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‘You and I are going to dance a waltz together at the ball,’ Brett said.
‘A waltz?’ Diana swallowed hard. ‘I have no idea how to waltz.’
‘I suspected that. It is why I am here.’ He held out his arms. ‘I plan to educate you on the fi ner points of the waltz.’
‘You must be joking. It is a highly improper suggestion. I won’t waltz.’
‘But you agreed, Miss Diana. You agreed to dance with me at the ball.’ His voice was smooth but there was a steely determination. ‘Unless you want me to choose another forfeit? A forfeit more suited to a wager between a man and a woman? You were the one who lost the wager. It is up to me to name the terms.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
Although born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she has always been interested in history, and a historical romance is her idea of the perfect way to relax. She is particularly interested in how ordinary people lived during ancient times, and in the course of her research she has learnt how to cook Roman food as well as how to use a drop spindle. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas By Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE
Author Note
One of my favourite museums in the North East is the Beamish Open Air Museum, where they have several very early locomotives. It is possible to ride behind a replica of the Steam Elephant through a recreated Georgian landscape. As I did my research, I was surprised to discover how early the engines were developed, and that hundreds of miles of railway existed before George Stephenson developed the first public railway in 1823. As with many things, the Napoleonic War, with its restrictions on manpower and grain, provided the spur to develop the steam engine, and the first travelling steam engines date from around 1813.
Please be sure to look out for Simon Clare’s story, coming soon, because the only way I could get him to be silent in his sister’s tale was to promise him one of his own.
As ever, I love getting reader feedback—either via post to Mills & Boon, my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com
Michelle Styles
MILLS & BOON
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For Lydia Mason, whose unerring eye for plot problems, challenging questions and enthusiasm for my stories continually inspires.
Chapter One
September 1813—the Tyne Valley, Northumberland
Diana Clare fought the overwhelming temptation to swear violent, inappropriate oaths, oaths of the type that no one would even consider a spinster such as she would know.
One tiny scream of frustration and the merest hint of a word passed her lips. Jester, the piebald mare, turned its head and gave her a disgusted look. Diana shifted uneasily in her seat on the gig. Jester was correct. She had given in to her anger, and had broken one of her cardinal rules—a lady never allows passionate emotion to overcome her sensibilities.
She drew a breath, counted to ten and concentrated hard on a serene outlook. But the gig remained held fast in thick oozing mud and the tug of pain behind Diana’s eyes threatened to explode into a full-blown headache. Adding insult to injury, Jester began to munch another clump of sweet meadow grass, daintily choosing the last few remaining daisies. Diana tucked a stray lock of midnight-black hair behind her ear and peered over the side of the gig. It was her fault that it had become stuck. No one else’s. She accepted that, but accepting, and wishing to admit it to the general populace, were two entirely separate matters.
Diana knew she ought not to have been reading and driving at the same time, but she had needed something to erase the full horror of visiting Lady Bolt’s At Home as the congregated gaggle of gossips had blithely torn another woman’s reputation to shreds.
That the third and final volume of Pride and Prejudice had been waiting for her at the circulating library she took as providence, a way to restore her temper. Normally she scorned novels as frivolous and refused to open them, but Mrs Sarsfield had insisted she read the first page, and Diana had discovered that she’d had to read on and on. She had not bought the book, but done things the proper way—waiting her turn for each volume. And finally it was here, on the seat beside her in the gig. As she often joked to her brother Simon, Jester knew every step of the way home.
And what possible harm could come to her in the country?
Slack reins and the temptations of late-summer meadow grass had proved too great for the mare and Jester had pulled the gig into the mud pool just as Diana reached another scene between Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.
Diana straightened her straw bonnet and measured the distance from the gig to solid ground.
She could do this—easily, with dignity and in a ladylike manner. One long leap. She pushed off from the gig and hoped.
Her half-kid boot caught in the oozing mud, several feet short of dry land. Diana gave a small cry as her bonnet tilted first one way and then the other before sliding off into the mud, taking her cap with it. Gingerly, Diana picked the bonnet up by one ribbon and stuffed the cap inside. Mud dripped from it, splattering her dress.
‘Beauty in distress,’ a low voice drawled behind her, cultivated, with more than a hint of arrogance. A masculine voice. A stranger’s voice.
Her throat constricted and every particle of her froze. Her situation had suddenly become a thousand times worse.
‘Distress fails to describe my predicament.’ Diana refused to turn. Spoken to in the correct manner, the stranger would depart. Nothing untowards would happen to her as long as she behaved like a lady. She had to believe that, otherwise what had been the point of the last few years? ‘My gig has become stuck, and I am solving a problem with calmness and fortitude. There is a difference.’
