Tallie's Knight

Dazed, Tallie stood there listening to herself being married to The Icicle. And a very bad-tempered icicle he was, too. He was positively glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross, but it wasn’t as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.

Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about something—mainly with her. Toward others, he invariably remained cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with Tallie…It didn’t augur at all well for the future.

Anne Gracie was born in Australia, but spent her youth on the move, living in Malaysia, Greece and different parts of Australia before settling down. Her love of the Regency period began at the age of eleven, when she braved the adult library to borrow a Georgette Heyer novel, firmly convinced she would at any moment be ignominiously ejected and sent back to the children’s library in disgrace. She wasn’t. Anne lives in Melbourne, in a small wooden house that she will one day renovate.

Tallie’s Knight

Anne Gracie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Yorkshire, February 1803

‘My lord, I…I am sure that Mr Freddie—’ Freddie?’ Lord d’Arenville’s disapproving voice interrupted the maidservant. She flushed, smoothing her hands nervously down her starched white apron.

‘Er…Reverend Winstanley, I mean, sir. He won’t keep you waiting long, sir, ’tis just that—’

‘There is no need to explain,’ Lord d’Arenville coldly informed her. ‘I’ve no doubt Reverend Winstanley will come as soon as he is able. I shall wait.’ His hard grey gaze came to rest on a nearby watercolour. It was a clear dismissal. The maid backed hurriedly out of the parlour, turned and almost ran down the corridor.

Magnus, Lord d’Arenville, glanced around the room, observing its inelegant proportions and the worn and shabby furniture. A single poky window allowed an inadequate amount of light into the room. He strolled over to it, looked out and frowned. The window overlooked the graveyard, providing the occupants of the house with a depressing prospect of mortality.

Lord, how unutterably dreary, Magnus thought, seating himself on a worn, uncomfortable settee. Did all vicars live this way? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be certain, not having lived the sort of life that brought him into intimacy with the clergy. Quite the contrary, in fact. And had not his oldest friend, Freddie Winstanley, donned the ecclesiastical dog collar, Magnus would be languishing in blissful ignorance still.

Magnus sighed. Bored, stale and unaccountably restless, he’d decided on the spur of the moment to drive all the way up to Yorkshire to visit Freddie, whom he’d not seen for years. And now, having arrived, he was wondering if he’d done the right thing, calling unannounced at the cramped and shabby vicarage.

A faint giggle interrupted his musings. Magnus frowned and looked around. There was no one in sight. The giggle came again. Magnus frowned. He did not care to be made fun of.

‘Who is there?’

‘Huwwo, man.’ The voice came, slightly muffled, from a slight bulge in the curtains. As he looked, the curtains parted and a mischievous little face peeked out at him.

Magnus blinked. It was a child, a very small child—a female, he decided after a moment. He’d never actually met a child this size before, and though he was wholly unacquainted with infant fashions it seemed to him that the child looked more female than otherwise. It had dark curly hair and big brown pansy eyes. And it was certainly looking at him in that acquisitive way that so many females had.

He glanced towards the doorway, hoping someone would come and fetch the child back to where it belonged.

‘Huwwo, man,’ the moppet repeated sternly.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. Clearly he was expected to answer. How the devil did one address children anyway?

‘How do you do?’ he said after a moment.

At that, she smiled, and launched herself towards him in an unsteady rush. Horrified, Magnus froze. Contrary to all his expectations she crossed the room without coming to grief, landing at his knee. Grinning up at him, she clutched his immaculate buckskins in two damp, chubby fists. Magnus flinched. His valet would have a fit. The child’s hands were certain to be grubby. And sticky. Magnus might know nothing at all about children, but he was somehow sure about that.

‘Up, man.’ The moppet held up her arms in clear expectation of being picked up.

Magnus frowned down at her, trusting that his hitherto unchallenged ability to rid himself of unwanted feminine attention would be just as effective on this diminutive specimen.

The moppet frowned back at him.

Magnus allowed his frown to deepen to a glare.

The moppet glared back. ‘Up, man,’ she repeated, thumping a tiny fist on his knee.

Magnus cast a hunted glance towards the doorway, still quite appallingly empty.

The small sticky fist tugged his arm. ‘Up!’ she demanded again.

‘No, thank you,’ said Magnus in his most freezingly polite voice. Lord, would no one come and rescue him?

The big eyes widened and the small rosebud mouth drooped. The lower lip trembled, displaying to Magnus’s jaundiced eye all the unmistakable signs of a female about to burst into noisy, blackmailing tears. They certainly started young. No wonder they were so good at it by the time they grew up.

The little face crumpled.

Oh, Lord, thought Magnus despairingly. There was no help for it—he would have to pick her up. Gingerly he reached out, lifting her carefully by the waist until she was at eye-level with him. Her little feet dangled and she regarded him solemnly.

