Jeremy shrugged. ‘Anything, I suppose, is better than those. What?’
‘India.’
‘Ind… Why on earth?’ Jeremy sounded puzzled as well as defeated. What had he expected him to say, Harry wondered. Go away and be a good boy now?
‘I have an office in Calcutta. You have the chance to go there and make something of yourself. Or break your mama’s heart and end up in prison. Your choice.’
‘Or an arrow through the heart,’ Lydia added with a chuckle. ‘I still fancy that option.’
‘Lydia, my love, you did promise to curb your bloodthirsty tendencies,’ Harry said with a laugh.
Lydia scowled. ‘Damn, so I did.’
‘Therefore Jeremy? What do you choose?’ Harry decided he better get this denouement back on track so he could then forget Jeremy and think of other things.
‘Oh, India, I suppose, but how…?’
‘Will you get there?’ Harry said cheerfully. ‘Oh, that is sorted. Mr Pickles will take you now to Plymouth and the Earl of Ibstock has arranged your passage on a boat he has an interest in. This is your one chance, Jeremy – sink or swim, it is up to you.’ He turned to Bert senior. ‘He’s all yours and, if he plays up, who knows better than you how easy it is for a man to fall overboard?’
‘Oh, I say,’ Jeremy bleated. ‘And what about Mama?’
‘Write to her later,’ Harry advised. He turned to Lydia who stood alongside the boys and Williams. ‘Time for a jug of ale and some milk… or… well, time to leave Mr Pickles and his new crewman to sort out what has to be done. Our job is over for now.’
‘Except for that bloke,’ Fred said. ‘The one who’s making for Exeter, like the ‘ounds of ‘ell are on his ‘eels.’
In the distance a shabby black carriage was trundling rapidly down the road.
‘He can go.’ Harry said indifferently. ‘He was a pawn. Now then, where’s the nearest ale house?’
‘My office?’ Williams said with a smile.
‘Perfect. Come on, boys I’ll give you a guinea each so you can share something nice with your parents. Now, though…’ He turned to Lydia who held his hand and walked alongside him. ‘We need to celebrate our marriage.’
‘Er, how?’ Lydia asked. ‘More to the point, when?’
Harry grinned and handed her a piece of paper. ‘This afternoon, Shaldon church. I have a very helpful relative who is a bishop and was delighted to see I was about to settle down at last. What say you, my love? Are you ready to be my lady?’
‘What a silly question, my lord. Of course I am.’
If you loved The Lord’s Persuasion of Lady Lydia, turn the page for an exclusive extract from The Rake’s Unveiling of Lady Belle, another deliciously irresistible Regency romance from Raven McAllan!
Chapter One
Northumberland
Regency England
Really, how pathetic to have been reduced to this sort of behaviour. Skulking around like a thief.
Or a peeping Tom.
At the advanced age of fifteen she shouldn’t still be able to climb trees like a hoyden or indeed if she could, she ought to reject the notion out of hand. Nevertheless, needs must. After all how else would she be able to stay out of sight and drool at the way Phillip, Lord Macpherson—the recipient of all her childhood hero worship and dreams—touched the young damsel he’d taken into the barn, and then into the hayloft of his ancestral estate? Thank goodness they hadn’t thought to close the doors where the hay would be tossed down from inside the loft to the ground. That open aperture gave her the perfect view.
Belinda shivered and went hot and cold, as she clung on to the swaying branch of the old oak tree at the edge of the meadow as if it was about to break. She stared at it dubiously, but any lower and she could well be seen. That really would be beyond the pale.
It wasn’t solely the thought of being discovered that had her legs wrapped around the trunk and her arms the branch, but also the scenario that unfolded in front of her that had her transfixed.
Luckily the man and woman whom she spied upon were oblivious to her presence. Indeed they were so wrapped up in each other, Belinda doubted they would notice her if she ran in front of them naked, waved madly, and shouted beware of the bull, or the hayloft is on fire.
Not that she intended to. She needed to observe and learn.
