The Dangerous Lord Darrington

‘Why are you doing this, Beth?’

Guy was sitting on the bed beside her, positioned so that he did not prevent the candlelight from falling on her face. She smiled, but he detected a wariness at the back of her eyes.

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

He did not reply. Desire still raged through him, and he had to work hard to fight against it.

‘You think that you can seduce me, so that I will not betray you?’

‘No! I—’

He put a finger on her lips.

‘Do not lie to me, Beth.’

She sat up, pulling up the neck of her nightgown, not realising that the flimsy covering did nothing to hide her body. It merely heightened her charms.

‘I th-thought I might persuade you …’

‘I am not so cheaply bought!’

The Dangerous Lord Darrington

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE DANGEROUS LORD DARRINGTON sees the return of a favourite of mine: Guy Wylder, the older brother of Nick, my hero from WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE. I always planned that both the Wylder brothers should have their own book, but Guy has had to wait a little while! He is the Earl of Darrington and, while he is the more serious of the two brothers, he has gained a reputation as a dangerous flirt. Woe betide any woman who loses her heart to him!

Fate brings Guy to Malpass Priory, where he finds Beth Forrester, a beautiful young widow. She is not impressed by his title, and is wary of his reputation, but when she is obliged to accept his help in clearing her brother’s name she finds the Dangerous Lord Darrington to be a true friend.

This romantic adventure has everything—a spooky old house, French émigrés, greedy villains and wicked villainesses. And of course it has a hero and heroine who are clearly made for one another. But they both have secrets and must learn to trust each other before they can find happiness.

Happy reading!

About the Author

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.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED BARON

MORE THAN A GOVERNESS

(part of On Mothering Sunday) WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE THE EARL’S RUNAWAY BRIDE DISGRACE AND DESIRE TO CATCH A HUSBAND … SNOWBOUND WITH THE NOTORIOUS RAKE (part of An Improper Regency Christmas)

THE DANGEROUS LORD DARRINGTON

features characters you will have met in

WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

For TGH

Chapter One

The news that Dangerous Lord Darrington was staying with Edwin Davies at his Yorkshire hunting lodge had spread, but it posed something of a dilemma for those fond mamas with unmarried daughters. Guy Wylder, the Earl of Darrington, was a bachelor and it was generally agreed that it was time he settled down and produced an heir. There had been a serious scandal in his younger days, but most parents were prepared to overlook that in view of his wealth and his title. However, the earl resisted all attempts to lure him into matrimony; any young lady who forced herself too openly upon his attention was likely to suffer, for the earl would embark upon a furiously intense flirtation, setting tongues wagging and leading the young lady in question to suppose that he had quite lost his heart. Then, just when she was in daily expectation of receiving an offer of marriage, the wicked earl’s ardour would cool and he would have difficulty remembering her name when they next met.

Such behaviour had caused more than one young lady to go into a decline and, despite Lord Darrington’s wealth and wickedly handsome appearance, all sensible parents now went out of their way to warn their daughters against encouraging the earl’s attentions. Unfortunately, in Guy’s opinion, there were not enough sensible parents.

On this occasion, however, precautions proved unnecessary. Mr Davies’s shooting party at Highridge comprised only gentlemen; apart from an occasional sighting at the White Hart, the sporting company kept very much to Mr Davies’s extensive acres or rode over the largely uninhabited hills and moors that stretched eastwards to the coast.

‘I shall be given the cut direct when I go into the town,’ was Mr Davies’s laughing complaint. ‘To have had a peer of the realm staying with me and not paraded him at one assembly. My neighbours will be ready to pluck any number of crows with me!’

‘Davey, you know I came here only because you promised me a couple of weeks’ sport in the company of friends,’ replied Guy.

‘And that’s what you have had, but I cannot see what harm there would have been in attending a dance or two in the town.’

One side of the earl’s mobile mouth lifted a fraction.

‘Ah, but that is sport of a different kind, Davey, and we would be the quarry.’

