by Louise Allen
“I am not very experienced with men, you know.”
“I deserve that reminder.” He stood, looking down at the evidence of her undressing that night: the pearl earrings and necklace discarded on the dressing table, a scatter of orange blossom on the boards, one silk stocking. He stooped and picked it up, letting it hang from his fingers. “If you weren’t so sheltered, so innocent….”
“I might be sheltered and inexperienced,” Hebe observed tartly, “but I am hardly innocent. I understand exactly what the matter is: my inexperience means that I do not know what to do about it.”
That made him laugh, a sudden gasp of amusement. “I wish I could show you.”
“So do I.” It was out before she realized she was going to say it. Her hands flew to her mouth and her gray eyes stared at him aghast over the shield of her fingers.
THE EARL’S INTENDED WIFE
is Louise Allen’s stirring debut novel
in Harlequin® Historical
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THE SOCIETY CATCH
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter One
It was an ordinary day when Hebe Carlton first set eyes upon the handsomest man in Malta and took an instant dislike to him. Up until that Wednesday, life had seemed to consist mainly of ordinary days: after it, looking back, she could recall few that were.
Hebe’s reaction to the stranger was not, as she would have readily admitted, because she was impervious to good looks in a man, or to the appeal of a smart military uniform. Nor was she a young lady given to making instant judgements about people—experience had taught her that they were usually far more interesting than one thought at first sight. But there was something about this man that she could not quite pin down yet which disturbed her, and she watched intently as he strolled towards their house on the shady side of the square in company with Commodore Sir Richard Latham.
The Commodore, the intended of Hebe’s widowed stepmama, was dropping in for luncheon as was his habit when he could escape from the demands of squadron headquarters down at the dockside, and he was already somewhat later in arriving than was usual.
The two men were deep in conversation, but paused before crossing the road, which gave Hebe the opportunity for a more careful scrutiny of the stranger. She then decided that she liked him even less than at first sight, for an expression of severity and utter seriousness sat austerely on regular, tanned features. Hebe indulged the fantasy that he was one of the dispossessed Knights of St John, exiled from their island only a few years before by Napoleon, and still negotiating their return with the new English overlords.
An interest in hellfire, celibacy and the writings of the more rigorous early Church Fathers would suit him, she decided, curling up more snugly in her eyrie and enjoying her fantasy. The graceful whitewashed house with its green shutters and curving iron balconies possessed a number of deeply embrasured windows, each with its seat, and Hebe was often to be found curled up in one with a book, or watching with lively curiosity the passing scene below.
‘Hee…bee!’ her stepmama called impatiently from the foot of the stairs. ‘Is the Commodore coming or not?’ She had dispatched Hebe to keep a lookout ten minutes ago, at the usual time for his arrival, so that she could ensure that Cook put the final touches to luncheon at exactly the right moment. Mrs Carlton was a firm believer in the maxim that a lady could not be too careful when attaching the interest of a gentleman, and attention to his every comfort was of prime importance.
‘Yes, Mama.’ Hebe uncurled herself and ran to the landing to deliver the news. ‘He is on the other side of the square with an army officer—it looks as though they are both coming this way.’
Mrs Carlton’s uptilted face became thoughtful. ‘A young officer?’ she enquired.
‘Umm.’ Hebe thought about it. ‘Late twenties, perhaps thirty.’
She was not surprised when Mrs Carlton, with a toss of her blonde curls, picked up a pair of snips from the hall table and opened the door. ‘Perhaps a flower or two for the table,’ she said casually, stepping outside.
Hebe sighed and made her way back to the window. Any new officer upon the scene—naval or army—attracted her mama’s interest, and provoked concentrated efforts to make Hebe behave in such a way that he would instantly perceive what an eligible catch she was. The monk, for that was how she was beginning to think of him, was about to be subjected to Mrs Carlton’s skills. Hebe rather suspected she had met her match with this man.
The Commodore and the severe stranger were still on the other side of the street. It appeared to Hebe that they were discussing business, for the army man had a leather portfolio under his arm, which he offered to the senior officer.
At that point Sir Richard became aware of Mrs Carlton. Without leaning out Hebe could not see her, but she was sure she was making a show of clipping bougainvillea blossoms while posing decoratively against the climbers that framed the doorway. The Commodore removed his cocked hat and made a little bow and the other man did likewise.
With his hat off Hebe had a much better view of a dark head, classically perfect features, a strong chin and a severe, well-modelled mouth. Definitely a monk, she decided. Most men on sighting Mrs Sara Carlton for the first time allowed an expression of appreciation to cross their faces, but not this one. At that moment he abruptly looked up, as though he had sensed he was being watched.
