by Anna Gracie
Tallie's Knight
Unknown
A Regency
delight!
Historical Romance
UK 2. 99 IRE3. 55 ISBN 0263822982
MILLS BOON
Allakes any time special
9 "780263"822984">
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered..."
Dazed, Tallie stood there, listening to herself being married to The
Icicle. And a very bad- tempered Icicle he was too. He was positively
glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross,
but it wasn't as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.
Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about
something--mainly with her. Towards others he invariably remained
cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with
Tallie. It didn't augur at all well for the future.
Anne Gracie was born in Australia but spent her youth on the move,
living in Scotland, Malaysia, Greece and different parts of Australia
before escaping her parents and settling down. Her love of the Regency
period began at the age of eleven, when she braved the adult library to
borrow a Georgette Heyer novel, firmly convinced she would, at any
moment, be ignominiously ejected and sent back to the children's
library in disgrace. She wasn't. Anne lives in Melbourne, in a small
wooden house which she will one day renovate.
Recent titles by the same author:
GALLANT WAIF
Anne Gracie
MILLS BOON
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First published in Great Britain 2000 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
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Anne Gracie 2000 ISBN 0 263 82298 2
Set in Times Roman 10 on'll pt. 04000491437
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Prologue
Yorkshire, February 1803
JVly lord, I. I am sure that Mr. Freddie--' "Mr. Freddie-" Lord
d'Arenville's disapproving voice interrupted the maidservant. She
flushed, smoothing her hands nervously down her starched white apron.
"Er... Reverend Winstanley, I mean, sir. He won't keep you waiting
long, sir, 'tis just that--' " There is no need to explain," Lord
d'Arenville coldly informed her.
"I've no doubt Reverend Winstanley will come as soon as he is able. I
shall wait." His hard grey gaze came to rest on a nearby water
colour
It was a clear dismissal. The maid backed hurriedly out of the
parlour, turned and almost ran down the corridor.
Magnus, Lord d'Arenville, glanced around the room, observing its
inelegant proportions and the worn and shabby furniture. A single poky
window allowed an inadequate amount of light into the room. He
strolled over to it, looked out and frowned. The window overlooked the
graveyard, providing the occupants of the house with a depressing
prospect of mortality.
Lord, how unutterably dreary, Magnus thought, seating himself on a
worn, uncomfortable settee. Did all vicars live this way? He didn't
think so, but he couldn't be certain, not having lived the sort of life
that brought him into intimacy with the;
clergy. Quite the contrary, in fact. And had not his oldest friend,
Freddie Winstanley, donned the ecclesiastical dog collar, Magnus would
be languishing in blissful ignorance still. Magnus sighed. Bored,
stale and unaccountably restless, he'd decided on the spur of the
moment to drive all the ways up to Yorkshire to visit Freddie, whom
he'd not seen for years.
And now, having arrived, he was wondering if he'd done the right thing,
calling unannounced at the cramped and shabby vicarage.
A faint giggle interrupted his musings. Magnus frowned and looked
around. There was no one in sight. The giggle came again. Magnus
frowned. He did not care to be made fun of.
"Who is there?" i "Huwwo, man." The voice came, slightly muffled,
from a slight bulge in the curtains. As he looked, the curtains parted
and a mischievous little face peeked out at him.
Magnus blinked. It was a child, a very small child--a female, he
decided after a moment. He'd never actually met a child this size
before, and though he was wholly unacquainted with infant fashions it
seemed to him that the child looked more female than otherwise. It had
dark curly hair and big brown pansy eyes. And it was certainly looking
at him in that acquisitive way that so many females had.
He glanced towards the doorway, hoping someone would come and fetch the
child back to where it belonged.
"Huwwo, man," the moppet repeated sternly.
Magnus raised an eyebrow. Clearly he was expected to answer. How the
devil did one address children anyway?
"How do you do?" he said after a moment.
At that, she smiled, and launched herself towards him in an unsteady
rush. Horrified, Magnus froze. Contrary to all his expectations she
crossed the room without coming to grief, landing at his knee.
Grinning up at him, she clutched his immaculate buckskins in two damp,
chubby fists. Magnus flinched. His valet would have a fit. The
child's hands were certain to be grubby. And sticky. Magnus might
know nothing at all about children, but he was somehow sure about
that.
"Up, man." The moppet held up her arms in clear expectation of being
picked up.
Magnus frowned down at her, trusting that his hitherto unchallenged
ability to ri
d himself of unwanted feminine attention would be just as
effective on this diminutive specimen.
The moppet frowned back at him.
Magnus allowed his frown to deepen to a glare.
The moppet glared back.
"Up, man," she repeated, thumping a tiny fist on his knee.
Magnus cast a hunted glance towards the doorway, still quite
appallingly empty.
The small sticky fist tugged his arm.
"Up!" she demanded again.
"No, thank you," said Magnus in his most freezingly polite voice.
Lord, would no one come and rescue him?
