The Regency Season

by Ann Lethbridge

  She pulled her knife from the pocket hidden in her ragged skirts, the pocket she’d sewn into the seam when Christine had come back with the dress, and held it to his Adam’s apple. ‘I think not.’

  He cursed softly and fluently. At least she guessed he was cursing. They were English words and not familiar.

  ‘Now, do you want the value of your thruppence,’ she said softly, ‘or do you take me home?’

  He took her wrist and forced the blade away, taking it from her now nerveless fingers and stuffing it into a pocket. ‘A man can get a lot for three pennies, my dear.’

  He meant to frighten her. She knew those tactics.

  He bent his head and took her mouth in a scalding kiss. Well-remembered sensations struck her low in her belly. She found she could not recall why they were standing in an alley late at night. She was too busy returning his kiss, tangling her tongue with his, plastering herself tight to his body while his fingers cradled her head and held her still to receive his punishing kiss.

  Punishing, ravishing and utterly delicious.

  Enough to make a girl lose her mind for want of more. Especially a girl who’d been celibate for years and had been tempted for days and days by this virile man.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, he backed her up against the wall, while he kept her head angled just right. She felt his lovely weight all down her length and the ridge of his arousal against her belly. Her hands explored the musculature of his shoulders and the bones of his spine. She burrowed beneath his coat to feel the warmth of him, to shape the narrowing of his waist and the firmness of his buttocks.

  A lean, beautiful male body she wanted on top of her, all around her, inside her.

  He tasted of ale and smoke and of Freddy in the faint whiff of his soap.

  He groaned softly and dragged his mouth away. ‘Where on God’s sweet earth did you learn to kiss like that?’

  The words were like a dash of cold water. Like a wanton, he’d meant. A woman no better than she should be. As he’d soon find out, if they didn’t stop now.

  She pushed him away, breathing hard. ‘You kiss pretty well yourself.’ She flicked her skirts straight. ‘For an Englishman.’ Let him make of that what he would.

  He gave a shake of his head as if to clear it. Then struck the wall behind her with the side of his fist. ‘There is no need for you to take such risks. You are not in France any longer. You are not friendless and alone. When will you learn I am not your enemy?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then we have a problem.’

  ‘We have a worse one. We have lost Moreau.’

  ‘We know he will return to London in due course. In the meantime, I will have men searching the north for him.’ He took her arm. ‘Come, time to see you home. We will be able to pick up a hackney in the next street.’ He glanced down at her. ‘I presume you left the garden gate open?’

  ‘Naturellement.’ She kept her voice calm. It wouldn’t do to let him see how much Moreau’s disappearance had her worried.

  Chapter Nine

  Minette climbed down from Gabe’s carriage at Falconwood Hall. Dear man that he was, he’d insisted that his coachman drive her, along with a footman and her maid, while Freddy went on ahead, to be there to greet her along with his mother. Gabe was still angry at the incident that had brought them to this pass and hadn’t been about to trust her to Freddy’s tender care when he’d realised that he and Nicky would not be able to accompany her to Kent. Gabe’s parliamentary business could not be abandoned on a whim.

  She stared up at the house while she waited for her maid to gather up their belongings and alight. She had expected something on a grand scale—after all, Freddy was a Duke—but she had not expected anything quite so old and rambling. Freddy had called it a pile. It was a sprawling, warm red-brick place with stone towers above the arched front entrance.

  The drive from the gatehouse, where she was sure there had been a portcullis at some point in time, had been extraordinarily beautiful, spreading oaks scattered across a rolling green park filled with deer. She could almost imagine Freddy riding hell for leather around the grounds as a boy. It would have been a wonderful place to bring up children.

  A pang caused a hitch in her breathing. A sense of loss. The knowledge that it would not be her children who would grow up in this lovely old house. The footman climbed down from the box and hurried to ring the doorbell, but a butler with a prim mouth and small stature was already walking sedately down the steps. A groom appeared around the side of the house and led the carriage away, along with her maid and luggage.

