The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  The Bewitching Hour

  By

  Diana Douglas

  Copyright © 2012 by Diana Douglas

  http://dianadouglas.wordpress.com

  https://twitter.com/themodernscribe

  E-mail: dltd@cox.net

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Diana Douglas.

  eBook formatting by www.ebook-format.com

  Dedication

  Thanks to my husband, Dan, for all the love and encouragement he has given me. To my editor, Gia, for patiently pointing out that a Scotsman does not speak with an Irish brogue, mere mortals can't see through walls and other assorted errors that I've committed along the way. And last, to my friends at the Arizona Novel Writer's Workshop for keeping me on-track and motivated.

  Table of 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

  The Devil's Own Luck Preview

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Mayfair London, England 1815

  Bloody hell! Eugene Terrance Rutherford, Viscount Stratton, ducked back into his office, closed the door and turned the key. The clattering of the parade of miniature, asthmatic dogs and rustling of stiff skirts that signified his Aunt Mirabella in full sail grew louder. He froze as one of the creatures began scratching and whining at the door.

  “Come, Hercules,” Mirabella called. “Come away from there, you naughty boy.” Paws frantically scrambling for a toe hold could be heard along with a grunt as his aunt scooped up the stray. “I’ve told you time and again not to wander.” She began a count of heads, stopping when she reached eleven. “Where did Ulysses go? It seems everyone is disappearing." Continuing her prattle, she swept down the corridor with her panting, wheezing entourage following behind.

  Stratton waited until the sound of rustling skirts and scrambling nails were long gone before heaving a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he was a coward. He simply didn’t want to deal with his Aunt Mirabella, right now. Or those damned dogs of hers.

  Moving as quietly as possible, he left his office and headed down the back steps. He crossed the service area, passed two well stocked pantries and entered the kitchen where he took an appreciative sniff. Hannah was baking. She made the best apple tarts in all of England and a fresh batch had been laid out on parchment paper to cool.

  “Ah, Hannah. How did I survive without you?” He snatched a pastry and the tiny white haired woman made an unconvincing attempt to swat his hand.

  “You ‘aven’t changed a bit you little thief. Those are for tea time.”

  “Don’t be so hard-hearted,” he said. “I haven’t been little for over twenty years and no one bakes like you. I simply can’t help myself. I’ve a mind to whisk you off to Surrey.”

  “You just take yourself somewhere else. I’ll have no meddlin’ in my kitchen.”

  Grinning, the viscount pushed open the back door and stepped outside. The sun had made only a half-hearted appearance, but it was warmer than he expected. Muggy and stale, the air closed around him and by the time he had walked the short distance to the small private garden on the west side of the house, sweat was trickling down his back. He unfastened the top buttons of his jacket and loosened his cravat before devouring Hannah’s apple tart, then pulled a cheroot from his pocket, struck flint to light it and took a puff. The heavy foliage on the walnut tree provided dense shade but not much relief from the heat. Stratton blew a wreath of smoke and leaned back against its trunk. He closed his eyes, shut out the sounds of the city and for a brief moment pretended he was enjoying a day in the country. But the blessed quiet was broken by a man’s shout, followed by shrill yapping and a string of colorful curses. Bloody hell, could a man not have a moment’s peace?

  He pushed away from the tree when a petite young woman with an admirable expanse of white bosom above her light green muslin bodice and a tumble of golden-blond curls escaping a lace bonnet, stepped inside the open gate. He was so taken with her white bosom and golden hair that it took another second or two before he realized that the beribboned dog she held in her arms was one of his aunt’s ridiculous miniature terriers. The young woman was as fetching a young lady as he had seen in some time and the dog must have thought so as well, because he was wiggling with excitement against her and attempting to lick her face. Stratton couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy.

  Laughing, she held the dog away from her and said, “I don’t wish to have my face washed. Would you please stop?” Her voice was soft and cultured and her sprigged muslin and pelisse were well made. She was a young woman who likely moved in his circles but he couldn’t think who she might be. True, most of his time was spent outside London, but someone this well endowed would have been known to him. Should he continue to watch unobserved or should he approach her? He had just decided he would remain hidden in the shade a bit longer and see what she would do next, when she set the beast down and it scrambled under the fence.

  “Oh drat!” Her dismay was such that he barely refrained from laughing out loud. She hurried out of the gate and a few moments later, he heard tearful protests and the young lady uttered with impatience, “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Sally, he won’t hurt you. If you won’t take him, I will. We can’t leave him running loose.”

  She returned with the wriggling, face-licking terrier in her arms then stopped a few paces inside the stone fence in obvious difficulty as to what to do next. He could almost see the thoughts running through her head. If she put the dog down it would no doubt escape again. Sally, presumably her maid, sounded most uncooperative in handling the dog which would rule out the maid taking it to the door, and as the young lady appeared to be of good breeding she couldn’t very well take it to the door on her own. The obvious choice would be to find some street urchin and send him to the door with the animal. She turned back toward the gate and he realized that she had likely reached that conclusion as well. Since he didn’t want to miss an opportunity to speak with a young lady who possessed such a fine bosom he decided to make his presence known.

