A Question of Impropriety

A Question of Impropriety
Michelle Styles

Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesA very improper seduction… Diana Clare has had enough of London – the balls, the rakes you can never trust… Now, having returned home in disgrace, she is trying to forget what drove her from the ton. But rake and gambler Brett Farnham, Earl of Coltonby, seems intent on making Diana remember exactly what it was like to be whirled around the ballroom and seduced by the glint in your partner’s eye…But Brett has ‘mistress’ rather than ‘marriage’ in mind, and Diana is not sure her reputation can stand up to another scandal…

‘You and I are going to dance a waltz together at the ball,’ Brett said.

‘A waltz?’ Diana swallowed hard. ‘I have no idea how to waltz.’

‘I suspected that. It is why I am here.’ He held out his arms. ‘I plan to educate you on the fi ner points of the waltz.’

‘You must be joking. It is a highly improper suggestion. I won’t waltz.’

‘But you agreed, Miss Diana. You agreed to dance with me at the ball.’ His voice was smooth but there was a steely determination. ‘Unless you want me to choose another forfeit? A forfeit more suited to a wager between a man and a woman? You were the one who lost the wager. It is up to me to name the terms.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Try me.’

Although born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she has always been interested in history, and a historical romance is her idea of the perfect way to relax. She is particularly interested in how ordinary people lived during ancient times, and in the course of her research she has learnt how to cook Roman food as well as how to use a drop spindle. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

Author Note

One of my favourite museums in the North East is the Beamish Open Air Museum, where they have several very early locomotives. It is possible to ride behind a replica of the Steam Elephant through a recreated Georgian landscape. As I did my research, I was surprised to discover how early the engines were developed, and that hundreds of miles of railway existed before George Stephenson developed the first public railway in 1823. As with many things, the Napoleonic War, with its restrictions on manpower and grain, provided the spur to develop the steam engine, and the first travelling steam engines date from around 1813.

Please be sure to look out for Simon Clare’s story, coming soon, because the only way I could get him to be silent in his sister’s tale was to promise him one of his own.

As ever, I love getting reader feedback—either via post to Mills & Boon, my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

Michelle Styles

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

For Lydia Mason, whose unerring eye for plot problems, challenging questions and enthusiasm for my stories continually inspires.

Chapter One

September 1813—the Tyne Valley, Northumberland

Diana Clare fought the overwhelming temptation to swear violent, inappropriate oaths, oaths of the type that no one would even consider a spinster such as she would know.

One tiny scream of frustration and the merest hint of a word passed her lips. Jester, the piebald mare, turned its head and gave her a disgusted look. Diana shifted uneasily in her seat on the gig. Jester was correct. She had given in to her anger, and had broken one of her cardinal rules—a lady never allows passionate emotion to overcome her sensibilities.

She drew a breath, counted to ten and concentrated hard on a serene outlook. But the gig remained held fast in thick oozing mud and the tug of pain behind Diana’s eyes threatened to explode into a full-blown headache. Adding insult to injury, Jester began to munch another clump of sweet meadow grass, daintily choosing the last few remaining daisies. Diana tucked a stray lock of midnight-black hair behind her ear and peered over the side of the gig. It was her fault that it had become stuck. No one else’s. She accepted that, but accepting, and wishing to admit it to the general populace, were two entirely separate matters.

Diana knew she ought not to have been reading and driving at the same time, but she had needed something to erase the full horror of visiting Lady Bolt’s At Home as the congregated gaggle of gossips had blithely torn another woman’s reputation to shreds.

That the third and final volume of Pride and Prejudice had been waiting for her at the circulating library she took as providence, a way to restore her temper. Normally she scorned novels as frivolous and refused to open them, but Mrs Sarsfield had insisted she read the first page, and Diana had discovered that she’d had to read on and on. She had not bought the book, but done things the proper way—waiting her turn for each volume. And finally it was here, on the seat beside her in the gig. As she often joked to her brother Simon, Jester knew every step of the way home.

And what possible harm could come to her in the country?

Slack reins and the temptations of late-summer meadow grass had proved too great for the mare and Jester had pulled the gig into the mud pool just as Diana reached another scene between Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.

Diana straightened her straw bonnet and measured the distance from the gig to solid ground.

She could do this—easily, with dignity and in a ladylike manner. One long leap. She pushed off from the gig and hoped.

Her half-kid boot caught in the oozing mud, several feet short of dry land. Diana gave a small cry as her bonnet tilted first one way and then the other before sliding off into the mud, taking her cap with it. Gingerly, Diana picked the bonnet up by one ribbon and stuffed the cap inside. Mud dripped from it, splattering her dress.

‘Beauty in distress,’ a low voice drawled behind her, cultivated, with more than a hint of arrogance. A masculine voice. A stranger’s voice.

Her throat constricted and every particle of her froze. Her situation had suddenly become a thousand times worse.

‘Distress fails to describe my predicament.’ Diana refused to turn. Spoken to in the correct manner, the stranger would depart. Nothing untowards would happen to her as long as she behaved like a lady. She had to believe that, otherwise what had been the point of the last few years? ‘My gig has become stuck, and I am solving a problem with calmness and fortitude. There is a difference.’

Diana concentrated on finding the next halfway decent place for her foot, rather than glancing over her shoulder at the owner of the voice. If she ignored him, there was a chance that he would depart and everything would be fine. Her ordeal would end. It was her actions that mattered. Her balance altered slightly and she was forced to make a windmill motion with her arms in order to stay upright.

‘As I said—definite distress.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I am finding my way out. It is simply proving trickier than I first imagined.’ Diana put her foot down hard and heard a squelch as brown liquid spewed up. Her feet slipped. An involuntary shriek emerged from her throat. She flailed her arms about, trying desperately to regain her balance, before the mud sucked her down and destroyed all her dignity and decorum.

Her fingers encountered a solid object and she grabbed on with all her might. She rebalanced and looked, hoping for a branch. But instead her hands clung to the sleeve of a white travelling cloak. It was a choice between two evils—the indignity of falling into the thick black mud and the impropriety of clinging to an unknown man’s arm. Impropriety won.

‘It would be a shame to stain your dress, I believe.’

Without waiting for a reply, the man’s hands moved to her waist, and lifted her up. Her breast and thigh grazed his broad chest. Her senses reeled, then righted. She refused to give way to panic. She kept her body rigidly still and willed him to release her, but the arms stayed strong about her.

‘You may let me go.’ Her voice resounded, high and shrill, in her ears as she glanced up into deep grey eyes. A strange sensation stirred, deep within her, curling around her insides with insidious slowness. She swallowed hard and beat it back. ‘Please.’

‘After I have had my reward.’

‘Reward?’ Her tongue seemed to be three times thicker than normal. The day was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Surely this man, this gentleman, had to understand that she was a proper lady? She was not going to be punished. Again. ‘Why do you insist upon a reward?’