Regency Wolfe: A de Wolfe Pack Connected World collection of Victorian and Regency Tales

by Mary Lancaster

  Regency Wolfe

  A Collection of Victorian and Regency Tales

  Mary Lancaster, Lana Williams, Amanda Mariel, Laura Landon

  Text copyright by the Authors.

  This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.

  All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  By Alexa Aston

  Rise of de Wolfe

  By Amanda Mariel

  Love’s Legacy

  By Anna Markland

  Hungry Like de Wolfe

  By Autumn Sands

  Reflection of Love

  By Barbara Devlin

  Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1

  The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2

  Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3

  By Cathy MacRae

  The Saint

  By Christy English

  Dragon Fire

  By Hildie McQueen

  The Duke’s Fiery Bride

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  River’s End

  By Lana Williams

  Trusting the Wolfe

  By Laura Landon

  A Voice on the Wind

  By Leigh Lee

  Of Dreams and Desire

  By Mairi Norris

  Brabanter’s Rose

  By Marlee Meyers

  The Fall of the Black Wolf

  By Mary Lancaster

  Vienna Wolfe

  By Meara Platt

  Nobody’s Angel

  Kiss an Angel

  Bhrodi’s Angel

  By Mia Pride

  The Lone Wolf’s Lass

  By Ruth Kaufman

  My Enemy, My Love

  By Sarah Hegger

  Bad Wolfe on the Rise

  By Scarlett Cole

  Together Again

  By Victoria Vane

  Breton Wolfe Book 1

  Ivar the Red Book 2

  The Bastard of Brittany Book 3

  By Violetta Rand

  Never Cry de Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  Vienna Wolfe

  Mary Lancaster

  Trusting the Wolfe

  Lana Williams

  Love’s Legacy

  Amanda Mariel

  A Voice on the Wind

  Laura Landon

  Vienna Wolfe

  (The Imperial Season 3.5)

  Mary Lancaster

  Chapter One

  Without doubt, Elise caused the accident by daydreaming. Lost in her own thoughts of a certain nobleman known as the English Wolf, she paid no attention to her surroundings until a horse and laden cart swerved to avoid her. Unfortunately, the carter drove straight into the path of a magnificent, white stallion which reared up in fury, all plunging hooves and tossing head as it screamed in outrage.

  Even then, Elise could have saved herself by simply moving out of the way. But her gaze was riveted to the beautiful, white horse and its dark, powerful rider who held on with hands and knees of apparent iron. She found herself too stunned to move. Surely, the English Wolf himself.

  The rider clearly had control. The stallion’s dangerous hooves would have come back to earth without further incident, if only its behavior hadn’t, in turn, frightened the cart horse, which bolted onward, dragging the cart right into the way of the flying hooves.

  It was only one kick, but it couldn’t have been better placed for maximum carnage. One of the traces broke and the laden cart tipped up. Only then, as barrels plunged directly at her, did Elise stumble backward to save herself.

  However, the street was narrow and her reaction was unforgivably slow. A glancing blow against her shoulder sent her sprawling to the ground amidst a hail of her own heavy parcels. Something struck her ankle, causing it to twist with agonizing pain.

  Amidst the cries of horror and anger, a deep, male voice issued sharp commands in English and then repeated them in German. Through the haze of her pain and humiliation, Elise was aware that the noise had quieted, that the horses were calm and the carter’s boy and several passers-by by were moving the fallen barrels. The white stallion stood riderless but still, its reins held close by a slim gentleman at its head. Not its rider. She was sure she’d recognized quite a different gentleman in the saddle. Unless her imagination had been playing tricks.

  A kindly Viennese woman in a flowered bonnet bent over Elise, asking her if she was hurt, offering to help her rise.

  “Thank you, I’m fine,” Elise managed. The pain in her ankle seemed to be fading until she moved and had to bite her lip to stop from yelping.

  “You’re not fine at all,” said an irritated male voice on her other side. It was the same voice that had been issuing commands to bring order into the chaos she’d caused.

  Elise turned her head quickly and gazed into the harshly handsome face of Colonel Francis Wolfe, Earl of Warenton, the English Wolf himself.

  She’d been right. He had, indeed, been the rider of the white stallion—which was certainly ironic if not downright humiliating, considering the silly stuff of her daydreams when she’d walked into the cart.

  “Where do you hurt?” Beneath straight, black brows, his dark eyes scanned the length of her person, perhaps for signs of blood, until they came to rest on her face.

  She’d never been close enough to actually look into his eyes before. From a distance, they’d seemed to match the rest of him—commanding, perceptive, handsome, down-to-earth and quite impersonal, with just a hint of aristocratic haughtiness.

  Well, he was, indeed, of a noble English family, and the commander of a crack regiment of dragoons which had distinguished itself many times in the fight against Napoleon Bonaparte. In fact, it was the French who’d first called him Le Loup Anglais. The recent, unexpected death of his older brother had made him Earl of Warenton, but even in the plain black coat he wore just now, he still looked every inch the soldier.

