you with child. Then you won’t have any choice at all.’

At that she looked up, laughing. ‘Would you?’

The hazel eyes glinted. ‘Without hesitation.’

She smiled, a slow, infinitely smug smile. She felt the arms around her tighten. ‘In that case, I’d better agree.’

He nodded. ‘Very wise.’ His eyes searched her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge her state of mind. Then he sighed. ‘I suspect I should take advantage of your contented state to tell you that the notice of our betrothal will appear in today’s Gazette.’

For a moment the implication did not register. Then she asked, ‘How on earth…?’

‘I asked Ferdie to put it in. It’s wiser to keep the tabbies happy wherever possible.’ His arm around her, he started to move towards the steps.

Feigning anger, Dorothea stopped dead. ‘So that’s why you’re so insistent I marry you!’

The arm around her tightened again, drawing her to him once more. ‘Don’t start that again. I’m marrying you, you disbelieving woman, because I love you!’ He kissed her soundly, then pulled her on to the steps. ‘Besides which,’ he continued conversationally, ‘if I don’t have you soon, I’m going to go out of my mind.’

Amused, he watched his love blush delightfully.

‘The house is over the next rise. Knowing my mother, the entire household has probably been waiting for hours.’

Dorothea was eager to catch her first glimpse of Hazelmere, and as the curricle topped the rise she looked down on the huge sandstone mansion, honey-coloured in the sun, sprawling across the opposite side of the valley. Descending the gentle slope and crossing the bridge over the stream from the lake, the curricle swept through the gates in the low stone wall separating the formal gardens from the rest of the park. Hazelmere held the greys to a trot as they followed the winding drive through acres and acres of perfectly tended gardens and lawns, past shrubberies and fountains, until the curricle reached the broad sweep of the gravel court before the main entrance.

Jim Hitchin came running to take the reins, grinning with relief at seeing the horses in one piece. He had never doubted his master would return all right and tight with the lady beside him, so had wasted no thoughts on them.

Hazelmere jumped down and lifted Dorothea down. At the first sound of wheels on the gravel, Lady Hazelmere, who had been waiting in the morning-room since five o’clock, had come to the door to welcome them. She was agog to learn just why her usually correct son had seen fit to drive through the night, apparently alone with Miss Darent in an open curricle. One look at his face warned her not to ask.

Correctly surmising that they had been up all night, she immediately whisked Dorothea upstairs to the large chamber she had had prepared. It was only then that Dorothea removed her cloak, and as she moved towards the window the light fell full on her. Lady Hazelmere rapidly revised her assessment of her son’s behaviour and, turning, shooed out her maid, who had come in to help. Instead she helped the sleepy girl to bed, lending her one of her own nightgowns and forbearing to ask any questions, even as to the whereabouts of her missing clothing. The tell-tale signs of her son’s lovemaking, showing clearly on the perfect skin, would fade by the time she awoke. No need to further embarrass the child, or to expose her to the censorious mind of her sharp-eyed maid. Her own maid, Hazelmere had informed her, along with his valet, would arrive from London later.

Leaving Dorothea already halfway asleep, Lady Hazelmere went downstairs in search of her son. Hazelmere, aware of his mother’s curiosity, knew that if she once caught him she would not let him go until she had all the story. He had therefore refused point-blank to pay any attention whatever to Liddiard and had repaired with all possible speed to his apartments before she could materialise and waylay him.

Baulked of all prey, her ladyship spent the rest of the morning in comfortable speculation on what her son and the lovely Dorothea had been up to.

Hazelmere woke to the rattle of curtains. Sunlight streamed into the large apartment. He closed his eyes again. He had left orders to be woken at one. He supposed it was one.

Then memory returned and the events of the early morning swam into focus. The severe lips curved in a smile of pure happiness. A discreet cough interrupted his recollections. He reluctantly opened his eyes and located Murgatroyd, standing by the bed, disapproval in every line.

‘I wondered, my lord, what you wished me to do with these?’ From finger and thumb hung suspended a garment, which, after a few moments of total bewilderment, Hazelmere recognised. ‘I found them in the pocket of your driving cloak, m’lord.’ Never, in all the years he had been valeting, had Murgatroyd had to deal with such an occurrence. He was badly discomposed.

