The Illegitimate Montague

Survival of the fittest is fine, so long as you’re the one on top … but the family that has everything is about to lose it all …

The Montagues have found themselves at the centre of the ton’s rumour mill, with lords and ladies alike claiming the family is not what it used to be.

The mysterious death of the heir to the Dukedom, and the arrival of an unknown woman claiming he fathered her son, is only the tip of the iceberg in a family where scandal upstairs and downstairs threatens the very foundations of their once powerful and revered dynasty …

August 2012

THE WICKED LORD MONTAGUE – Carole Mortimer

September 2012

THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET – Helen Dickson

October 2012

THE LADY WHO BROKE THE RULES – Marguerite Kaye

November 2012

LADY OF SHAME – Ann Lethbridge

December 2012

THE ILLEGITIMATE MONTAGUE – Sarah Mallory

January 2013

UNBEFITTING A LADY – Bronwyn Scott

February 2013

REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN – Joanna Fulford

March 2013

A STRANGER AT CASTONBURY – Amanda McCabe

Duke of Rothermere

Castonbury Park

Adam,

Watching you grow up and become so successful has been my pleasure. You’re a young and determined man, with a very bright future ahead of you. You know I have always been generous to you, as well as your mother, and I urge you always to err on the side of caution when it comes to matters of the heart. Your independence is unquestionable, but during these troubled times for myself and my family I ask you to listen to me.

Adam, speaking from experience, be careful whom you allow to get close to you.

Yours,

Rothermere

SARAH MALLORY was born in Bristol and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen, to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2005 from Singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society’s Editors’ Choice in November 2006 for Gentlemen in Question.

 THE WICKED BARON

 MORE THAN A GOVERNESS

 WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE

 THE EARL’S RUNAWAY BRIDE

 DISGRACE AND DESIRE

 TO CATCH A HUSBAND …

 SNOWBOUND WITH THE NOTORIOUS RAKE

 THE DANGEROUS LORD DARRINGTON

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The Illegitimate

Montague

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In memory of the incomparable Penny Jordan.

A friend and an inspiration.

Chapter One

‘Whoa, Bosun.’ Adam ran his hand over the horse’s lathered neck. It was still early spring, but the day had been a warm one. On the evening air he could smell the hedge blossom and wild garlic as he descended to the valley. It was ten years since he had travelled this road and nothing looked different—the high peaks behind him, the stone-walled fields and the uplands were just as he remembered them—but Adam knew that he had changed. He was no longer the angry young man who had ridden away from Castonbury full of rage and hurt pride. He could smile now at the arrogant boy he had once been—if only it was not too late to make amends.

He gazed at the westering sun, gauging how many more hours of daylight were left. ‘We could make Castonbury Park by nightfall,’ he mused, rubbing his chin. ‘But we’ve no guarantee of a warm reception, Bosun, and in truth I don’t deserve one. Safer then to drop anchor in the village, and go on to the Park in the morning.’ He gathered up the reins again. ‘And if my memory serves, there is a ford around the next bend, old fellow. You can cool your heels in the river.’

At that moment the peaceful calm was shattered by a pistol shot. This was followed by shouts and a woman’s voice raised in alarm. He urged Bosun into a canter and rounded the bend to a scene of confusion and mayhem.

A wagon stood this side of the shallow ford and a young woman in an olive-green redingote was trying to prevent two men from throwing the contents into the river, while on the far bank a third man was sitting on the ground, nursing his bloody arm.

With a shout Adam jumped down to join the fray, heading for the man who was grappling with the young woman. Adam grabbed his collar and delivered a well-aimed punch as the fellow turned to face him. He dropped like a stone. A second man was hurling bolts of cloth from the wagon into the water and the woman was already running towards him. With a shriek of fury she hurled herself at his back and he dropped the roll of fabric he was carrying onto the path as he tried to shake her off. Adam shouted.

‘Stand aside!’

The woman jumped clear and Adam launched himself at the man, doubling him with a heavy blow to the body. His assailant grunted, weaved and ducked to avoid the next punch and threw himself at Adam. They wrestled fiercely, toppling into the water. It was only knee-deep and Adam was the first to recover, which gave him the advantage. As his opponent rose up, coughing and spluttering, an uppercut sent him sprawling back into the river, from where he scrabbled away to join his injured companion on the far bank.

Breathing heavily, Adam looked around. His first victim was struggling to get to his feet, hands over his head to protect himself from the woman, who was raining blows upon him with the handle of her horsewhip.

‘Aye, go on, run away!’ she cried, cracking her whip with an expert flick of the wrist as the ruffian splashed across the river to safety. ‘And tell your master that I am not to be frightened away by the likes of you!’

