Childhood friends all grown up

Now they must marry for convenience!

Giles Redmond, Earl of Revesby, is marrying childhood friend Laurel Knighton because it’s the only way to save his family fortune. Last time he saw her, she was an unconventional tomboy... Now she’s a beauty, but finding himself aroused by her is as baffling as it is surprising. Who would have thought such an infuriating, disobedient bride could be so tempting?

“Readers will enjoy the unique setting, the many twists and turns of the plot.”

—RT Book Reviews on Surrender to the Marquess

“From the first page, readers will be hooked by the suspense and romance of this pleasing tale... This is another keeper.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com.

Also by Louise Allen

Once Upon a Regency ChristmasMarrying His Cinderella Countess

Brides of Waterloo miniseries

A Rose for Major Flint

Lords of Disgrace miniseries

His Housekeeper’s Christmas WishHis Christmas CountessThe Many Sins of Cris de FeauxThe Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone

The Herriard Family miniseries

Forbidden Jewel of IndiaTarnished Amongst the TonSurrender to the Marquess

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Earl’s Practical Marriage

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07356-1

THE EARL’S PRACTICAL MARRIAGE

© 2018 Melanie Hilton

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Pit Crew with all my love

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Beckhampton on the Bath Road—June 1814

‘This is completely unacceptable.’

‘You are accustomed to the forces of nature observing your convenience, ma’am?’

She should have ignored the man, obviously. No lady fell into conversation with complete strangers at roadside inns and most certainly not with tall, raffish ones. And by definition, as this one had addressed her uninvited, he was not behaving as a gentleman should.

Laurel turned her head to give him a fleeting glance, although the fine mesh of her veil blurred his features a trifle. She had looked more directly earlier, of course, when she was certain she was unobserved. She was female after all and, at twenty-five, not quite a dried-up spinster on the shelf yet, whatever her stepmother liked to imply. She had a pair of perfectly good eyes and a functioning pulse and the stranger was a good looking man if you liked tall, broad-shouldered blonds with overlong hair. And a tan—another indication that he was not a gentleman, although to be fair she supposed he might be connected to the East India Company or have just arrived home from the West Indies.

She had been sitting at a table in the public room of the Beckhampton Inn sipping tea with her maid, Binham, primly silent at her side, when he had sauntered in. He ordered porter which he drank with one elbow propped negligently on the bar as though this were some common ale house and not a highly respectable posting house on the Bath Road.

‘I am used to the postilions I hire knowing the way to circumnavigate obstacles, sir,’ she said now. ‘I do not expect them to throw up their hands and declare that they must make an exceedingly lengthy detour simply because a tree is down and blocking the road at Cherhill.’

They were now standing in the yard and it was becoming unpleasantly crowded with the stage just in and three other post-chaises beside her own jostling for space and changing horses. In the midst of the bustle the guard from the London Mail was standing, the post bags slung about him and the reins of one of the abandoned Mail’s team in his hand, ordering a riding horse to take him on to London while fielding agitated queries as to just how bad the blockage was three miles ahead.

‘As I told you, ma’am, we can go south to Devizes and then Melksham and get to Bath that way round.’ The postilion who had brought her the unwelcome news shot her a resentful look. ‘By all accounts the only thing that’ll get round that big old oak is a rider on horseback. The Mail’s stuck on the other side and if they can’t get the Mail through, they can’t get anything on wheels past.’

‘And I explained to you when we set out that I require to call in at Pickwick on the way.’ Laurel opened the route book that she had tucked in her reticule and ran one finger down the column for roads to Bath. ‘As I thought. If we go via Melksham, which is what you are suggesting, then it is a significant detour to reach Pickwick.’

‘No other way to do it, ma’am.’ The wiry little man stood firm.

Laurel sighed, more at herself than at him. The past few weeks she had lost both her patience and her sense of humour and she knew it. None of this was life and death—nothing actually felt very important any more, if she was honest. If they had to make a long detour and were late reaching Aunt Phoebe’s house, then that was the risk one took in making a journey. Stepmama was right, she was turning into an old maid before her time, crotchety and intolerant.

‘Very well. I am sure you know best.’

‘Or possibly not,’ the stranger remarked, brazenly intervening in the conversation again. ‘What about the old road by Shepherd’s Shore and round over the flank of the Downs to Sandy Lane?’

‘The turnpike trust gave up maintaining that road more than fifty years ago, sir.’

‘It is still there, is it not?’

‘Aye, sir, and I’m sure it is fit for farm carts and riders, but not for the likes of Quality in a chaise.’

‘The ground is dry, there is little wind and you have a team of four.’ The man turned to Laurel. ‘I am on horseback, so I can lead the way. It will be rutted and it’s a long pull, but it bypasses Cherhill and Calne and you will be able to re-join the road to Chippenham and Pickwick without having to turn back on yourself.’

Laurel studied him, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar, but unable to pin down why. One man could hardly be a danger to her, she told herself. She had an escort of a maid and two postilions, albeit sulky ones. There was the risk of breaking a wheel or an axle and finding herself stranded on top of these godforsaken Downs, of course, but she wanted to get to Bath badly enough to take that chance.

‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged.’ She turned to the postilions. ‘You heard the gentleman, we will follow him to Sandy Lane.’

They turned and went to the horses without comment, although if backs of heads could speak Laurel thought they would be saying, You’ll be sorry. Or possibly, Women!

‘Ma’am, excuse me, but have we met before?’

He feels it, too?

The stranger was staring as though he hoped to penetrate her veil. He had blue eyes and dark, dark lashes.

‘I hardly think so, sir.’ She did not trust blue eyes, however attractive, and it was unwise to be drawn into conversation which was doubtless a handy ploy for scoundrels. Before you knew where you were you were revealing information about acquaintances and locations that would give a confidence trickster or a seducer valuable insights. Not that she thought him either, but presumably if such people were obvious they would not be very successful.

‘No, of course not.’ He frowned. ‘It was something in the way you tipped your head to one side when you were thinking. It reminded me of an old acquaintance.’ Whoever it was, the memory did not appear to give him much pleasure.

Laurel nodded and walked away from him to the chaise. His face was intelligent and sensitive when he was serious, not merely handsome. That expression made up for the blue eyes—in fact, it was positively engaging. Trust me, it said.

‘Hah!’ she said under her breath as she climbed into the chaise and made room for Binham on the seat beside her. Men were not trustworthy, strangers or relatives, or friends. Life had taught her that.

‘My lady?’ Her new maid, a stickler for protocol, including being addressed by her surname by her employer and as Miss Binham by the lower servants, was radiating disapproval at the conversation with a strange man. Her stepmother thought well of Binham. Laurel had plans to find the lady’s maid a new employer at the earliest opportunity unless she showed signs of developing a sense of humour.

‘Nothing, Binham. Hold tight, this will be a bumpy ride, I fear.’

They turned south, then west, climbing steadily, paralleling the modern road two miles or so away to their right on the other side of the great rise of Downland. Almost immediately the metalled road turned into a chalk track, rutted and white with dust.

Binham gave a little shriek at the first lurch, clutched Laurel’s dressing case to her bosom with one hand and grabbed for the strap with the other. Laurel held on tightly and looked forward, through the glass between the team of four and the postilions, to the horseman leading the way.

He was sitting relaxed on a big grey horse that had as much of a raffish air about it as its master, its tail ungroomed and long, its legs covered in the thick dust of the road. It was not some hired hack, that was for sure, not ridden on such a loose, trusting rein by a man who looked as though he had spent so long in the saddle that he was perfectly at home there.

Laurel pushed back her veil and narrowed her eyes at the broad shoulders, the comfortable slouch. It was most improbable, but there was still something familiar about the man.

No, it isn’t familiarity, she thought. It is as if someone rubbed out a faint pencil sketch of a young man and then drew this one on the same sheet of paper with the ghost of the original showing through.

Which was ridiculous. The only person she had ever known with such lapis-blue eyes had been Giles Redmond and he had been an unprepossessing youth, his big feet and hands, large nose and ears all seeming to belong to someone else and not the mousey, scholarly young man. He had been thoughtful and sensitive though, always a loyal friend—and always failing to meet his father’s expectations.

Gentle, kind, fun to be with and tolerant of the neighbours’ daughter, two years younger than him: no one had suspected that sixteen-year-old Laurel Knighton could fall for such a plain and retiring youth, even if he was the heir to a great title. But kindness, humour and intelligence could be as attractive to an impressionable girl as good looks and confidence.

The Marquess of Thorncote, Giles’s father, had wanted a son from the same mould as himself for his heir—active, noisy, enthusiastically confident, a man who would hunt all day and wench and drink all night. Instead he had Giles, nose in a book, secretive and more likely to shoot his own foot off than hit a pheasant.

Strange that he had so little idea of what his son was truly like, any more than she had known. It had almost been funny, the expression on the Marquess’s face the day the worm turned and Giles showed his true colours and her friend had revealed himself for the treacherous, deceitful beast that he was.

But that was nine years in the past. The Marquess was ailing now, they said, not that there was any social interaction between Malden Grange, home of William Knighton, Earl of Palgrave, her late father, and Thorne Hall. Not since the day of the betrothal debacle.

Malden was not her home any longer, not now that she had no function beyond that of spinster stepdaughter. Laurel narrowed her eyes at the worn brown riding coat ahead as though its wearer was personally responsible for her change of circumstances and the move to Bath.

Which was unfair, she told herself.

Just let me get to Laura Place—the name so close to her own must surely be a good omen—and I will learn to be contented and useful again. I refuse to become a sour old maid. I will be happy, find happiness in all the little things.

She was simply resentful of the stranger triggering something in her memory of those long-ago days, she supposed.

