THE PERFECT LADY
VALIANT LOVE
a regency romance book
deborah wilson
Copyright and About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Deborah Wilson
All Rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this book in any form or by any electronic means without written permission from the author. Recording of this book is strictly prohibited. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents
Copyright and About the Author
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The Perfect Lady
BOOK LIST ORDER
the perfect lady
0 1
London,
April 1815
Beatrix Gillingham jumped when the wooden door of the tavern was thrown open, splintering as it met the brick wall with great force. Had she not locked it? After hours of endless shouting, the ringing cacophony from a mildly out of tune piano, and the silence that had followed, the explosion of sound was a shock.
Her heart raced.
From the darkness, a man stumbled in, clearly inebriated as he paused to lean against the wall. She was forced to move around one of the wooden columns by the bar to see him.
He was tall. Rather large.
Most of the tavern lamps had been extinguished, but even with barely any light, she could tell his body was toned like that of a dock worker, muscled without an ounce of fat. After a year of working at the Swinging Door Inn and Tavern, she’d learned how to size a man up, to know when he’d had too much to drink, to know which men were nothing more than bags of meat and which were made of rocks. Men of stone had the power to become something very dangerous to a woman without a male protector. A woman like Beatrix herself.
This man was a mountain, and she struggled not to show her worry.
The last few patrons of the Swinging Door— regular men she thought more or less pleasant— had departed half an hour ago. Beatrix had been left in peace since Joanna, another barmaid, was upstairs attending to the guests who had taken rooms.
John, who tended to whatever their boss Mr. Thump needed, was in the kitchen setting it to rights in preparation for business tomorrow.
Mr. Thump had retired to bed hours ago, leaving Beatrix to take care of those who still wished to give up their coins. If Thump could have it his way, the tavern would never close, but he was kind enough to allow his staff five hours of rest before they started up again the next day.
But the war with Napoleon had ended a few months ago and, for weeks now, Beatrix had been getting even less sleep than usual.
Soldiers had poured in from the ships. With Napoleon’s War finished, the British army and navy were returning, and Beatrix had been glad to do her part in welcoming them back to the land they called home.
But she’d not pour another pint for the night.
Mr. Thump need not know.
“We’re closed,” she told the man who’d not moved from the door.
The stranger was dressed in a dark jacket that did nothing to hide his wide shoulders. His waistcoat was red and his pants were tan. He wore fashionable long black boots.
An aristocrat.
She’d served more than her fair share of them, along with business merchants and the like, since the tavern was located right on the docks. Yet even if the ton didn’t come in, she’d have recognized what class the man was from. She’d belonged to it herself long ago, but no more.
This lord had lost his hat. His thick gold hair was the most prominent thing she could see in the dark.
And then his hand, the one that had been clenching his stomach, moved, revealing that he’d been gravely injured.
Beatrix gasped and took a step back. The waistcoat had not originally been red. He was bleeding.
A flash from the past assaulted her mind. She no longer saw this stranger, but the face of someone she’d once held dear.
“John!” she shouted as she rushed across the room. The man began to fall and, thinking quickly, she grabbed a chair and allowed him to fall into it.
He sat with a groan and clenched his stomach again. His face was a sweat-covered mask of agony.
He lifted his eyes to hers, and their gazes locked. His were a blue she’d never seen outside of paintings. A swirl of the most lively and brilliant shades.
Immediately, her fingers itched for pen and paper. The need to capture the intricate depths of his eyes was great, but he groaned and her mind returned to the emergency at hand.
He was a handsome man. His nose was far too large for that, like a refined beak. The slope of it showed his Roman descent. Perhaps, his great-great-grandfather had been the emperor. She’d not be surprised at all to find that to be the truth.
Very aristocratic indeed, yet even in pain, something about him called to her, something that made him… more.
His breath hitched. “I—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t.” She feared exertion would send him to his grave, and he’d need his strength to make it to a bed. “John!” She turned around just as the young lad came out of the kitchen. “Help me get him to a bed and then go for Dr. Robins.”
John came close, looked at her, and then at the man. “Who will pay the doctor?”
Beatrix’s eyes widened. “He will, of course.” Even injured, bleeding, and without a hat, she was certain the man came from wealth.
The man groaned, but it sounded almost like a laugh.
John caught her attention again. “We’ve no more rooms.”
She barely hesitated before she said, “Take him to my bed, John.” It was the most sensible thing to do.
“I need…” The stranger tried to speak again but couldn’t complete his thought.
“You need to be silent,” she instructed. The man. The blood. It all reminded her of one of the most terrible nights of her life.
