A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  Her father almost had apoplexy at her words. She had feared that if his complexion turned redder, he might just burst. Inwardly, she envisioned steam coming out of his ears and hid a laugh behind her handkerchief.

  “A woman is meant to lose her independence to a man. She’s supposed to be seen and not heard,” he had countered impatiently.

  “Not this woman,” she firmly replied. “I have no desire to become a wealthy man’s property. I’d rather die a spinster than make some man richer with my dowry.”

  Her father’s hands had curled into fists. “I blame your aunt for leaving you such a sizeable inheritance. I fear it has gotten into your head.”

  He would know about her wealth because he oversaw her financial affairs. She had pursed her lips to refrain from divulging what she had done with the said inheritance. It was a secret between her and her aunt. Her father might swoon if he ever got to know.

  “Papa,” she had called, trying to muster as much softness in her voice as she could, for she was weary of such arguments all the time, “please don’t worry about me. I repeat I have no desire to be wed, and that’s that. I grow weary of such arguments all the time. Please accept this decision that I’ve made.”

  Her father, his face flushed with anger, had stated, “I will never accept it. You have a generous dowry that would make men from here to Hyde Park beat down your door, but you’ve chosen to be foolish about it. You will be wed. Do not take my threats idly."

  She had watched him stalk out of the drawing room that day. She had wished she could make him understand that never would she avail herself of the travesty called marriage.

  Tempest withdrew the pillow from her head as her face contorted in a frown. Her father was still angry with her for turning down several suitable matches as he was wont to call them. Thank goodness her rejections hadn’t created scandals for the ton to have something to gossip about.

  Immediately the men had approached her, she had politely but firmly declined their offer. She hadn’t bothered to lead them on by going for a walk with them or a ride to the park. The ones who had offered to escort her to balls and soirees had also been turned down. Quite bluntly, she had told them she wasn’t in any way interested in whatever they had to offer.

  Mary returned at that moment with the cold compress. She gently placed it on her mistress’s head. Tempest exhaled softly as the coolness of the cloth did wonders for her aching head.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Tempest, Miss Valerie is here to see you,” Mary informed her mistress.

  Tempest couldn’t help letting out a groan. She toyed with the idea of telling her maid to inform Valerie that she was unwell. Knowing Valerie, she would stalk up the stairs to make sure. Not that she made it a habit to avoid her cousin; far from it. She was wary of the young chit’s talk about marriage.

  Valerie, being eighteen years old, was desperate to be married. The silly child couldn’t hold a conversation without bringing marriage into it. She always went against her reasoning whenever Tempest told her the ills of answering to a man’s beck and call and pandering to his every need.

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to be an old maid like you, Tempest. At twenty-two, you ought to be married with children.”

  Tempest grimaced when she recalled the last conversation she had had with her cousin concerning marriage. Then, Valerie had been preparing for her second season. Her first hadn’t been successful.

  Tempest chuckled as the pain in her head began receding. She remembered her first and only season with humour. Of course, she hadn’t wanted to engage in the folly of parading herself for a suitor to look her way, but her father had put his foot down on the matter. She gave him allowances to win their battles sometimes. So, she had prepared, trussed up like a turkey about to be auctioned and attended one ball after another.

  From the stoical way she had replied to all the men who approached her at such soirees, she had been shocked to receive offers before the season was over. She had endeavoured to find one excuse or the other to reject their offers, much to her father’s chagrin.

  She had vehemently refused to go on her second season, calling it a waste of time. Her father had threatened hail and brimstone, but she had stood her ground. She wasn’t going through that torture again of numerous balls, forced polite conversations and multiple dancing that could cripple someone. No, such things weren’t for her.

  Resignedly, she said, “Tell her I’ll be down shortly. Then come back and help me prepare.”

  “Yes, Miss Tempest.”

  Over the next hour, as Tempest prepared to receive her cousin since she couldn’t avoid her, she pondered on her view concerning marriage. She couldn’t quite say when she started harbouring ill-feelings towards marriage.

  Her parents had had a beautiful union before her mother’s demise. A smile played at her lips as she fondly remembered the love her parents had shared. An emotion, which she considered silly now. It made one do the most outrageous of things just to please one’s partner. Not that she had ever been in love, and she hoped to God that she would never succumb to the dreadful feeling.

  Unperturbed was she by the whispers and snickering behind fans that she received whenever she was out in public. If she was going to be called an old maid for the rest of her life, so be it.

