“DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE GATHERED…”

Dazed, Tallie stood there listening to herself being married to The Icicle. And a very bad-tempered icicle he was, too. He was positively glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross, but it wasn’t as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.

Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about something—mainly with her. Toward others, he invariably remained cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with Tallie…It didn’t augur at all well for the future.

Anne Gracie was born in Australia, but spent her youth on the move, living in Malaysia, Greece and different parts of Australia before settling down. Her love of the Regency period began at the age of eleven, when she braved the adult library to borrow a Georgette Heyer novel, firmly convinced she would at any moment be ignominiously ejected and sent back to the children’s library in disgrace. She wasn’t. Anne lives in Melbourne, in a small wooden house that she will one day renovate.

Tallie’s Knight
Anne Gracie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Yorkshire, February 1803

‘My lord, I…I am sure that Mr Freddie—’ Freddie?’ Lord d’Arenville’s disapproving voice interrupted the maidservant. She flushed, smoothing her hands nervously down her starched white apron.

‘Er…Reverend Winstanley, I mean, sir. He won’t keep you waiting long, sir, ’tis just that—’

‘There is no need to explain,’ Lord d’Arenville coldly informed her. ‘I’ve no doubt Reverend Winstanley will come as soon as he is able. I shall wait.’ His hard grey gaze came to rest on a nearby watercolour. It was a clear dismissal. The maid backed hurriedly out of the parlour, turned and almost ran down the corridor.

Magnus, Lord d’Arenville, glanced around the room, observing its inelegant proportions and the worn and shabby furniture. A single poky window allowed an inadequate amount of light into the room. He strolled over to it, looked out and frowned. The window overlooked the graveyard, providing the occupants of the house with a depressing prospect of mortality.

Lord, how unutterably dreary, Magnus thought, seating himself on a worn, uncomfortable settee. Did all vicars live this way? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be certain, not having lived the sort of life that brought him into intimacy with the clergy. Quite the contrary, in fact. And had not his oldest friend, Freddie Winstanley, donned the ecclesiastical dog collar, Magnus would be languishing in blissful ignorance still.

Magnus sighed. Bored, stale and unaccountably restless, he’d decided on the spur of the moment to drive all the way up to Yorkshire to visit Freddie, whom he’d not seen for years. And now, having arrived, he was wondering if he’d done the right thing, calling unannounced at the cramped and shabby vicarage.

A faint giggle interrupted his musings. Magnus frowned and looked around. There was no one in sight. The giggle came again. Magnus frowned. He did not care to be made fun of.

‘Who is there?’

‘Huwwo, man.’ The voice came, slightly muffled, from a slight bulge in the curtains. As he looked, the curtains parted and a mischievous little face peeked out at him.

Magnus blinked. It was a child, a very small child—a female, he decided after a moment. He’d never actually met a child this size before, and though he was wholly unacquainted with infant fashions it seemed to him that the child looked more female than otherwise. It had dark curly hair and big brown pansy eyes. And it was certainly looking at him in that acquisitive way that so many females had.

He glanced towards the doorway, hoping someone would come and fetch the child back to where it belonged.

‘Huwwo, man,’ the moppet repeated sternly.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. Clearly he was expected to answer. How the devil did one address children anyway?

‘How do you do?’ he said after a moment.

At that, she smiled, and launched herself towards him in an unsteady rush. Horrified, Magnus froze. Contrary to all his expectations she crossed the room without coming to grief, landing at his knee. Grinning up at him, she clutched his immaculate buckskins in two damp, chubby fists. Magnus flinched. His valet would have a fit. The child’s hands were certain to be grubby. And sticky. Magnus might know nothing at all about children, but he was somehow sure about that.

‘Up, man.’ The moppet held up her arms in clear expectation of being picked up.

Magnus frowned down at her, trusting that his hitherto unchallenged ability to rid himself of unwanted feminine attention would be just as effective on this diminutive specimen.

The moppet frowned back at him.

Magnus allowed his frown to deepen to a glare.

The moppet glared back. ‘Up, man,’ she repeated, thumping a tiny fist on his knee.

Magnus cast a hunted glance towards the doorway, still quite appallingly empty.

The small sticky fist tugged his arm. ‘Up!’ she demanded again.

‘No, thank you,’ said Magnus in his most freezingly polite voice. Lord, would no one come and rescue him?