She let her body sag, just a little, to enable her to watch as the couple sank into the soft bed of hay.
I hope a stalk goes where no stalk ever should.
The long strands of hay embraced them and Belinda tilted her head and squinted to peruse better. Lord Phillip muttered something to his companion that Belinda couldn’t hear, as he proceeded to nibble the neck of the lady, who wriggled and squirmed.
She’ll get marks on her gown if she’s not careful and how is she going to explain that away?
Phillip made his nibbling way lower, downward from his companion’s neck and… Belinda blinked and opened her eyes in a hurry so as not to miss anything.
Would he ever caress her, Belinda, like that? Bare her breasts and put his lips to her skin? Lift her skirts and move his hand upwards? Upwards to where? Her imagination ran riot. Surely not to those places she touched herself? Did a gentleman do such things? If he tried, would she let him succeed? The hay hid exactly what he did, and even if she hung down like a monkey in the Royal Menagerie she just couldn’t quite see what was going on. However… The lady’s skirts went high into the air and they covered his lordship’s head.
Oh, my.
For a brief moment Belinda allowed herself to imagine it was herself, not that beastly Lady Rosemary Minchin with Lord Phillip and she, not Rosemary, was letting him do all those things.
What did he see in Rosemary? She had a shrill and grating laugh, and treated those younger than herself with disdain, or even malice. Plus, it was generally agreed her eyes were unkind. Belinda didn’t know one lady who had a good word for Lady Rosemary, and it wasn’t generally down to sour grapes. According to Clarissa, Phillip’s sister, not a lot of gentlemen thought much of the woman after even a short association.
Even so, Rosemary’s body seemed to be of taste to Phillip, who emerged from his covering of silk and lace and turned his attention to her breasts, feasting on them as if they were all he desired.
Oh yes.
‘Mine I believe.’ His soft and arousing laugh drifted back to Belinda. ‘Such beautiful breasts, begging for my attention.’
The lady who had his attention sighed. ‘Oh, Lord Phillip.’
Phillip rolled on top of Rosemary and out of Belinda’s sight.
Goosebumps dotted Belinda’s arms and her throat went dry.
Oh my.
Then Rosemary gigged. Giggled, for goodness’ sake. It was no giggling matter, more a sigh and a moan situation, surely? What on earth did Phillip see in her? Apart from her breasts and…
Carefully, Belinda edged along the slender branch, peered between the leaves and shook her head in despair. It was a certainty, she decided, if Phillip did ever touch her like that, she wouldn’t be so missish as the woman now pouting and pretending to smack him with her fan. Surely Rosemary was more than aware of why rakes and bucks suggested a walk in the gardens? Even Belinda, at her tender age, knew it wasn’t to admire the roses.
Belinda rolled her eyes. If only Phillip looked at her like he did his companion. As if she was the marchpane on the cake, the dessert course of a splendid meal, and… There her comparisons ended. Her youthful self couldn’t think of anything else.
But to be the recipient of such intense attention.
Oh yes, oh my.
Not yet, for at fifteen to his twenty-six, when he only saw her as his sister’s friend, and probably an annoying one at that, it was hardly likely, and Belinda was wise enough to know she wasn’t ready. However, one day?
Definitely, oh yes.
Behind the leaves that concealed her from the older couple, Belinda closed her eyes and indulged in a daydream of him with her,
and…
And nothing else. Her imagination was oh so limited.
With a crack loud enough to waken the dead, the branch snapped. Belinda fell head first into a rhododendron bush, missing a prickly blackthorn by inches.
‘Oh, what was that?’ Rosemary’s voice was shrill and sent several birds whirring upwards from the roof of the barn with indignant squawks.
Belinda groaned silently, shut her eyes and waited to be discovered. It was the last thing she needed. To find herself in deep disgrace and probably never to be invited to her friend Clarissa’s home ever again.
Phillip laughed. She opened her eyes expecting to see him looking down at her. Instead she saw the sky.
‘It was probably a pigeon.’ His voice carried clearly back to her. ‘Or a duck.’