They were still climbing, the horses labouring now as the wheels stuck in deep ruts or lost their grip on loose stones. Open grassland spread out on either side and Laurel dropped the window, filling the stuffy interior of the chaise with cool air and the sound of birdsong all around them.

‘It feels like the roof of the world,’ she said as they came to a halt and she realised the vehicle was on the level. Then she hastily adjusted her veil as the stranger brought his horse round and leaned down from the saddle to look through the open window.

‘The team needs to rest a while after that pull and the view is spectacular.’

‘I have been looking at it, thank you.’

Definitely not a gentleman if he persisted in talking to a lady to whom he had not been introduced.

‘Not on that side, this way.’ He gestured with his riding crop. ‘Come and see.’

Outrageous, of course. She should snub him and raise the glass and sit demurely in the carriage until the horses were rested. She was thoroughly bored with that carriage.

I am looking for happiness in small things, Laurel reminded herself, looking at the froth of white cow parsley in the sunlight, smelling the fresh scent of growing things. ‘Very well. Come along, Binham. Oh, do leave the dressing case. Who is going to steal it up here?’

With the maid’s stare heating the spot between her shoulder blades Laurel picked her way along a side track and was suddenly not only on the roof of the world, but on its very edge. The close-cropped grass fell away at her feet, the valley of the Avon spread out before her. The face of the Downs was marked with deep, wide, dry valleys, as though a giant had pressed his fingers into the earth while it was still malleable, and the grass was starred with the white shapes of grazing sheep.

‘Oh, how lovely.’ She flipped back her veil to see better, the breeze a cool caress on her cheeks.

‘Ouch! I’ve turned my ankle, my lady.’

Binham was glaring mutinously at the tussocky grass with its liberal sprinkling of sheep droppings. She had hardly taken a few steps, let alone enough to twist her foot. This was simply rebellion. Laurel was too weary of her to argue. ‘Go back to the chaise then, Binham.’

Beside her the stranger watched the retreating maid, then turned back to Laurel, his gaze sharpening as he took in her unveiled face. Surely she had imagined the fleeting puzzlement in his expression, because it was not there now. ‘Yes, it is lovely,’ he agreed. ‘I have missed England in the spring.’ So she had been right, he had been abroad. ‘Listen to the skylarks. See, there is one, so ridiculously high.’ He pointed, leaning right back to look up at the tiny speck far above their heads.

Laurel leaned back, too, following the line of his pointing finger. ‘So brave, singing its heart out, trying to touch the heavens.’

She lost her balance and stumbled. The man caught her, turned her and stood, his hands cupping the points of her shoulders. ‘Dizzy? I have you.’

Yes, yes, you do.

There was something about him, something so familiar, so dear and yet so tinged with regret and sadness—and yet, surely she had never met this man before.

She stood there, looking deep into the blue depths of his eyes, stood far too close, too long, his palms warm even through the thickness of her pelisse and gown. Then he took his hands away, as though freeing a captured bird, and, very slowly, giving her all the time in the world to run, he bent forward until his mouth met hers.

It was the merest brush, a caress without pressure, without demand. He stood still, lips slightly parted as hers were, exchanging breath in a way so intimate she felt an ache of longing in her breast.

Then he stepped back abruptly, his face as neutral and guarded as if they had never stopped talking about birds and landscape. ‘The horses will be rested sufficiently now. We had best be on our way.’

Laurel blinked at him, dazed, then caught herself. She was behaving like some bemused village maiden when she was a sophisticated, experienced lady who had been kissed dozens of times. Well, six at least, by partners at local Assemblies and once, embarrassingly, by the curate emboldened after three glasses of the New Year’s Eve punch.

She lifted her chin and walked away towards the chaise without a word, lowering her veil as she went.

The postilions got up from beneath a hawthorn bush where they were sharing a clay pipe between them. Neither looked very happy at such a speedy return. Doubtless they thought she had disappeared for a prolonged period of dalliance, leaving them to their leisure, Laurel thought, thankful for the concealing veil.

Although who vanishes into the countryside to misbehave with a chance-met stranger with their maid on their heels?

It had been the merest chance that Binham had turned back in a sulk, the merest chance Laurel had almost fallen and he had caught her.

Or perhaps she was being naïve and he had lured her out and unbalanced her on purpose. She certainly knew very little about dalliance, inside or in the open.

The track wound its way downhill, the carriage lurched and swayed, and Laurel, searching for something to take her thoughts from that magical moment on the hilltop, could appreciate why the turnpike trust had given up on maintaining it and opened up the longer, gentler route. They passed other lanes, a few farms, and then after perhaps twenty minutes drew up on the level in a small hamlet in front of an old inn, sprawling under a canopy of trees.

The horseman wheeled his mount and bent to speak to her through the window. ‘Here you may try the famous Sandy Lane pudding at the Bear Inn, as favoured by none other than the late Beau Nash himself, or press directly on to Chippenham. The roads are metalled again from this point so your journey should be smooth.’ He did not sound like a man who had just kissed a complete stranger on top of the Downs.

‘Thank you, sir. I will press on, if you would be so good as to tell the postilions.’ She did her best to sound as politely indifferent as he did. ‘I appreciate your suggestion and your guidance, it has saved me a long detour.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He touched his whip to the brim of his hat, then called out instructions to the men before urging the grey horse forward.

‘A small adventure,’ Laurel commented to Binham, who pursed up her mouth in response. An adventure and a lesson not to be so suspicious and grumpy. The chance-met stranger had been a not-quite-harmless Samaritan and only slightly a dangerous rake. She had no excuse for regretting his departure, she told herself firmly, resisting the temptation to run her tongue over her lips.

* * *

The Earl of Revesby shifted in the saddle and thought longingly of sinking into a deep, hot tub at the Christopher Hotel. But first he was going to see where the discontented traveller with the mysterious deep brown eyes and the glossy dark hair and the cherry-sweet lips was bound for. He dug into the pocket of his greatcoat, found the worn lump of pewter inside and turned it between his fingers, the infallible remedy for impatience, restlessness, nerves.

Arthur, the big grey, named for the Duke whose nose resembled his, cocked up a rear hoof and relaxed, and his rider slapped his neck. ‘We’re both tired, a stable for you soon, boy.’ He had waited for the chaise to pass him, as patient as any highwayman in the shelter of a copse, then had followed at a distance all the way to Bath, driven by curiosity, arousal and a nagging sense of familiarity.

What was he doing kissing a chance-met lady? His head reminded him firmly that, besides any other considerations, that kind of thing led to consequences which could range from a slapped face to a marriage at the end of a shotgun wielded by a furious father. But there had been a compulsion, a spur-of-the-moment irresistible impulse far louder than the competing voice of common sense.

He’d had no difficulty ignoring the many lures thrown out to him on his way home from Portugal, yet now he had fallen victim to a pair of fine brown eyes. Again, he reminded himself savagely. He appeared to have developed a dangerous partiality for dark brown eyes and, given how much trouble simply smiling at the owner of a fine pair of them had got him into, it was madness to escalate to snatching kisses.

As he watched, a footman hurried out of the elegant house on Laura Place, followed by a grey-haired lady who embraced the passenger almost before she set a foot on the ground. Neither of them looked round as the horse walked past down Great Pulteney Street. The irritable lady with the sense of beauty and the tantalising gaze was safe and he knew where she was. That was quite enough for one day.

Chapter Two

‘Darling Laurel, here you are at last! Welcome to your new home, my dear. I expect you would like to freshen up a little before we have some tea—Nicol, show Lady Laurel and her maid to her rooms—and then we can be cosy and talk.’

Aunt Phoebe, the widowed Lady Cary, spoke as rapidly as ever, Laurel thought. Slightly breathless after her first encounter in years with her mother’s sister, she followed the butler up two flights of stairs. She had been given a suite of rooms, he told her and she found it took up the entire floor—on one side a bedchamber and dressing room overlooking the garden at the back and on the other a sitting room with a view of Laura Place with its fountain in the middle of a railing-encircled patch of grass and shrubs. Behind the sitting room was a bedchamber for Binham, who was pleased to give it a stately nod of approval. Laurel took off her bonnet, gloves and pelisse, washed her hands and face then went back down again, leaving Binham to unpack.

‘Darling, is it all right?’ Phoebe picked up the teapot and began to pour the moment Laurel stepped into the drawing room. ‘I thought that apple green for the hangings in the bedchamber was appealing, but you must change it if you loathe it.’

‘It is delightful. All the rooms are.’ She took the cup and sat down. ‘I am so grateful and I will do my very best to be a good companion for you. You must tell me exactly how you want things done and how you would like me to go on.’

‘Laurel, what nonsense! I do not need a companion, not the kind I give orders to, that is. I am very happy to have your company and to give you a home, but I have more than enough to fill my life without having to take on a companion. What a ghastly thought, it makes me feel ancient. Although I suppose I am not quite a spring chick, although I don’t feel it, at least I do not when I have a new hat or go dancing or... Yes, dear?’

‘But Stepmama said that I could be of some use to you.’ Laurel studied her aunt, who looked younger than her sixty-odd years, highly fashionable and very active and lively indeed. A severe critic might murmur something about mutton dressed as lamb, or Chatterbox!, but that would be unkind, Laurel decided. Her aunt was clearly amiable and well meaning. She certainly was not the elderly invalid Laurel had been expecting. Had this journey been in vain and there was nothing here for her usefully to do and no chance of a new life? ‘She said that this was one place where I might be of some use to someone, in fact.’

‘Have a ginger biscuit. My sister-in-law is an old cat. I cannot imagine what your father, Lord rest him, was thinking of when he married her. How old are you, Laurel dear? Twenty-six soon? And I suppose she tells you that you are on the shelf, simply because your father’s dynastic plotting went awry nine years ago and now you are out of mourning she is too tight-fisted to give you a London Season and let you find a husband for yourself.’ Phoebe snapped a ginger biscuit between small white teeth.