Diana concentrated on finding the next halfway decent place for her foot, rather than glancing over her shoulder at the owner of the voice. If she ignored him, there was a chance that he would depart and everything would be fine. Her ordeal would end. It was her actions that mattered. Her balance altered slightly and she was forced to make a windmill motion with her arms in order to stay upright.
‘As I said—definite distress.’
‘Nothing of the sort. I am finding my way out. It is simply proving trickier than I first imagined.’ Diana put her foot down hard and heard a squelch as brown liquid spewed up. Her feet slipped. An involuntary shriek emerged from her throat. She flailed her arms about, trying desperately to regain her balance, before the mud sucked her down and destroyed all her dignity and decorum.
Her fingers encountered a solid object and she grabbed on with all her might. She rebalanced and looked, hoping for a branch. But instead her hands clung to the sleeve of a white travelling cloak. It was a choice between two evils—the indignity of falling into the thick black mud and the impropriety of clinging to an unknown man’s arm. Impropriety won.
‘It would be a shame to stain your dress, I believe.’
Without waiting for a reply, the man’s hands moved to her waist, and lifted her up. Her breast and thigh grazed his broad chest. Her senses reeled, then righted. She refused to give way to panic. She kept her body rigidly still and willed him to release her, but the arms stayed strong about her.
‘You may let me go.’ Her voice resounded, high and shrill, in her ears as she glanced up into deep grey eyes. A strange sensation stirred, deep within her, curling around her insides with insidious slowness. She swallowed hard and beat it back. ‘Please.’
‘After I have had my reward.’
‘Reward?’ Her tongue seemed to be three times thicker than normal. The day was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Surely this man, this gentleman, had to understand that she was a proper lady? She was not going to be punished. Again. ‘Why do you insist upon a reward?’
‘For rescuing you. Surely my gallant action warrants the merest trifle.’
He lowered his lips and his mouth skimmed hers—a brief touch, but one that sent a blaze of fire coursing throughout her body. Panic engulfed her. She turned her head and beat her fists against his chest.
‘Put me down this instant!’
‘If that is what you truly desire.’
Diana gulped and struggled to hang on to some sense of dignity. It was the only thing that could save her. A truly worthy and refined woman was never in danger. Ever. ‘It is.’
‘Never let it be said that I do not accommodate a pretty wench’s wishes.’
Her rescuer withdrew his arms and she was unceremoniously deposited on a green knoll. Her skirt flew up and revealed her legs up to her calves. Diana hurriedly pushed it back down and hoped that the man had been gentlemanly enough not to look. Silently she promised never to read novels again, never to utter oaths, if only she would be delivered from this nightmare. It was all her fault. She had broken her rules of ladylike behaviour and this was what happened to women who behaved inappropriately.
Diana forced her breath in and out of her lungs and regained some small measure of control. She could not show that she was discomforted. Exhibiting emotion only made situations like this one worse.
‘I did not mean quite so quickly.’
‘But I did as you requested. Beauty, thy name is perverse.’
‘You have rescued me. Now you may depart.’
His black boots remained still. She glanced up at her rescuer, praying that he was a stranger, someone she might never encounter again. Broad shoulders filled out the finely cut white coat with fifteen capes and two rows of pockets. Tapered down to buckskins and the pair of black Hessian boots. He sported a white neckcloth with black spots, immaculately tied. Diana’s gloom deepened. It was the sort only worn by a member of the Four Hand Club, the premiere carriage-driving club in the country.
She studied his dark features again and recognised the distinctive scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek.
Her insides twisted. That little place inside her that she normally kept locked and barred cracked opened. The man was Brett Farnham. Had to be. Diana pressed her hands into her eyes. She slammed the door of that place shut and willed the terror to go.
‘Is something troubling you, Beauty?’ The warmth in his voice lapped at her senses. ‘Forgive me if I have offended, I merely sought to assist you.’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Diana forced her face to relax and her lips to smile. Politeness must be her shield. A lady was always polite. ‘Why should anything trouble me? Today has been without blemish or stain.’
‘Aside from becoming stuck in a pool of mud.’ A smile crossed his features.
‘Aside from that.’
Diana resisted the temptation to bury her face in her hands. She had allowed herself to be carried and kissed by one of the most renowned rakes in the country, a man who had founded the notorious Jehu driving club at Cambridge University and who had set the fashion for speaking cant, tying neckcloths, a close confidant of both Brummell and Byron. Her late fiancé had revered him, and ultimately that reverence had been responsible for his destruction.
After all the years she had spent here, trying to forget that London had ever happened. Then Brett Farnham appeared and everything came crashing back as if it were yesterday. But whatever happened, she had to remember that it was her actions that decided her fate. If she held fast to her rules, she would be safe. If she had learnt one thing in London, it was that. ‘Please, I beg you—go and forget about my predicament.’
