The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  She grinned. “You came up to the school once and took me out for some lunch and a bit of shopping. It was to make up for missing my birthday. Leaving the premises was against school regulations but as you were fighting a war and had to leave again and might not come back, Miss Crenshaw, the headmistress said I could go. We ran into Mary with several other girls on the way out. I introduced you and she fell in love.”

  “But you were only about twelve or so at the time.”

  Cecelia thought a moment. “I was almost fifteen. Mary is a few months older than me. Silly goose. I don’t know why she thought that you would be interested in her.” She shrugged. “I just threw the letters away. I certainly wasn’t about to give them to you. But she was always so melodramatic about everything that when she asked if I gave them to you I said yes. Otherwise, she would have thrown a fit or swooned. Or both.”

  Stratton stared at her in utter astonishment, his mind trying to absorb the information she had just given him.

  Priscilla placed her hand on his arm. “So you see, Cecelia had the answer all along. She told me on our way over.” Her voice caught on a bubble of laughter. “Our little mystery is solved. I didn’t know a duel could be so amusing. Not,” she added. “That I would like to do this anytime soon as it’s terribly hard on one’s nerves.”

  “I won’t argue with you there.” Stratton rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I don’t suppose this is all some bloody dream, is it?”

  Priscilla covered a yawn. “No, but I do think we could use some sleep. It was a very long night.”

  He looked at the dark smudges beneath her eyes and nodded. “You’re all in, my love. I suppose you didn’t sleep a wink, did you?”

  “I didn’t dare fall asleep. I was afraid I might not wake up in time.”

  “Eugene!” Cecelia called out. “Forgive the interruption but you really should retrieve Jupiter before he pulls that tree out by its roots.”

  Stratton glanced at the stallion who was showing definite signs of restlessness. He groaned. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll ride Jupiter beside the carriage as I don’t think he will take kindly to being tied to the back.” He handed Cecelia and Priscilla into the carriage and then returned to the horses where Rand was grinning broadly.

  Stratton unlooped the reins from the branch and put a booted foot in the stirrup. “It appears,” he commented as he hoisted himself up and swung his leg over the saddle. “That I have married a very headstrong woman.”

  “So you have,” Rand agreed. “Headstrong and, in this instance, victorious. You know there’ll be no living with her now, don’t you?”

  “I know. And paired with my sister, Christ Almighty.”

  Rand threw back his head and laughed. “You don’t have a chance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sunlight spilled through the window as Stratton gazed down on his sleeping wife. She had pushed off the covers and was curled on her side, her breathing deep and even, blonde tresses strewn across the pillows. He pushed a strand of hair away from her face and she didn’t move a muscle. She was relaxed and deeply asleep. Well, she could sleep all day if she wished. Even if it meant he had to break the news of their marriage to Mirabella alone and that was not a task he was looking forward to. He pulled the covers up over her, closed the bed curtains to ensure her privacy and then rang for Johnson who appeared almost immediately with a jug of steaming water.

  “I would prefer that we keep to the dressing room,” Stratton said. “There’s a young lady asleep in my bed and I don’t wish to disturb her.”

  A look of shock flickered across the valet’s face.

  “There’s no need to look so horrified,” Stratton said once Johnson had closed the connecting door behind them. “The lady in my bed is my wife.”

  A smile broke out on the valet’s face. “Congratulations, my lord. May I assume that the lady in question is Miss Hawthorn?”

  Stratton sat down. “You may.”

  Johnson laid a moist fragrant towel over the stubble on his lord’s face. “I wish you and my lady the very best.”

  “Thank you, Johnson.”

  The valet was silent a moment and then asked a bit cautiously, “And will Lady Fitzberry remain in London now that you have a bride, my lord?”

  Stratton chuckled beneath the towel. “I fear the gods are not completely on our side.”