‘I do not look for marriage, Aunt Phoebe. I had the chance, although I did not realise it at the time, and I made a mull of it.’ She and Giles between them. ‘He was in love—’ or, more accurately, in lust ‘—with someone else and I...I made rather a fuss about it.’

That was putting it mildly. She had turned a family crisis into a full-scale district-wide scandal, ruined her own chances and drove Giles into exile in Portugal, of all things. And, inevitably, into disgrace with his father. ‘I expect Papa told you all about it at the time.’

‘Your father sent me an absolute rant of a letter about undutiful daughters, idiot youths and lamentations about the failure of his scheme to join the two estates. I could not make head nor tail of most of it. I was going to invite you to stay with me in town to get away from the fuss and botheration, but then your dear mother died and then my poor Cary and when we were all over the worst of that your father wrote to say he needed you to look after young Jamie... Oh, dear, I knew I should have insisted that you come to me.’

‘Jamie did need me. He was so devastated when Mama died—he was only five. And then Papa married again and... It was all rather difficult. Jamie did not take to Stepmama and she found him difficult to accept. I do not think she ever came to terms with him being illegitimate. I could not understand at first, but now I suppose she thought that if Papa could raise his late cousin’s son, then he might have a tolerant attitude towards infidelity, when of course, it was quite the opposite. He and Mama deplored Cousin Isabella’s actions, but they believed an innocent child should not suffer for them.’

Not many people could, to be fair. It was a good thing Jamie had gone away to sea now he was old enough to be hurt by snubs and chance remarks about his mama, who had run off with her groom and who had died giving birth to their son. ‘It was all too much for a little boy,’ she explained. ‘He needed the stability of someone familiar to care for him. And then with Papa dying a year ago...’

‘He needed you for nine years? After a few months you could surely have employed a governess and then some tutors and freed yourself to live your own life. You could have married, dear.’

‘Jamie needed me. He was—is—very much attached to me,’ Laurel flared, on the defensive. Was this going to be like living at home all over again? Who would she marry when the whispers all around the area were that years ago Lady Laurel had driven away her suitor—a young man much liked in the district—and that her father had decimated her dowry in fury at having his plans thwarted?

‘Oh, bless him. So young to be leaving home to become a midshipman. It must have been a terrible wrench for him, poor little lad.’ Phoebe fumbled for a tiny lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

‘Yes. Yes, of course it was.’ The ‘poor little lad’ had scrambled up into the gig, all five foot six of lanky fourteen-year-old, his precious new telescope clutched under his arm. He had immediately begun chattering to Sykes, the groom whose son was a second mate on a cutter, about life at sea and his ambitions and his new ship and how well he had done in his midshipman’s examinations.

‘...third in the geometry paper and second in...’ His voice had floated back down the driveway to where his stepmother Dorothy and Laurel, her handkerchief scrunched in her hand and a brave, determined smile on her face so he would not turn around and see her weeping, stood on the steps to wave him goodbye. But Jamie had not turned round, not for a second.

His letter home, sent from Portsmouth just before he boarded his ship, was blotted, scrawled and bubbling with excitement. He’d met some of the other midshipmen—great guns all—and seen the captain, trailing clouds of glory behind him from his last engagement with the French, and as for the ship, at anchor in the bay, well, the Hecate was the finest thing afloat. It was capital not being tied down with boring lessons any more and having all the other fellows to talk to, Jamie wrote before signing his name. And that was the only reference to her.

‘I expect he is homesick and perhaps seasick,’ Laurel said, fixing her smile in place securely. ‘But I am sure he will recover from both soon enough.’

Stepmama had been right. Jamie had not needed her, had not needed her for years. It was she who had used him as a shield behind which she could do more or less as she pleased, provided that did not involve straying more than five miles from home. And now she was not needed at Malden Grange at all. Her stepmother had the domestic situation firmly under control and did not welcome another woman’s finger in her pies—literally or metaphorically. And she had begun to make snide remarks about Laurel’s allowance now Jamie required fitting out and would doubtless need more financial support as he climbed the ladder of his new career.

Her second cousin Anthony, now Earl of Palgrave, had been most gracious in allowing them to remain at home and not requiring them to move out to the Dower House immediately. He apparently enjoyed living at the original seat of the earldom, Palgrave Castle, on the other side of the county, but surely he would marry soon and might well want to move his bride into the more modern and convenient Malden Grange that her father had always used.

‘I only want to be of use,’ she had said and her stepmother had pointed out tartly that no help was needed and that if she thought she was going to turn into one of those do-gooding spinsters, setting up schools for dirty orphans or homes for fallen women, then she was not doing it at Dorothy’s expense or from under her roof.

At which point it had occurred to Stepmama that Laurel had a widowed aunt in Bath. Bath was full of old maids, widows and invalids, therefore Aunt Phoebe, who was certainly widowed, was probably also an invalid. Laurel could go and be useful looking after her, she had declared. Lady Cary could well afford a companion, as it was common knowledge that both her father and her husband had left her well provided for.

‘And I do not want a husband,’ Laurel added firmly. She was too old and cynical now to be starry-eyed about men and she was approaching the age when no one would expect her to find a spouse. She would be that creature of pity, a failure, an unmarried woman, and she would be happy to be so, she told herself. Her judgement of character had proved disastrously faulty, now she had no wish to risk her heart and her future happiness. She had managed to hide away while she was at the dangerous age when everyone expected her to marry—now, surely, at almost twenty-six she was safe from matchmakers?

‘Really, dear? You do not want to marry? But you are so pretty and intelligent and eligible: it is such a waste. I will not despair and I will be very glad to have your company, of course, until some sensible man comes along and snaps you up.’ She leaned forward and patted Laurel’s hand. ‘Your home is here, dear, for as long as you want it.’

‘Thank you,’ Laurel said with some feeling. It was reassuring to have someone who wanted her. ‘But I cannot live off your charity, Aunt Phoebe. If you required a companion, then of course, board and lodging in return would be fair, I suppose. But I do have my allowance from Papa’s estate and what Mama left me, so I can pay my way and share expenses.’

‘Bless you, child.’ Phoebe waved a beringed hand at the cake stand. ‘And eat, Laurel, you look ready to fade away.’ She cocked her head to one side and Laurel tried to return the beady look calmly. ‘You are too pale and with that dark brown hair and eyes you need more colour in your cheeks. I expect a year in mourning has not helped matters. I have no children,’ she added with an abrupt change of subject. ‘My poor dear Cary always felt that very much, but he never reproached me. You, my dear, are as welcome here as my own daughter would have been.’

‘I am? But, Aunt...Phoebe, I do not know what to say. Except, if you are certain, thank you. I hardly know—’ It was impossibly good news. Welcome, a new home where, it seemed, she could be free to be herself. Whoever that was.

‘There is no need to thank me,’ Phoebe said with her sweet smile. ‘I am being a perfectly selfish creature about this. I have no expectation of keeping you long, whatever you say—there are too many men in Bath with eyes in their heads and good taste for that!—but I will very much enjoy your company until the right one comes along and finds you.’

* * *

‘Our best suite, my lord.’ The proprietor of the Christopher Hotel bowed Giles Redmond, Earl of Revesby, into a pleasant sitting room overlooking the High Street. A glance to the right through the wide sash windows revealed the Abbey, basking golden in the early evening light. To the left the bustle of the High Street was beginning to calm down.

‘Thank you. This will do very well. Have bathwater sent up directly, if you please.’

‘Certainly, my lord. Your lordship is without a valet? I can send a man to assist with unpacking. Your heavy luggage came with the carrier this morning and has been brought up.’

‘My man will be arriving shortly.’ Dryden was with Bridge, his groom, bringing the curricle and team on in easy stages from Marlborough where they had all spent the previous night.

The man bowed himself out leaving Giles to contemplate the unfamiliar English street scene below. The family had always stayed at the Royal York Hotel, higher in the city on George Street, but now that felt too much like coming to Bath as a child. Then he had been with his father on their visits to Grandmama on her annual pilgrimage to take the waters.

He would not have found his father at the Royal York on this occasion in any case. Giles’s letter informing the Marquess that he was returning to England had been countered by a reply from his sire telling him that he was in Bath in a greatly decayed state of health. It was not quite a summons to a deathbed, but was not far short of that in tone. The Marquess was residing at exclusive lodgings where invalids of the highest rank could be accommodated, so presumably he genuinely was unwell, but from the vigour of the handwriting and the forceful slash of the signature it seemed highly unlikely that his demanding parent was being measured for his coffin yet.

It would be childish to ignore the summons and continue with his plans for establishing himself in London before returning to Thorne Hall, Giles had thought.

Nine years ago he had left home and shaken the dust of England off his boots with the impetus of a monumental row at his back. Since then he had managed to live his life to his own quiet satisfaction and greatly to his father’s displeasure. Gradually the anger had melted into grudging acceptance and, now Giles was ready to come back to England, a strong hint of welcome.

Life as a civilian during the Peninsular War had been stimulating, especially when he had found himself involved in intelligence gathering, but peacetime Portugal was less appealing, especially in the final few months after he had encountered the very lovely Beatriz do Cardosa, daughter of Dom Frederico do Cardosa, high-placed diplomat and distant relative of the royal family. Beatriz, spoilt, indulged, sheltered and innocent, had been betrothed to a minor princeling from the age of five.

Not that he had known this until he had made the mistake of smiling at her, charmed by her beauty, mesmerised by eyes the colour of dark chocolate. Beatriz had smiled back across the dinner table and from then on he had found himself encountering her everywhere he went.

She was rather young, he discovered, and not the most intellectual of young ladies. In fact, a lovely little peahen. But she was pretty and she was enjoying trying out her powers by flirting with him, which was all highly enjoyable until the ghastly evening when they had encountered each other in a temporarily deserted conservatory and she had flung herself on to his chest, weeping.

