Tainted with scandal …
Undone by passion …
Can he truly win the heart of
A
Wayward
Woman
Helen Dickson
and
Anne Herries
bring you two sparkling and sensational all-new historical romances
A
Wayward
Woman
HELEN DICKSON
ANNE HERRIES
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Diamonds, Deception
and the Debutante
HELEN DICKSON
Author Note
Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante is set in the Regency period. It is one of the most turbulent, glittering and romantic times in our history, when rakes and dandies, outrageous gambling and scandals abounded. It is a period enjoyed by both readers and writers alike. I am no exception.
Every one of my books is special to me, but the one I am working on at the time is always the most important. When I finish a book I always intend having a break from writing to catch up on things I set aside until the story is finished before embarking on another, but invariably my imagination begins to stir and in no time at all I’m off again.
History has always held a fascination for me—it was one of my best subjects at school. I am interested in how people lived, how different everything was from today and how much one can learn from the past. My inspiration is drawn from many things. I am an avid reader and I enjoy music and walking. My characters are not based in any direct way on anyone in particular and I use my own brush to paint things in a fictional way. I do home in on certain traits and embody them in the characters in my books. I love seeing the people I create come to life and develop personalities of their own.
Writing is something I enjoy tremendously and it gives me a great deal of personal satisfaction. I hope you enjoy reading Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante as much as I enjoyed writing it.
About the Author
HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that led her to write historical fiction.
Prologue
June 1815
As the rain lashed down to compound the misery of the troops, the scene was set for battle. The British troops had been engaged by the French and forced to retire after a sharp engagement lasting the afternoon and they had to struggle to hold their position. The following morning Wellington drew back, establishing himself at the posting inn at the village of Waterloo.
It was here that one of Colonel Lance Bingham’s staff officers brought him a note. It was crumpled and stained, as if it had passed through many hands.
‘A lad brought it, sir,’ the staff officer said. ‘It’s urgent, and he said I had to deliver it to you personally.’
Colonel Bingham tore the missive open and read it quickly. He spoke one word, ‘Delphine.’ Apart from a tightening of his jaw, his expression did not betray even a flicker of reaction. ‘There is something I have to do.’
‘But, sir, what if General Bonaparte …’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Take me to the lad.’
Knowing he risked being court-marshalled for leaving his post on the eve of battle, Colonel Bingham rode away from the encampment. With rain beating at his face, following the lad on a small but swift-footed nag, he prayed to God that he was right and that Bonaparte wouldn’t attack before dawn, for it was his way to fly at his opponents without waiting to be attacked.
The farmhouse to which he had been summoned was down a dirt track. It was a humble dwelling, the stench of animals and their dung as strong inside the house as it was in the farmyard. The lad, who was the son of the farmer and his wife, hung back, pointing to a room at the top of a rickety staircase. Climbing up, Colonel Bingham paused in the doorway. It was dimly lit, hot and fetid with the stench of childbirth. A man stood next to the bed on which a woman lay, and in a corner of the room a young woman nursed an infant.
The man turned to look at the stranger, who seemed to fill the room with his presence. He saw an officer in military uniform, tall and with broad, muscular shoulders, deep chest and narrow waist, his handsome features ruggedly hewn.
‘Colonel Bingham?’
He nodded, removing his hat, his face set and grim.
‘I am Reverend Hugh Watson—attached to His Majesty’s army,’ he said, stepping back from the bed to allow him to approach. ‘Thank goodness you have come. Miss Jenkins hasn’t much time left. When the midwife who attended the young woman at the birth of her child realised she would not pull through, when Miss Jenkins requested a clergyman to be absolved of her sins, she summoned me.’
Giving the clergyman, who had a prayer book open in his hands, a cool glance, taking note of his crumpled dark suit and grimy neck linen and that he was in need of a shave, never had Colonel Lance Bingham seen a man who looked less like a clergyman.
Seeming reluctant to approach the bed, his face hardened into an expressionless mask, Lance observed the woman from where he stood. Not having seen her these seven months gone, he did not recognise her as the attractive, vivacious young woman who had kept him happily entertained throughout most of his years as a soldier in Spain. Drenched in sour sweat, she was lying beneath the covers, her lank brown hair trailed over the pillow. Her face was waxen and thinner than it had been, and dark rings circled her deep brown eyes.
As if she sensed he was there they fluttered open and settled on his face. Her heart beat softly inside her with love and wonderment that he had come. A smile lifted her tiredly drooping mouth. ‘Lance—you came.’ She tried to raise a hand to him, but sapped of strength it remained where it was.
Dropping to his knees beside the bed, Lance took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Delphine, what in God’s name are you doing here? I told you to go back to England.’
‘I did, but then I followed you to Belgium—as I followed you to Spain, remember? I—haven’t been well. I didn’t think I would survive the birth. I did, but I know I haven’t much time, Lance—but it gladdens my heart to see you again.’