She stood, hands on hips, her chest rising and falling, watching the men until they disappeared from sight.

Adam raked his wet hair back from his face.

‘I had not expected to refresh myself quite so thoroughly,’ he began, a laugh in his voice. ‘I trust you are not hurt?’

‘Not at all.’ She scooped his hat from the ground and held it out to him. ‘You are lucky this was knocked off before you took a ducking. My bonnet was not so fortunate—it is probably at Castonbury bridge by this time.’

Her words were accompanied by a dazzling smile and Adam’s mind went blank as he took his first good look at the young woman he had just rescued. The sudden jolt of attraction threatened to tumble him back into the river. He forgot about his soaking clothes and bruised knuckles as he gazed at the vision before him. Her deep brown eyes positively gleamed with excitement.

‘I only wish I had been able to shoot more than one of the villains!’

Adam scarcely heard her. Quite what it was about her that stirred him he did not know. There was nothing exceptional about her plain olive-green riding habit, although the tight-fitting jacket showed off her generous figure. His preference had always been for fair, blue-eyed beauties, but the woman before him had deeply golden skin and an abundance of thick, dark brown hair. It had come loose from its pins and hung in a dusky, rippling cloud around her shoulders.

Her triumphant look softened into amusement as she said in her laughing, musical voice, ‘I am greatly indebted to you for your help, sir, and would be even more grateful if you could help me to recover my cloth?’

He did not reply and with a tiny shrug and no less good humour she turned away. Completely unaware of the effect she was having upon him, she hitched her skirts high, revealing not only a pair of exceedingly pretty ankles, but also affording Adam a glimpse of the ribbon garters at her knees.

Amber tucked up her skirts. She had seen the washerwomen do it dozens of times and never thought that she, too, would need to wade into the river. But this was an emergency. She had invested a great deal of money in those rolls of cloth and she was not prepared to lose them. She was a little disappointed that the man should not help her now, but perhaps pulling sodden bolts of material from the water was too mundane for so chivalrous a knight.

And that was how she saw him, for he had ridden so gallantly to her rescue. She had not looked at him properly until her attackers had taken flight, but then, when she had turned to him, exultant at their success in driving them away, she had found herself looking at the embodiment of a dream. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome crusader gazing at her with blue, blue eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. The water had turned his hair to near black, but the glints of red-gold told her it would be a dark, golden blond when dry. He was everything she had ever envisaged a hero to be. Far too good to be true. So let him go on his way now, she thought, for she was afraid if he did not he would trouble her dreams for a long, long time. Swallowing a sigh she turned towards the ford.

As she stepped into the water Adam came to his senses.

‘No, let me, I am already wet through.’

He strode onto the ford and began to pull the bolts of cloth from the water. The exercise helped him to regain control of himself. He was shocked to realise that for a few moments he had been speechless, more like a callow schoolboy than a thirty-two-year-old man with more than a little experience of the fair sex. She was standing at the edge of the river, waiting to help him, and he kept his mind firmly fixed upon the rolls of cloth as they lifted them out of the water.

‘Damned villains,’ she muttered as they struggled with the last roll, a dripping bundle of blue linen. ‘Thank heaven they didn’t get the superfine though. That is worth five-and-twenty shillings a yard!’

She shook out her skirts and dropped to the ground, putting her hand to her hair.

‘Good heavens, I must look like a virago, with my hair about my shoulders! What must you think of me?’

Adam dared not tell her and merely shrugged, with what he hoped she would interpret as unconcern. It seemed to work, because she gave him another of her blinding smiles.

‘Again I have to thank you, sir. I could not have recovered my cloth without your help.’

Adam stripped off his sodden coat and sat down beside her.

‘But the rolls are as wet as my jacket—will they be ruined?’

She shrugged. ‘Once they are dried out I have no doubt there will be some value in them. The problem is, I can’t put them on top of the dry ones, and the oilcloth that I use for protection from the weather is already lost downstream. Besides, the wet cloth is so much heavier that I doubt my poor horse would be able to cope with the extra weight.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘And it is growing late. I should go now if I am to reach Castonbury before dark.’ Her buoyant mood dipped. ‘I suppose I will have to come back in the morning with an empty wagon and pray that no one comes along in the meantime.’

‘There is another solution.’ She turned to look at him, disconcerting him again. He gestured to the trees. ‘Where I come from in Lancashire the cloth is stretched and pegged out to dry in the tenterfields. We can’t do that here, but it is a warm night, we could hang the wet cloth over the branches.’

She was silent for a few minutes, then the smile returned.

‘That might work. I can spend the night here and gather everything up in the morning. Only …’ She looked up at him under her lashes. ‘I might need a little help to reach the branches… .’