Giles, who was, as he told himself bitterly afterwards, neither a saint nor a eunuch, had gathered her efficiently into his arms, patted those parts that he could with propriety and murmured soothing nonsense while mentally wincing at the damage to the shoulder of his evening coat.

Beatriz, it turned out, had just been introduced for the first time to the princeling she was destined to marry. He was, according to the sobbing Beatriz, old—thirty-five—fat, short and ugly—plump, medium height and somewhat plain, as Giles discovered later—and had fat, wet lips. Untrue, although Giles was not inclined to approach very close to check that.

He had produced a large, clean handkerchief and had done his best to calm her down, with such success that when Dom Frederico had entered the conservatory there was no sign of tears and his grateful daughter had both arms around the neck of Lord Revesby.

In the course of the painful subsequent discussion Giles could only give thanks for his recent training in diplomacy. Somehow he had managed to convince Dom Frederico that he had no designs on his daughter, that Beatriz was quite innocent of any misbehaviour, and that he had found her weeping and had been foolish enough to offer comfort rather than seeking out her duenna. When he subsequently met the princeling that Beatriz was destined for he could sympathise with her tears, for the man was definitely self-important and not very intelligent, but that was the fate of well-connected young ladies, to marry where their family’s interests lay.

It was time to reach an accommodation with his ailing father, if that was possible without them strangling each other within days. And it was time to take over what parts of the business of the marquessate that his father was inclined to relinquish. To do that he must settle down. He needed to find a wife, he knew, and, as he was not as demanding as a plump Portuguese princeling, English society must be awash with suitable young ladies only too happy to wed his title.

A flicker of blue skirts caught his attention for a moment, but of course it was not the mystery lady from Laura Place. The woman passing on the other side of the street was a small and buxom blonde in a highly fashionable ensemble and the short-tempered passenger in the chaise had been taller. When she had emerged from beneath that frightful veil she had been dark haired and dark eyed, like Beatriz, which had taken him aback for a second.

The rest of the encounter was a blur and Giles had had his eyes closed for most of that strange, impulsive kiss. He could not account for it. Flirting with Beatriz had been entertaining, but he had never felt the urge to do anything as rash as kiss her. Not that he had lived like a monk for the past few years, but occasional discreet liaisons with attractive widows had not involved snatched kisses with total strangers either.

The brunette in the chaise had been wearing a blue walking dress, plain but good and not unfashionable. A very superior governess, perhaps. He did not envy her students if they tried her patience. She had a tightly reined temper and that momentary loss of control had surely been as unfamiliar to her as it was unexpected for him. And yet there had been something about her, something familiar, which was unlikely. He knew no governesses, nor did he have to tolerate ladies of uncertain temper. Why he hadn’t had his face slapped for his presumption on the hilltop he had no idea. Possibly she had been completely taken aback, because she was most certainly not a lady given to promiscuous kissing, that was plain enough.

Chapter Three

He would call at Laura Place tomorrow, Giles thought, moving back from the window as he shrugged out of his comfortable old riding coat.

But, no, damn it, he realised, one hand at the knot of his neckcloth. I can’t very well do that without revealing that I followed her home, which might be enough to alarm any right-thinking female.

He unwound the now-crumpled muslin from around his neck as he considered the problem. This would take some thought if he were to satisfy his mysteriously insistent curiosity about who she was and why kissing her had made him feel he had...had come home, of all the bizarre impressions. But he could manage it with a discreet enquiry of Bath’s Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms who would have all the well-bred residents and visitors in the city at his fingertips. After all, how difficult could securing an introduction to the Laura Place ladies be, compared to identifying French spies in the Portuguese court or riding through Spain behind enemy lines?

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of porters with cans of hot water and, on their heels, Dryden, pin neat as usual, despite a day spent in an open vehicle. ‘My apologies for my tardiness, my lord. There was a tree across the road at Cherhill, as no doubt you encountered for yourself. I will lay out your evening clothes directly.’

‘I will be dining here in my room and not going out, Dryden. A clean shirt and my banyan will do.’ He had been in the country for only two weeks, but the volume of correspondence was threatening to take over his life. He would need a secretary soon, but for now he would have to tackle the most urgent matters himself. ‘However, I will need your very best work tomorrow morning, Dryden.’

‘The Marquess? Of course, my lord. The new waistcoat, I presume?’

Father, secretary, correspondence, Laura Place ladies.

Giles made a mental list as he began to strip off his dusty riding clothes. Not the most thrilling of programmes and, in places, downright difficult, but time enough to discover how to make England interesting.

He added, Clubs, mistress, decide where to live. Then, A wife.

Giles grimaced. He was not looking forward to the Marriage Mart.

* * *

‘I am certain that taking the waters does me a great deal of good, you know.’ Aunt Phoebe lowered her voice and murmured, ‘It keeps one so regular! And I meet all my friends and acquaintances here every day.’ She fluttered her fingers at a pair of mature ladies on the far side of the room. ‘The Misses Prescott. And of course it is the perfect excuse for seeing who has come to town and for exchanging the latest news. I come almost every morning.’

Oh, dear, Laurel thought. That might become rather tedious.

But she smiled and nodded politely to the Misses Prescott and reminded herself that a little boring routine was well worthwhile for such a change of scene and her aunt’s kindness.

Phoebe settled herself at one of the little tables in the Pump Room and signalled to a waiter for two glasses of the water. ‘And you may save yourself the effort of tactfully not telling me that I am a shallow and frivolous creature, for I have a full hand of excuses,’ she said, straightening her bonnet. ‘And the strongest is that this is quite the best way of judging the new company before one finds oneself on nodding terms with some vulgarian or a crashing bore.

‘Look at that woman, for example,’ she added with a discreet gesture towards a slender brunette accompanied by a maid and a young woman who might be her daughter. ‘I saw her yesterday and thought what style and elegance she has. But she treats her unfortunate maid as though the girl is a drudge, and a foolish one at that, however charming and caressing her manner is to her daughter and other ladies.’

Laurel took an incautious gulp of water and almost spluttered it back out again. ‘This is disgusting,’ she whispered.

‘I know,’ Phoebe agreed. ‘But it does one so much good. Apparently it is full of the most wonderful minerals and salts. You should drink a glass a day.’

The benefit she derived was probably from the exercise involved in walking to the Pump Room and back daily and the stimulation of seeing all the new arrivals, Laurel decided, but kept the thought to herself.

Phoebe was still looking around the room, nodding greetings to old acquaintances. She gave Laurel a discreet nudge in the ribs. ‘Oh, my goodness, now there is a handsome creature just come in! And half the age of most of the gentlemen.’

Ouch. Phoebe’s elbows were sharp. ‘Who? Where? Oh.’ Goodness, indeed. The man who had just strolled into the room was tall, blond, tanned, beautifully barbered and elegantly attired—and all too familiar, despite his changed appearance. Laurel could not decide whether her blood was rushing to her face in a blush or draining to her toes in embarrassed alarm. Or possibly simply overheating with a dismaying and inconvenient physical attraction.

‘Why, that is the gentleman I told you about, the one who showed me the way over the Downs when the tree had blocked the road. Only then he looked as though he could scarcely afford a decent coat, let alone a pair of boots like that,’ she managed. ‘And he has had his hair cut. Phoebe? What is it?’

Her aunt was staring at the man as he came closer, her expression one of complete dismay. ‘The last person I would have expected to see in Bath... It must be him because, good heavens, he is the perfect image of his grandfather. I had no idea he was in the country. Of all the unfortunate things to have happened, I cannot believe you did not recognise him. Or perhaps not, if you had never met his grandfather because he has changed so much... With any luck he will not notice us.’

‘Phoebe, what are you talking about? That is not someone we know. Is it?’ The gentleman had seen them, she realised, and must have recognised her from yesterday. He began to make his way across the room towards them, this time with obvious intent. He kept his expression politely neutral, although as he came closer she saw a crease developing between his brows, so dark in contrast to his sun-bleached hair.

Phoebe made an abrupt gesture with her hand as though to ward him off. ‘Oh, dear, I wonder what is the right thing to do—’

‘Madam.’ He arrived in front of them before she could finish and made a slight bow. ‘Forgive me for approaching you without an introduction, but I believe I had the honour of being of some slight assistance to this lady yesterday and wished to enquire if she is quite recovered from her journey.’

‘You are Lord Revesby,’ Phoebe said, peering up at him like a flustered little bantam hen, not at all sure whether to ruffle her feathers at this fox in her hen coop or simply fly away cackling in alarm. ‘But why did you not introduce yourself to my niece when you met her yesterday, instead of waiting until now?’

‘Yes, I am Revesby, but I fear you have the advantage of me, madam. I did not introduce myself as she was alone save for the presence of her maid and I did not think it appropriate to make myself known to her.’ He seemed puzzled by Phoebe’s question, but Laurel could only admire the way he kept his tone polite and any sign of irritation hidden. He obviously had breeding. ‘I could not introduce myself to a lady with whom I had merely a chance encounter on the road.’

You could kiss her though.

Then she realised what Phoebe had called him. ‘Revesby? You are Giles Redmond?’ No wonder that hint of familiarity had been teasing at her. This was Giles. Her friend. Her nemesis. So changed. All grown up.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, looking squarely at her for the first time. She saw the recognition dawn on him even as she felt the dizziness of shock take her. He had not recognised her, any more than she had him. ‘Laurel? You are Lady Laurel Knighton?’

