Tangled Reins
and other stories by
TANGLED REINS
Stephanie Laurens
THE SECRETS OF A
COURTESAN
Nicola Cornick
HOW TO WOO
A SPINSTER
Kasey Michaels
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
ISBN: 9781460893609
TITLE: TANGLED REINS/THE SECRETS OF A COURTESAN/HOW TO WOO A SPINSTER
First Australian Publication 2013
Copyright © 2013 Stephanie Laurens/Nicola Cornick/Kasey Michaels
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www.harlequinbooks.com.au
TANGLED REINS
Stephanie Laurens
About the Author
STEPHANIE LAURENS
Born in Sri Lanka, STEPHANIE LAURENS has lived mostly in Australia. After qualifying as a scientist, she and her husband traveled extensively through the Far and Middle East, as well as throughout Europe and England. Four years in London gave her the settings for her Regency romances. Now settled once more in Australia, she lives in a comfortable suburban house with her husband, two young children, a mindless but lovable dog and a cat with a crooked leg.
CHAPTER ONE
‘MMMM.’ Dorothea closed her eyes, savouring the taste of sun-warmed wild blackberry. Surely the most delicious of summer’s delights. She surveyed the huge bush. Burgeoning with ripe fruit, it stretched across one side of the small clearing. More than enough to fill tonight’s pie, with plenty left over to make jam. She settled her basket on the ground and set to. Working methodically over the bush, she selected the best berries and dropped them into the basket in a fluid stream. While her hands laboured, her mind went tripping. How childlike her sister still was, for all her sixteen years. It was at her suggestion Dorothea was here, deep in the woods of the neighbouring estate. Cecily craved blackberries for supper. So, brown eyes sparkling, golden ringlets dancing, she had begged her elder sister, about to depart for a ramble to gather herbs, to make a detour to the blackberry bush.
Her elder sister sighed. Would London erase that dazzling spontaneity? More importantly, would their projected trip to the capital free Cecily of this humdrum existence? Six months had passed since their mother, Cynthia, Lady Darent, had succumbed to a chill, leaving her two daughters to the guardianship of their cousin, Herbert, Lord Darent. Five interminable months spent at Darent Hall in Northamptonshire while the lawyers picked over the will had convinced Dorothea that no help and much hindrance could be expected from that quarter. Herbert, not to put too fine a point on it, was an indefatigable bore. And Marjorie, his wife, prim, prosy and hopelessly inelegant in every way, was worse than useless. If their grandmother had not appeared, exactly like the proverbial fairy godmother, goodness only knew what they would have done.
Suddenly unable to move, she paused to gaze, unperturbed, at a bramble hooked about the hem of her dress. Just as well it was her old dimity! Despite Aunt Agnes’s bleats about mourning clothes, she had insisted on her practice of wearing the outmoded green dress for her foraging expeditions. The square-cut neckline and bodice fitted to the waist belonged to another time; the full skirts, without the support of the voluminous petticoats they were intended to cover, clung to her willowy figure. She examined the tiny tears the briar thorns had left in the material.
As she straightened, the warmth of the clearing, hemmed in by undergrowth and trees and lit by the sun slanting through the high branches, struck her anew. On impulse, her hands went to her hair, hanging heavy in a bun on her neck. With the restricting pins removed, it fell in a cascade of rich mahogany brown to her waist. Cooler, she resumed her picking.
At least she was confident of what lay in store for herself in London. No amount of effort from her grandmother would be sufficient to win her a husband! Green flashes ran like emeralds through her huge eyes. Her eyes, of course, were her major, and only, asset. All her other points, innocuous in themselves, were disastrously unfashionable. Her hair was dark, not the favoured blonde; her face pale as alabaster and not peaches and cream like Cecily’s. Her nose was well enough but her mouth was too large and her lips too full. Rosebud lips were the craze. And she was too tall and her figure slim against the prevailing trend to voluptuous curves. To cap it all, she was twenty-two, with a strong streak of independence to boot! Hardly the type of female to attract the attention of the fashionable male. With a deep chuckle she popped another ripe berry between her too full lips.
Her relegation to the ranks of the old maids disturbed her not at all. She had enough to live comfortably for the rest of her days and looked forward to years of country pursuits at the Grange with equanimity. She had received considerable attention from the local gentlemen, yet no man had awoken in her the slightest desire to trade her independent existence for the respectable state of matrimony. While her peers plotted and schemed to get that all-important ring on their finger, she saw no reason to follow their lead. Only love, that strange and compelling emotion that, she freely admitted, had yet to touch her heart would, she suspected, be strong enough to tempt her from her comfortable ways. In truth, she had difficulty envisaging the gentleman whose attraction would prove sufficient to seduce her from her established life. For too long now she had been her own mistress. Free to do as she wished, busy and secure—she was content. Cecily was a different matter.
Bright as a button, Cecily yearned for a more glittering lifestyle. Although so young, she had a burning interest in people, and the horizons of the Grange were far too limited for her satisfaction. Sweet, young and fashionably beautiful, she would surely find some elegant and personable young man to give her all her heart desired. Which was the primary reason they were going to London.
