Courtship In The Regency Ballroom: His Cinderella Bride / Devilish Lord, Mysterious Miss

Stephen raised an eyebrow and grinned at his friend. ‘You have been busy. Where did you come by all this information?’

‘My valet,’ he said. ‘And when she wasn’t shut away up there today, she was banished to the vicarage in Beckforth on the pretext of visiting Miss Dean, who is purported to be her dearest friend in the neighbourhood.’

‘There. I told you I should flirt with the lovely Emily. It will help your own suit no end if we were to take to visiting the vicarage together.’

‘I have no need of your help.’

‘No, you are beyond help. But it will amuse me no end watching you make a cake of yourself. I shall always treasure the moment when Cinderella rated you below the value of her knitting. I should think everyone in the drawing room heard her berate you for making her drop a stitch.’

‘She has a temper.’ He shrugged. ‘And we got off on the wrong foot, that is all. There was a misunderstanding.’

He frowned. He never had really made a decent apology for his awful behaviour during their first encounter. She might still harbour some resentment, but the prospect of the lifestyle he was offering would more than make amends for all that.

‘And of course her uncle has repeatedly warned her to keep away from me. He wants me for his own daughters. So she has not dared think of me in the light of a suitor. She is naturally on edge whenever I pay her a little attention in case her family think she is putting herself forward. Once I manage to declare myself, and promise her that I will prevent her family from exacting retribution, you will see a marked difference in her attitude towards me.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. What woman would not go instantly into raptures upon receiving a marriage proposal from a marquis?’

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Hester tied her hair out of the way with a brightly embroidered cotton scarf, rounded up the children, and took them up to the long gallery for a game of indoor cricket.

It was not long into the game when she gave thanks that all the breakables had been removed, for Harry, her twelve-year-old cousin, younger brother to Julia and Phoebe, had a powerful swing.

She leapt as high as she could in an effort to catch the tennis ball he had just struck, but was not surprised when her fingers closed on empty air. What did surprise her was his cry of, ‘Oh, well caught, sir,’ and the smattering of spontaneous applause that rippled among the other players.

As Harry dutifully lowered the tennis racquet he was using to guard the upturned coal scuttle which was his wicket, Lady Hester turned to see which one of the fathers had taken the unprecedented step of visiting his offspring, rather than the stables, so early in the morning.

But it was Lord Lensborough who was striding towards them, tossing the ball and catching it nonchalantly in one hand as he came.

‘That means you are in bat now, sir, by our rules,’ Harry cheerfully explained while Hester’s jaw dropped.

Lord Lensborough in bat. Not if I can help it, thought Hester, snapping her mouth closed firmly.

‘Make your bow to his lordship, children,’ she commanded her charges, sinking into a dutiful curtsy herself. She felt a spurt of satisfaction when his brows drew down in an expression of displeasure. He was no fool, she had to give him that. He had picked up her unspoken message that he was unwelcome.

‘You appear to have lost your way, my lord,’she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the ball once he came to a halt only a few feet from her. ‘My cousins are waiting for you in the library.’ The long, strong fingers tightened perceptibly around the ball.

‘What you are doing looks far more interesting.’

Hester detected a hint of a threat in his tone. She took a step back. He took one forward.

‘I have observed,’ he said in a voice pitched so low that nobody but she could hear it, ‘that the most interesting things seem to occur wherever you are. Do not banish me to the library just yet. It is a sentence too harsh, even for you, to condemn me to the tedium of your cousins’ conversation.’

Hester gasped. Whatever could he mean? A scion of society would not really wish to spend time with a woman who dived into ditches, indulged in fisticuffs with his groom, spat insults at him at every available opportunity, never mind a pack of grubby children.

‘You will find no conversation at all here, my lord. We are simply playing a children’s game.’

‘I already know that it will give me more amusement than being closeted with your hen-witted aunt.’

‘My aunt is not…’ Hester’s head flew up as she launched into a defence of her aunt, only to falter at the twin hurdles of her aunt’s lack of intelligence, and the amused twinkle she encountered in those tiger-striped eyes. Still, to insult Aunt Susan while the children stood within hearing distance…

‘You have not seen my aunt at her best,’ Hester hissed between clenched teeth, taking a step nearer to prevent the children overhearing. ‘She is a little flustered at present, since we have a house full of guests.’