  Stubbing out his cheroot he ambled toward her. “Good afternoon, miss. You appear to be in a quandary. May I be of service?”

  Startled, she looked up at him with deep, blue eyes. He had to resist the sudden urge to tilt that lovely face up to his and kiss her. He decided it was a just and generous God who would create such a delightful creature.

  It seemed she was not as favorably impressed with him. Lips pursed, her disapproving gaze fell on the loosened cravat and unbuttoned jacket and she wrinkled her nose at what he presumed was the scent of cheroot smoke that lingered on his clothing.

  “You may help me by taking your dog and then filling the hole he has dug beneath the fence
so he won’t continue to run away,” she said. “He was almost run over by a vegetable cart. He has my maid terrified, though I can’t understand why as he’s such a tiny thing. I wasn’t able to send her to your door and thought to take the matter into my own hands.” When he made no move to take the animal from her arms, she added, “Sir, I simply cannot stand here and hold him all day. Please, take your dog.”

  It was obvious she thought him some libertine who had not yet been to bed after a night of cavorting and gambling. Still, she was a feisty little thing and he was enjoying her ire tremendously. He decided to make it last a bit longer. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  The sweep of long golden lashes fluttered as she blinked. “You refuse?” she exclaimed in an incredulous tone. “You would rather see him run down in the street?”

  He found the flush of anger on her cheeks very attractive. “I didn’t say that. It’s only that he doesn’t belong to me. Do you really think I would own a bit of fluff no larger than the palm of my hand?”

  She glanced down at the miniature terrier and then back up at him. He was a large man, broad and well muscled and not at all the type who would own a lap dog. The flush on her cheeks turned bright crimson. “I beg your pardon, sir. Had you told me that to begin with I would not have bothered you. Have you any idea where he might belong?”

  “It was no bother.” His gray eyes crinkled with mischief and he waited another moment before adding, “And he belongs to my aunt.”

  “Your aunt,” she said slowly. “And does she live nearby?”

  “She lives with me.”

  “Here?”

  He grinned. “Here.”

  Understanding swept over her and her eyes flashed. “I don’t appreciate your having a bit of fun at my expense. Please, take your aunt’s dog.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  She struggled to contain the excited terrier. “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “If I take the dog, you’ll leave and I’m rather enjoying your charming company.”

  “This was not intended to be a social visit. I merely meant to return your aunt’s dog"

  “My friends call me Stratton.”

  She looked at the townhouse and back to him. Recognition had obviously set in. “My lord,” she said. "Please take your aunt's dog."

  Undaunted, he flashed a cheeky smile as he reached out and took the dog from her arms. “I bid you good day and hope for a formal introduction in the near future.” He bowed, turned on his heel and left her sputtering with indignation.

  Fuming, she stormed out of the garden and joined her maid. “Sally, I do wish you had been a little more cooperative. It was just a silly little dog and had you taken it to the door as I asked, it would have been saved me a good bit of trouble.”

  The maid appeared duly chastised. “I’m dreadfully sorry, miss.”

  “Oh, never mind,” she muttered. “It’s likely I would have run into him at some point, anyway. At least, I now know to avoid him at all cost. He’s certainly no gentleman.” She set off briskly in the direction of her home as she continued to mutter. “He simply could have taken the poor little thing from me and said ‘Thank you very much.’ I admit I was a bit brusque with him initially but given his appearance what would he expect?”

  “Miss Priscilla?”

  She looked up at her maid who had a puzzled expression on her face. “Yes, Sally?”

  “Were you still planning to visit Mrs. Taylor?”

  Priscilla came to a stop. “Oh, good heavens. How could I have forgotten that?” She swung around and said, “Come along, Sally. We must hurry.”

  A short while later, she was sipping tea in the Taylor’s blue and gold drawing room and voicing her complaints to the pregnant, dark haired young woman who sat across from her. “He was the rudest man I’ve ever met, Loretta. I hope to never run into him again. I can’t imagine what he hoped to accomplish.” She frowned. “Whatever are you laughing at?”

  Loretta’s brown eyes danced. “I was only wondering why you’re so agitated. He was simply indulging in a bit of harmless flirtation.”

  “Harmless flirtation,” Priscilla exclaimed. “The man’s reputation is abominable. Who knows what his intentions were?”

  “You’re exaggerating, Priscilla. His reputation is no worse than most.” She laughed. “Certainly no worse than Tad’s before we married. And since Lord Stratton has spent the last three years tending their estate in Surrey, I haven’t heard a single word about his exploits. In fact, I’ve heard that he’s calmed down considerably.”