  An hour later, later he was enjoying a plate of eggs when Mirabella stormed in, her face florid against the deep purple of her morning gown. “This is just too much, Eugie,” she ranted. “I’ve tolerated your cursing, your teasing, your dictatorial attitude, but I will not tolerate this! The upstairs maid has informed Mrs. Simpson who has just informed me that there is a young woman in your bedchamber.”

  Stratton groaned inwardly. He had forgotten to leave word not to make up his chambers until later. “Did she wake her up?”

  “Good heavens,” she said in a horrified tone. “How should I know? I demand that you remove her from the premises before anyone else sees her. What will people think?” She laid the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, how could you do this? If you insist on parading your paramours about with no thought for your family, I simply don’t know what’s to become of us.”

  Stratton rose and pulled out a chair for his aunt. “Sit down, Aunt Mirabella and I will explain.”

  She thrust her chin out. “I don’t want to sit down. I want that woman gone! And if you don’t toss her out of here, then I will. Your mother would be so disappointed in you.”

  Good morning, everyone.” Priscilla waltzed into the morning room looking very fresh in a peach muslin trimmed with yellow embroidery. Her eyes were shining with mischief and Stratton realized that she had probably overheard a good bit of the conversation. “Though I suppose it’s past noon, isn’t it?” She dropped a curtsy. “How are you, Lady Fitzberry?”

  Smiling, Stratton crossed the room to take her hands and kiss her on the cheek. “Good afternoon. You look well rested. Did the maid wake you? I’m afraid I neglected to request that she wait until later to make up our bedchamber.”

  She returned his smile. “No. But she was very distressed. I’m afraid I frightened her.”

  Mirabella sat down heavily. “Oh my. Miss Hawthorn.”

  “Her title is now Lady Stratton,” Stratton corrected.

  “You went ahead and married?” Aunt Mirabella’s face crumbled. “Oh Eugie, how could you?”

  “We had our reasons Aunt Mirabella,” he said firmly as he seated Priscilla next to his place at the table. “You will have to leave it at that. Would you like some tea, my love? Or coffee? And something to eat?”

  Priscilla smiled at him. “Tea and a roll would be lovely. Thank you.” Then she reached over and patted the older woman’s hand. “Please don’t be too upset, Lady Fitzberry,” she said in a soothing tone. “We were married by special ceremony on Tuesday. It seemed the best solution as we didn’t want to take the attention away from Cecelia’s come out ball.”

  Mirabella frowned and wagged a finger at Stratton. “It was very naughty of you to keep this a secret and I don’t hold with keeping secrets. Still, I’m delighted to see you married to Miss Hawthorn, though that isn’t really correct, as she’s no longer Miss Hawthorn, but I do wish you had waited a month or so. We could have planned such a grand wedding. But what’s done is done and you have always been very stubborn.”

  She turned to Priscilla. “Now dear, you must call me Aunt Mirabella. Lady Fitzberry just won’t do any longer. I’m certain my dear sister will be thrilled when she learns you have married; though I imagine there will be some disappointment when she learns you have gone ahead without the type of wedding ceremony one would expect. Even so, she will absolutely adore you, my dear.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh dear, such happy, happy news.”

  Priscilla took the cup of tea Stratton handed her.

  Mirabella dropped her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. �
��You know, dear, we could still have a reception. The ton will expect it and I did so want to try out more of those Indian dishes. I didn’t think they were so terribly hot and I noticed quite a few people seemed to enjoy them last night. Though Sir Wells did flush a bit and he drank quite a lot of punch afterward.” She stopped a moment and then her face lit up. “Do you know it occurs to me that almost no one knows you’ve married? You could get married again! A grand wedding in St. George’s would be just wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

  Oh, no. Priscilla tried to think of a plausible reason to counter the idea, but all she could come up with is, “I’m not certain that would be quite the thing to do.”

  “But just think of it, my dear. You could have a beautiful gown with a long train; one of beaded tulle that trails for yards behind you. It would be scrumptious.”

  Priscilla swallowed a bite of her roll, took a sip of her tea and allowed her eyes to glaze over. The next thing she was aware of was her husband’s voice.