They had been roaming the hills for some time, climbing to ride along the ridge that looked over the lush green farmland to the west and the hills and moors of north Yorkshire to the east. Guy stopped for a moment, taking in the view.

‘That is always a danger, of course,’ remarked Davey, bringing his horse to a stand beside him, ‘but surely the cautionary tales about your cavalier behaviour towards the fairer sex give the ladies pause.’

Guy shook his head.

‘Some, perhaps, but not all.’ He added bitterly, ‘I might be a veritable Bluebeard and some parents would still be offering their daughters to me. It seems my title and my fortune outweigh every other consideration!’

‘Your fortune and title certainly mean you are constantly mentioned in the society papers. Those damned scoundrels who write the Intelligencer are happy to print any amount of gossip about you.’

‘That scandal-sheet!’ Guy’s lip curled. ‘Ignore it, I do. What they cannot find out they make up, and as long as it is only about my amorous adventures it does not bother me at all. Besides, if the scandals are bad enough, perhaps those ambitious mamas will finally give up the chase.’

‘I know the gossip doesn’t bother you, but it does anger your friends. Take the latest on dit about the Ansell chit, for example.’

‘By heaven, I dance twice with a girl and immediately I am thought to be in love!’

‘Well, her mother thought so, at all events. Told everyone you had invited them to Wylderbeck.’

‘They invited themselves. Ansell started telling me how his daughter was interested in architecture and that she had heard such wonderful things of Wylderbeck. I told ‘em they were welcome to take a look at the old house.’ Guy shot his friend a quick glance, his grey eyes glinting. ‘I hope they enjoyed it. I had a letter from my steward last week saying they had come hotfoot to Yorkshire, only to be told I was not at home! My housekeeper showed ‘em around the house and suggested they could put up at the Darrington Arms.’

Davey laughed, but shook his head at him.

‘A devilish trick to play, Guy.’

‘One becomes weary of being constantly pursued. Scandal goes some way to reduce the problem.’

‘I sometimes think you are happy for people to think you betrayed your country,’ muttered Davey, frowning.

‘If you think that, then you are a fool,’ Guy retorted. ‘I regret my youthful folly more than I can say, but the damage is done. However, I prefer that the news-sheets and the ton should talk about my scandalous love life and leave the past alone. It may be forgotten now, but the smear is there, and always will be.’

‘But it could be erased—indeed, it was never more than a salacious rumour, but your withdrawing from politics was taken by some as an admission of guilt. Come back to London,’ Davey urged him. ‘There are many in government who know your worth and would welcome your help, especially now, with the unrest in France.’

‘Mayhap I will, but I would be happier to do that if those matchmaking dragons would leave me alone.’

‘There is a simple answer to that,’ remarked Davey. ‘Take a wife.’

‘Never!’ Guy shook his head, laughing. ‘Now that …’ he grinned, kicking his horse into a canter ‘… is a step too far!’

A speedy chase along the ridge followed but when they reached the highest point Guy brought his horse to a stand and looked around him, enjoying the freedom of the wide open space. He thought he could smell the sea on the light breeze, even though they were nearly thirty miles from the coast.

‘Are you sorry now that you suggested we should stay on here?’ he asked as Davey came alongside him. ‘Would you have preferred to go on to Osmond’s house with the others?’

‘Not at all! Much as I like having a large party at Highridge, I prefer this: we can do away with ceremony, rise when we wish, do what we want and talk or not, as the mood takes us.’

Guy reached across to lay a hand briefly on Davey’s shoulder.

‘You have been a good friend to me, I appreciate that. Always there to support me, even when the whole world thought the worst—’

‘Nay, there were plenty of us who realised you were not to blame, even though you preferred not to defend yourself. Too chivalrous by half, Guy.’

‘What would you have had me do?’

Davey scowled. ‘Put the blame squarely where it belonged.’

Guy shook his head.

‘The woman had fled the country: my protests would have looked very ungallant.’