The big eyes widened and the small rosebud mouth drooped. The lower
lip trembled, displaying to Magnus's jaundiced eye all the unmistakable
signs of a female about to burst into noisy, blackmailing tears. They
certainly started young. No wonder they were so good at it by the time
they grew up.
The little face crumpled.
Oh, Lord, thought Magnus despairingly. There was no help for it--he
would have to pick her up. Gingerly he reached out, lifting her
carefully by the waist until she was at eye-level with him. Her little
feet dangled and she regarded him solemnly.
She reached out a pair of chubby, dimpled arms.
"Cudd'w!"
Again, her demand was unmistakable. Cautiously he brought her closer,
until suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck in a strong little
grip that surprised him. In seconds she had herself comfortably
ensconced on his lap, leaning back against one of his arms, busily
ruining his neck cloth It had only taken him half an hour to achieve
its perfection, Magnus told himself wryly.
She chattered to him nonstop in a confiding flow, a mixture of English
and incomprehensible gibberish, pausing every now and then to ask what
sounded like a question. Magnus foune himself replying.
Lord, if anyone saw him now, he would never live it down. But he had
no choice--he didn't want to see that little face crumple again.
Once she stopped in the middle of what seemed an especially involved
tale and looked up at him, scrutinising his face in a most particular
fashion. Magnus felt faintly apprehensive,? wondering what she might
do. She reached up and traced the long, vertical groove in his right
cheek with a small, soft finger.
"What's dis?" He didn't know what to say. A wrinkle? A crease? A
long dimple? No one had ever before had the temerity to refer to it.
"Er ... it's my cheek."
She traced the groove once more, thoughtfully, then took his chin in
one hand, turned his head, and traced the matching line down his other
cheek. Then carefully, solemnly, she traced both at the same time. She stared at him for a moment, then,
smiling, returned to her story, reaching up every now and then to trace
a tiny finger down the crease in his cheek.
Gradually her steady chatter dwindled and the curly little head began
to nod. Abruptly she yawned and snuggled herself more firmly into the
crook of his arms.
"Nigh-nigh," she murmured, and suddenly he felt the small body relax
totally against him.
She was asleep. Sound asleep--right there in his arms.
For a moment Magnus froze, wondering what to do, then slowly he began
to breathe again. He knew himself to be a powerful man--both
physically and in worldly terms--but never in his life had he been
entrusted with the warm weight of a sleeping child. It was an awesome
responsibility.
He sat there frozen for some twenty minutes, until a faint commotion
sounded in the hall. A pretty young woman glanced in, a harried
expression on her face. Freddie's wife. Joan. Jane. Or was it
Jenny?
Magnus was fairly sure he recognised her from the wedding. She opened
her mouth to speak, and then saw the small sleeping figure in his
arms.
"Oh, thank heavens!" she exclaimed.
"We've been looking everywhere for her."
She turned and called to someone in the hallway.
"Martha, run and tell Mr. Freddie that we've found her."
She turned back to Magnus.
"I'm so sorry, Lord d'Arenville. We thought she'd got out into the
garden and we've all been outside searching.
Has she been a shocking nuisance? "
Magnus bethought himself of his ruined neck cloth and his no longer
immaculate buckskins. His arm had a cramp from being unable to move
and he had a nasty suspicion that there was a damp spot on his coat
from where the little moppet had nuzzled his sleeve as she slept.
"Not at all," he said slowly. "It's been a pleasure."
And, to his great surprise, Magnus realised he meant it.
Chapter One
London, February 1803
"I want you to help me find a wife, Tish. "
"Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?" responded Laetitia
flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her
self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.
His chill grey stare bit into her.
"I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you," said Magnus
stiffly.
"A bride? You? I don't believe it, Magnus! You've hardly even talked
to a respectable female in years--' " Which is why I require your
assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible."
"As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in
a tizzy!" Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with
faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in
mock surprise.
"The impregnable Lord d'Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?" Her
rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly.
"May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is
unexceptional enough--you will have to set up your nursery some time
soon--but such unseemly haste suggests... There is no... ah ...
financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?"
Magnus frowned repressively.
"Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested--I have
decided to set up my nursery. I want children."
"Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn't want a
string of girls, would you?"
Magnus didn't reply. A string of girls didn't sound at all bad, he
thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neck cloths
while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be
good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie's sturdy-legged boy, Sam.
The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind,
even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his
journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to
Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all,
brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.
However, far easier to let society believe that d'Arenville required an
heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in
his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand
times. He didn't need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never
would. He'd learned that lesson very young.
But the chink r
emained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful
child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line
down his cheek.
It was a pity he'd had to ask Laetitia's assistance. He'd never liked
her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But
someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he
wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring
a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss
and bother.
He returned to the point of issue.
"You will assist me, Tish?"
"What exactly did you have in mind? Almack's? Balls, routs and
morning calls?" She laughed.
"I must confess, I cannot imagine you doing the pretty, with all the
fond mamas looking on, but it will be worth it, if only for the
entertainment."
He shuddered inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face
remained impassive and faintly disdainful.
"No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick."