He continued to stand there, looking down at her from a great height. ‘I am no fool. You disliked being rescued.’
‘Normally a gentleman waits to be asked.’
‘A gentleman acts when he sees a lady in distress. He attempts to prevent greater harm.’ His gaze roamed over her body. And Diana was fervently glad that she was wearing her dark brown gown with its high neck. ‘It would have been a shame if your dress had become mud-splattered.’
Diana forced her eyes from his face. She struggled to breathe as her throat constricted again. It was nothing more than polite words, the sort that rolled off his tongue a dozen times a day. She was a fool to worry. This encounter would not happen again. London remained in her past. All was safe here. Her place in society was secure as long as she maintained her poise.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. Polite. Calm. She had to banish any hint of emotion and behave as if they had encountered each other at a tea party or some other social function. It was the only way.
‘Remain here and I will free your gig.’ A dimple showed in his cheek. ‘You may thank me properly…later.’
‘You do not need to do that. I am perfectly capable of freeing my horse.’ She struggled to stand and started forwards, but he blocked her way, preventing her from reaching the gig. She cleared her throat, and tried to ignore the sudden trembling in her stomach. ‘If you would kindly move, I have no wish to be in your debt.’
He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Ah, so you intend on ruining your boots after all the trouble I went to. And your…uh…pretty dress. I wouldn’t let a Beauty do that.’
‘I am quite capable of getting myself out of the difficulty.’ Diana crossed her arms, ignoring his flirtatious tone. A Beauty, indeed. She was no pretty farmer’s daughter or green girl ripe for the plucking. No doubt in another moment, he would give his dishonourable intention speech and steal another kiss. This time, longer, deeper. The thought of the consequences made her blood run cold, even as a tiny piece of warmth curled around her. She regarded her hands. This was all her fault. She should have been paying attention to the road. This is what happened when she forgot her rules of ladylike behaviour.
‘It looked different to me. It appeared as if you were heading for deep water and sinking fast.’ He put his hand on his heart and made an exaggeratedly contrite face, no doubt expecting her to smile. ‘Consider my reputation as a gentleman. How could I allow a Beauty such as yourself to meet with such a fate?’
‘I am hardly a fainting violet who does not know how to handle the ribbons. I can free the gig…in time.’
He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the vehicle with its wheels half-submerged in the mud. The position made it perfectly clear that she had driven straight at the puddle. She hated to think how long it would take to clear it. Or the difficulties she would have with Jester, who appeared intent on devouring every last speck of meadow-sweet grass.
‘I like to have my roads free from hazard. It could have been worse. I intend to rattle down this road today at high speed. If a carriage had encountered the unexpected obstacle, there would have been an accident. A bad accident.’
‘It is a public road.’ Diana lifted her chin a notch. His road indeed. Arrogant. Concerned with only his pleasure and comfort. Her heart rate slowed. She was back in control. Brett Farnham and all his kind were in her past. She was immune from such men now. She knew what danger they represented. But they also understood the code. Ladies were to be respected.
‘I have never driven into a mud puddle, intentionally or unintentionally.’
‘You think I intended on driving in?’
‘As I am not privy to your thoughts, I remain unable to discern them. Mind-reading is, alas, not one of my talents. Dealing with horses is.’ But within a moment, Brett Farnham had moved around the gig and with a few whispered words coaxed Jester back towards the road.
The pool gave up its hold on the gig with a great sucking sound. Diana reluctantly admitted that he had done it far more efficiently than she could have. And except for the splashes of mud on his gleaming black Hessian boots, Brett remained spotless.
‘I must thank you for that. Very neatly done.’
‘You climb back in and then we will depart.’ He gestured towards the gig. ‘I will drive.’
‘Go? Where?’ Her throat closed around the word and she was suddenly aware how deserted the road was, how far she was from any cottage. Alone with this man. Vulnerable. ‘I refuse to go anywhere with you.’
‘I am taking you home. You drove into a mud pool. Anything could happen.’
‘My competence as a driver has never been questioned before.’
He pursed his lips and his face assumed a sceptical expression. ‘We have a difference of opinion on competence, I fear. Your horse is a placid and serene animal. Easily managed.’
‘It is not what you think. I can control Jester.’
‘And now you know what I am thinking? Mind-reading is a talent of yours. How marvellous.’ His eyes pierced her. ‘Do let me in on your secret some time. But for now, I will settle for your explanation.’
‘I failed to pay attention.’ Diana hung her head and her cheeks grew hot. ‘I was reading a…a book.’
‘Indeed. There is no book in the gig.’
