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About the Author
MARGARET McPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
REGENCY
Debutantes
The Captain’s Lady
Mistaken Mistress
Margaret McPhee
www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Captain’s Lady
Margaret McPhee
Chapter One
November 1804
‘Mr Praxton, you’re mistaken in your assumption!’ Georgiana Raithwaite staggered back from the hard thin lips pressed to hers. Her hand scrubbed at her bruised mouth as she attempted to escape.
‘Come now, Miss Raithwaite, don’t play coy with me. We both know the truth of your feelings on the matter.’ Walter Praxton grasped Georgiana’s wrist, the bones of his fingers biting into her. Relentlessly he dragged her closer until she was pressed fully against his frame.
‘No! Let me go! I haven’t encouraged your interest.’ The dark green wool of his finely tailored coat scraped against her cheek, releasing a rush of cologne. ‘We’ve been gone for an age and our party will be here at any moment.’ She struggled harder. ‘Leave me be!’
He sniggered, a harsh and petty sound against the rush of the nearby river, and his ruthless mouth touched the locks of her unbound hair. Her bonnet lay crushed amidst the hawthorn bushes where he had thrown it just moments before. ‘Indeed, they will, my dear. Let them come upon our lovers’ tryst.’ His handsome face cracked with a smile that did not touch the coldness in his ice-blue eyes.
‘How dare you! My papa won’t believe your lies!’ Georgiana wrenched her face away from his. ‘Release me or I swear I’ll scream.’
Even as she sucked the breath in to fulfil her threat, his left hand snaked around the slim column of her throat, crushing with a slow even pressure that ensured her silence.
He stared into her eyes, eyes that were wide and round with fear and loathing, and whispered softly against her ear, ‘I won’t brook such disobedience when we’re married.’
The sound of voices murmured in the distance. ‘Not long now, my dear. To be caught in such a compromising situation…You’re fortunate indeed that I’m a gentleman and can be relied upon to do the honourable thing.’ His mouth contorted into a sweet smile.
It was then that Georgiana understood the exact nature of the trap closing around her. Walter Praxton meant to have her for his wife, despite all of her refusals. It did not matter that he had callously engineered the situation for his own ends. Once Mama, Papa, the Battersby-Browns and Mrs Hoskin had witnessed her in this dishevelled state, with Mr Praxton’s mouth upon hers and his odious hand kneading at her breast, nothing would save her. Her papa had worked hard to achieve a standing in society and nothing, but nothing, would be allowed to sully that, even her claims of assault. And Mr Praxton was so very suitable, the wealthy young owner of several paper mills in the area, respectable, influential. No wonder her family were irritated and incredulous that she saw fit to decline the gentleman’s addresses. But to be forced to wed against her will, and to such a man…Georgiana felt the sensation starting in her toes. It crept slowly up her legs. Once it reached her head she knew that she would pass into the black realms of oblivion…leaving Mr Praxton’s plan to successful fruition.
‘Don’t fight me, Georgiana.’ Mr Praxton’s voice scratched against her ear.
She knew she had but one chance, one hope of escaping this vile man and a life at his mercy. And she must take it now, if at all.
Her knee raised in a violent jerk, landing precisely in Mr Praxton’s closely situated groin.
‘Damnation!’ Walter Praxton’s body convulsed and he bent double, releasing his hold on Georgiana to clutch at the front of his breeches. ‘Hell and damnation, you’ll pay for that, you little bitch!’ His cheeks paled and a scowl twisted his features.
Georgiana did not delay. Immediately his grip had released, she pivoted and ran.
His voice rasped thick, tinged with malice and pain. ‘There’s nowhere to run to. Unless you can walk on water, that is.’ He leaned heavily upon his thighs and managed to straighten a little.
Georgiana looked beyond to the fast-flowing river, swollen from the heavy November rains. He was right. Dear Lord help her, but he was right. The small clearing was surrounded on three sides by dense shrubs. The gap through which Mr Praxton had coerced her was now firmly blocked by his enraged form. Her heart beat fast and furious as her skirts wrapped themselves around her fleeing legs.
‘I fear that you’ve made a very grave error, my dear, and one for which I’ll exact full payment, unless you make yourself amenable to me, Miss Raithwaite.’
In that moment Georgiana made her choice. There could be no other. Before her courage—or foolery, as her papa would term it—deserted her, she leapt from the grass banking straight into the river.
Walter Praxton’s mouth gaped with incredulity. Even the strongest swimmer would be hard pushed to survive such conditions. ‘Stupid girl, you’re going to drown yourself!’ The realisation of just what he stood to lose loomed large in his greedy mind, not to mention Edward Raithwaite’s reaction when he discovered that his stepdaughter had drowned whilst in Mr Praxton’s care. ‘Bloody hell!’ he swore through clenched teeth, and scrambled about to find a branch to hook Miss Raithwaite back to safety.
The plan was not proceeding quite as Mr Praxton had envisaged.
A scream shrilled behind him. Mrs Raithwaite collapsed into a crumpled heap and Mrs Battersby-Brown appeared to be in the throes of hysteria, not helped by Mrs Hoskin’s high-pitched screaming.