John looked astonished, but then he moved to do as she’d instructed. He helped the stranger to his feet. Beatrix took his other side, though she had no clue if her smaller frame was helping at all.
For once, she was thankful her rooms were behind the kitchen. They would not be forced to climb stairs.
Once in her room, they laid him on the bed. The room was small and the bed even more so. The tiny raised cot was pushed into the corner. Beside it was a stand with a lamp. The trunk at the end of the bed held all her worldly possessions.
Beatrix sat beside the stranger and began to loosen the buttons around the man’s waist.
“Are you sure—?” John started to protest.
“Go for the doctor, John.” She didn’t bother to look
at him and sighed with relief when she heard his footsteps retreating. She opened his waistcoat, and she was again shocked by the amount of blood that covered his formally white linen shirt. Her fingers trembled.
His large, rough hand covered hers. When he spoke, his voice was rough as well. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
She looked up into his eyes and found a small amount of humor in those blue depths, but humor could not hide the fact that he seemed far too pale. His hair was thick and wavy. A lock had fallen on his face. She’d have brushed it back if her hands were not soiled by his blood.
She thought of the lie she’d created the very first day she’d come to work at the Swinging Door. She’d claimed her name was Betty Gillett and she had a husband at war. It was the only reason Mr. Thump had allowed her to stay. He claimed himself a supporter of the army, having been in the army himself years ago.
Over the years, she had shaped her fantasy husband in her head. He’d been of average height and dark, but staring at this stranger, all that changed.
He was now blond with crystal blue eyes and a hard nose.
“It hurts less… in this position.” His voice was low. “Thank you.”
The intimacy began to make her uncomfortable. Especially once she took in his dishabille. “I’ve not done anything yet. Now, please stop speaking.”
He gave a short chuckle that ended with a sharp intake of breath. “As you wish, miss.”
Insolent man!
“Aristocrat,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, saying the word with a touch of insult. Beatrix’s irritation with him grew, and she used that to distract her mind as he undid his shirt. Then she spread the halves and took in his chest. As she’d suspected, there was not an extra ounce of flesh on him anywhere.
And he’d been right. The wound did not seem terrible. He’d been cut and had likely bled so much because of his insistence to keep moving instead of calling for help. Again, her irritation spiked. Whoever this man was, he was clearly a fool. She inhaled and couldn’t catch the scent of any liquor on him. Therefore, he was likely sober, which made him all the more witless in Beatrix’s book.
“You disapprove,” he said, talking again as though she’d not just given him instruction not to.
“I do disapprove.” She stood. “Had you simply remained wherever you were and called for help, you’d not have bled so badly. I’ll be right back.” She went to the kitchen and found Joanna.
“Who were you speaking to?” Joanna asked with a frown. Joanna was pretty and stood around Beatrix’s height with blond hair and brown eyes. She was also quite curvy and knew how to use her looks to get a few extra coins from the patrons of the tavern.
“There’s a man in my room. He’s been injured.”
“Poor dear,” Joanna said with feeling.
“I know it is late and you wish to go to bed, but would you start some water to boil before you do?”
“Of course. Just let me know if you need anything else.” Joanna was used to no sleep. She’d once served as a lady’s maid in a very well-to-do home.
“Thank you.” Beatrix grabbed a cloth from the counter and went back to her visitor. She’d been bone tired earlier but now felt fully awake.
∫ ∫ ∫
0 2
General Hero Curbain watched as his rescuer returned to the room. Resuming her place on the bed, she pressed the cloth against the wound.
He made sure not to make a sound of pain as she added more pressure. Instead, he concentrated on the warmth he could feel pouring from where their bodies touched.
She was pretty, whoever she was, and Hero noticed something very unexpected about her. Grace. She didn’t have the gauche of a woman born of her current life. She’d moved like a duchess when she’d left and returned to the room. She’d spoken like one when she’d told him to remain silent. It reminded him of his mother, a true duchess.
His guardian angel clearly had no clue who he was, or she’d not have spoken in such a manner.
“I couldn’t stay where I was,” he said. “I’d have been killed if I did.”
Those irritated green eyes looked his way again. Her lashes were long, gold, but far darker than the wig she wore. He wondered if she were bald underneath it.
She was very pretty nonetheless. He even liked her annoyed look. The crease that formed on the bridge of her tiny nose. The way her lips pushed out just so, making them appear fuller, round. “What were you doing out by the docks on your own? Surely, you should have had a footman with you.”
Her accent was quite refined for a woman from East London.
He decided not to tell her why he’d been at the docks. “What is your name?”