Adam laughed.

‘I will put myself at your disposal, madam.’ He jumped to his feet and held out his hand.

Her fingers wrapped themselves around his and as he pulled her to her feet he felt again that spark of attraction. Despite his wet clothes his body was on fire and they stood for a moment, hand-in-hand, regarding each other.

She was a tall woman. Adam stood six-foot-two in his stockinged feet and it was rare for any woman to approach that, but the one now standing before him was tall and shapely, her eyes level with his mouth so that she only had to look up a little to meet his glance. She did so now, candid, unafraid, her brown eyes fringed with long black lashes. With her dark hair and tanned skin she looked faintly exotic, reminding him of the luscious foreign beauties he had seen during his years at sea.

Even as he gazed at her, the candid look disappeared and she seemed a little troubled.

‘Perhaps, sir, I should know to whom I am so indebted?’ Her voice was low, husky, as if she, too, was having difficulty breathing.

He cleared his throat and gave a little bow.

‘Adam Stratton, ma’am. At your service.’

She inclined her head.

‘Amber Hall.’ He was still holding her hand, the left one. Instinctively his fingers shifted to the plain gold band on her finger. She said quietly, ‘I am a widow.’

The devil she was! Adam was surprised at his feeling of relief. Why did she feel it necessary to explain? Was she warning him off, or appealing to his chivalrous nature to respect her predicament? The defensive look in her eyes suggested the latter.

With an effort he released her. Dear heaven, it would be so easy to forget his manners. He hoped his nod was sufficiently sympathetic, then he turned his attention to their present situation.

He said lightly, ‘Well, Mrs Hall, shall we unroll your cloth?’

‘What about you? Your shirt and breeches are wet through.’

‘Would you like me to remove them and hang them up to dry?’ Immediately his mind rioted at the thought of undressing before her. He continued hastily, ‘I beg your pardon, a tasteless jest. Do not concern yourself with my wellbeing, the exertion will keep me warm.’

‘We must at least hang up your coat.’ She picked it up and shook it out. ‘Oh, dear, how sad it looks now—I think I owe you a new one, sir. And you are missing a couple of buttons. I fear they have gone the same way as my bonnet, and are lost in the water.’

‘No matter, they are a small loss. Throw the coat over a bush for now.’ He picked up the smallest roll of linen and looked around him. ‘Now, where to begin …’

They worked together, unrolling the bolts of wet cloth and draping them over the tree branches around a small clearing at the edge of the road. He left Amber straightening out the hanging cloth while he gathered dry sticks and bracken to light a fire.

‘Leave that,’ she ordered him. ‘You have done more than enough for me already. If you go now you can still reach the village while there is light enough to see your way.’

‘I am staying here.’

‘Thank you, Mr Stratton, but that is not necessary. I do not think those villains will be back tonight, and besides, I have my pistol. I shall reload it and be ready for them if they return. You need not stay on my account.’

‘If you think I intend to ride to the Rothermere Arms in wet clothes, then you are mistaken, madam. Nothing could be more uncomfortable. I shall dry them in front of the fire.’ He smiled at the look of alarm that flashed across her face. It was a relief to know that he was not the only one aware of their situation. ‘I do not intend to undress, they will dry just as well if I wear them.’ He added mischievously, ‘In fact, it is a common practice for gentlemen of fashion to damp their buckskins and let them shrink to fit.’

She laughed, blushed and shook her head.

‘Never let it be said that I stood in the way of fashion. But, seriously, sir, if you are determined to stay I cannot stop you.’ She paused, taking her full bottom lip between her white, even teeth. ‘I admit I shall be glad of your company.’

It was another hour before they could enjoy the fire, by which time the darkness was almost complete. The wagon had been moved off the road and the two horses tethered to the wheels, where they could be heard quietly snuffling and cropping at the short, sweet grass. Amber pulled a pair of shears from the cart and a roll of heavy woollen cloth, which she spread on the ground and proceeded to cut into lengths.

‘We can use this for bedding,’ she explained. ‘I have plenty more frieze at the warehouse so this can be easily replaced. It is such a balmy night that if we didn’t have wet cloth to dry I would not bother with a fire at all.’

Adam eased off his boots and stockings, placing them close to the fire to dry. Amber did the same, again displaying her shapely ankles. Adam did his best not to ogle. She touched his sleeve.

‘Your shirt is still damp, sir. Should you not remove that too?’ He hesitated and she said with a hint of impatience, ‘I have seen a man’s body, before, and I would rather you took it off than died of an inflammation of the lungs.’

He laughed.

‘Very well, madam, but you will not object if I spare my own blushes and keep my breeches!’