‘Good God, man! What the…? Georgiana?’ Mr Raithwaite looked at Mr Praxton, confusion clear upon his face.
Walter Praxton turned to the older man. ‘Against my advice Miss Raithwaite insisted on examining the river at close quarters. Such a wilful girl! Sir, quickly pass me that large stick, and I’ll fish her out.’ Mr Praxton’s fingers raked his perfect golden locks with ill-concealed agitation.
Georgiana’s body submerged beneath the river, its freezing waters rushing to infiltrate the snug warmth of her clothing. Already it clung like a dead weight. Ice-cold water swirled all around, dragging at her skirts, conspiring to pull her beneath its bubbling surface to the dark unknown depths below. Her lungs constricted and would not function save but to gasp for air when there was nothing but water. She tried to scream, but could find no voice. Cold terror prickled at
her scalp and her head ached where the freezing water beat her down. Her arms flailed, wildly seeking something, anything, on which to anchor, even as she sank lower. And, just as the darkness closed in upon her so that she could but look up to the lightness of the sky so very far above her head, her hand found purchase. Her fingers closed upon it, clinging for dear life to that saviour. With her heart pumping fit to burst, she pulled herself up and broke the surface, coughing while gasping in air that had never tasted so sweet. She embraced the clump of reeds, unmindful of its sharp-edged leaves lacerating the palms of her hands. Still the river fought to keep her, tugging mercilessly at her grip on that one small patch of vegetation.
‘Catch hold of the end, Miss Raithwaite, and I’ll pull you to safety.’
Fortunately, or as it now transpired, unfortunately, she was some way beyond the reach of Mr Praxton or, indeed, her stepfather. Through the soaking hair plastered across her eyes she saw Walter Praxton extend the branch towards her. Heard his cruel voice turned velvet with concern. Time stopped still. The river roared in silence, battering her body into numbness. Mama lay motionless upon the ground, and Mrs Battersby-Brown’s and Mrs Hoskin’s mouths moved in the shape of screams. But for that single instant Georgiana knew nothing, felt nothing, except the terrible certainty that by her own rash actions she had just played right into her unwanted suitor’s hands. How well he feigned the hero. And how well her papa would reward him for saving her life. Walter Praxton knew it too. She could see it in his narrow calculating focus.
‘Miss Raithwaite, Georgiana!’ His honeyed voice pulled her back to consciousness. ‘The stick…’
For all that she despised the man and his cruelties, she had not the courage, nor the folly, to sacrifice herself to the river. Death was more fearsome than Walter Praxton. Even as she reached to grasp the stick she saw the glimmer of a smile flicker across his lips, and all the while those cold pale eyes held hers, filled with the promise of what was to come.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged her closer, inching her towards the safety of the bank and the danger of what stood with such concern upon it. ‘Nearly there. Just a little more. Hold tight, my dear.’ Never once did she shift her gaze, fixed so markedly upon her rescuer.
‘Do as Mr Praxton bids. You’re almost within reach.’ Papa’s voice was relief edged with irritation. But then again, did he not always say she was a vexation to his soul, an inconsiderate stepdaughter with a selfish unruly streak?
‘Georgiana!’ The tips of Mr Praxton’s long fingers reached to hers.
She was his. Caught. Landed with all the skill of an expert angler delivering a fine fat trout.
‘Mr Praxton.’ Her hand stretched towards him. Reaching for her captor. Her eyes closed in anticipation of the feel of his clammy skin. She heard a scream, felt the force of the rushing water pull her with a raging ferocity, saw Walter Praxton recede with the distant bank.
The woman was still yelling. ‘Do something, Edward! Dear God, somebody help us!’ Her mother’s white face twisted with terror.
‘Mama!’ The word croaked from Georgiana’s water-filled mouth as the river swept her downstream with an urgent insistence, ripping her away from the safety of her family and the threat of Mr Praxton. Mercifully Georgiana Raithwaite knew nothing more as the turbulent water claimed her as its own, within the scenic setting of Hurstborne Park.
‘I dare say that you’re right, Freddie, I should spend more time at Collingborne. Especially now, with all that’s happened.’ Nathaniel Hawke’s grey gelding trotted contentedly next to the smaller bay.
Lord Frederick eyed his brother speculatively. ‘Then you’ll stay?’ The question was pointless. He already knew the answer.
‘I cannot, even if I wanted to. The Pallas sails in two weeks’ time under orders from the Admiralty. There’s nothing I can do to change that.’ The reins tightened beneath his fingers, but his face did not betray any hint of the emotion that struggled within. ‘Both you and Henry will be there to attend our father, and my presence is sure only to…aggravate the situation.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Lord Frederick sighed. ‘But you’ll have to confront him over this blasted nonsense at some point—he’s threatening to disinherit you from all that he can.’
Nathaniel smiled grimly at the words. ‘Have no fear for me, Freddie. I’m more than capable of making a success of my life without the Earl of Porchester’s help. And now we should talk of more important matters.’
‘More important matters?’