‘Miss Jenkins has just been delivered of your child,’ the clergyman informed him.
Colonel Bingham stiffened and for the briefest of moments, shock registered in his eyes. ‘My child? Is this true, Delphine?’
She nodded. ‘A girl. You have a daughter, Lance. A beautiful daughter.’
Lance knew he would never again feel the shame, the guilt, the absolute wretchedness that seized him then, as he looked at what he believed to be the dying spirit of the woman who had taken his fancy when he had seen her perform on the London stage, this woman who had followed him to Spain, from one battlefield to the next, without complaint, without demanding anything from him, and was now slipping away.
When they had met, her freshness and vivacity were something his jaded spirits had badly needed. Delphine had proved to be a thoroughly delightful mistress. She had been there to satisfy his craving for carnal appeasement. They had talked and laughed and kissed and shared sweet intimacies. But knowing nothing could come of their affair, he couldn’t let her waste one moment of her precious life loving him or waiting for him, and so he had ended it, telling himself that he had done the right thing, the noble thing. But nothing had prepared him for the days and nights of missing her, of the sweet softness of her in his arms.
‘Delphine, I have to ask …’
‘The child is yours,’ she uttered forcefully. ‘Never doubt it. There has been no one else. No one was good
enough—after you.’
He bent his head over her hand. ‘Dear sweet Lord, this is the cruellest thing you have ever done to me. Why did you not write and tell me? I would have come to you, Delphine. I would not have let you endure this alone.’
‘I am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I—I thought you might hate me—that you would turn me away—but I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t go home and I had to do something, which was why I came to Belgium—to find you.’
‘You were afraid of me?’ His voice was soft with compassion. ‘You were afraid to tell me? Am I such an ogre, Delphine?’
‘No …’ She trembled and clutched his hand, a great wash of tears brimming in her eyes.
Lance felt his heart jolt for her pain. He would give anything to know how to comfort her, to reassure her that he would not leave her. He was an arrogant bastard, he knew that himself, a man who liked, demanded, his own determined way, but the emotion this woman aroused in him, the sweetness that flowed through him from her, could be matched by nothing he had ever known before.
‘Don’t cry, my love,’ he murmured. ‘I’m here now. You’re safe with me and always will be.’
‘Go and look at your daughter, Lance. You will see she is yours.’
Lance did as she bade and went to look at the flesh-and-blood evidence of the result of their loving. His heart began to beat against his chest wall. The wet nurse pushed away the cover shielding the infant’s face. This was his child and he was almost too afraid to look at her because he did not know how he would feel when he did. He forced himself to look at the babe’s face, compelled by some force he did not recognise. As he looked she yawned and turned her face towards him, before settling herself to sleep against the woman’s breast.
It was his mother’s face and his own he saw, the line of her brow with the distinctive widow’s peak, the way in which her eyes were set in her skull, the black winging eyebrows, and the tiny cleft in her round chin. On her head her hair swirled against her skull, a clump of curls, coal black like his own, on her crown.
Turning from her, he went back to the bed. ‘She is a fine girl, Delphine.’
‘Yes, a fine baby girl. I’ve named her Charlotte—after my mother. As her father you will—look after her, won’t you, Lance, be responsible for her—care for her and protect her? She has no one else.’
Lance nodded, a terrible constriction in his throat, for she was so weak, so defenceless against what was to happen to her. He damned all the fates that prevented him from righting the wrong he had done her by casting her from him, the cruel fates that prevented him from having this warm and lovely girl in his life once more.
‘You have my guarantee that she will be supported in a manner suitable to her upbringing. But—is there anything I can do to ease your suffering? Anything at all?’
‘You could do the honourable, gentlemanly thing and marry Miss Jenkins, sir,’ the clergyman suggested stoutly, almost forcefully. ‘The child is a bastard and the stigma of being born out of wedlock will follow her all the days of her life. As your legitimate daughter her future will be secure.’
Lance was momentarily lost for words. Before this it would have been impossible, unthinkable to take her for his wife for he had a position to consider and a wife such as Delphine would not have been tolerated, but, by heaven, this changed everything. Lance knew a man’s rightful claim to being a gentleman was not something one could inherit. Compassion, honour and integrity were just three of the characteristics. Certainly a man had a responsibility and an obligation to protect those who were close to him, those who depended on him, from the cruelties of the world. Looking from Delphine to the child, never had he felt the weight of that responsibility as he did now. He could not in all conscience and honour cast Delphine aside along with their child like something worthless.
Without any visible emotion, he said, ‘Is this what you want, Delphine?’
She nodded, a tear trickling out of the corner of her eye and quickly becoming soaked up in the pillow. ‘For our daughter’s sake. I am dying, Lance, so I will not be a burden to you and you will be free to go on as before. It won’t be long. Will you do this—for me?’