‘Gallantry be damned,’ exclaimed Davey. ‘You gave up a promising career for that woman and robbed the country of a most able politician! Your talents have been wasted, Darrington.’

‘Not at all. I have spent my time putting my estates back into good heart. My father almost bankrupted the family, you know, with his profligate ways. And it was useful to be in the north while my scapegrace brother Nick was away—I could keep an eye upon his estates.’

‘But it must be five years since he settled down. Surely you might make a push now to return to politics.’

‘To be subjected to ridicule and constantly reminded of my disgrace?’ Guy stared out across the hills. ‘No, I thank you!’ He gave himself a mental shake. ‘But this is dismal stuff for such a fine September day! Let us press on. What else did you wish to show me?’

Realising confidences were at an end, Davey pointed to the north-west.

‘Thought you might like to visit Mount Grace Priory. I know the family, so there will be no difficulty seeing the ruins. I know you have an interest in antiquities of that sort.’ He grinned. ‘Not quite in keeping with the image of the Dangerous Lord Darrington, which is why I didn’t suggest it while the others were here.’

Guy laughed. ‘Much I care about that! But you are right, they would not have enjoyed such a visit.’ He glanced up at the sun. ‘But it is midday already—is there time?’

‘Of course. We can spend a couple of hours looking at the ruins, then take the lower route back to Highridge, stopping at Boltby. The inn there is famous for its dinners.’

‘Very well, then, let us go to it!’

In perfect accord the two gentlemen set off at a canter, enjoying the freedom of the hills before they were obliged once more to descend to the lower ground.

The ruins of Mount Grace had occupied most of their afternoon and by the time they set off again for Highridge the sun was far to the west.

‘Looks like rain is coming,’ observed Guy, eyeing the heavy grey clouds building on the horizon.

‘We should crack along if we are to avoid a soaking,’ agreed Davey. ‘Come along then; mayhap we’ll forgo dinner at Boltby and cut across country. What do you say?’

‘Why not? We have been jumping these walls for the past couple of weeks; my horse is accustomed to it now.’

Davey laughed.

‘It will be the muddier route, but that will make the roaring fire and rum punch all the more enjoyable when we get home!’

Davey led the way through the winding lanes for another mile before turning off on to a narrow track. As they left behind them the little villages that lined the main highway the country became ever more barren and soon they were riding across a wilderness with no houses in sight. Guy glanced up at the sky. The sun had disappeared behind thick clouds the colour of lead and the air was heavy with the threat of rain.

‘How much farther is it?’ he asked as they slowed down to a walk, resting the horses.

‘About another five miles,’ replied Davey. ‘I am sorry we did not think to bring our greatcoats. If this rain comes down, it will be heavy, I fear.’

Guy shrugged.

‘No matter. We may yet beat it.’

‘We may indeed. We can at least cover the next mile or so at speed, if we cut across the fields.’ With that Davey spurred his horse and they were off again, galloping across the large, rectangular fields. Guy’s powerful hunter took the dry stone walls in his stride, but he silently cursed his friend’s recklessness as they scattered sheep and a herd of milch cows in their headlong flight. The daylight was reduced to a gloomy twilight and a soft rain had started to fall as they thundered towards another grey stone wall. It was not particularly high, but as they approached it Davey’s bay mare stumbled. They were too close to stop and she made a valiant effort to clear the wall, but a trailing hoof caught one of the topstones, sending horse and rider tumbling to the ground.

Guy did not hesitate. He put his own horse to the jump, but reined in as soon as he could, turning back to help his friend. His heart sank when he saw the mare on the ground, legs flailing, and Davey trapped beneath her. Quickly he dismounted and dashed across to the stricken pair. The bay rolled over and clambered to her feet. She stood, trembling and snorting, but appeared otherwise unhurt as Guy dropped to his knees beside his friend.

Davey’s face was ashen and one leg was twisted in an unnatural position. He opened his eyes and looked up at Guy.

‘Pushing … too … hard,’ he gasped.