  “No, Aunt Mirabella,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  Mirabella shut her mouth abruptly and then opened it again. “But why? I simply don’t understand. Why do you have to be so difficult about it? It’s only in keeping with your place in society. Everyone will expect it.”

  He placed his hands on the back of Priscilla’s chair. “It isn’t necessary that you understand. It isn’t necessary that everyone else understands. There is to be no second wedding and no reception. Now, if you’ll kindly remember, we’re newly married and would like to spend some time together. Alone. And as you mentioned earlier, Cecelia’s callers will be arriving soon. I imagine she’s dawdling as usual. You might want to go and prod her along.”

  He pulled Priscilla’s chair out and helped her to her feet. “You haven’t had much to eat,” he noted. “Are you still hungry? Reeds is taking a tray upstairs. We can nibble on that.”

  “But where are you going?” Mirabella asked.

  “We’re going back to my chambers.”

  “But you can’t. It’s the middle of the day,” she protested. “And Miss Hawthorn--I mean Lady Stratton has just come downstairs. And we were having such a lovely conversation.”

  Priscilla broke in, “Oh, please, Aunt Mirabella, do call me Priscilla.”

  She beamed at Priscilla. “Why thank you dear. It’s so nice to be on more familial terms, isn’t it? But you can’t possibly be sleepy. I don’t know what Eugie could be thinking.” Then she cast a disapproving look at Stratton. “Why on earth do you need to go chambers, now?”

  He grinned. “I’ll leave you to figure that out.”

  Wrinkling her brow, Mirabella thought for several seconds before she gasped and blushed a vivid shade of pink. “Eugene Terrence Rutherford!” she sputtered.

  “It’s perfectly all right, Aunt,” he laughed as he caught Priscilla’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “We’re married.”

  “I believe I have married a very wicked man,” Priscilla said breathlessly a few moments later.

  “You have. And to think you could have married Mallory,” he murmured as he propelled her toward the stair case.

  “Has he recovered?”

  “Physically yes, though I believe his pride has suffered greatly. From what I understand, he’s spending some time at his estate in Kent.” They had just reached the steps when he caught her by surprise and scooped her up in his arms.

  “Put me down!” she squeaked.

  “You weren’t walking fast enough,” he said. He climbed the steps and strode toward the open door of his bedchambers.

  She caught sight of Reeds hovering beside the bed, a large silver tray in his hands and buried her face in Stratton’s chest.

  “Reeds,” he ordered. “Don’t just stand there. Put the damned tray down and go away!”

  “Of course, my lord.” A faint smile tugged at the butler’s lips. “And might I add my congratulations?”

  “Thank you, Reeds. And unless the house catches on fire, make certain we’re not disturbed.” Stratton kicked the door shut behind him then carried her over to the bed and unceremoniously dumped her in the middle.

  Shoulders shaking with laughter, she covered her face with her hands. “How mortifying! He knows what we’re about to do.’

  “Of course he does, love. He’s a butler. He isn’t dead.”

  Still laughing, she gasped, “And your aunt. Oh my, I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.”

  He leaned against the thick mahogany bed posted and drawled, “Then toss up your skirts, my dear. We may as well make all this embarrassment worth our while.”

  A sudden mischief seized her. She tucked her skirts tightly around her legs and said, “Not yet. I’ll admit I was wrong to go to off alone without telling anyone. Now you must admit to me that you were wrong.”

  “Wrong?” he asked with pretended innocence. “Wrong about what?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. Bertie. Now say it.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You most certainly did not.”

  He ignored the comment and instead sat down and began pulling off his boots. “Rand was right.” He shook his head. "He said there’d be no living with you, now.”

  “Say it,” she repeated.

  “Allow a woman to be right once and your life is never again the same,” he murmured as he unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat.

  Her eyes widened. “Allowed? How did you allow me to be right? I simply was right.”