‘I am. What are you doing here?’ She would not faint and she would not raise her voice, even if the man who had ruined her life was standing in front of her. Why had she not recognised him yesterday? Laurel made herself focus. Stupid question. This was a man, not a boy. A man who had grown into those ears and feet and the nose. A man who had lost the scrawniness of youth to muscle and bone. Heavens only knew where the diffidence and the shyness had vanished to. But then those had been only the outward appearance—underneath it he had been someone different all the time, a juvenile libertine, a deceiver and a false friend.

‘I have private business here. You were the cause of my leaving the country once, Lady Laurel. Now, I am glad to say, I go where I wish, when I wish.’

‘And you wish to be in Bath, of all places?’ She knew she sounded scornful. It was a beautiful city, but there was no getting past the fact that these days it was true to its reputation as the resort of the infirm and the elderly.

‘I can assure you, my presence in the same town as yourself is in no way intentional.’ He looked as though he would rather chew wasps. ‘My father is unwell and undergoing treatment here.’

Phoebe cleared her throat and he turned, unsmiling. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I am aware we have not been introduced.’

‘But we have, Lord Revesby.’ Despite the crackling antagonism between Laurel and the Earl, Phoebe sounded absolutely delighted with his presence now and her cheeks were flushed becomingly with pink. ‘You will not recall it because I last saw you when you were the merest child. Why, I dandled you on my knee. I am Lady Cary, Lady Laurel’s aunt.’ She frowned slightly. ‘But how did you identify her just now, know to cross the room to us? My niece was travelling veiled.’

Laurel knew the heat was definitely a blush this time. Would Giles reveal that she had removed her veil for a few incautious minutes and that he had taken advantage of that? Although to do so would expose him, once again, as a libertine.

‘It was you I recognised, Lady Cary, although not from my childhood. I must confess that I followed the chaise. After all, I too was coming to Bath and I wanted to make certain that the chance-met lady arrived safely.’ Giles glanced, unsmiling, at Laurel, then back to Phoebe. ‘I would not have recognised you today, ma’am, but I was close enough to glimpse you in Laura Place greeting your guest. When I saw you across the room just now I came over to enquire.’

‘You followed me? Why on earth would you do that? Perhaps your rakish propensities have not improved with age, my lord,’ Laurel said sharply. Her own behaviour the day before had been decidedly improper and knowing that added vinegar to her tone.

‘My what?’ Several heads turned and he lowered his voice. ‘You were an hysterical girl nine years ago, Laurel, and, it appears, you are as poor a judge of men now as you were then,’ Giles said, his voice silky with suppressed anger. ‘I assisted you yesterday out of a disinterested desire to help a stranger.’ In the look he gave her she read the message that he was not going to mention that kiss unless she did, but that was as far as any truce between them would go. ‘I followed because I was certain I knew you from somewhere. If I had realised who you were, I would have ridden in the opposite direction, believe me.’

Let alone have kissed me, no doubt.

That behaviour was all of a piece with what she knew of his true character.

‘Lord Revesby!’ Phoebe was all of a flutter at their hostility. Laurel realised that she had been paying no attention to where they were or who might overhear. Certainly the tension was too blatant for even good-natured Phoebe to ignore. ‘Laurel! Please, both of you—whatever is the matter? Surely not that old business? Oh, dear, I beg of you, do not make a scene in here, Laurel, it would be fatal to your prospects.’

‘We could always summon a porter to have Lord Revesby removed,’ Laurel added. ‘We did not desire his presence, after all.’

Giles’s smile, if that was what it was, conveyed disbelief that anyone would be capable of ejecting him forcibly. Laurel’s fingers twitched with the desire to box his ears, but she kept her hands clasped in her lap, merely looking pointedly away as he sketched a bow and strolled away to the entrance.

‘I do not think anyone noticed.’ Phoebe cast a glance around the room and sat down again. ‘Of all the unfortunate encounters. Are you all right, my dear? You were positively bristling and I had thought... It is such a long time ago...’

‘I am perfectly all right, Aunt, thank you. After all, as you say, it is nine years since I saw Giles—Lord Revesby—last. The wretched man might still annoy me, but he hardly has the power to upset me, not after all this time.’

Giles had hurt her, betrayed her friendship and, she had realised afterwards with a shock, broken her heart, as well as causing a scandal, confounding their fathers’ mutual plans for their future and, incidentally, sending her godfather’s daughter into an hysterical decline that lasted almost an entire summer.

‘Would you like to leave, Laurel? I think he has gone. We should return home—I could call a chair for you. Or would the walk be soothing?’

‘I am certainly not adjusting my movements in order to avoid one man. I will not be driven out of anywhere by Giles Redmond. Besides, if he is staying while his father is in Bath taking treatments, we might encounter him at any time and I refuse to run away whenever we encounter him.’ She sent a sidelong glance at her aunt. ‘How much do you know about what happened?’

‘Not a great deal, your father’s letter was such a tirade I could hardly make sense of it. But we cannot discuss it here, can we?’ Phoebe fanned herself vigorously with her hand. ‘I know—let us drink our water and then we may stroll back by way of Miss Pringles’s haberdashery shop for that braid I need. We will both find the walk beneficial and then when we get home you can tell me all about it in the privacy of our own drawing room over a nice cup of tea.’

‘Of course. What I can remember of it. After all, it was so many years ago and I was only just sixteen,’ Laurel said with a smile that was intended to betray nothing but rueful regret about an unfortunate incident that was virtually ancient history now.

The smile was very successful, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors lining the walls above the dado rail. Especially as she had just lied. Every word that had been spoken that day, every expression on Giles’s face, every stab of anguish she had felt, were still crystal clear. She had lost more than a friend and a neighbour, she had lost the young man she had fallen in love with without realising it.

How very fortunate that she had not married him after all, considering how objectionably he had turned out.

* * *

Hell and damnation.

Giles stalked along the High Street from the Pump Room and turned left into Bond Street, welcoming the stretch to his leg muscles as he climbed towards Queen’s Square and his father’s lodgings. If the old man discovered that Laurel Knighton was in Bath at the same time as his prodigal son it would probably give him a seizure. It was enough to give Giles a seizure, come to that, and his constitution was perfectly sound.

Neither of them had ever discussed Laurel directly in their punctilious, cautious, correspondence. It had taken his father a good month to recover from the worst of his fury over the collapse of his plans to marry his heir to the well-dowered girl next door. Then there had been the scandal over Giles’s flat refusal to do the decent thing and marry Miss Patterson instead, even after he had so gravely insulted her in the midst of the hideous row with Laurel.

Eventually the Marquess of Thorncote had simmered down sufficiently to write in response to Giles’s formal and polite letter informing his sire that he had removed his person—as instructed—as far as possible from the Marquess’s sight. That had taken a while to reach home as, to his father’s indignation, Giles had attached himself to his cousin Theobald’s entourage sailing for Portugal and Theobald’s new diplomatic post with the Court at Lisbon.

His father had replied, acidly, that his instruction to ‘remove’ himself had meant relocating to one of the family’s other country estates. Anyone but a stiff-necked ingrate would not interpret it as a direction to take himself off into a war zone at the age of barely eighteen. Giles would kindly bring himself back immediately if he wished to avoid falling even further into the Marquess’s ill favour. If there was any deeper hole to fall into.

But Giles found he had no desire whatsoever to go home and that had nothing to do with ghastly embarrassment, torrid gossip, furious or fainting young ladies, or fathers demanding satisfaction and reaching for their horsewhips. He wrote a temperate letter of refusal to his parent and made himself at home in Lisbon.

It had been, as Giles was fully prepared to admit, a young man’s over-dramatic solution to a monumentally unpleasant situation. But he soon found that life in Lisbon suited him down to the ground. He grew up fast and hardened up as quickly. Then the quiet gentleman who was believed generally to be the British army officer attached as liaison to the diplomatic corps revealed himself to be rather more than that and recruited Giles into his intelligence organisation. Giles had never imagined himself involved in spying, let alone risking his neck behind enemy lines, but he discovered that it was something he enjoyed and was good at into the bargain.

Now he was furious. He recognised that it was as much with himself for being thrown off balance as with Laurel, the infuriating female. The fact that the gangly, plain, awkward fledgling of a girl had turned into a lovely young woman—at least, she was lovely when she was not glaring at him—only fuelled his own bad temper, for some inexplicable reason.

He arrived at the doorstep of the elegant lodging house and spent a good half-minute getting his breathing under control before he rapped the knocker.

The man who answered was clad in a respectable suit of dark superfine with crisp white linen and had the unmistakable air of being a retired gentleman’s gentleman. He ushered Giles in and escorted him upstairs with a few unexceptional remarks about the weather. At the top he paused. ‘The Marquess has taken all of this floor for his accommodation,’ he said, low-voiced. ‘He is having a good day today, I am happy to say, my lord. His gout has eased considerably and I believe the anticipation of your visit has raised his spirits.’

‘How bad is his health?’ Giles asked bluntly. ‘I would rather have the truth with the bark on, if you please.’

‘You will wish to speak to the medical practitioner who attends your father, my lord, to satisfy yourself. I would only venture to say that the Marquess’s condition is always vastly improved when his mood is good.’

In other words the gout was thoroughly unpleasant, but everything else was in his head, Giles mentally translated. Whether his father was looking forward to taking the prodigal to his bosom in an excess of forgiveness or was pleasurably anticipating giving vent to nine years’ accumulated disapproval remained to be seen.

‘This way, my lord.’ The landlord tapped on a door, then opened it. ‘Lord Revesby, my lord.’

Chapter Four

Giles stepped into a spacious sitting room with a pair of windows overlooking the square. His father was seated in a large winged chair with his left foot, heavily bandaged, resting on a gout stool and as Giles entered he turned to scowl at him from under heavy brows that had turned almost white.

But despite the grey in his hair and the white brows and the footstool this was not an old man, far from it.