Belinda couldn’t help it. She was renowned at school for her ability to mimic. She quacked.
‘See, a duck. Now where were we?’
With stupid Lady Rosemary wittering like a widgeon. Belinda sighed, wriggled and sank deeper into the bush. She had no chance of scrambling out without being discovered. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Nevertheless, that sight of how Phillip appeared to worship his companion stayed with her throughout the years. From school, thence to her father’s house. Through all the stories of the women Phillip was alleged to be associated with, and those who tried to catch him and didn’t. From gossip she and Clarissa picked up and discussed in detail, to what they overheard the servants mention to each other. Even if one tenth was true he had a woman a day and plenty to spare. A typical rake. Why was it that men seemed to be dangerous creatures who gambled and cavorted throughout their lives with not a care in the world for the women they played with?
Although, in Lord Phillip’s case, it was said he never parted with a mistress in anger, and every woman still stayed on good terms with him. However, as not one of them, or indeed his lordship, subscribed to kiss and tell, most of what anyone could gossip about was pure conjecture.
With each piece of information they assimilated, through the scandals that rolled off him and the way he never let himself be caught in the marriage net, Belinda’s fascination and, she admitted, devotion never wavered. Her dreams were of him, only him. Oh to be the one who changed his ways.
To her annoyance and disgust, no other man ever seemed to match up to Lord Phillip Macpherson. Not that anyone really noticed her anyway. Belinda’s father had no intention of letting his daughter be seen and admired. When she wasn’t at school, he kept her mostly in the country, and if she ever came to town, Belinda certainly didn’t get involved in the balls and parties like her father and brothers did. Sometimes she wondered if people even knew she existed.
If it hadn’t been for Clarissa, her life would have been lonely indeed. Both at school and during the holidays. Clarissa’s father—her mother had died years before—welcomed Belinda into his household. As he was a man with many interests the girls were left to enjoy themselves. Hence her chance to watch Phillip and his amour.
Clarissa had the toothache and had retired to bed with oil of cloves. Phillip had turned up unannounced just after lunch and Belinda had stumbled upon him and Rosemary on her afternoon stroll. She still had a crescent-shaped scar on the base of her thumb where she’d had an argument with the blackthorn as she had finally extracted herself from it and the rhododendron.
In general though, Phillip was not around much so it was no wonder on the odd occasion their paths did cross, he never noticed her, other than as his sister’s friend. They achieved an amicable friendship albeit a distant one. No doubt he saw her as an extension of his little sister, and not someone to pay specific attention to. In one perverse way it was a relief. She didn’t want to discover his feet of clay or have her daydreams shattered. Sometimes reality was not the best thing to have.
Even though his actions were of a man who admired women, and thought they were put on the earth for his entertainment and enjoyment, he genuinely seemed to like his companions and none ever spoke a bad word about him. Not the attitude she perceived in her father or brothers. They, Belinda decided, treated women like rubbish, to be discarded when finished with and no longer needed. It was not an attitude she approved of, especially when it so often applied to her. It was no wonder she was wary of any man who even glanced her way.
Her upbringing had taught her that attention generally meant work for her to do, and no thanks or quarter given. If it wasn’t for Phillip, Belinda would have no positive thoughts about the males of the species at all. Even so, as she watched him sail through life, at times she did wonder if there was much difference between him and the others? Did any of them ever think about what they were doing and how it affected the recipients of their attention?
Somehow she thought not.
Especially, when at seventeen, her world as she knew it ended.
* * *
‘What?’ Lady Belinda Howells wiped her suddenly clammy hands on her apron as she stared in astonishment at Cedric, Lord Howells, who unfortunately was also her father. She shook her head and pressed her ears several times, convinced she was hearing things. ‘Are you mad?’
He scowled back at her, and defied her to reply further.
That of course was a red rag to a bull. Especially after his announcement. Which she noticed he seemed to have no intention of repeating.
‘I asked if you were suffering from something untoward in the head,’ she said with perfect clarity. ‘If you were deranged. What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’ He stomped his malacca cane—needed for effect not for illness—on the floor.