  ‘If you would care to follow me, miss, Their Graces are waiting in the drawing room.’

  At that moment Freddy stepped out onto the drive. ‘It is all right, Patterson,’ he said. ‘I will show Miss Rideau the way.’

  The tension in her shoulders flowed away, though she hadn’t realised quite how nervous she’d been about this meeting until it dissipated. After their last encounter, when it had been obvious she didn’t trust him, she hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t withdraw from her completely. Every time she thought of the way she’d dressed and played her part, she flushed hot then went cold. If he didn’t know the extent of her carnal knowledge, he must now guess she knew far more than a gently bred girl ought.

  Pierre had been bad for her in so many ways, and not just because of his betrayal.

  With the utmost courtesy, Freddy held out his arm and walked her beneath the stone arch, through an ancient door and into a rectangular medieval great hall. A beautifully carved screen occupied one end and a huge fireplace dominated the centre of one long wall. Faded banners and painted shields hung on stone above the dark panelling, along with ancient weaponry. The only items of furniture were an enormously long trestle table and some horribly uncomfortable-looking carved wooden armchairs.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is positively antiquated.’

  Freddy patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, most of the house is quite modern. We only use the Great Hall for large events and when the Duke needs to make an impression.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I can just imagine the three of us dining here in state, you at one end and your mother at the other and me in the middle, unable to speak without shouting.’

  ‘If Mother had her way, your imagination might not be far from the truth.’

  Another wry remark about his mother. The woman must be a veritable dragon. But then, she was a duchess.

  He led them through yet another arch into a paved corridor and from there into an elegantly appointed room full of light, with pale green walls and cornices of white and gilt. It was, she realised, a perfect cube in the Palladian style.

  The woman seated where the light from the window fell on her embroidery looked up at their entry. She was lovely. Dainty, with gold-blonde hair shot through with threads of silver and skin that made one think of peaches and cream. She was dressed in lavender. Half-mourning? Blue eyes arctic enough to freeze one’s blood remained fixed on Minette’s face while Freddy made the introductions. Now she knew from where Freddy inherited his cold expression.

  Minette dipped a curtsey.

  The eyes assessed her performance with chilly intensity, while the face showed no expression at all. The perfect aristocrat.

  ‘Miss Rideau.’ The duchess gestured for her to take a seat. ‘Welcome to Falconwood. My son has told me much about you.’ There was a fragility to her air, in the lightness of her voice. As if it was almost too great an effort for her to speak.

  Oh, dear. This was likely to be a lot worse than she had hoped. She sat down in the seat set at a right angle to the Duchess.

  ‘Was your journey bearable?’ the dowager asked. ‘I would have sent our carriage for you. It was built for me by my husband, who took every care of my person, but Freddy said it was not necessary.’ The blue eyes turned to her son. ‘Not worth the bother of getting it cleaned and polished, I think you said.’

  The barb apparently sail
ed over Freddy’s head. ‘Lord, no. You haven’t had it on the road in years. The last time you went in it to Town you said it was the most dreadfully uncomfortable trip you had ever undertaken.’

  ‘You misremember,’ his mother said. ‘It certainly was not the fault of the carriage. The roads are much improved since then.’

  The atmosphere in the room was frosty. Minette smiled. ‘It was a very pleasant journey, thank you. Mooreshead made sure I had all the necessary comforts.’

  The duchess frowned. ‘You accent is quite noticeable.’

  ‘Miss Rideau is half-French, Mother, and lived in France until quite recently. I informed you of that fact both in my letter and when I arrived yesterday.’

  Defending her, when he had not defended himself. Warmth spread in her chest.

  His mother’s shoulders stiffened. ‘You said nothing about her speech. I am sure I had no intention to criticise, I just didn’t expect...’ Her voice trailed off in a weak gesture of her hand.

  Freddy’s lips flattened to a thin straight line as if he was doing all in his power not to say something harsh.

  Minette kept her expression pleasant. ‘My mother was English, but she died when I was very young. I am sure, in time, I will become less noticeably French.’