She reached out a pair of chubby, dimpled arms. ‘Cudd’w!’

Again, her demand was unmistakable. Cautiously he brought her closer, until suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck in a strong little grip that surprised him. In seconds she had herself comfortably ensconced on his lap, leaning back against one of his arms, busily ruining his neckcloth. It had only taken him half an hour to achieve its perfection, Magnus told himself wryly.

She chattered to him nonstop in a confiding flow, a mixture of English and incomprehensible gibberish, pausing every now and then to ask what sounded like a question. Magnus found himself replying. Lord, if anyone saw him now, he would never live it down. But he had no choice—he didn’t want to see that little face crumple again.

Once she stopped in the middle of what seemed an especially involved tale and looked up at him, scrutinising his face in a most particular fashion. Magnus felt faintly apprehensive, wondering what she might do. She reached up and traced the long, vertical groove in his right cheek with a small, soft finger.

‘What’s dis?’

He didn’t know what to say. A wrinkle? A crease? A long dimple? No one had ever before had the temerity to refer to it. ‘Er…it’s my cheek.’

She traced the groove once more, thoughtfully, then took his chin in one hand, turned his head, and traced the matching line down his other cheek. Then carefully, solemnly, she traced both at the same time. She stared at him for a moment, then, smiling, returned to her story, reaching up every now and then to trace a tiny finger down the crease in his cheek.

Gradually her steady chatter dwindled and the curly little head began to nod. Abruptly she yawned and snuggled herself more firmly into the crook of his arms. ‘Nigh-nigh,’ she murmured, and suddenly he felt the small body relax totally against him.

She was asleep. Sound asleep—right there in his arms.

For a moment Magnus froze, wondering what to do, then slowly he began to breathe again. He knew himself to be a powerful man—both physically and in worldly terms—but never in his life had he been entrusted with the warm weight of a sleeping child. It was an awesome responsibility.

He sat there frozen for some twenty minutes, until a faint commotion sounded in the hall. A pretty young woman glanced in, a harried expression on her face. Freddie’s wife. Joan. Jane. Or was it Jenny? Magnus was fairly sure he recognised her from the wedding. She opened her mouth to speak, and then saw the small sleeping figure in his arms.

‘Oh, thank heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for her.’

She turned and called to someone in the hallway. ‘Martha, run and tell Mr Freddie that we’ve found her.’

She turned back to Magnus. ‘I’m so sorry, Lord d’Arenville. We thought she’d got out into the garden and we’ve all been outside searching. Has she been a shocking nuisance?’

Magnus bethought himself of his ruined neckcloth and his no longer immaculate buckskins. His arm had a cramp from being unable to move and he had a nasty suspicion that there was a damp spot on his coat from where the little moppet had nuzzled his sleeve as she slept.

‘Not at all,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

And, to his great surprise, Magnus realised he meant it.

Chapter One

London, February 1803

‘I want you to help me find a wife, Tish.’

‘Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?’ responded Laetitia flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.

His chill grey stare bit into her. ‘I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you,’ said Magnus stiffly.

‘A bride? You? I don’t believe it, Magnus! You’ve hardly even talked to a respectable female in years—’

‘Which is why I require your assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible.’

‘As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in a tizzy!’ Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in mock surprise. ‘The impregnable Lord d’Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?’ Her rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is unexceptional enough—you will have to set up your nursery some time soon—but such unseemly haste suggests…There is no…ah…financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?’

Magnus frowned repressively. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested—I have decided to set up my nursery. I want children.’

‘Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn’t want a string of girls, would you?’

Magnus didn’t reply. A string of girls didn’t sound at all bad, he thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neckcloths while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie’s sturdy-legged boy, Sam.

The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind, even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all, brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.

However, far easier to let society believe that d’Arenville required an heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand times. He didn’t need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never would. He’d learned that lesson very young.

But the chink remained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line down his cheek.

It was a pity he’d had to ask Laetitia’s assistance. He’d never liked her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss and bother.

He returned to the point of issue. ‘You will assist me, Tish?’

‘What exactly did you have in mind? Almack’s? Balls, routs and morning calls?’ She laughed. ‘I must confess, I cannot imagine you doing the pretty, with all the fond mamas looking on, but it will be worth it, if only for the entertainment.’

He shuddered inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face remained impassive and faintly disdainful. ‘No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick.’

‘A house party?’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I loathe the country at this time of year.’

Magnus shrugged. ‘It needn’t be for long. A week or so will do.’

‘A week!’ Laetitia almost shrieked. ‘A week to court a bride! Lord, the ton will never stop talking about it.’