‘From what I have observed,’ his lordship cut in ruthlessly, ‘she does little more than sit on a sofa, issuing a plethora of contradictory orders while you run yourself ragged making sure the house runs smoothly in spite of her.’

Hester clenched her teeth on the riposte she would dearly love to have given him in defence of her aunt. Was that what he was about? Taunting her, baiting her till she could not help lashing out at him? So that she would feel, as she had done after blundering into the facts of his painful bereavement, that she deserved to have her tongue cut out? Better to change the subject altogether than end up looking like a heartless shrew yet again.

‘Please, sir, may we have our ball back? The children grow impatient to continue their game.’

‘But I am in bat,’ he countered.

‘Oh, no, you’re not.’ She glared up at him, promptly forgetting all her resolutions to keep an even temper in his presence. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. You are supposed to be in the library.’

‘I think not.’ His voice dropped to little more than a growl, so threatening it sent a shiver sliding the length of Hester’s spine. She couldn’t believe she had just more or less given him an order. Lord Lensborough took orders from nobody.

She clasped her hands together before her, an unconsciously defensive gesture, and glanced nervously over her shoulder at the children.

Lord Lensborough sighed, following the direction of her gaze. Any one of these children could report back to its parent that, instead of playing with them, Lady Hester had been flirting with him. On his account she had already had her riding privileges withdrawn, and been painfully reminded of her lowly station by being forced to take her meals out of sight of the other house guests.

This was not going at all the way he had planned. His attempt to keep things lighthearted had only succeeded in confusing her, and making her nervous. All he could now do was make the whole episode appear as innocent as possible.

‘Just stop arguing with me for once, madam, and explain the rules,’ he growled.

‘Th…the rules…’ she stuttered, backing away from him.

‘The rules are brilliant,’ Harry cheerfully asserted, stomping over to where they stood and handing the battered tennis racquet over to Lord Lensborough. ‘One man in bat, defending his wicket…’ he gestured towards the coal scuttle ‘…the rest fielding. To ensure fair play, Aunt Hetty has devised a system of handicaps. The bigger and stronger you are, the more handicaps you have.’

Lord Lensborough nodded, taking in the range of ages of the assembled children. The youngest involved in the game, the little blond moppet who had crawled on to Lady Hester’s lap during that first supper in the Great Hall, looked to be scarce more than a toddler. ‘That does seem fair,’ he agreed. Glancing at Lady Hester, he couldn’t resist asking, ‘What is the handicap imposed on Lady Hester?’

‘Oh, she’s a female,’ Harry blithely returned.

‘He means,’ Hester put in, seeing the mocking twist to Lord Lensborough’s lips, ‘that my movements are sufficiently hampered by wearing skirts to render me handicapped. I should point out, though, that any catch I make only counts as an “out” if I use my left hand, and the ball has not bounced off any other surface.’

Lord Lensborough’s lips twitched, remembering the determined leap she had been performing the very moment he had entered the gallery. ‘Dare I ask what my handicap might be?’

The children had abandoned their strategic fielding positions to gather around the tall, imposing stranger who had suddenly given their game a whole new dimension by deigning to join in.

‘You can only bat with your left hand,’ Harry decreed. ‘The other will have to be tied behind your back.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘Not much of a handicap to a sportsman like his lordship, I shouldn’t have thought,’ Lady Hester objected. ‘There should be more than that.’

So…she knew him for a sportsman. Not so indifferent as she would like to have everyone believe.

‘How about blindfolding him?’ the freckle-faced boy suggested.

‘Capital idea, George,’ Harry agreed. Before he had time to react one way or the other, the children were urging him to the coal-scuttle wicket, holding up a variety of scarves and neckcloths with which to bind him.

‘Can I not just keep my right hand in my pocket?’ he laughingly protested.

But the children were insistent, and it was amidst much hilarity that Hester took hold of his wrist and pushed it behind his back.