  “An oddity you are,” her Aunt Beth would say.

  At sixteen, she had already known she wasn’t going to get married. She wasn’t like those silly debutantes trying to snag wealthy and handsome men for themselves.

  Oh, dear, that sounds pretty condescending.

  Simply because she didn’t believe in the art of matrimony didn’t mean she had to belittle those who did. After all, her mother, bless her dear soul, had been ensconced in it.

  Perhaps, Papa is right after all. Maybe coming into a considerable inheritance at such a young age altered my thoughts about men. Mayhap if I wasn’t a wealthy lady, I too would be looking for a man to snag.

  A giggle released from her lips as her maid pulled a brush through her hair. She imagined herself at a ball, batting her eyelids at a man and waving her fan at her flushed face, pretending she was about to swoon so the man could catch her.

  Oh, how silly she would look. She had seen that act so many times during her first season and thought it shameless. Sometimes, she wished she were a man who ladies fawned over so she could tell them off in the sternest of ways.

  Alas, she was a woman who was beholden to be answerable to a man, which was unfair in her opinion. Her mother, as she taught her to read and write, and various etiquette meant for ladies, had also encouraged her to accept the things she couldn’t change. Her aunt, however, tutored her differently.

  “I believe in independence,” Aunt Beth once said. “I mean taking your destiny into your own hands.”

  Little wonder she never married. And now, Tempest was following in her footsteps and loving it. She acknowledged that had her mother been alive, perhaps she might be married with two small children now.

  A shudder went through her at the thought. No, Mama wouldn’t have forced her to get married as her father wanted. She would have talked about the beauty of falling in love until she sold the idea to her daughter.

  Garbed in a pale yellow muslin gown, she sailed out of her room after instructing Mary to tell one of the kitchen maids to serve tea in the drawing room.

  She crossed the hall in dainty steps and descended the carpet-covered stairs. Pictures of her ancestors graced the walls, but she didn’t bother to glance at any of them. The only portrait she was ever interested in was that of her late mother.

  As she stepped her foot into the drawing room, Valerie pushed herself from the French windows. A woebegone look marked her lovely face, which got Tempest’s delicately carved brows rising.

  “What took you so long? I’m in despair!”

  Good Lord, I should have stayed abed all day.

  Chapter 2

  Strombridge, 1816

  Massive coughing wracked the bod
y of the deathly thin woman on her sickbed. Agnes sighed as she wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. It was no longer a thing of surprise to see blood mixed with her spittle.

  She was dying, and she knew it. As she lay back upon her satin pillows, looking as white as death with her ragged breathing, she recalled what Dr Camden had said.

  The crushed expression on his face had told its own story. After examining her, he had shaken his head repeatedly.

  “It’s not looking good,” he had finally informed her.

  “Oh, please, Camden. I’m not a child. Tell me without mincing words how bad it is,” she had snapped at the man with a sour countenance.

  Dr. Camden, still shaking the mop of grey hair on his head, had rubbed his chin before casting wary eyes on her.

  “I reckon you have at most a few weeks to live. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to save you. The ailment has eaten deep in your body.”

  Well, she had asked for it. Years of hiding her emotions had kept her from bursting into uncontrollable tears. Even as her lips had quivered, she had hidden it behind her handkerchief.

  “Very well,” she had said. “I’ll put things in order before my demise. Thank you for your honesty.”

  The doctor had nodded, put back his tools in his wooden box, and left. That was over a month ago. She had been confined to her sickbed ever since. Her lawyer had been called to make the appropriate arrangements.

  Another bout of coughing wracked her body. The bed creaked heavily as she moved back and forth, willing the painful pangs to stop.

  A sigh left her lips when it finally came to an end. Sometimes, she wished death would just take her so that she could stop going through such pains. But that would mean leaving her nephew too soon.

  Tears smarted her eyes, and she hastily brushed them back. A fulfilled life she had lived. Married to the man of her dreams, she had experienced love until death took him away at a rather young age. After sizing up the male population, she had decided she wouldn’t remarry come what may. Instead, she had devoted her time in taking care of her nephew and traveling. Three countries, two continents; not everyone could boast of that.

  Her only regret was that she wouldn’t see her dear Hudson get married before the cold hands of death took her away. Worry and fear for him kept her awake most nights—including her ailment.

  She wished dearly that his proposal to his childhood friend hadn’t been rejected years back. He would have been married, and she would have been blessed to see his children; to carry them on her knees and tell them stories.