He’s only sixty, Giles reminded himself. It must be maddening to find himself crippled like this, no wonder he is turning into a hypochondriac. He should be rampaging about the estate giving everyone hell and persecuting foxes and pheasants as he always did.

‘My lord,’ he said formally as he approached. ‘I am sorry to find you not in the best of health.’

To his alarm the Marquess lurched to his feet and pulled him into an embrace. ‘Giles. My God, it is good to see you again, my boy.’

When the grip on Giles’s shoulders relaxed he eased his father back down into the chair, restored his foot cautiously to the gout stool and sat down opposite, unbidden. He spent an unnecessary moment fussing over the cushion at his back so his father could deal with the tears on his cheeks. He had not seen his father weep since that awful day more than twenty years ago when both his mother and his just-born sister had died. ‘Sir, you should take care.’

‘Hah! I should indeed take care. Too late for that now,’ he added.

‘Surely not?’ Now Giles was here he realised how much he had missed his father, even at his blustering, noisy worst. He had loved him and hadn’t known it. ‘Father, your gout is obviously bad, but you are a young man still, in your prime. Nothing is too late.’ Even as he said it a superstitious chill ran through him. ‘Or is there something else, some disease you haven’t mentioned in your letters?’

‘No, there’s not a damn thing wrong with my health, only this hell-bitten foot and a lack of exercise giving me the blue devils.’ The older man shook his head, his expression strangely rueful. ‘Let me look at you. I cannot believe how you have changed, which is foolish of me. You’re a grown man now and you’ve the look of your mother’s family about you, and that is no bad thing—fine-looking men, the lot of them.’

‘I should have come home sooner,’ Giles admitted.

‘I do not think so. I can read between the lines, and your cousin Theobald dropped me a few discreet hints. You’ve been involved in more than Court affairs in Lisbon, I would guess. Scouting into Spain? Intelligence work?’ When Giles shrugged and smiled, his father nodded. ‘I thought as much. You would have probably been safer in a regular regiment, in uniform, damn it, than risking your neck without its protection, but you’ve been doing your duty for your country and I am proud of you.’

Giles could find no reply. His father had never said anything before to suggest that his only son was not a grave disappointment, a bookish, clumsy, serious boy. When he was younger, before he realised the implications of primogeniture, he had wondered why his father did not remarry and sire another son, a satisfactory one to inherit.

Now that had changed, it seemed. He sensed that it was not simply that he had somehow proved himself to his father with his activities in the Peninsula, but that there had been something in their exchange of letters, stilted though they had been, that had gradually built a bridge of understanding, of sympathy, between them. Perhaps that link would never have been constructed when they had been close enough to irritate each other in person.

Giles cleared his throat. ‘So is Bath proving helpful with your gout?’

‘The damn quack has me on a reducing diet and has ordered my man Latham to hide the port and it seems to be working, confound it, so I suppose I must admit he has the right of it, the arrogant, expensive, devil. But the gout’s neither here nor there. I wanted to see you urgently and thank the Lord—or more probably Wellesley, or Wellington as he is now—for ending the war and bringing you home, otherwise I would have had to send for you.’

The warm feeling inside him, the pleasure at his father’s pride and the relief that this encounter was not going to be the fraught affair he had been steeling himself to deal with, drained away. There was trouble brewing or, judging by the bleak look in his father’s eyes, it was already brewed, thick and dark. ‘What is wrong, Father?’

The older man shifted in his chair and when he did answer, it was oblique. ‘It was a bad thing that the marriage to Palgrave’s chit fell through.’

That old history, coming so close on his encounter with Laurel that morning? The sensation of a chilly finger on his spine was back. ‘Father, it is nine years in the past. She was far too young to think of marriage. So was I, come to that. Even without that misunderstanding we might well have grown to find we were incompatible.’ They certainly would be from the evidence of that morning’s encounter. Although the memory of Laurel’s lips persisted. ‘I will set about finding myself a suitable bride as soon as possible, I promise you.’ Giles put as much energy and commitment into the promise as he could muster.

The Marquess shook his head. ‘You know her father and I had planned that marriage between you for years, ever since you were children. It would have united the two estates. Even after everything went wrong and you left the country and there was a coolness between the two households, it seems that Laurel’s father still cared a great deal about that alliance. And now, I find, I care about it again, too. It would solve everything.’

Why bring this up now? Surely he doesn’t think himself in such bad health that he is worrying about the next generation of heirs?

And if his father really was becoming agitated on the subject, then surely he knew as well as Giles that a marquess’s heir should have no difficulty securing an eligible match?

Giles found he was on his feet. He paced to the window and turned, his back to the light, so the irritation on his face would be hard to read. Even so, the words that escaped him were harsh. ‘Why the devil are we still talking about this? That fiasco is cold news, no one gives a damn about it.’ Except, apparently, him, judging by that sudden loss of control. That was an uncomfortable insight. At the time it had been infuriating and deeply embarrassing, but surely he had got over that by now? His duty now was to find a suitable bride and he certainly had no intention of being distracted by nonsense about Laurel.

‘Giles, sit down and listen to me. You have to do something within a few months or we risk ruin.’

Perhaps he had drunk too much last night, or had hit his head and was concussed, or this was all some kind of anxiety dream brought on by travel weariness and frustrated desire and worry about this meeting. Giles resisted the urge to pinch himself. ‘Ruin? How can we be facing ruin? This is ridiculous.’ He sat down. ‘I have to do something? Tell me.’

This time his father did not hesitate, just plunged in. ‘Five years ago I started to speculate. It seemed I had the knack for it. I made money.’

Giles had the strange sensation that the blood was draining out of his head towards his feet. ‘Yes?’

‘I went on investing, speculating.’ Now that his father had started confessing the words poured out. ‘What I should have done, of course, was to keep back my initial stake, put it into land or government bonds, kept adding a proportion of my gains to it as I went along. But I kept investing it all, making it work, or so I thought.’

He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face as though intolerably weary. ‘Then I lost, heavily. Cornish tin mines failed to produce silver, a Brazilian scheme fell through. It was one disaster after another. I put in more, tried to make up the losses. Before I knew where I was, everything had gone, Giles. Everything except the entailed lands.’

Everything. The title had never been a very wealthy one. An ancestor had been granted the spectacular honour of a marquessate for a very murky piece of assistance to the first King George. He had risen from a minor rural earldom to the upper branches of the aristocratic tree without the generations of slow accumulation of wealth that most of the great noble families had behind them. There were no estates dotting the length of the land, no great hoard of jewels dating back to the Tudors, just Thorne Hall, its lands and the trappings of a very comfortable lifestyle.

‘So, what did you do?’ Incredibly Giles was keeping his voice steady.

‘I sold off all the unentailed land to Palgrave, which met some of the debt. Then I borrowed the rest from him.’

‘How much do we still owe?’ This was a nightmare, had to be. He was going to wake up in a minute, sweating, in his bed in Lisbon...

His father told him, then into the appalled silence added, ‘The estate earns enough to service the loan, but not to clear it.’

All right, he was not, apparently, going to wake up. ‘Palgrave died just over a year ago, yes?’ Laurel had been out of mourning when he saw her, he realised.

‘He left letters for me and for his heir. Malden Grange and the land he bought from me are in trust to Laurel, with the new Earl as trustee. Malden was never the main house, so its land is not entailed. This man prefers the old place on the other side of the county, along with its mouldering castle ruins—he’s something of an antiquary, it seems—and he has his own properties anyway.’

The Marquess shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘He’s been damn reasonable about the whole thing and he’s been discreet, which is more important. Nothing has been said to Laurel and her stepmother, so they think he is simply being generous in allowing them to remain in the main house rather than moving to the Dower House.’

‘Forgive me, but I fail to see how this affects anything. The Earl’s tact is appreciated, but the debt is still to be paid off and the land is gone.’ Somehow he was holding on to his temper. He hadn’t been in England at his father’s side, where he should have been. If he had, then this probably would not have happened. But he had not been here. Another painful reality that must be lived with, dealt with.

‘In those letters Palgrave set out his intention for Laurel to inherit the land and property that is in trust, provided she marries within eighteen months of Palgrave’s death in accordance with the terms he set out. The balance of my debt to the estate would also transfer to her on her marriage—or, rather, to her husband. If she does not marry as directed then everything falls to the new Earl, with the exception of a generous dowry or allowance for Laurel, depending on whether she marries or not.’

Giles sat back, took a breath and summarised. He might as well have this clear in his head in all its horror. ‘So we are at the mercy of whoever Laurel decides to marry if we are unable to raise the money to buy back the land. Or if her marriage does not fulfil the requirements, then we are in debt to the new Earl.’ And at his mercy, or the husband’s, if either decided to call in the balance of the debt early. He kept that observation to himself.

‘Not exactly.’ His father looked at him with what Giles could have sworn was apprehension. ‘Laurel only gets the land and the debt if she marries the Earl of Revesby in the next five months.’

‘But I am the Earl of Revesby.’

‘Precisely.’

* * *

‘We are rather thin of company tonight,’ Phoebe complained after one sweeping assessment of the crowded room. ‘I had hoped for a greater variety of partners, and certainly more nearer your age for your first ball at the Assembly Rooms. Oh, dear, I am disappointed.’

‘It looks very well attended to me.’ Laurel suppressed a nervous qualm at the sight of so many people, all of them strangers and many of them discreetly curious. Because of being in mourning for her father it was over a year since she had attended even a small neighbourhood Assembly, one where she knew everyone. She never expected to be the local belle of the ball, she was too old for that and known to be devoted to raising Jamie, and she had not expected to be very conspicuous here. The veiled assessment, the polite curiosity and the more open interest of some of the younger gentlemen who were in attendance came as a surprise.

‘I do wish people would not gape so,’ she murmured, taking refuge behind her fan.