If there were any justice in this world he would’ve hit his toes. Sadly he didn’t.
‘You’re not deaf,’ he said irritably. ‘You heard me very well.’
Unfortunately. It was yet another example of how men behaved: Women meant nothing to them except as a commodity.
‘You want me to do what?’ Could she really believe her ears? ‘Are you bosky?’ Surely he had to be? He was her father for goodness’ sake. The man supposed to protect her from all harm. ‘I’m not yet out. Not been presented or had a season. Nothing. And you ask something like this of me? Never. Never, ever. What sort of father are you?’ She paced her father’s study and ignored the way his hands curled into fists around his cane and his cheeks grew red. ‘Actually if you ask this of me you are no father. You dare to tell me I must marry? Just to save you from your gambling debts and my brothers from their…their debauchery.’ Belinda stared at him, willing him to say it was all a mistake, that he was her father and would never do such a thing. She counted to ten. ‘Why should I pay the price for your immorality and spendthrift ways?’
‘You are my responsibility; you do as I say.’ He didn’t meet her eyes. With anyone else she would see that as a sign of remorse. Not with her father. With him it meant he had no intention of entering into an argument. He expected obedience.
Belinda had no intention of giving it to him. ‘You’re selling me to further your own needs. You, my own flesh and blood. How could you? Parents are supposed to protect their children. Love and cherish them, not, not…’ She stopped speaking, and whirled around to stare at him. How on earth could she put into words how abhorrent his demands were? Her stomach churned. ‘You can’t even look me in the eyes, can you? Too scared I’ll see the lack of love and the abundance of self-interest you have?’ Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed heavily. ‘You are pathetic. I will not be sold.’
‘Now look here, Belinda.’ He did look up then, and his eyes were cold and distant. He spoke in a hectoring tone. ‘If I say you’ll marry the man, marry him you will.’
He sounded as if it was a certainty. Belinda so wished to disabuse him of that fact.
‘Mr Featherstonehaugh is a person of substance,’ her father said. ‘He is someone I can not afford to get on the wrong side of.’
Now they were getting to the bottom of it all. Once more she was but a pawn in his game, whatever it was
this time.
‘You, all you. Not me. And why, pray? I suppose you’ve lost money to him.’ Belinda looked at her father in disgust. Ever since her mother died, her father and her two older brothers had lived profligate lives, with scant regard for Belinda. Her father had demanded she leave school and come home to manage his house, but gave her precious little money with which to do so. She must be one of the few—if not the only—daughters of the aristocracy with patched and darned undergarments, and only one pair of house shoes to her name. Now it seemed even that money-saving exercise was not enough. ‘What have you wagered this time?’
He stared at her, his eyes narrow.
‘You.’
To her disgust he showed no shame or remorse over his actions. But why should she expect him to? If she were honest, Belinda had long known he only saw her as a way to save—or in this case, make—money.
‘Me?’ Belinda stared back at him as she went cold and her skin became clammy. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and she swallowed. It would not do to swoon at that moment. Not when she had to be strong and as forceful, if not more so, than her parent. All her worries and concerns seemed to come to the fore. She most definitely was a chattel. ‘What do you mean, me?’
Her father poured himself a large glass of brandy and shrugged. He didn’t offer one to Belinda. For one brief moment she considered doing so herself, but she hated brandy, and the way things were going, she would be more likely to throw it in her father’s face. That was not the way to proceed. Not if she was to best him.
‘He wants to marry into the aristocracy. I said he could marry you. I didn’t wager you as such. I just said it as a way out.’ He took a healthy swallow of spirit. ‘Featherstonehaugh agreed to tear up my vowels, and those of your brothers, once you sign your wedding lines.’
Belinda looked at him closely. Did he not realise what he’d done? As she told him earlier and he’d ignored, he, her father, had in effect sold her and it seemed as if he thought it acceptable. What had she done to deserve that? She shook her head. ‘What good would that do? You still wouldn’t have any money. No.’
The Lord's Persuasion of Lady Lydia Page 28
