Courtship In The Regency Ballroom: His Cinderella Bride / Devilish Lord, Mysterious Miss

Ah, yes, Hester’s rules ensured that every single child had a chance to enjoy the game equally. Gravely, he surrendered his bat to the moppet, and turned towards Lady Hester with a slow smile. He could have shrugged out of the restraints had he so wished, but the prospect of having her trembling fingers working over the length of his body was too great a temptation to resist.

‘My lady…’

Before he could even ask Hester to untie him, she was walking away, towards the butler, who had just entered the gallery.

‘Your presence is requested in the library. You have visitors,’ Fisher explained.

Lord Lensborough’s mood took an abrupt nosedive. He was not even permitted to enjoy her company when surrounded by the most effective chaperons of all, innocent children. He ripped the scarf from his face, and freed his arm from the bindings about his waist.

‘But I promised the children until eleven,’ Hester protested, watching the shredded neckcloths flutter to the floor.

‘I will stay and supervise until then,’ Lord Lensborough grated. ‘Harry can apprise me of the rules.’

‘You? No, better not. They can return to the nursery. Some of the little ones are due for a drink and a nap.’

‘Why not?’ It would do her no good if he escorted her down to the library. For them to enter together—what a hornet’s nest that would stir up. ‘It is my turn to bowl. You would not deny me that experience? Or rob the children of their amusement? Do you think I am incapable of minding a handful of children for ten minutes?’

‘N…no, of course not.’

Her perplexed frown made him smile in a grim fashion.

‘Capital,’ Harry yelled with glee, scooping up the discarded silk scarf. ‘I can’t wait to see you bowl blindfolded!’

Hester closed the door to the gallery on the amazing sight of the autocrat surrendering his dignity to a grubby twelve-year-old schoolboy, and wondered if Em had been in the right. Perhaps she had misjudged him from the very beginning.

She had been appalled at the clinical tone of the letter his mother had written to her aunt regarding his need to produce an heir. But that was just it. He had not written it. And he really seemed to like children. Perhaps he would be…not an indulgent father—no, she could not imagine that. He would be stern, rearing his offspring to know their duty. She shrugged. That was no bad thing. Julia or Phoebe would be most indulgent mothers; he would provide a balance that would prevent the children from becoming spoiled.

As for his quip about the most interesting things happening where she was—perhaps he had not meant it as an insult. Perhaps it was his roundabout way of trying to mend fences between them, to brush off their unfortunate habit of ending every discussion or encounter they entered with argument. It had already occurred to her that, since they would be related by marriage, she must strive to keep her poor opinion of him well shackled. Perhaps his own code of honour demanded that no matter what his feeling for her might be, he would owe it to his future wife to make some attempt to be on easy terms with all her family.

Her pace slowed as her brain whirled. That might account for it—an outright apology was, after all, too much to expect from a man like him. She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. Apologise? That would be tantamount to admitting he was less than perfect. He was far too arrogant to ever make the kind of apology that would satisfy her. She reached the bottom of the stairs and drifted along the passageway that led to the wing of the house where the library was situated.

She supposed she could hardly expect him to be anything other than exceedingly conceited and self-satisfied when he must have had people fawning over him his entire life. His rank alone made him a target for toadeaters, and his almost obscene wealth meant he only had to snap his fingers, and people fell over themselves to supply whatever he wanted.

So why was it getting so hard to hold to her belief he was wicked through and through?

Because he was demolishing her prejudices one by one, that’s why. He genuinely liked children. He couldn’t be so natural with them if he didn’t.

And she had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the way he dressed. He was not expressing contempt for his humble surroundings. His clothes were cut for freedom of movement because of his active lifestyle. And they were black because he was in mourning.

It was only as she was opening the library door that she realised she had been so distracted by Lord Lensborough that she had completely forgotten to ask Fisher who her visitor was. The butler had stayed in the long gallery so that he could guide his lordship to the library when the game ended.

Her aunt was sitting on one side of the fire, her embroidery frame set up before her, with Julia and Phoebe on a sofa opposite her. In the window embrasure, Mr Farrar lounged with a newspaper spread open upon his lap, and beside him stood Emily Dean.

‘Em.’ Hester made towards her, hands outstretched in welcome. The day before, Em had expressed her wish to come and inspect the marquis at close quarters, so that she would feel better equipped to join Hester in dissecting his failings. They had agreed that she would use the pretext of returning the laundered clothes Hester had left at the vicarage, and, indeed, there was a brown paper parcel in her hand.

Em smiled. ‘I have quite a surprise for you. You will never guess who turned up, quite unexpectedly last night, for a short stay at the vicarage.’

‘Well, then, tell me.’

‘Better yet, turn round, and you will see me for yourself.’

A cold fist seemed to close around Hester’s heart at the sound of the voice she had not heard since she was thirteen.