Dorothea had been absently regarding a particularly large berry, almost out of her reach. With a sudden smile she stretched one white hand high to the tempting fruit. Her smile dissolved into stunned surprise as a strong arm slipped around her waist. The fact barely registered before a deft movement delivered her into a crushing embrace. She caught a glimpse of a dark face. The next instant she was being ruthlessly, expertly and very comprehensively kissed.
For one long moment her mind remained blank. Then consciousness flooded back. She was not inexperienced. Lack of response would see her released faster than any action. Prosaic and practical, she willed herself to frigidity.
She had seriously misjudged the threat. Despite perfectly clear instructions, her body refused to comply. Horrified, she felt a sudden warmth rush through her, followed by an almost overwhelming urge to lean into that embrace, clearly poised to become even more passionate if she succumbed. No country admirer had dared kiss her like this! The desire to r
espond to the demanding lips crushing her own grew second by second, beyond her control. Thoroughly unnerved, she tried to break free. Long fingers slid into her hair, holding her head still, and the arm around her waist tightened ruthlessly. The strength of the body she was now crushed against confirmed her helplessness. From a disjointed jumble of thoughts, rapidly becoming less coherent, emerged the conclusion that her captor was neither gypsy nor vagabond. He was certainly no local! That first fleeting glimpse had left an impression of negligent elegance. As she was drawn inexorably beyond thought, senses reeling, a strange turbulence threatened to engulf her. Then, abruptly, as if a door were slammed shut, the kiss was skilfully brought to an end.
Her mind awhirl, senses scorched, she looked up into a dark-browed face. Hazel eyes, distinctly amused, gazed into her own green orbs. Sheer fury erupted within her. She aimed a stinging slap at the laughing face. It never landed. Although the action was not betrayed by a flicker of an eyelid, her hand was caught in mid-air in a firm grip and gently drawn down to her side.
Her assailant smiled provokingly, thoroughly appreciative of her beautifully outraged countenance. ‘No, I don’t think I will let you hit me. How was I to know you weren’t the blacksmith’s daughter?’
The voice was light and gentle, definitely that of an educated man. Recollecting how she must look in her old green dimity with her hair about her shoulders, she bit her lip, feeling ridiculously young as the betraying flush rose to her cheeks.
‘So,’ continued the soft voice, ‘if not the blacksmith’s daughter, who, then?’
At the gently mocking tone, she raised her chin defiantly. ‘I’m Dorothea Darent. Now will you please release me?’
The arm around her moved not one whit. A slight frown creased her captor’s brow. ‘Ah … Darent. Of the Grange?’
A slight nod was all she could manage. Conversation was a major effort while held so closely against him. Who on earth was he?
‘I’m Hazelmere.’
A blunt statement of fact. For a moment she thought she had not heard aright. But that face, arrogant amusement deeply etched in the lines about the strong mouth, surely belonged to no one else?
She had heard the rumours. Their old friend, Lady Moreton, whose estate encompassed these woods, had died while they were at Darent Hall. Her great-nephew, the Marquis of Hazelmere, had reputedly inherited Moreton Park. The news had set the district abuzz. In a small county backwater the possibility that one of the acknowledged leaders of the ton might be the new owner of a major local estate was, in any circumstances, likely to generate a certain amount of curiosity. When the person in question was the Marquis of Hazelmere the curiosity was frankly rampant.
The rector’s wife had primmed up her mouth in a most disparaging way. ‘My dear! Nothing on earth would induce me to acknowledge such a man! Such a shocking reputation! So notorious!’ When Dorothea had, not unnaturally, asked how this reputation had been gained, Mrs Matthews had suddenly recalled to whom she was speaking and rapidly excused herself on the pretext of passing around the scones. At Mrs Mannerim’s she had heard such charges as gambling, womanising and general licentiousness laid at the Marquis’s door. Although she was inexperienced in wider society, common sense was her forte. As Lord Hazelmere continued to grace the ton presumably the gossip, as usual, was exaggerated. Besides, she could not imagine the eminently respectable Lady Moreton having a licentious great-nephew.
Dragging her mind from contemplation of his mesmeric hazel eyes and long sculpted lips, she rapidly revised her opinion of the Marquis of Hazelmere. Put simply, the man was even more dangerous than his reputation indicated.
Her thoughts had flowed across her face, a clear procession from initial bewilderment, through dawning realisation, to awed and scandalised comprehension. The hazel eyes glinted. To a palate jaded by an unremitting diet of society’s beauties, on whose simpering faces no trace of genuine emotion was ever permitted, the beautiful and expressive countenance was infinitely attractive.
‘Precisely.’ He said it to see if she would blush so delightfully again and was amply rewarded.
Dorothea indignantly transferred her gaze to contemplation of his left shoulder. She was hardly short, but her topmost curls barely reached his chin. Which left his chest, very close, at eye-level. Nothing in her limited experience had taught her how to deal with a situation like this. She had never felt so helpless in her life!