Magnus clenched his jaw. If there had been any other way he would have walked out then and there. But his cousin was a young, apparently respectable, society matron—exactly what he required. No one else could so easily introduce him to eligible young ladies. And she could help him circumvent the tedium of the dreaded marriage mart—courting under the eyes of hundreds. He shuddered inwardly again. Laetitia might be a shallow featherbrain with a taste for malicious gossip, and he disliked having to ask for her assistance in anything, but she was all he had.

‘Will you do it?’ he repeated.

Laetitia’s delicately painted features took on a calculating look. Magnus was familiar with the expression; he usually encountered it on the faces of less respectable females, though he’d first learnt it from his mother. He relaxed. This aspect of the female of the species was one he knew how to deal with.

‘It might be awkward for me to get away—the Season may not have started, but we have numerous engagements…’ She glanced meaningfully at the over-mantel mirror, the gilt frame of which bore half a dozen engraved invitations.

‘And to organise a house party at Manningham at such short notice…’ She sighed. ‘Well, it is a great deal of work, and I would have to take on extra help, you know…and George might not like it, for it will be very expens—’

‘I will cover all expenses, of course,’ Magnus interrupted. ‘And I’ll make it worth your while, too, Laetitia. Would diamonds make it any easier to forgo your balls and routs for a week or two?’

Laetitia pursed her lips, annoyed at his bluntness but unable to resist the bait. ‘What—?’

‘Necklace, earrings and bracelet.’ His cold grey eyes met hers with cynical indifference. Laetitia bridled at his cool certainty.

‘Oh, Magnus, how vulgar you are. As if I would wish to be paid for assisting my dearest cous—’

‘Then you don’t want the diamonds?’

‘No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Naturally, if you care to present me with some small token…’

‘Good, then it’s decided. You invite half a dozen girls—’

‘—and their mamas.’

A faint grimace disturbed the cool impassivity of his expression. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, you invite them, and I’ll choose one.’

Laetitia shuddered delicately. ‘So cold-blooded, Magnus. No wonder they call you The Ic—’

His freezing look cut her off in midsentence. He stood up to leave.

‘You cannot intend to leave yet, surely?’ said Laetitia.

He regarded her in faint puzzlement. ‘Why not? It is all decided, is it not?’

‘But which girls do you want me to invite?’ she demanded through her teeth.

Magnus looked at her with blank surprise. He shrugged. ‘Damn it, Tish, I don’t know. That’s your job.’ He walked towards the door.

‘I don’t believe it! You want me to choose your bride for you?’ she shrieked shrilly.

Faint irritation appeared in his eyes. ‘No, I’ll choose her from the girls you pick out. Lord, Tish, haven’t you got it straight yet? What else have we been talking about for the last fifteen minutes?’

Laetitia stared at him in stupefaction. He was picking out a bride with no more care than he would take to buy a horse. Less, actually. Magnus was very particular about his horseflesh.

‘Are…I mean, do you have any special requirements?’ she said at last.

Magnus sat down again. He had not really thought past the idea of children, but it was a fair request, he supposed. He thought for a moment. ‘She must be sound, of course…with good bloodlines, naturally. Umm…good teeth, reasonably intelligent, but with a placid temperament…and wide enough hips—for childbearing, you know. I think that about covers it.’

Laetitia gritted her teeth. ‘We are talking about a lady, are we not? Or are you only after a brood mare?’

Magnus ignored her sarcasm. He shrugged. ‘More or less, I suppose. I have little interest in the dam, only the offspring.’

‘Do you not even care what she looks like?’

‘Not particularly. Although I suppose I’d prefer someone good-looking, at least passably so. But not beautiful. A beautiful wife would be too much trouble.’ His lips twitched sardonically. ‘I’ve known too many beautiful wives not to realise what a temptation they are—to others.’

His subtle reference was not lost on Laetitia, and to her annoyance she found herself flushing slightly under his ironic gaze. She would have liked to fling his request in his even white teeth. However, a diamond necklace, earrings and a bracelet were not to be looked in the mouth.

Even if Lord d’Arenville’s bride was.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said sourly.

The black knight reached down, caught her around the waist and lifted her onto his gallant charger, up and away, out of reach of the slavering wolves snapping at her heels.

‘Begone you vicious curs!’ he shouted in a thrillingly deep, manly voice. ‘This tender morsel is not for you!’ His arms tightened around her, protectively, tenderly, possessively. ‘Hold on, my pretty one, I have you safe now,’ he murmured in her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her nape. ‘And now I have you, Tallie, my little love, I’ll never let you go.’ Clasping her hard against his broad, strong chest, he lowered his mouth to hers…

‘Miss? Miss Tallie? Are you all right?’

Tallie jerked out of her reverie with a start. The buttons she had been sorting spilled out over the table and she scrabbled hurriedly to retrieve them. Brooks, her cousin’s elderly butler, and Mrs Wilmot, the housekeeper, were bending over her, concerned.