  ‘I like the way you speak,’ Freddy said stiffly.

  She gave him a grateful smile.

  His mother gazed at him thoughtfully, her glance holding such coldness Minette stifled the urge to shiver. ‘Ring for tea, Falconwood. Miss Rideau must be parched after her journey.’

  Stone-faced, he strode across to the bell-pull beside a hearth of brilliant white plaster carved with vegetation and ferocious-looking animals.

  ‘Your leg is dragging more than usual,’ his mother said with a grimace. ‘I told you not to hack out on that animal of yours this morning. It tires you.’

  Freddy glared at her as he returned to his seat. ‘What would you have me do, take up embroidery?’

  His mother laughed, a tinkle of sound laced with malice. ‘Do not tease so, Freddy. No, you would be better off spending time with the accounts, seeing to the business of running the estate. A gentle walk in the park...’

  Fury heated Minette’s blood. How could the woman be so stupid as to treat Freddy with so little regard for his pride? She wanted to take the woman by the shoulders and give her a good shake.

  Fortunately for them all the butler entered at that moment, followed by a line of footmen carrying ludicrously enormous silver trays. The butler set a side table in front of the Duchess, and the footmen carefully set out a tea urn, sandwiches cut so fine it looked as if they would blow away if one breathed too hard, and small fancy cakes along with sweetmeats.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Your Grace?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Freddy said.

  His mother stiffened as if he’d offered her some insult.

  Freddy winced. ‘Mother, did you require anything?’

  ‘No, thank you, Patterson,’ the Duchess said, her face a frozen mask. ‘I will ring if I need you.’

  What was going on here? It was horrid. Mother and son were at loggerheads in the politest of ways. Minette felt as if there were sharp daggers flying about her head. If she moved incautiously she might lose an arm, or worse.

  The duchess commenced the ritual of tea.

  ‘I assume you drink tea, Miss Rideau?’ The Dowager Duchess’s mouth turned down. ‘I have heard the French prefer coffee.’

  ‘I like tea,’ Minette said, wishing her smile didn’t feel so stiff and awkward.

  Were mother and son always so tense? Was it the presence of a stranger in their midst making them so uncomfortable with each other? Hopefully, when they were used to her company, things would become more relaxed. She had a feeling she might be wishing for the moon.

  * * *

  Freddy glowered across the tea tray. If Mother made one more unpleasant remark to or about Minette, he would take her to task and to hell with propriety. She could carp at him all she liked. He didn’t care. Neither did he any longer give a fig that the sight of him walking across the room made her queasy. He was hardened to her verbal attacks.

  It did matter if she hurt Minette’s feelings, though he couldn’t help the surge of pride at the way Minette had stood up for herself against Mother’s claws. Perfectly polite and yet showing the steel in her spine.

  ‘From which part of France does your family come?’ Mother asked, after a silence that had lasted a fraction too long. Deliberately so.

  ‘The Vendée.’ Minette smiled. ‘Our château was like your house, very old. Dating to the fourteenth century in parts.’

  ‘Older than Falconwood, then,’ Freddy said, glancing at his mother, who always bragged about the antiquity of their line.

  ‘Our ancestors came over with William, Duke of Normandy,’ Mother said. ‘It was later in the family history that we settled here at Falconwood.’

  Minette sipped at her tea. ‘Perhaps we have some ancestors in common. I know that at least one chevalier from my father’s family joined the Duke.’ She put down her cup and saucer. ‘I always feel sorry for the Saxon King, Harold. William’s was the flimsiest excuse on which to base a claim to the throne.’

  Mother pursed her lips. ‘I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about. I am no bluestocking, Miss Rideau. Such topics are best left in the schoolroom.’

  Freddy felt a growl form in his throat.

  ‘Mais oui,’ Minette said calmly, agreeably. ‘I notice Englishwomen have a horror of being thought educated. In France the gentlemen admire a woman with whom they can converse.’ She lowered her lashes a fraction. ‘Among other things.’