With her attention elsewhere, she missed the deepening curve of the severe lips which had so recently claimed hers. ‘And precisely what is Miss Dorothea Darent doing, trespassing in my woods?’
The proprietorial tone brought her head up again, as he had known it would. ‘Oh! You have inherited the Park from Lady Moreton!’
He nodded, reluctantly releasing her and almost imperceptibly moving aside. The hazel eyes did not leave her face.
Relieved of the distracting intimacy, she paused to gather her wits. In a manner as imperious as she could muster she replied, ‘Lady Moreton always gave her permission for us to gather whatever we wished from her woods. However, now that you own the Park—’
‘You will, of course,’ Hazelmere interposed smoothly, ‘continue to gather whatever you wish, whenever you wish.’ He smiled. ‘I will even undertake not to mistake you for the blacksmith’s daughter next time.’
Dorothea swept him a contemptuous curtsy, green eyes flashing. ‘Thank you, Lord Hazelmere! I’ll be sure to warn Hetty.’
The comment stumped him, as she had intended. She turned to pick up her basket. Still mentally adrift from the after-effects of that kiss, she hastily concluded that in this instance retreat was the better part of valour. She had reckoned without Lord Hazelmere. ‘And who, exactly, is Hetty?’
Arrested in the act of ignominious flight, she gathered together the shreds of her composure to reply acidly, ‘Why, the blacksmith’s daughter, of course!’
Under her fascinated gaze the striking, almost harsh-featured face relaxed, the satirical amusement replaced by genuine delight. Laughing openly, he put out a hand to grasp the basket, preventing her from leaving. ‘I think we’re quits, Miss Darent, so don’t run away. Your basket is only half full and there are plenty of berries left on this bush.’ The hazel eyes were quizzing her, his smile disarming. Sensing her hesitation, he continued, ‘Yes, I know you can’t reach them, but I can. If you’ll just stand there, and hold your basket so, we’ll soon have it full.’
It dawned on Dorothea that her qualifications to deal with the gentleman before her were inadequate. Unwise in the ways of the world, she had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, the rector’s wife would expect her to withdraw immediately; on the other, curiosity urged her to remain. And, even if she did make up her mind to go, it was doubtful whether this masterful creature would allow her to leave. Besides, as he had positioned her here with the basket in her hands and was even now filling it with the choicest berries from the top of the bush, it would hardly be polite to walk away. Thus reasoning, she remained where she was, taking the opportunity to more closely inspect her tormentor.
Her initial impression of quiet elegance owed much, she decided, to the excellent cut of his shooting jacket. Honesty then forced her to acknowledge that broad shoulders set atop a lean and muscular frame significantly contributed to the overall effect of masculine power only superficially cloaked. His black hair was cut short in the prevailing mode and curled gently over his brow. The hazel eyes, so appropriate, she thought, in the Marquis of Hazelmere, were disconcertingly direct. The decidedly patrician nose and firm mouth and chin declared that here was a man used to dominating his world. But she had seen both eyes and mouth soften with humour, making him appear much more approachable. In fact, she decided, his smile would be utterly devastating to young ladies more impressionable than herself. Then, too, there was that subtly attractive aura, which fell into the category of subjects no well-bred lady ever discussed. Remembering his reputation, she could find no trace of dissipation. His actions, howeve
r, left little doubt of the existence of the fire that had given rise to the smoke.
Correctly guessing most of the jumble of thoughts going through her head, Hazelmere surreptitiously watched her face from the corner of his eyes. What a jewel she was! The classically moulded face framed by luxuriant dark hair was arresting in itself. But those eyes! Like enormous twin emeralds, clear and bright, they mirrored her thoughts in a thoroughly beguiling way. Her lips he had already sampled—soft and yielding, deliciously sensual—and he could readily imagine developing a fascination for them. The rest of the package was equally enticing. Nevertheless, if he was to further their acquaintance he would have to go carefully.
Removing the loaded basket from her hands, he retrieved his hunting rifle from the opposite side of the clearing. Correctly interpreting the question clearly written on her uncertain face, he said, ‘I’m now going to escort you home, Miss Darent.’ Inwardly grinning at the mutinous expression that greeted this calm pronouncement, he continued before she could speak. ‘No! Don’t argue. In the social circle to which I belong, no young lady would ever be found out of doors alone.’
The pious tone made Dorothea’s eyes blaze. Lord Hazelmere’s tactics were proving extremely difficult to combat. As she could find no ready answer nor see any way of altering his resolve, she reluctantly fell into step beside him as he started down the path.
‘Incidentally,’ he continued conversationally, pursuing a subject guaranteed to keep her on the defensive, ‘satisfy my curiosity. Just why are you wandering alone in the woods, without the presence of even a nitwit maid?’
She had suspected this question might come, precisely because she had no good answer. The reprehensible creature was undoubtedly teasing her! Swallowing her irritation, she calmly replied, ‘I’m well known in this neighbourhood, and at my age can hardly be considered a young miss in need of constant chaperoning.’ Even to her ears it sounded lame.
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