The shirt soon joined his jacket on a convenient bush. Adam threw a length of the frieze cloth around his shoulders and sat down by the fire. After a moment’s hesitation Amber came to sit beside him. She held up a leather bag.

‘I have wine, sir, and bread and cheese, if you would like some?’

‘Gladly, Mrs Hall, if you can spare a little.’

‘Of course. I packed it for my journey but have used none of it.’

She pulled packets, napkins and a flask from the bag and spread it all before them. She offered him the wine but he shook his head.

‘After you, madam.’

She uncorked the flask and lifted it to her lips. The firelight was playing on her face, accentuating the fine cheekbones, the short, straight little nose and those beautiful almond-shaped eyes. The smooth skin of her neck gleamed golden as she tilted back her head and drank. Adam watched, fascinated. He wanted to reach out to her, to place his lips on the elegant line of her throat and trail kisses down to the dip where the breastbone started, and then onwards—

‘Your turn.’

She was holding the flask out to him and he was staring at her like some besotted mooncalf. Adam cleared his throat awkwardly and reached for the flask, trying to ignore his mounting desire and the way it spiked through his blood as their fingers touched. He picked up a piece of bread. Perhaps he should eat something. Beside him, Amber seemed completely at ease. They shared the bread and cheese, washing it down with draughts of wine.

‘So who are you, Mrs Amber Hall?’ he asked her, breaking a chunk of bread into two and handing her a piece.

‘I am a clothier, a seller of cloth.’

‘An unusual trade for a woman.’

‘I inherited the business from my father, John Ripley.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember he owned a warehouse in Castonbury.’

‘Yes.’ She added, a touch of pride in her voice, ‘We have been selling cloth in Castonbury for twenty-seven years.’

‘That is very precise.’

‘It is easy to remember, my father established the business in the same year as I was born.’

Adam handed her the wine again.

‘And your husband?’

‘Bernard Hall, his business partner. He joined my father twelve years ago, and married me three years later. We had been married barely eighteen months when he died.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said softly. ‘You must have been distraught.’

He could not interpret the look she gave him. She took another sip of wine and after a brief pause she continued her story.

‘I convinced Papa not to look for another partner but to let me help him. I found I had a talent for the business. When my father died three years ago he left everything to me.’ He watched her, trying to understand her pensive look, the slight downward turn to her mouth that gave her a rather kittenish look. At last she gave herself a mental shake and turned to him again. ‘Enough of me. Tell me about you, now.’ She shot him another of those sideways glances. ‘You said your name was Stratton. Are you the housekeeper’s son, from Castonbury Park?’

‘I am.’

‘Then I know you, Adam Stratton.’ Her dark eyes gleamed. ‘We played together before you went off to become a hero at Trafalgar.’

‘Surely not, I would remember.’

‘My father used to take me to the house, sometimes, when he was delivering cloth. I remember Mrs Stratton asked you to take me away and amuse me.’ He shook his head and she laughed. ‘Do not look so uncomfortable, I would not expect you to remember. You were, what … ten, eleven years old? You probably found a seven-year-old girl a blasted nuisance.’

‘I do remember now. You were a scrawny little thing, but useful for fetching and carrying. As I recall I treated you as my very own servant! Outrageous. Did you not mind?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all, I enjoyed fetching and carrying for you. Besides, you looked after me. One occasion in particular I remember, when the Montague children came out and began to tease me. You drove them away.’

He grinned. ‘Well, it is all very well for me to mistreat you, but I was not going to let anyone else do so!’

A slight frown creased her brow, as if she was looking into the past. ‘Did they ever tease you, the Montagues? Because your mama …’

She broke off and he took pity on her confusion, saying quickly, ‘Because I had no father? No. Lord James was a year or two younger than I. I suppose I should be thankful that both he and Lord Giles saw me as a playmate rather than the housekeeper’s son, but perhaps that was because … well, never mind that. Suffice to say we thought well enough of one another.’

‘I am glad,’ she said warmly. ‘And I thought you were quite … wonderful.’ A faint colour tinged her cheek and for a moment she looked a little self-conscious. ‘You were very kind to me, you see. And now you have saved me once more.’

Her very own hero.

Amber drew up her knees and clasped her arms around them, as if hugging her memories. That explained the attraction she had felt for him as soon as he had appeared. It was not merely that he had come to her aid, but a half-acknowledged memory. He was the hero she had dreamed of since she was seven years old. Looking back, she supposed that the children at Castonbury Park had not intended to be cruel, but their teasing had frightened her, until Adam had arrived and sent them away. He had seemed to her the embodiment of those princes she read about in fairy tales, tall, strong and oh-so-handsome, protecting the maiden in distress. She had carried that early memory of him with her throughout her childhood and hoped, prayed, he would return one day.