His arm was heavy for her to manoeuvre into position, though he was making no attempt to resist. It was muscle, she knew, not fat, that made his upper arm so bulky beneath his coat sleeve. He was an all-round sportsman. Harry Moulton had told Henrietta that, besides breeding and training racehorses, Lord Lensborough boxed regularly at Gentleman Jackson’s, and fenced in an exclusive academy off St James’s Street. He was in superb fighting condition. It felt strange to be moving his arm wheresoever she pleased, when he could have swatted her off like a pesky fly if he so wished.

She had to reach right round his waist, lifting his coat tails to secure the bindings in place. She wondered that she dare take such liberties with his person. By the time she reached up on tiptoe to fasten a silk scarf about his face, her fingers were trembling so much she could scarce get the knot tied. Handling his bulky physique like this made her excruciatingly aware of his leashed strength. This must be what it felt like to take a tiger by the tail.

Her breath was warm on the back of his neck. Her fingers were trembling. The silk kept slipping down his face as she fumbled with the knot, and she had to reach around repeatedly to hold it in place over his eyes. When she did so, the whole length of her body was pressed up against his back. Did she know what she was doing to him? Dear God, he hoped not.

It had been bad enough when she’d passed her arms round his waist, securing his arm behind his back. A lurid fantasy of her binding his limbs to a brass bedstead had flashed into his mind. Now, with the entire length of her against the length of him, the fantasy took flight. He could almost feel those supple fingers exploring his helplessly bound body, her long limbs tangling with his. The heat that had inevitably built between them whenever they came together had so far only resulted in conflict. But if they ever channelled that heat into gaining mutual satisfaction…His pulse rate rocketed.

There was no question about his choice of wife any more. All the determined flaunting of her full-bosomed cousins had left him unmoved, but her innocent fumblings, the warmth of her sweet breath on the nape of his neck, had induced erotic images so powerful he could barely keep his body in check.

Finally, thankfully, the sweet torture came to an end, and Harry warned him he was about to bowl.

Exactly how was he supposed to defend his wicket when he could not see the ball coming? His only chance was to wave his racquet wildly before his legs, in the hope that a lucky swipe would keep him safe. A slight jolt up his arm, and the cheers of the children informed him that he had made such a lucky strike. There was a shriek of delighted laughter, quickly followed by the voices of Hester and Harry in unison, shouting, ‘Out!’ When he pushed the blindfold from his eyes with the thumb of his free hand, he saw that the curly-haired moppet had the ball clutched tightly in both her hands.

‘She caught me out?’

‘Indeed she did,’ Hester chortled. Lord Lensborough had looked so determined in his defence of his wicket, so dumbfounded to have been bested by such a tiny child. A girl at that.

‘Remarkable.’ He eyed the grinning child, who was skipping up to him, with something like awe.

‘Oh, she did not catch it in the regular way, sir,’ Harry promptly explained. ‘It rolled straight at her. All she had to do was scoop it up.’

Ah, yes, Hester’s rules ensured that every single child had a chance to enjoy the game equally. Gravely, he surrendered his bat to the moppet, and turned towards Lady Hester with a slow smile. He could have shrugged out of the restraints had he so wished, but the prospect of having her trembling fingers working over the length of his body was too great a temptation to resist.

‘My lady…’

Before he could even ask Hester to untie him, she was walking away, towards the butler, who had just entered the gallery.

‘Your presence is requested in the library. You have visitors,’ Fisher explained.

Lord Lensborough’s mood took an abrupt nosedive. He was not even permitted to enjoy her company when surrounded by the most effective chaperons of all, innocent children. He ripped the scarf from his face, and freed his arm from the bindings about his waist.

‘But I promised the children until eleven,’ Hester protested, watching the shredded neckcloths flutter to the floor.

‘I will stay and supervise until then,’ Lord Lensborough grated. ‘Harry can apprise me of the rules.’

‘You? No, better not. They can return to the nursery. Some of the little ones are due for a drink and a nap.’