‘Don’t talk and keep still,’ barked Guy. ‘I need to see just what damage you have done to yourself.’

‘Damned fool,’ muttered Davey. ‘Light was going … didn’t see the rabbit hole …’

There was the thud of heavy boots as two farmhands ran up.

‘We saw the fall from the road, sir,’ called the first, grimacing as he gazed down at the injured man. ‘‘Owt we can do?’

‘We need a doctor,’ said Guy. ‘And somewhere to take him out of this rain.’

‘There’s the barn on t’other side o’ beck,’ offered the second man, coming up. ‘Or t’owd Priory just over there.’

Guy followed his pointing finger and noticed for the first time the outline of a steeply roofed building in the distance.

‘The Priory would be best, if it is inhabited.’

‘Oh, aye, Lady Arabella will be at home. She never leaves the place these days.’

Guy nodded. Quickly he gave instructions for the men to fetch help while he removed his jacket and threw it over Davey. He sat by his friend’s head, leaning forwards to shelter him from the worst of the drizzling rain.

‘This is a damned nuisance,’ muttered Davey, wincing.

‘Don’t try to move. We will carry you to that house yonder and soon have you comfortable again.’

‘Comfort, hah! Didn’t know my legs could hurt so much.’

‘You are growing soft, then,’ retorted Guy, secretly relieved to know his friend could still feel pain. He was no doctor, but he suspected at least one leg was broken, but he hoped there would be no more serious damage. He took his friend’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. Help will be here soon.’ Davey gave a slight nod and squeezed Guy’s hand, then his eyes closed and his head fell to one side. Only the tiny pulse throbbing at one side of his neck told Guy his friend was still alive.

Guy had no idea how long he had sat beside Davey, the sky growing ever darker and the rain falling steadily. It felt like eternity, but he guessed it was less than an hour later when he heard the welcome sound of voices. Half-a-dozen men arrived with a donkey pulling a small cart. Guy tried to ensure that Davey was lifted as carefully as possible into the cart, but he was profoundly thankful that his friend was still unconscious. He winced when the cart rocked on the uneven field; by the time they reached the gravelled drive leading to the old Priory he felt as if he had been walking for miles.

The stone building towered over them, a black, looming shadow against the leaden sky, but the warm glow of lamplight shone from several of the windows and an oblong of light spilled out from the open doorway and illuminated the steep stone steps leading down to the drive. As they approached, the black outline of a woman could be seen in the doorway. She hurried down the steps and handed a blanket to one of the men.

‘Here, you can use this to carry him indoors.’

Silently Guy watched as the woman issued instructions, directing the men in the best way to ease the unconscious man on to the blanket and how to hold it to cause the least movement as they made their way up into the house. He stopped for a quick word with the groom who came running out to take charge of the horses, then followed behind the ragged cortege, unheeded as they made their way through the echoing hall and up a wide stone staircase to a small chamber where a maid was hurriedly building up the fire.

Guy retired to the corner, reduced to a spectator. He was ready to advise if necessary, but the young woman was supervising the men as they laid Davey on the bed and Guy did not think he could improve upon her instructions. He watched her as she moved around the room, the candlelight glinting on her flame-red hair. Despite his concern for his friend, Guy found himself wondering how old she was: not a girl, that was certain, for she carried herself with assurance, speaking to the men—all known to her by name—in a calm, low voice. She was dressed in a grey gown that showed her slender figure to advantage and she moved with a youthful grace and agility that was very pleasing to the eye. She was clearly used to running a household. Was she perhaps the Lady Arabella the men had mentioned? He broke off from his reflections as the sound of a hasty footstep in the corridor announced the arrival of the doctor. A large, cheerful-looking man appeared in the doorway.

‘Ah, Mrs Forrester, good evening to you!’

That answered one of Guy’s questions.

The doctor approached the bed, saying cheerfully, ‘So this is the young man I have been summoned to attend, is it? Thrown from his horse, I understand.’

