To Rescue or Ravish?

To Rescue or Ravish?
Barbara Monajem

London, 1802 When heiress Arabella Wilbanks flees a forced betrothal in the middle of the night, the last person she expects to find at the reins of her getaway hackney is Matthew Worcester.It's been seven long years since they gave in to their mutual desires and shared the most incredible night of their lives, but Matthew is still racked with guilt for leaving her without a word. He should escort her to safety, but the chance to re-claim and ravish her once more is proving impossible to resist!

London, 1802

When heiress Arabella Wilbanks flees a forced betrothal in the middle of the night, the last person she expects to find at the reins of her getaway hackney is Matthew Worcester. It’s been seven long years since they gave in to their mutual desires and shared the most incredible night of their lives, but Matthew is still racked with guilt for leaving her without a word. He should escort her to safety, but the chance to reclaim and ravish her once more is proving impossible to resist!

To Rescue or Ravish?

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Dedication

To the members of The Beau Monde Chapter of Romance Writers of America, from whom I learn much that I want to know, and sometimes what I’d rather not.

Author Note

I’m a writer, not a historian, but I do try for historical accuracy. I also like to respect the conventions of the Regency genre, particularly if they contribute to making good stories.

Announcing an engagement in the London newspapers is one of the conventions of Regency romance, but I learned from people who have reason to know that such announcements were not found until the Victorian era. Alas, the plot of Arabella and Matthew’s story hinges on such an announcement. What was I to do?

I spent a wakeful night mulling it over, and decided I had to address the issue somehow, either within the story itself (fortunately, I was in revisions) or in this note. But when I contemplated adding a few sentences explaining why this particular announcement was unusual but possible… I just couldn’t make myself do it, because I felt it would detract from the flow of the story. Not only that, I like this particular convention of Regency romance.

I’m addressing the issue here. For those who prefer historical accuracy, look at it this way—the announcement was a tool in the hands of Arabella’s unscrupulous uncle. No, such an announcement wasn’t usual, that doesn’t mean a greedy man couldn’t have come up with it as a strategy to force his exasperating niece to marry the man of his choice.

Either way, I hope it works.

Contents

To Rescue or Ravish? (#u1779d4e6-dbd4-5c36-b34d-f7b1143e27f7)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

London: January, 1802

A lady should never run, but Arabella Wilbanks lifted her skirts and positively sprinted up Cavendish Street toward home. “There must be some mistake,” she panted at Ralph, her footman, who was doing his best to keep up. “My uncle wouldn’t dare do such a thing!”

Ralph nodded and responded, “Mistake,” but his worried eyes told another story. So did the butler, when he opened the door to Arabella’s frantic peal of the bell.

She swept into the entrance hall, out of breath and furious. “Have you heard about this—this preposterous announcement of my engagement, Chalmers?”

The butler, her oldest and dearest ally in avoiding marriage, nodded in sad-eyed sympathy. “Your uncle informed me of the impending nuptials only ten minutes ago, Miss Arabella.”

“He didn’t see fit to inform me!” she cried. “He simply put a notice in the papers without as much as a by-your-leave!” She paused to catch her breath. “I already told him, several times, that I don’t wish to marry Sir Reginald Rotherton.”

“I’m very sorry, miss, but—”

“I had to hear the news from a mere acquaintance,” she interrupted. “‘Congratulations, Miss Wilbanks! Sir Reginald is such a good catch. So elegant and distinguished-looking. When is the wedding to be?’ Pah! There will be no wedding, and so I told her.”

Chalmers drooped. “I’m sorry, miss, but what shall I do? Mr. Wilbanks gave orders that—”

“You will obey me, unless you wish to find yourself in the street.” Her uncle’s stocky form appeared at the top of the stairs. “That goes for you, too, Ralph, and for Miss Arabella’s maid. I’m wise to your tricks, and if any of you attempt to help her avoid this marriage, I’ll see to it that none of you work in London again.”

After a stunned silence, he added with a triumphant sniff, “Be off with you and set the wedding preparations in motion. Arabella, come up here this instant. We have much to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Arabella said, but nevertheless she tossed her gloves and hat onto the table by the door and obeyed. She marched up the stairs and into Uncle Wilbur’s study. He man had retreated behind his desk, back straight, hands clasped, pompous, authoritarian and utterly stupid.

Well, perhaps not utterly so, but close enough. It had taken him ages to realise how the servants had helped her avoid proposals from her various suitors.

“How dare you arrange a marriage and announce it without even consulting me?” she said.

He made his horrid little twitch of the nose and sniffed. “If it were left up to you, Arabella, you would never marry.”

That wasn’t true. If the right man asked her, she would marry him gladly and with all her heart. But he would never ask, so to all intents and purposes her uncle was right. She evaded the question. “I certainly shan’t marry Sir Reginald.”

“Don’t be foolish. I have given you plenty of opportunity to choose a husband, but I have run out of patience,” her uncle said, sniffing again. “You will marry him.”

“He’s old enough to be my father,” Arabella said, fuming. “I don’t even like him much.”

“What does that have to do with it? He’s an excellent catch, you are a healthy young woman, and he needs an heir.” Twitch. Sniff.

“And my money and estate as well, I suppose.”

“Certainly,” her uncle said. “Your fortune wedded to his will make a tidy inheritance for his children.”

“I suppose he has agreed to compensate you once he has control of my income,” Arabella said.

Her uncle didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. His smug expression said it all. Uncle Wilbur resented the way things had been left in Father’s will. Everything was in trust: the Surrey estate and his entire fortune, which would eventually be hers, and the London house, which her uncle would inherit upon her marriage or when she turned thirty. By giving—no, selling—her to Sir Reginald, Uncle Wilbur would get his soft, pasty, greedy hands on some of her money as well.

Fortunately, her uncle didn’t have to approve her choice of husband. Nor did she have to approve his. “In case you didn’t know, Uncle Wilbur, a woman can no longer be forced into marriage.”

He smiled thinly. “No one will drag you to the altar. Once you get over your

tantrum and think about it, you will realise that no one will need to. The engagement has been announced. All your friends and acquaintances know, and the rest of the ton as well. You cannot possibly back out now.”

Arabella folded her arms. “Since I did not agree, I will not be backing out. You must send another notice to the papers, saying the engagement was announced in error.”

“Don’t be foolish. No one will believe that. If the engagement is broken, everyone will assume Sir Reginald learned something unsavoury about you and asked to be released in exchange for keeping his mouth shut as to the cause.”

“I have never, ever given anyone reason to believe I wished to marry Sir Reginald,” she protested.

“You have danced with him,” her uncle said. “Several times.”

“Out of politeness,” she shot back. “He kept asking and asking. I couldn’t refuse forever.”