‘Lionel Snelgrove?’

She whirled round to face him as he stepped out of the shadows to the right of the door, grinning. Bold as brass. That knowing, challenging, lopsided grin.

She drew herself upright, reminding herself that she was a grown woman now, and the room was full of people—everything was different this time.

‘Aren’t you glad to see me, Hetty?’ He laughed a little raggedly, running his fingers through his thick tawny hair. ‘Everyone else is thrilled to have me back.’

But then nobody else knew him like she did, did they? Her eyes narrowed. He was taller than she remembered, his body that of a man now, not a gangly schoolboy. As if his thoughts mirrored her own, he added, ‘You’ve certainly grown—don’t know if I would have recognised you if I’d come across you in the street.’

His eyes raked her frame. ‘Last time I saw you, you were just a skinny little carrotty-topped thing, romping about the meadows after your brother and me, and now…’ before she could stop him he had seized her hand and pressed it to his loathsome, thick lips ‘…I can scarce credit what a beauty you have become.’

She snatched her hand away, wiping the back of it down her skirts.

He laughed. ‘Come, Hester, don’t pretend to be shy of me. You were never shy of me before—why, we were almost like brother and sister when last I was here. In fact…’ he leaned even closer to her, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge ‘…you really were a very naughty little girl at times. If I were to recount some of the mischief you and I used to get up to…’

Somewhere in the distance, through the roaring in her ears, she heard Em’s voice saying, ‘Stop it, Lionel. Hester cannot help her colouring, and if she was carrotty haired and a bit of a tomboy when she was little, it is not at all gentlemanly to remind her of it.’

‘No, indeed,’ Lionel purred, completely unabashed by the public reproof, ‘but now her hair is—what I can see of it—a shade that puts one in mind of a forest in autumn. Such a pity to hide it away under that funny little scarf. Wherever did you get it, Hetty?’ He gave her a look loaded with meaning. ‘It looks exactly the sort of thing a gypsy would wear.’

He knows, she thought. Then, in despair, of course he knows. He and Gerard were so close, there was no way he could have kept the secret from him. And he is warning me that if I do not play along with him, he is quite capable of spilling the whole thing, in the drawing room, in front of my aunt, and my cousins, and…she spun round…

‘Lord Lensborough,’ she moaned. He was standing in the doorway, not three feet from her. How much had he heard? Why couldn’t he have stayed with the children a few more minutes? Trust him to turn up just when she particularly wished him elsewhere.

‘Come and sit by me, Hetty.’ Lionel was standing far too close. His breath was hot on her cheek as he murmured in her ear, ‘I think you will agree, we have a great deal to discuss.’

She could not make her legs move. Her head swam, her stomach churned. Wildly she looked about for a means of escape.

Em was clutching the parcel tight between her hands, looking from one to the other with a helplessly puzzled expression on her face. Her aunt was bent over her embroidery, oblivious to the undercurrents. Julia and Phoebe, no help from that quarter. The minute Lord Lensborough entered a room neither of them could concentrate on anything but impressing him. Mr Farrar? The fashion plate? He was about as much use as paper stirrups.

There was nothing for it. On this occasion she had no choice but to go apart with Lionel Snelgrove, and listen to whatever deal he had come to put to her. Sensing her defeat, he smiled, his nostrils flaring as if he relished the scent of her fear.

He did. She shuddered. She knew of old that he thrived on it.

Lord Lensborough watched her wilting before his astonished gaze. He had heard enough, through the open door as he had approached the library, to know that this fellow was purposely unsettling Lady Hester. Her face was white, her lips were white, and she was trembling from head to toe as if she was on the verge of a faint.

He recalled all the things he had been told about her in a jumbled rush. He had not believed that her Season had been disastrous because she was shy, having been on the receiving end of her temper, but could she really be as shy as everyone had told him? Could a woman have two such opposite traits of character existing side by side?

Yet why not? He had known many horses just like that. Trembling and sweating nervously when the halter went over their head, then kicking out wildly in an attempt to break free. Just like a wild colt, she responded to a man’s approach by either shying or kicking up her heels in a display of defiance.

His eyes narrowed. Whatever this revelation might mean for him he would consider at his leisure. For now, all that mattered was that she was in dire need of rescue. This oaf was bullying her, delighting in reducing her to a mass of quivering nerves. He had met fellows who broke their horses in that way—the fools. The end result was a mount that was not worth riding. For the thrill of mastering, breaking another creature’s spirit, they destroyed all that was fine and admirable.

Well, not while he was here to prevent it. He would not stand by and see a man mistreat a horse, let alone the woman he intended to marry.

He took a calming breath, reminding himself this was a drawing room, not a boxing ring. The method would have to be different, but as far as he was concerned, the gloves were off.