  An incautious mouthful of tea caused Freddy to choke. He carefully set his cup down on the table at his elbow. ‘If you have finished your tea, Miss Rideau, perhaps I may give you a tour of the house before you retire to change for dinner?’

  His mother gave him an assessing glance. A small smile touched her lips, and he steeled himself to parry her next thrust. ‘Make sure you show Miss Rideau the Long Gallery, Falconwood.’

  Oh, very clever, Mother dear. The last place he would want to take his intended.

  She continued without pause. ‘Our most recent addition is a wonderful portrait by Lawrence. A fine example of his work, I am told.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Dinner is at six. I like to keep country hours when we are dining en famille.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Minette said, rising to her feet and dipping a respectful curtsey. ‘We always do so at Meak, my brother-in-law’s estate.’

  Freddy held out his arm, and they strolled from the room.

  The fingers on his sleeve trembled. Damn Mother’s mean-spirited innuendoes. Only when they were a good distance from the drawing room did he let himself speak. ‘I apologise for my mother’s sharp tongue. I hope she did not give offence.’

  Her short, sharp exhalation spoke of impatience. ‘Why is she so awful to you?’

  Cross. Not hurt. Good lord, was she angry on his behalf? ‘I was more concerned for you.’

  ‘She looks at you so coldly, as if...’ She breathed in and when he glanced down at her face he was surprised to see twin spots of anger on her cheeks. ‘It is as if she has not a scrap of maternal feeling towards you.’

  ‘She doesn’t. Her firstborn was the sun, moon and stars in her eyes. I am a poor replacement.’ The moment he’d spoken he regretted the bitterness in his words, but it was the truth. Some of it.

  The concern remained on her face. ‘I thought your older brother died years ago.’

  ‘Yes. But as yet she is not reconciled to her loss.’ It was one way to couch his mother’s antipathy.

  ‘It is almost as if she blames you for his death.’

  He was to blame. He’d tormented Reggie into taking up his challenge. Freddy had always known how to make his older brother rise to the bait. And then he’d watched him die. Something burned at the back of his throat. He stiffened against the surge of emotion. Took a deep, slow
breath. Damn it all, he never talked about the accident. Surely reliving that day over and over in his dreams was punishment enough? He let the ice inside him surround his unwanted emotions and took a deep breath. ‘She is angry.’ Angry that he had been the one to survive.

  ‘She hurts you.’

  How could she imagine she knew what he felt, when he felt nothing? His back teeth ground against each other. Forcibly, he relaxed his jaw. ‘I don’t let it trouble me, but I will speak to her.’ He would not have Mother making Minette’s life miserable. ‘Would you like to see his portrait?’

  She looked sad. ‘Only if you would like to show me.’

  For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he did want her to see Reggie and he didn’t. His brother would have liked her. They would have competed for her attention. And Reggie’s innate easy charm would no doubt have won the day. It was a hard truth to swallow.

  He walked her up to the second floor and along to the east wing. The long gallery was one of the most beautiful parts of the house and also one of the most ancient. He and Reggie had spent endless hours here on rainy days when not tied to their books. As they had grown older, Reggie had spent more time with their father, learning the duties he would one day inherit, spending less and less time with Freddy. He’d been envious of his father’s attention to his older brother. Of his father’s pride in his elder son. It was partly why he’d tempted Reggie into playing truant on the day of the accident.

  They walked past the family portraits, some large by famous artists of the time and some little more than miniatures, until they came to the portrait of his immediate family done by a local artist. They stood together in front of a view of one of the most beautiful parts of Falconwood’s park. Dogs gambolled at his father’s feet, his mother a radiant beauty, not the pinched, pale creature she was today. Reggie stood beside his father, so like his mother with his golden hair and bright blue eyes, already showing signs of the man. Both parents were looking with pride at their elder son. On the other side of his seated mother stood Freddy. The ugly duckling, dark-complexioned with a beak of a nose and overly large hands and feet for the size of his frame. At twelve, he’d been embarrassingly short and skinny. He certainly didn’t look like the rest of his family, though his father’s hair was brown, not golden.