The big eyes widened and the small rosebud mouth drooped. The lower lip trembled, displaying to Magnus’s jaundiced eye all the unmistakable signs of a female about to burst into noisy, blackmailing tears. They certainly started young. No wonder they were so good at it by the time they grew up.

The little face crumpled.

Oh, Lord, thought Magnus despairingly. There was no help for it—he would have to pick her up. Gingerly he reached out, lifting her carefully by the waist until she was at eye-level with him. Her little feet dangled and she regarded him solemnly.

She reached out a pair of chubby, dimpled arms. ‘Cudd’w!’

Again, her demand was unmistakable. Cautiously he brought her closer, until suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck in a strong little grip that surprised him. In seconds she had herself comfortably ensconced on his lap, leaning back against one of his arms, busily ruining his neckcloth. It had only taken him half an hour to achieve its perfection, Magnus told himself wryly.

She chattered to him nonstop in a confiding flow, a mixture of English and incomprehensible gibberish, pausing every now and then to ask what sounded like a question. Magnus found himself replying. Lord, if anyone saw him now, he would never live it down. But he had no choice—he didn’t want to see that little face crumple again.

Once she stopped in the middle of what seemed an especially involved tale and looked up at him, scrutinising his face in a most particular fashion. Magnus felt faintly apprehensive, wondering what she might do. She reached up and traced the long, vertical groove in his right cheek with a small, soft finger.

‘What’s dis?’

He didn’t know what to say. A wrinkle? A crease? A long dimple? No one had ever before had the temerity to refer to it. ‘Er…it’s my cheek.’

She traced the groove once more, thoughtfully, then took his chin in one hand, turned his head, and traced the matching line down his other cheek. Then carefully, solemnly, she traced both at the same time. She stared at him for a moment, then, smiling, returned to her story, reaching up every now and then to trace a tiny finger down the crease in his cheek.

Gradually her steady chatter dwindled and the curly little head began to nod. Abruptly she yawned and snuggled herself more firmly into the crook of his arms. ‘Nigh-nigh,’ she murmured, and suddenly he felt the small body relax totally against him.

She was asleep. Sound asleep—right there in his arms.

For a moment Magnus froze, wondering what to do, then slowly he began to breathe again. He knew himself to be a powerful man—both physically and in worldly terms—but never in his life had he been entrusted with the warm weight of a sleeping child. It was an awesome responsibility.

He sat there frozen for some twenty minutes, until a faint commotion sounded in the hall. A pretty young woman glanced in, a harried expression on her face. Freddie’s wife. Joan. Jane. Or was it Jenny? Magnus was fairly sure he recognised her from the wedding. She opened her mouth to speak, and then saw the small sleeping figure in his arms.

‘Oh, thank heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for her.’

She turned and called to someone in the hallway. ‘Martha, run and tell Mr Freddie that we’ve found her.’

She turned back to Magnus. ‘I’m so sorry, Lord d’Arenville. We thought she’d got out into the garden and we’ve all been outside searching. Has she been a shocking nuisance?’

Magnus bethought himself of his ruined neckcloth and his no longer immaculate buckskins. His arm had a cramp from being unable to move and he had a nasty suspicion that there was a damp spot on his coat from where the little moppet had nuzzled his sleeve as she slept.

‘Not at all,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

And, to his great surprise, Magnus realised he meant it.

Chapter One

London, February 1803

‘I want you to help me find a wife, Tish.’

‘Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?’ responded Laetitia flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.

His chill grey stare bit into her. ‘I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you,’ said Magnus stiffly.

‘A bride? You? I don’t believe it, Magnus! You’ve hardly even talked to a respectable female in years—’

‘Which is why I require your assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible.’

‘As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in a tizzy!’ Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in mock surprise. ‘The impregnable Lord d’Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?’ Her rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is unexceptional enough—you will have to set up your nursery some time soon—but such unseemly haste suggests…There is no…ah…financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?’

Magnus frowned repressively. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested—I have decided to set up my nursery. I want children.’

‘Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn’t want a string of girls, would you?’

Magnus didn’t reply. A string of girls didn’t sound at all bad, he thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neckcloths while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie’s sturdy-legged boy, Sam.

The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind, even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all, brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.