  “Then he’s been given credit where none is due,” Priscilla said. “You should have seen him! His cravat was loose. His jacket was unbuttoned. He reeked of cheroot smoke. It was obvious he’d spent the night gambling and drinking and heaven knows what else. I’m certain he’d only just arrived home.”

  “Possibly.” Loretta set down her tea cup. “Tell me. Did he have a day’s growth of beard on his jaw?”

  He didn't, but Priscilla wasn't about to admit that she'd noticed. “ I certainly didn’t examine him that closely.”

  “But you noticed his cravat and jacket,” her friend reminded her. “I can’t believe you didn’t look at his face, as it’s a rather handsome face. And don’t give me that look.” She patted her swollen belly. “I’m happily married but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice attractive men. One would have to be blind not to recognize that he’s terribly attractive in a rugged sort of fashion. Now, did he look as if he hadn’t shaved that morning? His hair is rather dark and it would be quite obvious if he hadn’t.”

  “Well, no,” Priscilla admitted. “I suppose he was clean shaven. But he could have shaved at his club, couldn’t he?”

  “Be reasonable. If he went to that much trouble wouldn’t he likely have attended to his clothing as well? Was his hair combed?”

  Priscilla pursed her lips. “It’s improper to be discussing his personal habits.”

  Her friend sighed. “I’ll be glad when you get married and you can stop pretending to be shocked over every little thing I say.”

  Priscilla wasn't in the mood to converse about her unmarried state, especially not with Loretta. “We’ve discussed this. Unless I find someone I truly wish to wed, I will remain unmarried.”

  Loretta's face grew serious. “Of course, you’ll find someone. You weren’t meant to be a spinster. Don’t you want a family and a home of your own?”

  “My father left me well off,” Priscilla said as her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. “I can purchase my own home if I wish."

  “I meant a husband and children." Loretta paused before continuing in a gentle tone. "Patrick was my brother and I loved him, too, but the time came when I realized I must stop grieving and go on with my life." Her eyes softened with compassion. "I don’t mean to be heartless, but Patrick's been dead for four years." She exhaled a long, broken sigh. "I almost wish you hadn't visited with my parents last month. They've yet to let go of their grief and I fear it's rubbed off on you."

  “I wanted to be there." Priscilla stared down at her lap to hide the ache she felt. "When I heard your father had taken ill, I thought it might be my last opportunity to see him." She bit down on her lip as she thought of how his appearance had shaken her. The once robust frame, now skeletal; his near translucent skin as gray as ash. He could still walk without assistance, but for how long? "I fear I was right. He doesn't look well. You will be in for a shock when you reach Leicester."

  The mood between them grew somber. "I know. Tad has warned me. Perhaps a new baby will cheer Papa."

  Priscilla tried to put a smile on her face. "I'm sure it will."

  Loretta returned the smile. “We must speak of happier things. It will be months before we see each other again and we mustn’t leave on a maudlin note.” Her face brightened. “By then, I’ll be nice and trim and able to wear the latest fashions. At least, I hope so. I do miss being able to see my feet.”

  “Is it so awful?”

  “Bein
g pregnant? Sometimes. But it’s also wonderful. I suppose it’s different for everyone.” She paused. “If you truly want to know what it’s like you’ll have to marry and find out for yourself. And don’t scowl. You asked and I gave you the best answer I could. Now, will you be attending the Harrison’s rout this evening?”

  Priscilla nodded. “Lord Mallory will be in Cambridge for a few days and I’m looking forward to spending an evening without his constant attention.”

  Loretta gave her a lopsided grin. “That’s one man I can well understand why you wouldn’t want to marry. How many times has he proposed to you?”

  Priscilla groaned. “I don’t know. He simply won’t take no for an answer." She picked up a slice of raisin cake and took a tiny bite. "I don’t know why he continues to ask. There are others who would be far more suitable for him.”

  “Maybe so, but there are none who are prettier. If you haven’t noticed, most men are rather shallow and you have the four things that matter most. Wealth, position and looks.”

  Priscilla wrinkled her brow and tilted her head as she tried to figure out what the fourth thing could possibly be. “That’s only three. I suppose I must give up. What’s the fourth?”

  A glint of gold lit Loretta's eyes as she laughed. “A rather nice bosom.”

  Priscilla dug through her basket of silks, searching for the pale blue threads she had seen last week. They seemed to have disappeared. Normally, she was quite organized. Where had her mind gone to?

  After a few more moments of thought, she decided she was too tired to care and set the basket aside. The Harrison’s rout had lasted until the early hours of the morning and it had been close to three before she had fallen asleep. She leaned back against the blue and cream printed settee, shut her eyes and was drifting towards sleep when a knock came at the door.

  Instantly, her lids flew open. The knock came again. Normally, no one bothered her when she in her parlor. Not unless it was an emergency. “Yes?” she called out.