‘Oh, yes, yes, perfectly,’ Tallie, blushing, hastened to assure them. ‘I was in a silly daze—miles away, I’m afraid. Was there something you wanted?’

Brooks proffered a letter on a silver tray. ‘A letter, Miss Tallie. From the mistress.’

Tallie smiled. Brooks still behaved as if he were in charge of the grand London mansion, instead of stuck away in the country house belonging to Tallie’s cousin Laetitia. Tallie took the letter from the tray and thanked him. Dear Brooks—as if she were the lady of the house, receiving correspondence in the parlour, instead of a poor relation, dreaming foolish dreams over a jar of old buttons. She broke open the wafer and began to read.

‘Oh, no!’ Tallie closed her eyes as a sudden surge of bitterness rushed through her. She had assumed that with Christmas over, and Laetitia and George returned to Town, she and the children would be left in peace for several months at least.

‘What is it, Miss Tallie? Bad news?’

‘No, no—or at least nothing tragic, at any rate.’ Tallie hastened to reassure the elderly housekeeper. She glanced across at Brooks, and explained.

‘Cousin Laetitia writes to say she is holding a house party here. We are to make all the arrangements for the accommodation and entertainment of six or seven young ladies and their mothers, possibly a number of fathers also. Five or six other gentlemen may be invited, too; she is not yet decided. And there is to be a ball at the end of two weeks.’ Tallie looked at Brooks and Mrs Wilmot, shook her head in mild disbelief, and took a deep drink of the tea grown cold at her elbow.

Mrs Wilmot had been counting. ‘Accommodation and entertainment for up to twenty-five or six of the gentry, and almost twice that number of servants if we just count on a valet or maidservant for each gentleman or lady. Lawks, Miss Tallie, I don’t know how we’ll ever manage. When is this house party to be, did she say?’

Tallie nodded, a look of dire foreboding in her eyes. ‘The guests will start arriving on Tuesday next. Cousin Laetitia will come the day before, to make sure everything is in order.’

‘Tuesday next? Tuesday next! Lord, miss, whatever shall we do? Arrangements for sixty or more people to stay, arriving on Tuesday next! We will never manage it! Never.’

Tallie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, we will, Mrs Wilmot. We have no choice—you know that. However, my cousin has, for once, considered the extra work it will entail for you both and all the other servants.’

‘And for you, Miss Tallie,’ added Brooks.

She smiled. She knew he meant well, but it was not a comforting thought that even her cousin’s servants regarded her as one of them, even if they did call her Miss Tallie. She continued.

‘I am empowered to hire as much extra help as we need, and no expense spared, though I am to keep strict accounts of all expenditure.’

‘No expense spar—’ In a less dignified person, Brooks’s expression would have been likened to a gaping fish.

Tallie attempted to keep a straight face. The prospect of Cousin Laetitia showing enough consideration for her servants to hire extra help was surprising enough, but for her not to consider expense would astound any who knew her.

‘No, for she says the house party is for her cousin Lord d’Arenville’s benefit, and he is to pay for everything, which is why I am to keep accounts.’

‘Ahh.’ Brooks shut his mouth and looked wise.

‘Lord d’Arenville? Lawks, what would he want with a house party full of young ladies—oh, I see.’ Mrs Wilmot nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘Courting.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tallie, puzzled.

‘He’s courting. Lord d’Arenville. One of those young ladies must be his intended, and he wishes some time with her before he pops the question. He’ll probably announce it at the ball.’

‘Well, well, so that’s it. A courting couple in the old house once again.’ Brooks’s face creased in a sentimental smile.

‘Lord, Mr Brooks, you’re a born romantic if ever I saw one,’ said Mrs Wilmot. ‘I can no more see that Lord d’Arenville lost in love’s young dream than I can see me flying through the air on one of me own sponge cakes!’

Tallie stifled a giggle at the image conjured up. ‘And why is that, Mrs Wilmot?’ she asked.

‘Why?’ Mrs Wilmot turned to Tallie in surprise. ‘Oh, yes, you’ve never met him, have you, dearie? I keep forgetting, you’re related to the other side of madam’s family. Well, you’ve not missed out on much—a cold fish if ever I saw one, that Lord d’Arenville. They call him The Icicle, you know. Not a drop of warm blood in his body, if you ask me.’

‘But I thought all you females thought him so handsome,’ began Brooks. ‘He had you all in such a tizz—’

‘Handsome is as handsome does, I always say,’ said the housekeeper darkly. ‘And though he may be as handsome as a statue of one of them Greek gods, he’s about as warm and lively as a statue, too!’ She shook her head and pursed her lips disapprovingly.