‘Whatever did you expect, dear?’ Phoebe was arch. ‘You are very attractive, your gown is elegant, if not perhaps in the very first stare of fashion, and you are a new young face where that is always welcome. As I said, the company is thin of many eligible gentlemen tonight, but we must not despair, I have every hope of finding just the man for you.’

‘I am not so young—and I meant it when I said I did not want to marry.’

‘Tish tosh! I cannot imagine why you believe yourself to be on the shelf, Laurel, or feel you have to be a recluse. I blame your stepmother entirely for putting such nonsense into your head.’

‘It is not that I do not want to be sociable, only that I am past the age—’

‘Look, dear, there are some chairs, right in the middle of the long wall. I will hurry and secure them. We will have an excellent view from there.’

And be most excellently on display ourselves, Laurel thought, reluctantly making her way through the throng.

Phoebe swept on and secured the chairs under the noses of two ladies wearing alarming toques, nodding with plumes.

‘Should I not give up my chair to one of them?’ Laurel whispered.

‘Certainly not. Those are the Pershing sisters and a more disobliging pair I have never met. Now, let me see who is here.’ She looked around, tutting when she failed to locate who she wanted. ‘I must find the Master of Ceremonies and introduce you so that he is certain to include you in all the invitations. And there is Lady Bessant.’ She waved. ‘She will come over soon, I have no doubt. Her son was widowed nine months ago. Such a nice man, so suitable. A trifle stolid, to be sure, but—Oh, and Mrs Terrington, who has three grandsons and two of them are passably intelligent. And over there—’

Laurel ignored the remarks about available men and tried to pay attention to everything else: this would be her new world and she must learn names and faces quickly. As she glanced around several of the younger ladies looked towards the door and some of the mamas came, very subtly, to attention.

An eligible gentleman is coming, Laurel thought with amusement. And then Giles entered, talking to a shorter man.

‘Ah, now there is Mr Gorridge, the Master of Ceremonies, just coming in with—oh, no, it is Lord Revesby again.’

‘And they are coming this way,’ Laurel said, with a sinking certainty that she was their objective.

‘My dear Lady Cary, you must forgive me for not calling earlier. I have only just heard of the arrival of Lady Laurel.’ The Master of Ceremonies was effusive, bowing over her hand, assuring her of his attention if he could be of the slightest service to such a distinguished new arrival in Bath.

Laurel murmured all the right things, agreed that she would certainly wish to subscribe to the concert programme, admitted to enjoying balls, confessed that she was not at all attracted by card play and made him laugh indulgently when she wrinkled her nose when he asked if she had tried the waters yet. And all the time she was aware of Giles seeming to fill her vision while he waited silently, a pace behind Mr Gorridge.

‘And you must allow me to introduce to you the Earl of Revesby, newly arrived in Bath, just as you are, Lady Laurel.’

‘Lord Revesby made himself known to me this morning,’ Laurel said with the coolest smile compatible with good manners. Whatever happened she must not make a scene, not here with all of Bath society watching. ‘We were childhood...acquaintances.’

‘Neighbours, of course.’ Mr Gorridge would have acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of the aristocracy and gentry in order to perform his office, she realised. ‘But it has been some time, I think, since you last met, given that his lordship has been nobly and courageously serving his country in the Peninsula.’

‘Really? Nobly and courageously serving?’ Laurel arched her brows in polite surprise. ‘I understood that Lord Revesby had been ornamenting the Court at Lisbon. But perhaps that is more onerous than I had imagined. Possibly one had to wear a dangerous wig? Or elaborate Court livery?’

‘It had its moments, to say nothing of lethal wigs,’ Giles murmured. The Master of Ceremonies gave them both a nervous glance, apparently unsure whether these were witticisms, and bowed himself off to attend on a querulous dowager countess who was gesturing at him impatiently with her fan. ‘May I?’ Giles asked to join them.

Chapter Five

‘There is nowhere to sit,’ Laurel began.

Of course, with his luck, just then a chair beside them was vacated by a gentleman who was announcing to his wife that he was off to the card room before the orchestra began its infernal caterwauling.

Giles sat down without waiting for Laurel’s assent. On her far side Phoebe was clearly flustered at the sparking hostility. She said nothing though, perhaps as much at a loss as Laurel to know how to snub a perfectly respectable member of the ton in the middle of a Bath Assembly. A perfectly respectable, exceedingly handsome war hero, if Mr Gorridge’s remarks were to be believed.

‘We began on entirely the wrong foot this morning,’ Giles said, leaning forward so that he could address Phoebe across Laurel.

It gave the younger woman an excellent opportunity to admire the breadth of his shoulders and the crisp line of his recent haircut across the tanned skin of his nape. She told herself she could hardly avoid looking, not without turning away very rudely.

‘Ladies, I must apologise for approaching you directly the other day, and without an introduction. I imagine it must have been disconcerting to receive the impression that you were being, perhaps, stalked, Laurel.’ The expression in those blue eyes was perfectly serious.

Why is he being conciliatory? Laurel wondered. Why is he here at all? He could avoid me perfectly easily and that would be more comfortable for both of us.

When Phoebe uttered incoherent phrases about quite understanding and doubtless the best of motives and Laurel maintained her chilly silence, Giles added, ‘I can only excuse it because of the sense I had at that first meeting at Beckhampton that we were already acquainted, Lady Laurel.’

‘Acquainted? Certainly we were. I was apparently a hysterical girl and you... Words fail me.’

‘Oh, thank heavens for small mercies,’ Phoebe murmured beside her.

‘We must discuss that disaster in private,’ Giles said. ‘Neither of us can afford the appearance of a disagreement in public.’

‘We have no reason to discuss anything.’ Laurel wondered where the feeling of panic was coming from. She should send him on his way, firmly and coldly. They had nothing to discuss. Nothing. ‘We have no reason to meet, in public or in private.’

If only he wasn’t such a stranger and yet so familiar. The more she was close to him the more she heard the echoes of the past in his voice, saw it in those compelling eyes. And if only he wasn’t such an assertively male creature. Yet he was not behaving like his own father always had—loud, cheerfully dominating the world around him. Giles’s manner was perfectly controlled, his voice even, his movements elegant. He was being the perfect gentleman—or perhaps the perfect courtier she had assumed he had spent his time being in Lisbon. Only, perhaps not...

What had Mr Gorridge meant? Noble and courageous. Had Giles fought? But he hadn’t been in the army... Why was he even speaking to her?

‘I beg to differ, Laurel. We are both going to be in Bath for the foreseeable future. I imagine neither of us wishes to lock ourselves away for fear of encountering the other and if our relationship appears strained when we do meet it will cause comment. People will begin to recall the whispers of an old scandal and that can do your standing in Bath no good. Neither would I relish it. It would interfere with my own plans.’

‘Lady Laurel, to you, my lord,’ she retorted and got a faint, mocking smile in return. It would serve him right, him and his plans, if she slapped his face as he deserved.

‘And might I enquire what those plans are, Lord Revesby?’ Phoebe, who had apparently got a grip on her flustered nerves, gave Laurel a reproving look. Not in public, it said.

‘Marriage, Lady Cary. One of the things that will assist my father’s recovery is my making a suitable match. He has been alone too long and he will enjoy having a family around him.’

‘You will be in London for the next Season, I imagine,’ Phoebe remarked.

Laurel wondered where her stomach had dropped to and why it should. Why did she care who Giles married? He was no longer the man she had thought him, if he ever had been. But a family? A brood of small Gileses.

‘Perhaps, Lady Cary, if it takes me so long to find the right bride. But this is June, the Season is over for this year and Bath has its charms, I find.’ He was not looking at the dance floor where quite a number of ladies of marriageable age were being led out by their partners for the opening set.

He was looking at her, Laurel realised. What? No!

Beside her Phoebe made a small sound. Before either of them could say anything a gentleman in his late forties stopped and bowed slightly. ‘Lady Cary, good evening. Might I crave the favour of an introduction to your companion?’

‘Of course, Sir Hugh. Laurel, my dear, Sir Hugh Troughton. Sir Hugh, my niece, Lady Laurel Knighton, who has given me the great pleasure of coming to share my house with me. Laurel, Sir Hugh was a colleague of my late husband’s in the War Office and is in Bath to accompany his sister who has been unwell. I do hope Miss Troughton is feeling a little better, sir.’

‘A very junior colleague,’ he said, bowing over Laurel’s hand. She rather liked his smile and the openness of his plain face under a thatch of brown hair just greying at the temples. ‘Thank you, Lady Cary, my sister is finding the fresh air and the waters very helpful. I expect we will be returning to town next week. And...’ He looked enquiringly at Giles.

‘Revesby.’ Giles stood up and offered his hand.

‘Delighted.’ Sir Hugh shook it energetically. ‘I had heard you were coming home.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have had the pleasure of reading many of your despatches. Very useful indeed, as I am sure you are aware. I think there is a letter on its way asking you to come in to Whitehall for a debriefing at your earliest convenience.’

‘I am attending my father who is unwell, but I will give whatever help I can, naturally.’ Giles spoke equally quietly. ‘You will doubtless let me know if there is anything more urgent.’

‘Excellent. Now, mustn’t bore the ladies with this, er, diplomatic talk. Lady Cary, I do hope you will do me the honour of the second set? And Lady Laurel, the third?’

When they both agreed Giles said, ‘And perhaps I can hope for the reverse? Lady Laurel, the next set? And Lady Cary, the third?’

His tactics are excellent, Laurel thought, irritation vying with admiration. I have already accepted an offer to dance and therefore etiquette forbids me from refusing another gentleman, whoever he may be. If I wish to claim a strained ankle or exhaustion, I will have to wait until I have partnered him for at least one dance.

‘I would be delighted,’ she said, smiling at him.