  She’d no real idea why he, of all people, the man her employer’s niece was pursuing for matrimonial purposes, should have become the subject of her foolish daydreams. Except that he was tall and handsome and capable, and immeasurably above most of the young, silly men who crossed her path. It was undeniably shocking to find herself this close to him as he crouched over her. And those eyes weren’t impersonal at all. Beneath the impassive veil that was all the world saw, they seethed and boiled, though with what, she couldn’t tell. She only hoped it wasn’t anger.

  “Is your horse hurt?” she blurted.

  A quick frown twitched down his brow. “Of course not. But I think you are.”

  “No, no, I’m—” She broke off, breath hissing between her teeth as she again tried to rise.

  At the same time, a hired green Imperial carriage rumbled by, narrowly missing Elise and Lord Warenton as it scraped by the damaged cart. Lord Warenton uttered something impatient under his breath, then simply swept her up in his arms and strode along the road.

  Elise opened her mouth to pro
test at such high-handed treatment, but no words came out. She might have been a baby for all the effort he seemed to exert. And besides, the hard strength of his arms and the chest against which she lay was curiously intimidating. Without warning, he swerved right into a doorway a foot or so back from its neighbors and deposited Elise on the step with surprising gentleness.

  Again he crouched beside her. “It’s your ankle, isn’t it?” And with no further warning, he shoved aside her skirt, exposing her ankle, and began to unlace her shoe.

  “Sir!” she cried, outraged.

  He cast her an even more impatient look while easing off her shoe with surprising gentleness. “Calm yourself, madam. Am I likely to assault you quite so publicly? I assure you, I have no designs upon your virtue.”

  “I never supposed you had,” she replied honestly. “But neither am I used to being so handled!”

  “Are you used to falling down in the street and being struck by rampaging barrels?” he inquired with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “No, that is new,” she allowed. “Though I used to walk into walls and doors as a child.”

  His fingers encircled her ankle, causing her breath to catch. Her whole body flushed with embarrassment. Warenton gently yet firmly probed her ankle and the surrounding area.

  He glanced up. “You walked into doors? Are you short-sighted?”

  “No, just easily distracted,” she admitted.

  The ghost of a smile crossed his rather hard face and vanished so quickly that she wondered if she’d been mistaken.

  “Thank you for your care,” she said on a rush. “And I’m so sorry for startling your horse. I’m sure my ankle is quite recovered now. I really must get back.”

  Again, he glanced up from her ankle. With shock, she realized that her stockinged foot now rested on his muscular thigh.

  “Back where?” he asked.

  Just as she’d thought, he had no idea who she was.

  “To my employer,” she said calmly.

  His gaze flickered over the strewn parcels as he untied and unraveled his neck cloth. “I’m sure your employer can wait five more minutes to receive you and your somewhat crushed parcels.”

  “Oh dear,” Elise sighed, gazing at them in dismay. A stray dog was already tearing its way in to the lamb until some children shooed it away and began to gather up her parcels for her. The paints and brushes had clearly been run over. She would have to go out again.

  She brought her slightly baffled attention back to the earl, who was quickly and efficiently binding his cravat around her ankle. Now that the pain was easing, she felt every touch, every brush of his skin on hers like a flame. The heat rushed through her body to her face.

  “You’re very kind, sir,” she managed.

  “Not in the slightest,” he said impatiently. “It was my horse that caused the problem. He’s a fierce war horse, but too skittish in the city. I shouldn’t ride him here.”

  She blinked. “Was that an apology?”

  Tearing a split in the ends of his makeshift bandage, he neatly tied it off before glancing up from his handiwork. “You sound surprised.”

  “I thought you never apologized.”

  It was certainly his reputation, according to Miss Sylvia, her employer’s niece. But at her words, Elise was sure a veil dropped back over his eyes. For some reason, she thought he was disappointed.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Elise de Sancerre.”

  She hadn’t expected him to recognize the name and he clearly didn’t. “Well, Mademoiselle, the bandage will give your ankle some support and protection. Fortunately, it does not appear to be broken. I suspect it’s badly bruised, though, so it will be sore for several days. Allow me to summon you a cab.”

  “Oh no, please, I have not far to go.” And she had no money to pay a hired carriage. Miss Renleigh would be outraged. On top of furious at the damage done to her parcels.

  “Then I shall take you myself.”

  She stared, tensing as he slipped the shoe back on her foot and swiftly re-tied the laces. For the first time since her boots had finally disintegrated last winter, she thanked God she had only these shoes to wear on her feet. A boot would never have fitted over the bandage and would have hurt, besides.

  Carefully, he lowered her foot to the bottom step and stood, clasping her fingers to draw her to her feet. Her hand jumped in his. Ridiculously, it seemed a more intimate touch than that on her ankle. Perhaps it was the fault of his overwhelming presence. Now that she stood beside him, he seemed immensely tall.