‘But it has to be there,’ Diana said in dismay. ‘The last volume of Pride and Prejudice. I left it on the seat when I jumped. I had to know the ending. The author writes so well. I shall have to search out more of his books.’
‘I have it on good authority that the author is a woman.’
‘The author’s identity is a closely guarded secret, but I understand from Mrs Sarsfield that it is a man.’
‘Shall we wager on that?’ His grey eyes twinkled. ‘A simple wager. With a suitable reward.’
He held out his hand. Diana kept her hand firmly at her side. No wagers. Ever. A simple enough rule to remember. She raised her chin and stared directly at him. ‘I suspect you would not offer unless you knew the truth. I accept the author is a woman.’
‘It does help to know the publisher and his habits.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘Never wager on facts you are uncertain of or have not independently checked. It helps keep people honest. But I shall agree with you—Pride and Prejudice is well written.’
‘I had assumed that members of the Jehu club disdained reading and education, Mr Farnham.’
‘How do you know I have anything to do with the Jehu club?’ His eyes changed instantly and became cold slate.
‘My fiancé was an admirer.’ Diana spoke around the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘Algernon Finch.’
He drew his eyebrows together before shaking his head. ‘I have no recollection of the name.’
‘He was younger than you at Cambridge, but he used to speak about the doings of the Jehu club.’ Diana clenched her fist. The man who had done so much to encourage Algernon’s folly and ultimately his death had forgotten his existence. ‘He even introduced us five years ago.’
‘Five years ago is a long time. I regret that I cannot remember the occasion.’ Brett’s voice held the faintest note of hesitation. A smug satisfaction swept through Diana. It was beneath her, but she did enjoy the feeling of wrong footing a rake. ‘I look forward to renewing my acquaintance.’
‘He died five years ago, Mr Farnham.’
‘My condolences. But people will talk, and they do sometimes exaggerate the acquaintance.’ He gave a slight shrug of his perfect shoulder, once again every inch the arrogant gentleman. ‘You must not believe everything you hear. Remember that the next time. The Jehu club disbanded years ago. And it is no longer Mr Farnham. I am now the sixth Earl of Coltonby. Have been for the last six months.’
‘My mistake. Lord Coltonby.’ Diana inclined her head. ‘I am sorry for your loss, but my answer remains the same. A title does not give one licence to seduce.’
‘I can only apologise for the gross ineptitude of my sex.’ A faint dimple showed in the corner of his mouth. ‘It is lucky that I was not intending any such stratagem.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’
His eyes slowly travelled down her body, lingered on her curves. Diana reminded herself that this was a simple round gown, nothing too flattering. Suitable for visiting the Bolts and others in the neighbourhood, but it would appear dowdy and misshapen in Newcastle, let alone under the bright lights of London. Demure. Modest. Unassuming. His fingers trapped hers, curling around them and holding them fast. He brought them to his lips as his eyes watched her with a steady gaze. ‘You will take driving lessons. I insist. Public safety demands it.’
‘The public make no such demand.’ Diana withdrew her hand and ignored the faint tremor that ran up it. ‘I doubt our paths will cross again.’
Brett Farnham stared at the woman in front of him. This interview was not going the way he had planned when he’d glimpsed her ankle and the slight curve of her calf as she’d drawn her hideous dress up to avoid the mud. ‘And if I say that the stories about me are exaggerated?’
‘My answer would remain the same. In any case, London is your natural habitat. Your stay here will be a short one.’ The Beauty’s bee-stung lips were turned down. They were the most exquisite colour of rose pink and Brett wondered what it might be like to taste them again. But he decided against the notion. He would be a fool to try such a thing without knowing her antecedents. She claimed an acquaintance. Brett took pride in being discerning. He had never toyed with a woman whose thoughts might legitimately lean towards marriage; women who understood the nature of the game were infinitely preferable.
‘It may be longer than you expect,’ he said, keeping his eyes away from the swell of her bosom. Until he knew the exact nature of her status, he refused to risk any consequence. Silently, he prayed that she might be a legitimate pursuit, rather than one who was off limits. ‘I recently won a highly desirable piece of Northumbrian property.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ Her blue-green eyes became cold. Her eyebrow arched. ‘It appears to me that you play for very high stakes. Far too high.’
‘Cuthbert Biddlestone had had rather too much port and challenged me to a race. I am hardly one to back down. I held his vowels, you see, and it was double or nothing. Now I hold the title to Ladywell Park.’
‘You raced a noted drunkard? That must have been challenging.’
Brett brushed a speck of dust from his travelling coat. ‘He was the one who insisted. He was the one who became a vice-admiral in a narrow ship. I did warn him what would happen. He chose not to believe me. I do warn people of the consequences.’
‘And do you intend to keep this estate or will you wager it again on another race?’