The upward glance was rapid, but Hebe started back as though he had touched her. The impression that she was looking at a priest vanished entirely: this was a hunting bird, a hawk who knew he was being observed and was poised to strike whether the watcher was prey or enemy. She added the confused impression of piercing blue eyes and dark brows to her mental picture as she backed away from the glass. No wonder he had made her feel uneasy at first sight. Why, she felt like a sparrow who had just seen the falcon stoop to the kill! Hebe spent a moment calming her breathing, which was suddenly short, wondering at herself for such a reaction.
He could not possibly have seen her she reassured herself, hastily running a comb through her hair and twitching her hem straight. Mama would not be at all pleased if she came down to luncheon looking less than pin neat.
Mrs Carlton had long since reconciled herself to the fact that her stepdaughter was not a beauty, nor even pretty. She was even resigned to the fact that Hebe stubbornly refused to compensate for this disaster by employing wiles to intrigue, or displays of domestic virtue to attract older men who might be looking for a conformable wife to make them comf
ortable. However, Mrs Carlton was still fighting the battle to make Hebe look and behave like a young lady at all times. Sometimes she succeeded, and just now Hebe felt not the slightest desire to appear in any way out of the ordinary and attract that hard stare.
She ran down the stairs then slowed, hesitating on the wide polished boards of the hall to hear what was being said in the elegant sea-green reception room. ‘We are always prepared for Sir Richard to take potluck with us at luncheon,’ Mrs Carlton was saying. ‘It is not the slightest imposition, Major. I would be delighted if you would stay.’
‘In that case, ma’am,’ a deep, cool voice replied, ‘I would be very pleased to accept your kind invitation.’
Hardly an unseemly show of enthusiasm, Hebe decided. Still, he was polite enough, if chilly. Doubtless the Commodore had already said something that alerted the other man to the fact that Mrs Carlton was his intended wife, so the monk was presumably feeling safe enough, even in the company of a voluptuous blonde who could well pass for the thirty-three years she admitted to. Let us see what he makes of the plain single daughter, she thought with a wry twist of her lips.
‘There you are, Hebe dear,’ Mrs Carlton cried as she hesitated in the doorway. ‘My stepdaughter Hebe, Major,’ she added.
Just in case, Hebe thought resignedly, he thinks she is old enough to be my mother, or that she is responsible for such an ordinary-looking girl. She was very fond of Sara Carlton, but sometimes she could…
She disciplined her face and allowed the introduction to continue. ‘This is Major the Honourable Alex Beresford, Hebe.’
Hebe dropped a neat little curtsy and observed the elegant bow she received in return.
‘Miss Carlton.’ Again that cool, deep voice and expressionless face, although now she was close to him she realised that his eyes were startlingly blue and that it was the hawk, not the monk, who was watching her through them.
She was piqued both by his indifference and by her own sudden surge of curiosity about Major Beresford. Not, of course, that she was attracted to him, although the effect of his voice was to send a strange tingle down her spine. No, it was simply that the army officers of her acquaintance were generally a friendly, gregarious body of men. Occasionally one met a shy or awkward one, or a rake best avoided by a single girl, but on the whole they mingled cheerfully with the resident English community, pleased to be invited into private homes and ready to partake fully in local society.
‘Shall we go through to the dining room?’ Mrs Carlton asked, taking Sir Richard’s arm and making her way to the door, thus neatly leaving Major Beresford little option but to offer his arm to Hebe.
He escorted her efficiently, and silently, to the place indicated by his hostess, pulled out her chair and took his own place by her side. After the first flurry of dishes being passed, Mrs Carlton addressed a question about a recently widowed lady of their acquaintance directly to the Commodore. Hebe waited with some amusement to see whether the Major was going to fulfil his social obligations and talk to her.
‘You have been living on the island long, Miss Carlton?’ It was perfectly polite and a reasonable question in the circumstances. There was not a hint of boredom in his voice, but Hebe sensed he was deeply impatient at finding himself trapped in this situation.
Her stepmother, when making one of her frequent lists of Hebe’s faults, placed curiosity a close second after harum-scarum behaviour. Hebe failed to understand why this was frowned upon. People intrigued her. She had a deep concern for the affairs of their servants, her friends knew they could confide in her and find someone who entered into their every feeling—even if she asked an awful lot of questions in the process—and watching complete strangers was an abiding fascination. She did not gossip, she never pried, she simply watched and listened and asked questions, then followed with interest as events unfolded, helping if she was offered the opportunity, rejoicing or agonising as the case may be if she were not.
So why was this officer so reticent, so cold? Thinking of him as an interesting mystery, rather than a severe, rather frightening man, made sitting next to him easier. She offered him a plate of bread and butter as she answered his question. ‘I have been here three years—since my father was posted to Malta with his squadron. My mother died ten years ago and he married again four years later. Where circumstances allowed my stepmama and I followed him from naval base to naval base. Then he died two years ago of a fever and we have remained here ever since.’
There, she thought, that’s a nice full answer with lots of dates, now you say something.