However, far easier to let society believe that d’Arenville required an heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand times. He didn’t need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never would. He’d learned that lesson very young.

But the chink remained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line down his cheek.

It was a pity he’d had to ask Laetitia’s assistance. He’d never liked her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss and bother.

He returned to the point of issue. ‘You will assist me, Tish?’

‘What exactly did you have in mind? Almack’s? Balls, routs and morning calls?’ She laughed. ‘I must confess, I cannot imagine you doing the pretty, with all the fond mamas looking on, but it will be worth it, if only for the entertainment.’

He shuddered inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face remained impassive and faintly disdainful. ‘No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick.’

‘A house party?’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I loathe the country at this time of year.’

Magnus shrugged. ‘It needn’t be for long. A week or so will do.’

‘A week!’ Laetitia almost shrieked. ‘A week to court a bride! Lord, the ton will never stop talking about it.’

Magnus clenched his jaw. If there had been any other way he would have walked out then and there. But his cousin was a young, apparently respectable, society matron—exactly what he required. No one else could so easily introduce him to eligible young ladies. And she could help him circumvent the tedium of the dreaded marriage mart—courting under the eyes of hundreds. He shuddered inwardly again. Laetitia might be a shallow featherbrain with a taste for malicious gossip, and he disliked having to ask for her assistance in anything, but she was all he had.

‘Will you do it?’ he repeated.

Laetitia’s delicately painted features took on a calculating look. Magnus was familiar with the expression; he usually encountered it on the faces of less respectable females, though he’d first learnt it from his mother. He relaxed. This aspect of the female of the species was one he knew how to deal with.

‘It might be awkward for me to get away—the Season may not have started, but we have numerous engagements…’ She glanced meaningfully at the over-mantel mirror, the gilt frame of which bore half a dozen engraved invitations.

‘And to organise a house party at Manningham at such short notice…’ She sighed. ‘Well, it is a great deal of work, and I would have to take on extra help, you know…and George might not like it, for it will be very expens—’

‘I will cover all expenses, of course,’ Magnus interrupted. ‘And I’ll make it worth your while, too, Laetitia. Would diamonds make it any easier to forgo your balls and routs for a week or two?’

Laetitia pursed her lips, annoyed at his bluntness but unable to resist the bait. ‘What—?’

‘Necklace, earrings and bracelet.’ His cold grey eyes met hers with cynical indifference. Laetitia bridled at his cool certainty.

‘Oh, Magnus, how vulgar you are. As if I would wish to be paid for assisting my dearest cous—’

‘Then you don’t want the diamonds?’

‘No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Naturally, if you care to present me with some small token…’

‘Good, then it’s decided. You invite half a dozen girls—’

‘—and their mamas.’

A faint grimace disturbed the cool impassivity of his expression. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, you invite them, and I’ll choose one.’

Laetitia shuddered delicately. ‘So cold-blooded, Magnus. No wonder they call you The Ic—’

His freezing look cut her off in midsentence. He stood up to leave.

‘You cannot intend to leave yet, surely?’ said Laetitia.

He regarded her in faint puzzlement. ‘Why not? It is all decided, is it not?’

‘But which girls do you want me to invite?’ she demanded through her teeth.

Magnus looked at her with blank surprise. He shrugged. ‘Damn it, Tish, I don’t know. That’s your job.’ He walked towards the door.

‘I don’t believe it! You want me to choose your bride for you?’ she shrieked shrilly.

Faint irritation appeared in his eyes. ‘No, I’ll choose her from the girls you pick out. Lord, Tish, haven’t you got it straight yet? What else have we been talking about for the last fifteen minutes?’

Laetitia stared at him in stupefaction. He was picking out a bride with no more care than he would take to buy a horse. Less, actually. Magnus was very particular about his horseflesh.

‘Are…I mean, do you have any special requirements?’ she said at last.

Magnus sat down again. He had not really thought past the idea of children, but it was a fair request, he supposed. He thought for a moment. ‘She must be sound, of course…with good bloodlines, naturally. Umm…good teeth, reasonably intelligent, but with a placid temperament…and wide enough hips—for childbearing, you know. I think that about covers it.’

Laetitia gritted her teeth. ‘We are talking about a lady, are we not? Or are you only after a brood mare?’

Magnus ignored her sarcasm. He shrugged. ‘More or less, I suppose. I have little interest in the dam, only the offspring.’