‘Why not?’ It would do her no good if he escorted her down to the library. For them to enter together—what a hornet’s nest that would stir up. ‘It is my turn to bowl. You would not deny me that experience? Or rob the children of their amusement? Do you think I am incapable of minding a handful of children for ten minutes?’

‘N…no, of course not.’

Her perplexed frown made him smile in a grim fashion.

‘Capital,’ Harry yelled with glee, scooping up the discarded silk scarf. ‘I can’t wait to see you bowl blindfolded!’

Hester closed the door to the gallery on the amazing sight of the autocrat surrendering his dignity to a grubby twelve-year-old schoolboy, and wondered if Em had been in the right. Perhaps she had misjudged him from the very beginning.

She had been appalled at the clinical tone of the letter his mother had written to her aunt regarding his need to produce an heir. But that was just it. He had not written it. And he really seemed to like children. Perhaps he would be…not an indulgent father—no, she could not imagine that. He would be stern, rearing his offspring to know their duty. She shrugged. That was no bad thing. Julia or Phoebe would be most indulgent mothers; he would provide a balance that would prevent the children from becoming spoiled.

As for his quip about the most interesting things happening where she was—perhaps he had not meant it as an insult. Perhaps it was his roundabout way of trying to mend fences between them, to brush off their unfortunate habit of ending every discussion or encounter they entered with argument. It had already occurred to her that, since they would be related by marriage, she must strive to keep her poor opinion of him well shackled. Perhaps his own code of honour demanded that no matter what his feeling for her might be, he would owe it to his future wife to make some attempt to be on easy terms with all her family.

Her pace slowed as her brain whirled. That might account for it—an outright apology was, after all, too much to expect from a man like him. She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. Apologise? That would be tantamount to admitting he was less than perfect. He was far too arrogant to ever make the kind of apology that would satisfy her. She reached the bottom of the stairs and drifted along the passageway that led to the wing of the house where the library was situated.

She supposed she could hardly expect him to be anything other than exceedingly conceited and self-satisfied when he must have had people fawning over him his entire life. His rank alone made him a target for toadeaters, and his almost obscene wealth meant he only had to snap his fingers, and people fell over themselves to supply whatever he wanted.

So why was it getting so hard to hold to her belief he was wicked through and through?

Because he was demolishing her prejudices one by one, that’s why. He genuinely liked children. He couldn’t be so natural with them if he didn’t.

And she had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the way he dressed. He was not expressing contempt for his humble surroundings. His clothes were cut for freedom of movement because of his active lifestyle. And they were black because he was in mourning.

It was only as she was opening the library door that she realised she had been so distracted by Lord Lensborough that she had completely forgotten to ask Fisher who her visitor was. The butler had stayed in the long gallery so that he could guide his lordship to the library when the game ended.

Her aunt was sitting on one side of the fire, her embroidery frame set up before her, with Julia and Phoebe on a sofa opposite her. In the window embrasure, Mr Farrar lounged with a newspaper spread open upon his lap, and beside him stood Emily Dean.

‘Em.’ Hester made towards her, hands outstretched in welcome. The day before, Em had expressed her wish to come and inspect the marquis at close quarters, so that she would feel better equipped to join Hester in dissecting his failings. They had agreed that she would use the pretext of returning the laundered clothes Hester had left at the vicarage, and, indeed, there was a brown paper parcel in her hand.

Em smiled. ‘I have quite a surprise for you. You will never guess who turned up, quite unexpectedly last night, for a short stay at the vicarage.’

‘Well, then, tell me.’

‘Better yet, turn round, and you will see me for yourself.’

A cold fist seemed to close around Hester’s heart at the sound of the voice she had not heard since she was thirteen.

‘Lionel Snelgrove?’

She whirled round to face him as he stepped out of the shadows to the right of the door, grinning. Bold as brass. That knowing, challenging, lopsided grin.

She drew herself upright, reminding herself that she was a grown woman now, and the room was full of people—everything was different this time.

‘Aren’t you glad to see me, Hetty?’ He laughed a little raggedly, running his fingers through his thick tawny hair. ‘Everyone else is thrilled to have me back.’