‘I shall be proud to make you my wife, Delphine,’ Lance said hoarsely. He looked at the clergyman. ‘Very well. Get on with it.’
After summoning the farmer and his wife to bear witness to the proceedings, they spoke their vows, the infant beginning to wail lustily when the clergyman pronounced them man and wife.
Delphine smiled and closed her eyes. ‘You can go now, Lance. There is nothing more to be done.’
That seemed to be so. With a final sigh her head rolled to one side.
Lance stared at her, unable to believe this dear, sweet girl—his wife for such a short time—was dead. Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus, he prayed as he bent his head, the agony he felt slicing his heart to the core.
The clergyman went to Delphine and placed his head to her chest. Straightening up, he shook his head solemnly. When he was about to pull the sheet over her face, Lance stayed his hand.
‘Wait.’ He looked at her face one last time, as if to absorb her image for all time. It had taken on a serenity absent before death, so calm and untroubled he felt his throat ache. The eyes were closed, the lashes long and dark in a fan on her cheek. The skin, no longer the almost grey look of the dead, had taken on a soft honey cream.
Not one to show his emotions, after taking a moment to compose himself, Lance signed some papers and then handed the clergyman some money for the burial, telling him to have Delphine interred in the graveyard of the local church. His face stony, his eyes empty, he turned his attention to the woman holding his child.
‘You are English?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What are you called?’
‘Mary Grey, sir. My own baby died—six days now—and the midwife who attended your wife asked if I would wet nurse your daughter.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I have no husband, sir. My man died before I gave birth.’
‘I see.’ He thought for a moment, considering her. At least she was clean and quietly spoken. ‘Will you continue to wet nurse the child and take her to an address in England? You will be well paid for your trouble. I will send someone to accompany you—along with a letter for you to give to my mother.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The clergyman moved from the bed. ‘Don’t feel you have to remain, Colonel. I will take care of things.’
‘Thank you. I do have to return to my regiment. Battle is imminent. Tomorrow many will die. Your services as a priest will be needed, too.’
The child began to whimper. He looked at it and quickly looked away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, trying to defend himself against the rising and violent tide of anger directed against this tiny being—this infant whose entry into the world had taken the life of its mother. Angry, relentlessly so and unable to understand why he should feel like this, his face absolute and without expression, without a backward glance Colonel Bingham left the farmhouse.
Mary Grey had noted the look on his face and recognised it for what it was. He blamed the child for its mother’s death, this she understood, but she was confident it was a problem that would solve itself. But in this she was to be proved wrong.
In silence the clergyman watched him go. What could he say? How could anyone—man or woman—recover from such pain and the agony of such grief?
Lance rode back to his regiment, eager for the battle to begin so that he could lose himself in the fray and forget what had just transpired—and the fact that he had a daughter.
Chapter One
‘Miss Belle, I simply do not know what to do with you. Your grandmother is waiting for you in the dining room, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Now hurry. You look fine, you really do.’
Isabelle ‘Belle’ Ainsley spun round from the mirror, the bright green of her eyes flashing brilliantly as her temper rose. ‘For heaven’s sake, Daisy
. I am nineteen years old and will not be hurried. And I will not look fine until I am satisfied with how I look.’ She twisted back to the mirror, scowling petulantly at her hair, which, as usual, refused to be confined. Daisy had arranged it in twists and curls about her head, but a curl as wayward as the girl herself had sprung free and no matter how she tried to tuck it away, it defiantly sprang back.
Daisy shook her head in amusement, unperturbed by her new mistress’s outburst of temper. ‘We both know that could take all night and that would never do. You certainly have your grandmother’s temper, but she’s older and if I were you I wouldn’t delay any longer or you’ll feel the rough edge of her tongue.’
Belle groaned with exasperation and then in a fit of pique she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off the offending curl. In a swirl of satin and lace she flounced across the room and out of the door, not deigning to look at Daisy’s bemused face.
Belle’s descent of the grand staircase was not in the least ladylike and brought a combination of smiles, raised eyebrows and frowns of concern from the footmen who paused in their duties to watch her. She was certainly a wondrous sight to behold, was Lady Isabelle. In the tomb-like silence of the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s stately home, the arrival of her granddaughter from America ranked as an uproar and had not only the servants scratching their heads, but the countess as well. And now the countess was in high dudgeon over being kept waiting.
Entering the dining room, Belle steeled herself for the unpleasant scene that was bound to occur. Her grandmother rose stiffly from the chair where she was reclining, her hand gripping the gold knob of her cane. At seventy-two she was still a handsome woman with white hair, elegant, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakeable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life. Despite the stiff dignity and rigid self-control that characterised her every gesture, she had known her share of grief, having outlived her husband and two sons.
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