  With his free hand, he flicked a coin to the two children guarding her ragged parcels. They grinned with delight, picking them up and preparing, clearly, to follow.

  Warenton swung back to Elise, scowling down at her. “Don’t you have gloves? Your hand is freezing.”

  And rough with the winter cold and careless needlework. She swallowed her shame. “I left them at home,” she lied.

  Unexpectedly, another smile flickered across his face. “You really are easily distracted, aren’t you? What is it you think about while you freeze yourself to death and leap in front of wild horses?”

  “A better world,” she said ruefully.

  His lips curved into a lopsided smile. “And I’m told young ladies are incapable of deep thought.”

  “I’m six and twenty, so not so young. Besides,” she added in the interests of honesty, “I only meant my world, which is a very narrow definition.”

  “Is it? Vienna during the Peace Congress is surely a broader world than most of us are used to.”

  “Vienna, yes,” she allowed. “But I regret to inform you that the great rulers of Europe neglect to consult me.”

  She often threw away remarks like that. Usually no one listened and, if by some chance people heard, they never saw the humor.

  “Fools,” the earl said gravely, although his eyes danced beguilingly enough to deprive her of breath all over again.

  In self-preservation, she dropped her gaze and discovered her hand still lost in his. Despite the pleasurable warmth, she began to snatch it back. Warenton held on, merely placing it in the crook of his arm instead. From instinct, she stepped forward when he did, wincing slightly as she took her weight on her sore foot.

  “Lean on me,” he ordered.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  “You are French,” he observed.

  “Yes. You are doubly kind to help the enemy.”

  “That’s not my reputation, either. Is that how you think of me?”

  Le Loup Anglais. The English Wolf… She blinked. “As kind? Of course!”

  “As the enemy,” he said wryly.

  Elise, who had always known she was foolish to think of him at all, said only, “You are a soldier, are you not? You have been fighting the French for a long time.”

  “I remember. You’re not giving much away, are you?”

  “It’s my nature. If you have a question, ask me.” Never had it entered her head that he would speak to her at all, unless it was Will you tell Miss Renleigh I am here or Pass the milk. He had been in her company several times before this. The realization that he finally saw her both thrilled and terrified her.

  She kept her attention on the ground, barely feeling the discomfort of her injured ankle. Step, limp, step, limp. Don’t lean on him… And yet, she felt his gaze burning into the side of her face.

  “Why did you look at me like that?”

  Her eyes flew up to his. Whatever she had expected, it was not that. “Like what? When?”

  He gave an impatient shrug. “When you first looked round at me. As if I’d saved you rather than injured you.”

  Heat surged into her cheeks and she tore her gaze free. “You’re mistaken, sir. I accuse you of neither. Though I am grateful for your assistance.”

  He waved that aside if her words annoyed him. Nervously, she saw that they were approaching the turning into Fahrengasse. If either of the Renleigh ladies were to see her now, o
r even hear about her walking arm in arm with Lord Warenton, her life would not be worth living.

  He muttered, “I don’t ask for your gratitude. I don’t wish it.”

  “Well, I cannot help that you have it,” she said lightly. “However, if you would assist me in one more thing…?”

  “Of course,” he said at once, although she was sure that disappointment flickered, once more, in his gaze. Clearly, he thought she would ask him for money or favors of some kind. After all, she must look as if she needed them. And since he’d inherited his brother’s earldom, he must have been pursued relentlessly by fortune hunters and other greedy women.

  “Leave me here,” she said quietly, coming to a halt. “I find I can walk quite easily and the children will carry my shopping for me.”

  Only by the faintest twitch of his brow did he reveal his surprise.

  With difficulty, she held his gaze. “Neither my reputation nor my post would survive my arriving on your arm.”

  “Is my own reputation so dire?” he asked with a disarming hint of ruefulness.

  In truth, there were rumors of a Spanish contessa, several actresses and a minor member of the Bonaparte family, but those ladies were not Elise’s problem. “It is my position which is delicate,” she admitted.

  He searched her face with alarmingly perceptive eyes. “Very well. Only, tell me where I may inquire about your recovery.”

  She shook her head.

  “But I will see you again,” he said with certainty.

  Her smile was born of sadness as well as self-deprecating amusement. “No, you won’t see me again.”

  Something in her intonation must have bothered him, for a quick frown tugged down his brow.

  She drew her hand free of his arm and stepped back, holding it out to him instead. “Goodbye, sir.”

  “Au revoir,” he returned, though he took her hand and bowed over it punctiliously.

  She slipped free, tearing her gaze from his, and limped on. For a moment, she was afraid he would simply stand and watch her to see where she went, but he must have realized how singular that would appear to everyone in the street, including his friend who still held the restive stallion. As it was, she would be lucky if this story didn’t reach the gossip mongers.