But then nobody else knew him like she did, did they? Her eyes narrowed. He was taller than she remembered, his body that of a man now, not a gangly schoolboy. As if his thoughts mirrored her own, he added, ‘You’ve certainly grown—don’t know if I would have recognised you if I’d come across you in the street.’

His eyes raked her frame. ‘Last time I saw you, you were just a skinny little carrotty-topped thing, romping about the meadows after your brother and me, and now…’ before she could stop him he had seized her hand and pressed it to his loathsome, thick lips ‘…I can scarce credit what a beauty you have become.’

She snatched her hand away, wiping the back of it down her skirts.

He laughed. ‘Come, Hester, don’t pretend to be shy of me. You were never shy of me before—why, we were almost like brother and sister when last I was here. In fact…’ he leaned even closer to her, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge ‘…you really were a very naughty little girl at times. If I were to recount some of the mischief you and I used to get up to…’

Somewhere in the distance, through the roaring in her ears, she heard Em’s voice saying, ‘Stop it, Lionel. Hester cannot help her colouring, and if she was carrotty haired and a bit of a tomboy when she was little, it is not at all gentlemanly to remind her of it.’

‘No, indeed,’ Lionel purred, completely unabashed by the public reproof, ‘but now her hair is—what I can see of it—a shade that puts one in mind of a forest in autumn. Such a pity to hide it away under that funny little scarf. Wherever did you get it, Hetty?’ He gave her a look loaded with meaning. ‘It looks exactly the sort of thing a gypsy would wear.’

He knows, she thought. Then, in despair, of course he knows. He and Gerard were so close, there was no way he could have kept the secret from him. And he is warning me that if I do not play along with him, he is quite capable of spilling the whole thing, in the drawing room, in front of my aunt, and my cousins, and…she spun round…

‘Lord Lensborough,’ she moaned. He was standing in the doorway, not three feet from her. How much had he heard? Why couldn’t he have stayed with the children a few more minutes? Trust him to turn up just when she particularly wished him elsewhere.

‘Come and sit by me, Hetty.’ Lionel was standing far too close. His breath was hot on her cheek as he murmured in her ear, ‘I think you will agree, we have a great deal to discuss.’

She could not make her legs move. Her head swam, her stomach churned. Wildly she looked about for a means of escape.

Em was clutching the parcel tight between her hands, looking from one to the other with a helplessly puzzled expression on her face. Her aunt was bent over her embroidery, oblivious to the undercurrents. Julia and Phoebe, no help from that quarter. The minute Lord Lensborough entered a room neither of them could concentrate on anything but impressing him. Mr Farrar? The fashion plate? He was about as much use as paper stirrups.

There was nothing for it. On this occasion she had no choice but to go apart with Lionel Snelgrove, and listen to whatever deal he had come to put to her. Sensing her defeat, he smiled, his nostrils flaring as if he relished the scent of her fear.

He did. She shuddered. She knew of old that he thrived on it.

Lord Lensborough watched her wilting before his astonished gaze. He had heard enough, through the open door as he had approached the library, to know that this fellow was purposely unsettling Lady Hester. Her face was white, her lips were white, and she was trembling from head to toe as if she was on the verge of a faint.

He recalled all the things he had been told about her in a jumbled rush. He had not believed that her Season had been disastrous because she was shy, having been on the receiving end of her temper, but could she really be as shy as everyone had told him? Could a woman have two such opposite traits of character existing side by side?

Yet why not? He had known many horses just like that. Trembling and sweating nervously when the halter went over their head, then kicking out wildly in an attempt to break free. Just like a wild colt, she responded to a man’s approach by either shying or kicking up her heels in a display of defiance.

His eyes narrowed. Whatever this revelation might mean for him he would consider at his leisure. For now, all that mattered was that she was in dire need of rescue. This oaf was bullying her, delighting in reducing her to a mass of quivering nerves. He had met fellows who broke their horses in that way—the fools. The end result was a mount that was not worth riding. For the thrill of mastering, breaking another creature’s spirit, they destroyed all that was fine and admirable.

Well, not while he was here to prevent it. He would not stand by and see a man mistreat a horse, let alone the woman he intended to marry.