  He didn’t answer but dropped his waistcoat and jacket over the back of a chair. He shrugged out of his shirt and laid it on the jacket.

  “You don’t play fair,” she protested as she watched.

  He knelt on the bed beside her. “And how, pray tell, do I not play fair?”

  “You’re distracting me, trying to make me forget what I said.”

  He lifted her hips, pushed up her skirts and straddled her. “And what was it that you said?”

  “I… um.” Her breath caught in her throat as he opened her thighs and stroked her. There was nothing she could do. She turned to liquid heat at his touch. She could not deny her desire or the pleasure he brought her. “Cheater,” she whispered. Reaching for him, she helped unfasten his breeches and surrendered with a soft exclamation of delight. They would talk about it tomorrow.

  THE END

  AND DON'T MISS

  France 1812, Ten miles south of Calais

  Rand moved swiftly through the darkness, cursing his inability to silence the sound of his boots striking the cobblestone. The hair on the back of his neck prickled; his spine tingled. He’d had someone on his tail since the coach dropped him off at the village’s edge, though whether they were footpads, French spies or something in-between he had no notion. No, that was a lie. They weren’t footpads. Footpads would have made their move by now. His rendezvous with Morris had been compromised.

  Trails of mist swirled about his greatcoat. His collar was drawn up and a dark felt hat covered his light hair and forehead. The night was black, the moon obscured behind cloud cover, and the narrow lane he traveled, unlit. The only glow of light came from a noisy tavern down the lane. His best chance was to remain in the darkness. Too much depended on the papers sewn into the lining of his coat. Napoleon's plans to invade Russia could prove disastrous for England if Whitehall wasn't informed. He crossed the lane to avoid the tavern’s light. A moment-later his pursuers did the same. They quickened their pace. Their footfalls were muffled but he determined there were two shadows.

  He closed his fingers around one of the pistols he carried and withdrew it from his coat pocket. Two pistols. Two chances. He couldn’t afford to waste a shot by firing blindly into the darkness. The raucous sounds from the tavern grew louder. The moon temporarily emerged from the clouds and the next five seconds passed in the blink of an eye. A gunshot behind him reverberated in his ears and he sensed one of his pursuers rushing toward him. Pistol in hand, he whirled around and fired at the approaching
shadow. He heard a soft, surprisingly feminine grunt and the sound of someone hitting the cobbles. He dropped the first pistol, grasped the other and aimed at the second shadow.

  “God’s teeth! Put the damned thing away!” Relief washed over him. The arrogant English voice belonged to his best friend and colleague, Lord Stratton. “I save your bloody life and you thank me by thinking to put a bullet between my eyes!”

  Rand continued to hold the pistol as he glanced over his shoulder at the tavern. If anyone had heard the shots, it appeared they had paid it no notice. “There were two. What happened to the other one?”

  “I took care of him. He’s about thirty paces behind us.” Stratton knelt down to check the pulse of the second victim. “Christ! Do you…” He was interrupted by the inharmonious sounds of a tavern song behind them. It grew closer. He rose quickly. “Let’s go. Now. I’ve horses tethered a few minutes away.”

  They took off at a rapid pace. It wasn’t until the tavern’s light was well behind them that Rand spoke. “I’m grateful you decided to put in an appearance but what in the devil are you doing here? I was supposed to meet Morris.”

  “Plans have changed.” The viscount’s breath misted in the chilled air. His voice was bleak as he continued, “Morris was found dead two days ago in Rouen. Don’t know how much he gave up but Connolly wasn’t about to risk the documents you’re carrying. He sent me to keep you alive, if possible, and make certain the information reached its destination. I kept in the doorway once I saw you were being followed. I was lucky to hit the bastard. It was too damned dark to get much of a look.” He paused. “You haven’t any idea who you shot back there, have you?”

  “A French agent, I assume. Female. Can’t say that killing a woman sits well with me.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over that one. You’ve brought down Marguerite. Morris’s death had her stamp all over it.”