“Betty. Where is your footman, Aristocrat? Are you alone out here? Is there someone I can send a message to?”
He shook his head. There was no one he wished to see him like this. His family was already dealing with their own grief and, as a general, he shied away from appearing weak to anyone who knew him.
It was only by chance that she’d taken him in, given him her cramped bed, and shown kindness. “Reach into my pocket,” he told her.
She leaned back and glared at him. “I’d rather not.”
He laughed and had to fight to not move his stomach muscles. “I assure you, miss. I’ve no plans to do anything indecent. There is a purse in my pocket. I wish you to take some coins for your troubles.”
She physically relaxed and then color spread across her cheeks. “Oh. Well, thank you, but I’ll manage.”
“I insist.”
“Sir.”
“That’s better than ‘Aristocrat,’” he joked.
She glared at him.
He wondered what made her so brave when others shied away from him.
She’d clearly read his mind and said, “You’re injured and at my mercy.”
He was at her mercy and never had he had a more churlish nurse than this!
Still, he’d not have wished for anyone else to find him but her. He liked her bravery.
“If you don’t get the purse, I will,” he finally said. He moved his arm, acting as though he would adjust his body.
“Oh, do stop this. You’ll injure yourself worse than you already are.” She went to his pockets just as he’d predicted she would.
He smiled again.
Yes, she was indeed an angel.
She kept one hand on the cloth and used the other to dig into his pocket. She pulled the purse out and placed it by the lamp. “We can deal with that later.”
“You never asked me my name,” he said.
“And I don’t intend to. Aristocrat will do,” she replied. “If we are formally introduced, I’ll be forced to let go of the cloth and curtsy. At the moment, I believe it best to remain where I am.”
He chuckled again. “What do you know about the etiquette of greetings? Where are you from? Not here. I can tell.”
She lowered her lashes. There had been slight merriment in her eyes. They’d been playing a witty game, both completely aware of it, but now the laughter was gone. “It doesn’t matter. You’re quite lucky I was here though, are you not?”
He was.
They fell into silence for a while. Hero looked around the pitiful quarters.
There was nothing of interest except for the drawing on the far wall. A sketch of a country house next to a pasture with wildflowers and trees. The artist had depicted wind rustling through the branches and the field. Even without color, the scene was lush.
“Who did that?” He jerked his chin toward the drawing.
Betty didn’t even bother to look up. She concentrated on the place her hands rested on his stomach. Her glare was so fierce that he’d not be surprised if he were to lift the cloth and find himself healed. “It came with the room.”
“Liar,” he said. Then he jumped on what he thought to be the true answer. “You did it, didn’t you?”
She glanced at him and then away. “I did.”
“Then we are kindre
d spirits. I also like to draw.” He rarely boasted about anything, but he greatly wanted to impress this barmaid and though he didn’t know why, he couldn’t help himself from trying.
“Do you?” she asked with interest. “And do you think yourself good?”
The little wench. He liked her greatly.
“Do you dare reach into my other pocket?” he asked.
She did and pulled out a small, weathered book. One hand held the old book while the other continued to press the cloth to his belly.
She used his body as a table and gazed at the art within. Her thin fingers flexed to hold and flip pages. Most of the mountains and meadows were scenes of France. Vineyards and seasides littered the pages. They’d been his way to escape. “You’re very good,” she eventually said and though there wasn’t great enthusiasm, he knew the words were genuine. She was likely tired.
He’d taken possession of her bed.
“If I move over, we can share the bed,” he told her.
Those scornful eyes found his. “That would not be proper.”
Neither was it proper for him to be in her bed at all, but he decided against pointing out the fact just in case she thought to kick him out.
He wondered how wrong it was for him to be aroused at the moment. He could feel his body heat rising at the light pressure of her hands. Her eyes. Her tone. They drew him in, made him hard.
It was good that he was injured. Otherwise, he’d have tried everything to get her to lay at his side. He imagined the feel of her skin underneath his fingers. He’d have run his hands beneath her skirts and place kisses along her throat.
He’d have wanted her mouth free, so he could hear her encouragements.
He imagined she’d not abandon her wit while in his bed. He’d enjoy her thoroughly.
Beautiful. Strong. Witty. A true nurturer.
His mother would have liked her, though she’d have to have been a lady to get his mother’s approval.
Before he’d gone off to war at eighteen, the Duchess of Ayers had dubbed Hero her champion, the one who would rise through the ranks in the military and become a Field Marshall, just as her father had done many years ago, earning his own title as the Earl of Biddington.
The Perfect Lady (Valiant Love) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 1