‘Indeed. Just how do you mean to explain your friendship with Lady Sarah to Mirabelle! That lady will eat you for breakfast, little brother.’ Nathaniel raised an eyebrow in wry amusement, and revealed his teeth in a broad grin, ready to hear the tale.
Freddie laughed, then suddenly stopped. ‘Nathaniel, what’s wrong?’
All traces of humour left his brother’s face as he stared in the direction of the river.
‘Nathaniel?’
Dark eyes opened wide in shock. ‘There’s someone in the river!’
The younger man’s brow furrowed. ‘But the water’s too high and too cold for swimming.’
‘I doubt that swimming is quite what he had in mind. Quickly, Freddie, there’s no time to lose, the fellow will soon be drowned, if he isn’t already dead.’ Nathaniel spurred the gelding to a gallop and shouted, ‘Head towards Holeham’s Hook, wait for me on the bridge.’
‘But where are you going?’ Freddie’s words flitted weakly into the wind. Worry growled in his gut. He hoped that Nathaniel wasn’t about to do something foolhardy. But wasn’t his brother’s life a string of foolhardy ventures, with scant regard for the danger in which he seemed permanently embroiled?
Nathaniel’s jaw set firm as he directed the gelding to the swollen river. Now that he had drawn closer, he could see that the boy had lost consciousness and was being dragged within the grip of the sweeping current. The slight body tossed and tumbled down the central line of the river beyond all hope of reach. Even as he weighed the situation, Nathaniel knew what he must do. Not once did he flinch from his purpose. He bellowed the words at Freddie’s blurred image, ‘I’ll meet you at the bridge. Be ready to haul us out!’ Urging the horse on, he raced alongside the river for some distance.
Just short of the muddied bank he leapt from his horse, snaring the reins over a bush as he ran. First his boots were discarded. Then his superfine coat. Just as the boy swept past Nathaniel plunged into the fast-flowing water. Icy shock bit deep and he schooled himself not to gasp. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ The curse escaped him, but there was no one to hear him over the river’s roar. With immense strength of will he forced his legs to kick and swam like he had never swum before in the direction of the poor battered body. The writhing water, pounding in his ears, stinging his eyes, transported him to his quarry.
He felt the slim arm before his saw it, and his fingers closed firm. Not far to Holeham’s Hook. Hold on. Kick hard. Steer towards the right-hand side. The thoughts came with deliberate logic even as fatigue and pain assailed his body. The lad’s heavy, so heavy. Arms growing numb. Determination focused as he fought. Hold fast. Keep his head up. Nearly there. Through the blinding water he saw the bridge coming up fast and braced himself. He turned his body to absorb the worst of the impact and grunted as it hit hard. His right hand shot up and grasped the sodden wood, striving for anchorage, pulling for safety. But the river would not relinquish her prize so readily, raging against his legs and the limp body he gripped so keenly. Slowly his fingers moved against the post, a minuscule motion, barely noted, but a portent of what was to come. ‘No!’ he cried out as his palm slid against the wood. And just as it seemed that the river had won, something warm and strong grabbed his wrist. Freddie.
After he had dragged them both out, she lay on the muddied grass beneath Nathaniel. Not a lad at all, but a young woman, her face deathly pale, her sodden clothes revealing a slim but shapely form, long dark hair splayed in the mud around her head. Working with a speed t
hat belied his growing exhaustion, Nathaniel pressed his fingers to the side of the girl’s throat and touched his cheek to her mouth. ‘Her heart’s weak, but she’s alive.’ He looked up to meet Freddie’s concerned gaze. ‘She isn’t breathing. Help me lift her up.’ Once she was cradled in his arms, Nathaniel let her head and chest drop back low towards the ground. ‘Slap her hard on the back,’ he instructed his brother.
Freddie looked dubious.
‘Just do it, man!’
Freddie shrugged and did as he was told.
Water spilled from the girl’s mouth as she coughed and spluttered.
‘Thank God!’ Nathaniel hoisted the slim body back up into his arms and looked down into the girl’s face.
A pair of grey-blue eyes stared up into his, and in them he saw the mirror of his own surprise, before the fear closed in.
‘Don’t be afraid, miss. You’re quite safe.’ Water dripped in rivulets down his face, splashing on to her cheeks.
She tried to speak, her words but a hoarse croak.
Nathaniel’s arms tightened around her. ‘Your throat will be sore for a few days yet, but there should be no lasting damage. Don’t speak until you’re able.’
Her blue-tinged lips tightened and she nodded.
He stared down at her for a moment longer, then sprang into action. ‘Freddie, take the girl up on your horse and transport her to Mirabelle. Whoever she is, we cannot leave her here, and the sooner she’s dried and warmed, the better. Wrap your coat around her for the journey.’
His brother nodded, clambered on to his horse and reached down for the woman.
‘I’ll be right behind you.’ And so saying, a shivering Nathaniel Hawke set off across the grass in his wet-stockinged feet to retrieve his boots, his coat and his trusty steed.
It was just as his toes squelched down inside the highly polished leather that he heard the shout.
‘Excuse me, sir. You over there!’
Regency Debutantes Page 1