‘Do you not even care what she looks like?’

‘Not particularly. Although I suppose I’d prefer someone good-looking, at least passably so. But not beautiful. A beautiful wife would be too much trouble.’ His lips twitched sardonically. ‘I’ve known too many beautiful wives not to realise what a temptation they are—to others.’

His subtle reference was not lost on Laetitia, and to her annoyance she found herself flushing slightly under his ironic gaze. She would have liked to fling his request in his even white teeth. However, a diamond necklace, earrings and a bracelet were not to be looked in the mouth.

Even if Lord d’Arenville’s bride was.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said sourly.

The black knight reached down, caught her around the waist and lifted her onto his gallant charger, up and away, out of reach of the slavering wolves snapping at her heels.

‘Begone you vicious curs!’ he shouted in a thrillingly deep, manly voice. ‘This tender morsel is not for you!’ His arms tightened around her, protectively, tenderly, possessively. ‘Hold on, my pretty one, I have you safe now,’ he murmured in her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her nape. ‘And now I have you, Tallie, my little love, I’ll never let you go.’ Clasping her hard against his broad, strong chest, he lowered his mouth to hers…

‘Miss? Miss Tallie? Are you all right?’

Tallie jerked out of her reverie with a start. The buttons she had been sorting spilled out over the table and she scrabbled hurriedly to retrieve them. Brooks, her cousin’s elderly butler, and Mrs Wilmot, the housekeeper, were bending over her, concerned.

‘Oh, yes, yes, perfectly,’ Tallie, blushing, hastened to assure them. ‘I was in a silly daze—miles away, I’m afraid. Was there something you wanted?’

Brooks proffered a letter on a silver tray. ‘A letter, Miss Tallie. From the mistress.’

Tallie smiled. Brooks still behaved as if he were in charge of the grand London mansion, instead of stuck away in the country house belonging to Tallie’s cousin Laetitia. Tallie took the letter from the tray and thanked him. Dear Brooks—as if she were the lady of the house, receiving correspondence in the parlour, instead of a poor relation, dreaming foolish dreams over a jar of old buttons. She broke open the wafer and began to read.

‘Oh, no!’ Tallie closed her eyes as a sudden surge of bitterness rushed through her. She had assumed that with Christmas over, and Laetitia and George returned to Town, she and the children would be left in peace for several months at least.

‘What is it, Miss Tallie? Bad news?’

‘No, no—or at least nothing tragic, at any rate.’ Tallie hastened to reassure the elderly housekeeper. She glanced across at Brooks, and explained.

‘Cousin Laetitia writes to say she is holding a house party here. We are to make all the arrangements for the accommodation and entertainment of six or seven young ladies and their mothers, possibly a number of fathers also. Five or six other gentlemen may be invited, too; she is not yet decided. And there is to be a ball at the end of two weeks.’ Tallie looked at Brooks and Mrs Wilmot, shook her head in mild disbelief, and took a deep drink of the tea grown cold at her elbow.

Mrs Wilmot had been counting. ‘Accommodation and entertainment for up to twenty-five or six of the gentry, and almost twice that number of servants if we just count on a valet or maidservant for each gentleman or lady. Lawks, Miss Tallie, I don’t know how we’ll ever manage. When is this house party to be, did she say?’

Tallie nodded, a look of dire foreboding in her eyes. ‘The guests will start arriving on Tuesday next. Cousin Laetitia will come the day before, to make sure everything is in order.’

‘Tuesday next? Tuesday next! Lord, miss, whatever shall we do? Arrangements for sixty or more people to stay, arriving on Tuesday next! We will never manage it! Never.’

Tallie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, we will, Mrs Wilmot. We have no choice—you know that. However, my cousin has, for once, considered the extra work it will entail for you both and all the other servants.’

‘And for you, Miss Tallie,’ added Brooks.

She smiled. She knew he meant well, but it was not a comforting thought that even her cousin’s servants regarded her as one of them, even if they did call her Miss Tallie. She continued.

‘I am empowered to hire as much extra help as we need, and no expense spared, though I am to keep strict accounts of all expenditure.’

‘No expense spar—’ In a less dignified person, Brooks’s expression would have been likened to a gaping fish.

Tallie attempted to keep a straight face. The prospect of Cousin Laetitia showing enough consideration for her servants to hire extra help was surprising enough, but for her not to consider expense would astound any who knew her.