Raising his eyes to the face of his henchman, now devoid of all expression, Hazelmere sternly repressed the urge to laugh. As soon as he could command his voice he said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I suppose you had better return them to their owner.’

Something very like shock infused the countenance of his imperturbable valet. ‘My lord?’ Incredulity hung in the air.

‘Miss Darent,’ supplied Hazelmere, sorely tried.

Murgatroyd assimilated this information, his face wooden. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and had almost reached the door before Hazelmere spoke again.

‘Incidentally, Murgatroyd, Miss Darent and I are to be married in a few weeks, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to such happenings.’

‘Indeed, my lord?’ Murgatroyd’s breast seethed with a whole range of emotions. He had never before valeted to a married gentleman, preferring the regularities of bachelor households. It was the reason he had left his last position. But he had been very comfortable in Hazelmere’s employ. And Miss Darent, soon to be her ladyship, was a very lovely woman. And the Marquis was…well, Hazelmere. The rigid features relaxed into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m sure I wish you both very happy, my lord.’

Hazelmere smiled his acknowledgement and dropped back on to his pillows as Murgatroyd left in search of Trimmer.

The next five days passed in a rush of activity. Hazelmere had decreed they were to be married at St George’s in Hanover Square in just over two weeks. There was a wealth of detail to be discussed and decisions made. A constant stream of couriers passed between London and Hazelmere, carrying orders and information. On that first afternoon Tony Fanshawe and Cecily dropped by on their way back to London. On hearing the news, Cecily was ecstatic; Betsy promptly burst into tears.

From Lady Merion came the news that the whole town was a-buzz with the tale of their trip to Hazelmere Water and, far from there being any undesirable comment, everyone was describing it as the romance of the Season. As Dorothea refolded her grandmother’s letter Hazelmere smiled wickedly across the breakfast table. ‘Just as well they’ll never know what really happened at Hazelmere Water.’

Dorothea gasped, then, outraged by the knowing look on his face, threw a roll at him. Ducking, he protested, ‘I thought only Cecily threw things!’

They decided to return to London on Monday. Hazelmere spent Sunday afternoon with Liddiard. He would only be able to spare a single day in the run-up to their wedding for dealing with any further business. Liddiard was to be in ultimate charge of all his estates until they returned from their wedding trip to Italy.

Dorothea, time hanging heavy on her hands, went to sit in the sunken rose garden. It had been five days since they had arrived; five days since that morning above Hazelmere Water. And in those five days Marc had been politely attentive but curiously distant. They had exchanged nothing but the most chastely light kisses-no passionate embraces, no delicious caresses. It was ridiculous! What on earth was the matter now?

A swish of silk skirts heralded Lady Hazelmere’s approach. The two women had become firm friends. With a smile her ladyship settled herself on the stone bench beside her soon to be daughter-in-law, and, as was her habit, took the bull by the horns. ‘What’s the matter?’

Used by now to her ways, Dorothea grimaced. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

Lady Hazelmere’s shrewd eyes studied the younger woman. Then she made an educated guess. ‘Hasn’t Marc slept with you yet?’

Dorothea blushed rosily.

Her ladyship laughed musically, then reassured her. ‘Don’t get upset, child. I couldn’t help notice you were missing a rather vital article of clothing when you arrived. I presume you didn’t set out from London like that?’

In spite of herself, Dorothea grinned. ‘No.’

‘Well,’ said her ladyship, examining the tips of her slippers as they peeped from under the hem of her stylishly elegant gown, ‘Marc seems to be taking after his father in more ways than one. It’s something of a shock to think you’re marrying a rake and find instead that, at least before the wedding, you’d get the same treatment from the Archbishop’s son.’

Dorothea giggled.

‘Well, maybe not quite the same,’ amended Lady Hazelmere. ‘But all the Henry men are like that-scandalous on the one hand and puritanical on the other. It’s decidedly confusing. Mind you, I doubt there have been many virgin brides in the family, either.’

Dorothea sat up straighter. ‘Oh?’