‘Indeed?’
‘Possibly we will return to England after Mama marries Sir Richard, our plans are not yet certain. So much depends on the disposition of the squadron.’ Silence. ‘It will be interesting to see England again after so long.’
‘I am sure it will.’
He cut his bread and Hebe found herself watching his hand on the knife. Long, tanned fingers that looked as if they were more used to gripping a sword hilt, strong tendons showing sharp against the skin, a long-healed scar across the knuckles, white against the tan.
‘And has your regiment been long on the island, Major? I was not aware of any new troop landings.’ She could not place his uniform at all.
He answered her question with one of his own. ‘Do you always take such a close interest in troop movements, Miss Carlton?’ One dark brow rose slightly and the corner of his mouth curved in what, if his eyes had shown any warmth, she might have read as a smile.
So, he thought she was one of those giddy girls who hankered after any man in a uniform, did he? Hebe bit the inside of her lip to stop herself making a brisk retort and instead smiled brightly back at him, wishing she had the nerve to tell him he need not worry, he was the last man on Malta whose interest she would wish to attach.
‘Why, no more than anyone else with reasonable powers of observation, sir. All of us exiles from England know which warships have docked, which regiments have landed, who has left, who has arrived. These comings and goings control the arrival of news from home, the mails, the company we ask to dinner or meet at parties.’
Major Beresford was helping himself to cold fish, apparently unmoved by her smile. ‘A somewhat restricted social life on such a small island.’
Hebe ploughed on, all too aware that Mrs Carlton was watching her from the corner of her eye. ‘I should imagine it is no more restricted than that experienced by the residents of a resort such as Brighton or Harrogate. Would you be so kind as to pass me the butter, Major?’
He did so, unfortunately raising his eyes in time to intercept an encouraging nod of approval from Sara Carlton to her stepdaughter. Hebe considered feigning a sudden headache and fleeing the table, but that nagging curiosity kept her there, despite a growing feeling of frustration. She was going to get a straight answer, or at least a genuine smile, out of him before they rose from the dining table if it was the last thing she did.
‘Will you be staying long on Malta, Major Beresford?’
‘That will depend.’ She found herself watching those long fingers again as they curled around the bowl of his glass. They were drinking lemonade, cold from the pitcher’s long immersion in the fountain, and condensation beaded the outside of the goblet. His little finger ran up and down, leaving a track through the moisture, and Hebe watched as though mesmerised.
‘Upon what?’ she asked abruptly, pulling herself together.
‘Upon my orders,’ he responded frostily.
‘Ah. Well, of course I will ask no more, Major.’ Like all of the English community, Hebe was well aware of the need for complete discretion about orders, for however careful the authorities were, there were bound to be French spies all over the island.
‘Will you not?’ He half-turned in his chair to regard her with that piercing blue gaze. Hebe had the sudden fantasy that he was about to demand that she confess all, when he added, ‘And what will we talk about if you are resolved to stop interrogating me, Miss Carlton?’
Taken aback, she met his hard stare with her own; grey eyes wide with anger. ‘I am sure, Major,’ she said, keeping her voice too low for the other couple to hear her, ‘I am sure you must find it an intolerable bore to be expected to make small talk with a young lady. Could I suggest that you consider whether the young lady concerned is also finding the experience somewhat tiresome?’
That did, at least, provoke a reaction. She still kept her eyes locked with his and something stirred in the blue depths: anger, heat and, she saw with a sudden sense of shame at her own behaviour, exhaustion. Now she was looking at him properly she could see that the skin beneath his eyes was white under the tan and realised that his excessive coldness was simply a device to keep him on his feet and conscious, able to respond to this unwelcome luncheon party into which Sir Richard had pitch-forked him.
She glanced at his plate, feeling the moment when she broke away from his gaze as something almost physical. He had eaten hardly anything.
‘Miss Carlton,’ he began.
‘Oh, dear,’ Hebe said shakily, but loudly enough to attract the attention of Mrs Carlton and Sir Richard. ‘Oh, dear, I feel quite faint all of a sudden. Major, please could you help me into the garden?’ He got to his feet swiftly, one hand under her arm and she let herself lean a little on to the support. ‘No, no, Mama, I will be quite all right if the Major does not mind. I will just sit in the shade…’
Mrs Carlton took a swift look at Hebe’s face, which was indeed somewhat pale, and decided that this was as good a way as any of throwing her and this attractive, and doubtless eligible, man together. The small back garden was always busy with the servants passing to and fro—Hebe would be well enough chaperoned. ‘If you do not mind, Major, I would be grateful.’
As soon as they were outside the door Hebe freed his arm, casting him an anxious look. ‘I am sorry about that, but I think you ought to rest and the garden is the coolest place.’ She was steering him towards the open door at the end of the hall, towards the green arbour in the little courtyard and the soft sound of water trickling from the fountains.