‘No, for she says the house party is for her cousin Lord d’Arenville’s benefit, and he is to pay for everything, which is why I am to keep accounts.’

‘Ahh.’ Brooks shut his mouth and looked wise.

‘Lord d’Arenville? Lawks, what would he want with a house party full of young ladies—oh, I see.’ Mrs Wilmot nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘Courting.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tallie, puzzled.

‘He’s courting. Lord d’Arenville. One of those young ladies must be his intended, and he wishes some time with her before he pops the question. He’ll probably announce it at the ball.’

‘Well, well, so that’s it. A courting couple in the old house once again.’ Brooks’s face creased in a sentimental smile.

‘Lord, Mr Brooks, you’re a born romantic if ever I saw one,’ said Mrs Wilmot. ‘I can no more see that Lord d’Arenville lost in love’s young dream than I can see me flying through the air on one of me own sponge cakes!’

Tallie stifled a giggle at the image conjured up. ‘And why is that, Mrs Wilmot?’ she asked.

‘Why?’ Mrs Wilmot turned to Tallie in surprise. ‘Oh, yes, you’ve never met him, have you, dearie? I keep forgetting, you’re related to the other side of madam’s family. Well, you’ve not missed out on much—a cold fish if ever I saw one, that Lord d’Arenville. They call him The Icicle, you know. Not a drop of warm blood in his body, if you ask me.’

‘But I thought all you females thought him so handsome,’ began Brooks. ‘He had you all in such a tizz—’

‘Handsome is as handsome does, I always say,’ said the housekeeper darkly. ‘And though he may be as handsome as a statue of one of them Greek gods, he’s about as warm and lively as a statue, too!’ She shook her head and pursed her lips disapprovingly.

Intrigued though she was, Tallie knew she should not encourage gossip about her cousin’s guests. And they had more than enough to do without wasting time in idle speculation. Or even idol speculation, she giggled silently, thinking of the Greek god.

‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘it is fortunate that we need not concern ourselves with Lord d’Arenville except to spend his money and present him with a reckoning. And if we need not worry about expense, the servants may be billeted in the village. I suppose we should begin to make a list of what needs to be done.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘I am expected back in the nursery in half an hour, so we will need to hurry.’

Later that evening, as she walked slowly out of the nursery, leaving her three charges yawning sleepily in their beds, their loving goodnight kisses still damp on her cheeks, Tallie decided she would have to take herself more firmly under control. She could not go on in this fashion.

The degree of resentment she’d felt this morning had shocked her. And it was not Laetitia’s thoughtlessness Tallie resented, but the mere fact that she was coming home.

It was very wrong of her to feel like that; Tallie knew it. She ought to feel grateful to Laetitia for the many things she had done for her—giving her a home, letting her look after her children…And it was Laetitia’s home, Laetitia’s children. Laetitia was entitled to visit whenever she wished.

The problem lay with Tallie. As it always did. With her foolish pretences and silly, childish make-believe. It was getting out of hand, pretending, day after day, that these three adorable children were hers. And that their father, a dashing and romantic if somewhat hazy figure, was away on some splendid adventure, fighting pirates, perhaps, or exploring some mysterious new land. She had dreamed so often of how he would arrive home on his coal-black steed, bringing exotic gifts for her and the children. And when they had put the children to bed he would take her in his arms and kiss her tenderly and tell her she was his pretty one, his love, his little darling…

No. It had to stop. She was no one’s pretty one, no one’s darling. The children’s father was bluff, stodgy George, who drank too much and pinched Tallie’s bottom whenever she was forgetful enough to pass within reach. He never came near the children except at Christmas, when he would give them each a shilling or two and pat them on the head. And their mother was Laetitia, beautiful, selfish, charming Laetitia, ornament of the London ton.

Tallie Robinson was nothing—a distant cousin with not a penny to her name; a plain, ordinary girl with nothing to recommend her; a girl who ought to be grateful to be given a home in the country and three lovely children to look after.

There would never be a dashing knight or handsome prince, she told herself savagely. The best hope she had was that a kind gentleman farmer might want her. A widower, probably, with children who needed mothering and who would notice her in church. He would look at her plain brown hair and her plain brown eyes and her plain, sensible clothes and decide she would do. He would not mind that her nose was pointy, and marred by a dozen or so freckles—which no amount of lemon juice or buttermilk would shift. He would not care that one of her front teeth was slightly crooked, nor that she used to bite her nails to the quick.