  A lone tear slid down her pale cheek. Hudson had grown to become a handsome and wealthy man, but she feared he might end up a pauper without her to guide him through life. Strongly did she believe that a wife would be the one to curb her nephew’s excesses. Her fear that he might squander his wealth like some of his peers grew stronger by the day.

  “Dear God, please take care of my precious boy,” she murmured as she dashed her handkerchief across her lips.

  After a soft knock on it, the door opened silently. The man in question strode into the room, filling it with his presence. She had always known him to be a handsome lad, but at just twenty-two, he had become devastatingly attractive.

  As he strode to her bed with long-legged strides, she studied him with fond eyes. At six feet four, he towered over her, staring down at her with those piercing, unreadable blue eyes that reminded her of the ocean. His brown slashing brows creased in a frown. His lithe and lean frame was a testament to his strength. She reached up a thin hand to cup his angular clean-shaven chin as he sat beside her. Just like his ancestors who he shared aristocratic features with, he had deep-set eyes, aquiline nose, and a strong jaw.

  “How are you today, Aunt Agnes?” he questioned in his deep masculine tones.

  “As well as I can be given the situation,” she answered lightly.

  A tightening in his jaw was the only indication he gave that he was troubled by her unfortunate circumstance. He had been doing an excellent job of hiding his distress over her condition, but she saw the worry lines creasing his face at times when he thought she was sleeping, or wasn’t looking.

  “I came to inform you that I’m off to London.”

  “Oh.”

  She hoped to God that he didn’t read the concern in her eyes. Whenever he made a trip to London, she would worry until he got back. A man of his vast wealth—though a lot of people weren’t aware of it—could easily fall prey to a life of debauchery.

  He was already seen as a dandy because of his style of dressing. Although she didn’t understand what was wrong with a man preferring to wear trousers to breeches. Hudson was quite a stylish fellow with a clean cravat always tied around his neck.

  One of her friends had once compared him to an elegant feline. Agnes had laughed because the woman knew nothing of her nephew. While Hudson was mild-mannered with relaxed moves, he could move very fast when riled. She had witnessed it a number of times.

  Most people usually had the wrong impression about her nephew. Society saw him as a libertine, a never-do-well just enjoying his family’s wealth, but they had no idea he was a very brilliant man who had invested wisely and had two inheritances courtesy of his uncle. As the fourth son in his family, he hadn’t amassed great family wealth, but he was doing remarkably well on his own.

  Therein lay her fears. The boy had done so well for himself that she feared that he might just gamble it all away. Not that she had heard any rumour about him being a habitual visitor to a gaming parlour, but it took only one visit to get hooked. She should know because her late uncle had done so and lived to regret it.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I might as well just tell you now.” Hudson lifted her hand to his lips as a small smile graced his face.

  Her brows arched. “What are you talking about, dear boy?”

  “A woman has agreed to my proposal. I’m heading to London to get a special license so we can be wed immediately.”

  A smile to rival the sun spanned across Agnes’s face. Dear God, this was what she had been praying for, that Hudson would finally settle down and become a man.

  ***

  The bright smile that crossed his aunt’s face made Hudson Danvers believe that all his efforts to get married were well worth it. She clasped her thin hands in his. Tears of joys glazed her eyes, which brought a thick emotion clogging his throat.

  It was all for her. Even if he wished he had made another match, seeing how happy his words had made his aunt brought him joy. She was the only woman in the world he would go to the extreme for.

  “Hudson, I don’t know what to say,” she finally said in a small voice.

  Ever since the illness took over her body, his usual witty and loquacious aunt had shriveled. Observing as the ailment slowly took her away from him, every day was sheer torture. He had done everything he could to try to get her treatment to the unknown sickness all to no avail. No doctor seemed to be able to find a cure. They all shook their heads in sorrow after their examinations.

  “Say you’re happy for me,” he told her, raising her hand to his lips again.

  Tears spilled down her thin face. “Of course, I’m happy for you. But why didn’t you tell me? You would spring a wife on me? Oh, I suppose I should expect that from you. You’ve been doing that all your life, you naughty boy.”

  Hudson smiled. This was the most extended conversation he had had with her in a while. Usually, she was too weak or too sick to talk much. The news of his impending marriage seemed to have brought life into her. Perhaps …

  He shook his head. It was too much to hope that his marriage might bring a miraculous recovery. The doctors had been firm in saying that she had very little time to live.