‘A word of advice, my dear: if you don’t wish to be forced to wait the full two weeks until your wedding, you’d better do something about it. You’re leaving for London tomorrow and once there, if I know Marc, you’ll have no chance to force the issue. If, on the other hand, you break his resistance now, you should have no trouble in London.’

‘But he seems so very distant, I wondered if perhaps he-’

‘Distant? What on earth happened at Hazelmere Water?’ exclaimed her ladyship. ‘That sort of thing, let me tell you, just doesn’t happen if a man is “distant”. Marc’s keeping as far away from you as possible because he doesn’t trust himself-he knows he’s too close to the edge with you, that’s all. If you want him to make love to you before your wedding you’ll just have to give him a push.’

Dorothea, eyes round, regarded her soon to be motherin-law. The novel idea of forcing such an issue with her stubborn and domineering betrothed had an attraction all its own. ‘How?’

Tucking her arm into Dorothea’s, Lady Hazelmere smiled joyously. ‘Let’s go and look at your wardrobe, shall we?’

That evening Hazelmere arrived in the drawing-room, just ahead of Penton, as usual, to escort his betrothed and his mother into dinner. As he crossed the threshold his eyes went to Dorothea. He blinked and checked, then smoothly recovered himself.

Throughout the meal he struggled to keep his eyes away from the vision in ivory silk seated on his right. But for once his mother seemed curiously silent, leaving Dorothea and himself to carry the conversation. In the end he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. That was bad enough, but not nearly so disturbing as the rest of her. Where in hell had she got that gown? Presumably Celestine-simplicity was her hallmark. An ivory sheath with a bodice so abbreviated that it barely passed muster, with an overdress of silk gauze so fine that it was completely transparent. The entire creation was held together by a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front. He had never been so thankful to see the end of a meal as he was that night.

He watched Dorothea and his mother retire upstairs to the parlour. With a sigh of relief he went into the library. Half an hour later, settled in one of the huge wing chairs before the fire, a large brandy by his side, he was deep in the latest newssheet when he heard the door shut. Looking up, he stood as Dorothea came towards him, calm and serene as ever, a book in her hands. ‘Your mother has retired early so that she’ll be able to farewell us in the morning. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while. You don’t mind, do you?’

He smiled in response to her smile and settled her in the wing chair opposite his. She opened her book and seemed to be quite content to sit quietly reading. He returned to his newssheet.

For a while only the ticking of the huge grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional crackle from the fire disturbed the peace. Glancing up, he saw she had laid aside her book and was calmly watching the leaping flames. The light from the fire flickered in a rosy glow over her still figure, striking coppery glints from her dark hair. He forced his attention back to the newssheet.

After reading the same paragraph four times, and still having no idea what it said, he gave up. He laid the paper aside. In one smooth movement he rose and, crossing to her, took her hands; raising her, he drew her into his arms. He looked down into her emerald eyes, then bent his head until his lips found hers. The room was still; only the flames rose and fell, illuminating the figures locked together before the hearth. When the kiss finally ended they were both breathing raggedly. The hazel and green eyes locked for a time in silent communion, then Hazelmere bent to lightly brush her lips with his. ‘I love you.’

Hardly daring to speak in case the magic surrounding them shattered into a million shards, Dorothea barely breathed the words, ‘And I love you.’

The severely sculpted lips lifted in a decidedly wicked smile. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Many hours later Dorothea, blissfully sated, snuggled herself against the long length of her husband-to-be. They had come up to his room; her room next door was not yet refurbished. Her clothes, and his, were scattered in a trail from the door to the hearth. They had first made love, exquisitely, on the huge daybed before the fire. Later they had moved to the even larger four-poster, where they now lay. With a soft, contented sigh she settled herself to sleep, one arm across his chest, his arm around her, holding her close.

Suddenly, in the darkness, Hazelmere chuckled. Then he shook with silent laughter. ‘Oh, God! What on earth will Murgatroyd say this time?’

Dorothea murmured sleepily and dropped a kiss on his collarbone. She had no idea who Murgatroyd was and was not particularly interested. She was too busy savouring the novel sensation of having won an argument with her arrogant Marquis. Even if she did not win another for a considerable time, she doubted it would bother her. She was bound to be far too contented to care.