‘Such sharp teeth you have, Laurel,’ he murmured. ‘I still have the scars.’

‘Where?’ she asked, startled. Beside her Phoebe and Sir Hugh were in earnest discussion of the best choice of physician for his sister.

‘On my right calf. Surely you recall. You must have been about ten and you were furious with me because I had climbed the apple tree at the Home Farm to fetch my kite and refused to pick apples for you. You bit the only part of me you could reach.’

‘Goodness, yes.’ A chuckle escaped her at the memory. ‘How I made you yell.’

‘You were a little savage.’ The way he said it sounded almost approving.

‘You were most disobliging. “It isn’t our tree. It would be theft,”’ she quoted. ‘Scrumping isn’t theft.’

‘Try telling that to Farmer Goodyear.’

A discordant note from a tuning violin jerked her out of the happy childhood memories back to the present. This was becoming far too cosy. Why Giles should be so amiable she could not imagine, not after those gritted-teeth remarks in the Pump Room. And surely that significant look when he had been speaking about marriage to Phoebe had only been to provoke her?

‘As Mr Goodyear went to his just reward eight years ago, that is unfortunately not possible,’ Laurel said, deliberately sounding both pious and humourless. She needed to stop being charmed by reminiscence into relaxing, because the man was after something, she was certain. Or up to no good. Vengeance served very, very cold, perhaps.

From the way his mouth twitched she was not convinced that Giles took her remark at face value, but he sat back and watched the dancers, leaving her to recover her equilibrium. She shifted a little in her seat so that she could watch his profile covertly. Now she was over the first shock of seeing him again she was able to find more traces of the youth she had known beneath the handsome skin of the man he had become. The shape of his jaw and his nose and the arch of his brows were recognisable as she studied him. His hair had lightened from a honey-brown into blond, perhaps from the sun, because his brows were darker, as were his lashes. Those blue eyes, of course...

But the sensual curve of his mouth, the way his skin was tight over the bones of his face, his height and the breadth of his shoulders... Where had they come from? He must top his father by four inches and he looked hard and fit without a surplus ounce on his body. That might be expert tailoring, of course, but she very much doubted it.

She had the sudden urge to reach out and touch those shoulders. She had not touched him on the Downs. There he had only brushed her lips with his as they shared a few fleeting breaths...

‘Have I a smudge on the end of my nose?’ Giles enquired without turning his head.

‘No. As you are very well aware I was studying how you have changed in appearance,’ she said calmly, refusing to blush over staring at a man. At this man. ‘I doubt your character has changed as much as your looks.’

‘You think not? Over nine years, in a foreign country and on the edge of a war?’ He did turn his head to look at her then. ‘Forgive me, but I think experience and life create many changes.’

‘Not in fundamental character,’ Laurel said firmly.

‘So you judge me to be as fundamentally unsatisfactory as the last time we met, despite having barely exchanged a dozen sentences with me?’

‘Undoubtedly you are. And older and more experienced, which makes it only worse.’

‘That is sauce for the goose, as well as for the gander,’ he murmured as the music for the last dance in the first set ended and a smattering of applause broke out. The dancers walked off the floor and Giles stood. ‘Our set, I think.’

It was surprisingly difficult to rise gracefully to her feet and take Giles’s outstretched hand. Her knees seemed to have turned to jelly, as though all the nerves she had been keeping out of her voice and her gestures had fled to the back of her legs. She managed it somehow without stumbling and placed her kid-gloved hand in his.

‘I did not look to see what this set is,’ she confessed for something to say as they took their places at the end of a long line of couples. However she felt about him she was a lady and she knew how to behave in public. It would embarrass and distress Aunt Phoebe if her antagonism was obvious to onlookers. Some kind of small talk had to be found.

‘It is various country dances, I think.’

The music began and Laurel recognised it as a severely modified version of an old tune, slowed down and with all the bounce taken out of it. The measures that had been put to it were unfamiliar, but it was slow enough to be able to follow easily.

‘Whoever set this has a cloth ear for music,’ Giles observed after a few minutes as they paused, waiting their turn to promenade down the line. ‘And it is slow enough to be a funeral dirge.’

When they came together after a few more measures Laurel remarked, ‘I would have thought that dancing at the Lisbon Court would have involved any number of very stately measures.’

Giles was striking enough in ordinary evening dress—black-silk breeches, white stockings, midnight-blue superfine tailcoat—but if the diplomatic corps wore full Court uniform at the Portuguese Court as they did at St James’s then he would have looked even more magnificent with heavy silver lace on his coat. He was also a graceful dancer with the muscular control to move well through slow turns and promenades. She had often noticed that the slower the dance the more a clumsy dancer was caught out.

‘You are correct. Court dances there are rather slow and old fashioned, unfortunately. Very mannered with much posturing. At first it was hard not to laugh at the sight of us all peacocking about. But Wellington wintered in Portugal and he liked to throw a ball at the drop of a cannonball. He expected all his young gentlemen to dance and he liked things lively.’

‘And you were one of his young gentlemen, were you?’ The more she heard the more she was convinced he had spent the past years in the thick of the Peninsular conflict, not lounging around at the Court exchanging pleasantries and diplomatic chit chat in the intervals between minuets. Which was both admirable and infuriating, because now she would have to admire him for it and, she acknowledged, she did not want to have to discover any good in him.

Not one scrap.

‘I would drop by, on occasion.’ His face was shuttered now, the smile simply a reflex on his lips. ‘I was not in the army, Laurel. I was attached to the diplomatic corps.’

And something else, he cannot deceive me with that offhand manner. Intelligence work, perhaps? Interesting that he does not want to talk about that time, let alone boast about it. Oh, dear, another admirable trait.

‘Thank goodness that is over,’ Laurel said as the violins scraped their last mournful note and the dancers exchanged courtesies. ‘Ah, this one is much better.’ It was a proper country dance with vigorous, cheerful music. ‘It is familiar,’ Laurel said as Giles caught her hands and spun her around. ‘But I cannot place it.’

‘Neither can I.’ They stood aside for the next couple to spin. ‘Yet somehow I associate it with you.’

‘With me?’ And suddenly, as Giles joined hands across the circle and spun another of the ladies, it came back to her. The smell of lush green spring grass crushed under dancing feet, the scent of the blackthorn blossom in the hedgerows glinting in the torchlight, the cold white light of the moon and everywhere laughter and the scrape of a fiddle, the thud of the tabor and the squeak of a penny whistle.

‘The village May Day fête,’ she blurted out as he came back to her side and she was whirled into the circle away from him.

She had been what? Fourteen? They had all gone to the fête during the day which had been delightful, even though Stepmama had not allowed her to buy the gilded trinket she wanted because it was ‘vulgar trash’. And equally she had forbidden Laurel to go to the dance in the evening. It would be an unseemly rustic romp, quite unsuitable for any young lady, even one who had not yet let down her hems and put up her hair. Laurel had bitten her lip against the tears of disappointment and nodded obediently, but she had opened her window wide that evening, had put on her nicest dress and had danced by herself in her room to the distant music on the warm air.

And then there had been a scraping sound against the sill and Giles’s head had risen slowly into view. ‘I say, are you decent, Laurel? Still dressed? Good. Come on, I’ve got the orchard ladder. We can go to the dance.’

She had not needed asking twice. They had scrambled down the rough rungs and run across the meadows, somehow hand in hand, although there was no reason for her to need any help. They danced all evening with other people, Laurel mainly with the other village girls of her age because none of the sons of tenants would risk the consequences of being found romping with the daughter of the big house.

And at the stalls set up around the green Giles had bought her the trinket she had yearned for. He slipped it in his pocket for safekeeping just as the musicians had struck up with the tune they were dancing to now and he caught her hands and pulled her into the measure. They had danced until they were breathless and, at the end, when all the lads pulled their partners into their arms and kissed them, he had kissed her, too. Just the innocent, friendly brush of his lips over hers for a fleeting second.

They had run back as the clock struck midnight like the best of fairy tales, still hand in hand, and when she put one foot on the first rung of the ladder Giles had kissed her again, just that same harmless, laughing caress, and she had laughed back and kissed the tip of his nose.

‘Your charm,’ he said, digging in his pocket.

‘Look after it for me,’ she had replied. ‘If Stepmama sees it she will know I have been to the fair.’ Then she had scrambled up the ladder and arrived in the bedchamber breathless. And in love.

Looking back on it now, Laurel knew her feelings had been entirely innocent of any physical desire. There had simply been the certainty that she was Giles’s and he was hers and that this was an entirely satisfactory and inevitable state of affairs. Instinctively she had known that this truth did not need to be put into words or expressed in any way, any more than one needed to comment that rain was wet or that sheep were woolly. And, of course, Giles understood it, too, that went without saying as well. One day, when she was older, the words would be said...

It had not been until two years later, when Giles had left England and she was in disgrace, that it had occurred to her to look properly at herself in the mirror, to look and see a gangly, skinny girl with a mass of unruly brown hair and eyes that seemed too big for a face that had the odd freckle and a threatening pimple and no discernible beauty whatsoever.

Why would Giles have thought me anything but a plain child? she asked herself then. I have no looks, not like Portia whom he does want. He was kind to me, that was all it ever was.

She had grown up, of course, and found her looks—not conventional beauty, but something that was not so far from it—but by then it was too late, Giles had gone. And besides, better to learn early the lesson that all men are interested in is the externals, in beauty, dowry, breeding. Sex. Giles had kindly tolerated an awkward fledgling of a girl child several years his junior and she had not understood that until it was too late.

‘Yes, the fête,’ he said now. ‘Lord, I had forgotten that. It was good fun, was it not?’

‘Certainly it was,’ Laurel agreed, getting her smile firmly fixed in place. ‘Such fun.’ The most magical hours of her life and, for him, a long-forgotten piece of fun.

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