‘Yes.’ Guy stepped out of the shadows. ‘The mare came down on top of him.’

‘Hmm.’ The doctor frowned down at the unconscious form now laid out upon the bed. With a sudden movement he began to take off his coat. ‘Then I must get to work. The rest of you should leave me now—except for your footman, ma’am. I will need him to help me undress my patient.’

‘I will help you do that,’ said Guy quickly.

The doctor gave him a searching look.

‘I think not, sir. You would be advised to get out of those wet clothes or I shall end up with two patients instead of one! Mrs Forrester, perhaps you will take care of that—and get the rest of these men out of here! They have served their purpose and should all go away now!’

The red-haired woman immediately moved towards the door.

‘Of course. Thank you, everyone. If you would like to go down to the kitchens, Cook has prepared a bowl of punch for you all.’

‘Does that include me?’ asked Guy as he filed out of the room behind the others. The young woman’s large, dark eyes regarded him solemnly. She gave no sign that she had noticed his attempt at humour.

‘No, sir, you may wait for your friend in the great hall. I will have refreshments brought to you there.’

Guy followed her back down the stairs. He had not realised how chilled he had become until he felt the heat coming from the fire blazing in the huge fireplace. Thankfully he moved towards it.

‘And just who is this man dripping water all over my floor?’

The imperious voice stopped him in his tracks. He looked round to find an old woman standing on the far side of the room. She was dressed in severe black with a black lace cap over her snow-white hair and she was leaning heavily on an ebony cane. She looked very regal and Guy glanced down at his mud-stained clothes.

‘I fear I must present a very dishevelled appearance, ma’am, and I beg your pardon.’ He gave her his most elegant bow. ‘I am Darrington.’

‘The Earl of Darrington?’

‘The same, madam.’

Behind him he heard the young woman’s sharp intake of breath and smiled to himself. She had clearly not thought him of such consequence!

‘Well, you will catch your death of cold if you remain in those wet clothes! Beth, my dear, what are you thinking of?’

‘But Tilly and Martin are—’

‘If the servants are busy, then you must take the earl upstairs, girl. Immediately!’

‘I assure you, ma’am,’ Guy began, ‘I would as lief stay here beside the fire—’

Mrs Forrester interrupted him. ‘My grandmother is right, my lord, you should change,’ she said. ‘Pray forgive me for not thinking of it sooner. Follow me, if you please.’

She led him away, up the stairs and through the twisting, turning corridors. As he followed he tried to take in his surroundings. The entrance and great hall were obviously very old, probably part of the original priory, but there were signs that the house had been extended in Tudor times to make a comfortable residence. The whole building had an air of antiquity and demonstrated the family’s pride in its heritage. Everywhere was filled with fine old furniture and paintings from previous centuries; he guessed that the coffers pushed into odd corners would be found to contain a mass of unwanted objects that the old lady could not bring herself to throw away.

The young woman opened the door to a snug bedchamber with a cheerful fire burning in the grate. She walked across the room and lifted a large white cloth from beside the washstand.

‘Use this to dry yourself. And if you remove your wet clothes, I will arrange for them to be cleaned and dried.’

She avoided looking at him and, almost before she had finished speaking, she was back at the door, whisking herself out of the room before he could thank her.

Guy stripped off his wet clothes and rubbed himself down with quick, powerful movements that forced the blood around his chilled body. There was a knock at the door and he looked out. The passage was empty, but a brightly patterned bundle of cloth was lying at his feet. Shaking it out, he found it was a wrap. Unlike the fashionable silk banyan that his valet would have laid out for him on his bed at Highridge, this garment was made of fine, soft wool, warm to the touch and infinitely comforting as he shrugged himself into it and fastened the ties at the waist. It was a little short, but otherwise a good fit. He was rubbing the worst of the wet from his hair when there was another soft knock on the door. It was Beth Forrester, holding a tray in her hands. His instinct was to take it from her, but some spirit of mischief made him stand aside, so that she was obliged to enter the room and carry the tray across to a table.