Tallie looked down at her hands and smiled with pride at her smooth, elegant nails. That was one defect, at least, she had conquered since she left school. Her kindly gentleman farmer would be proud…Drat it—she was doing it again. Weaving fantasies with the slenderest of threads. Wasting time when there were a thousand and one things to be done to prepare for Cousin Laetitia’s house party. Tallie hurried downstairs.

The Russian Prince cracked his whip over the arched necks of his beautiful grey horses, urging them to even greater speed. The curricle swayed dangerously, but the Prince paid no heed—he was in pursuit of the vile kidnappers… No! Lord d’Arenville was not a prince, Tallie told herself sternly. She patted her hair into place and smoothed her hands down her skirts. He was real. And he was here to be with his intended bride. He was not to appear in any of her silly fantasies.

But Mrs Wilmot was right—he certainly was handsome. Tallie waited for her cousin to call her forward and introduce her to the guest of honour. He had arrived only minutes before, clad in a caped driving coat and curly brimmed beaver, sweeping up the drive in a smart curricle drawn by two exquisitely matched greys. Tallie knew nothing at all about horses, but even she could tell his equipage and the greys were something out of the ordinary.

She’d watched him alight, springing lightly down from the curricle, tossing the reins to his groom and stepping forward to inspect his sweating horses before turning to greet his hosts. And thus, his priorities, Tallie told herself ironically—horses before people. Definitely not a prince.

He was terribly handsome, though. Dark hair, thick and springy, short cropped against a well-shaped head. A cleanly chiselled face, hard in its austerity, a long, straight nose, and firm, unsmiling, finely moulded lips. His jaw was also long, squaring off at the chin in a blunt, uncompromising fashion. He was tall, with long, hard horseman’s legs and a spare frame. And once he’d removed his greatcoat she could see that the broad shoulders were not a result of padding, but of well-developed musculature. A sportsman, not a dandy…A pirate king… No! A haughty guest of her haughty cousin.

Tallie watched him greet Laetitia—a light bow, a raised brow and a mere touch of lips to hand. No more than politeness dictated. He was not one of her…cicisbeos, then. Tallie heaved a sigh of relief. It was not to be one of those house parties. Good. She hated it when her cousin used Tallie and the children to cover up what she called her ‘little flirtations’.

Laetitia turned to introduce him to those of the staff whose names he might need—the butler, the housekeeper and so on. Tallie watched him, noting the way his heavy-lidded grey eyes flickered indifferently over Brooks and Mrs Wilmot.

‘And this is a distant cousin of mine, Miss Thalia Robinson, who resides here and keeps an eye on things for me.’ Insignificant poor relation who hangs on my sleeve, depending on my charity, said her tone, dismissively.

Tallie smiled and curtsied. The cold grey eyes rested on her for a bare half-second and moved on. Tallie flinched, knowing that in a single glance Lord d’Arenville had noticed the freckles, the pointy nose and the crooked tooth, and despised her. He hadn’t even glanced at her nice nails. No gallant knight, he, but a cruel count, coldly plotting the heroine’s downfa— Enough!

Tallie watched his progression into the house with rueful disappointment. Mrs Wilmot was right. The man acted as if he expected the whole world to fall at his feet, while he would not so much as notice if it crumbled to dust right under his long, aristocratic nose! She wondered which of the young ladies was his intended. She had not taken to any of them, but she could not imagine anyone wishing to wed this arrogant Icicle.

‘Thalia!’ Her cousin sounded annoyed. Tallie hurried inside.

‘You called, Cousin Laetitia?’ She did not allow herself to look at Lord d’Arenville, although she was very aware of him standing close by.

‘I thought I made myself clear!’ Her cousin gestured crossly.

Tallie looked upwards and repressed a grin. Three small heads were poking through the railings in complete defiance of the orders which Laetitia had issued to the nursery. Children were neither to be seen nor heard during the house party.

‘I’ll see to it at once, Cousin.’

‘Your children, Tish?’ His voice was deep and resonant. In a warmer-natured man it could be very appealing, thought Tallie irrelevantly as she gathered her skirts to run up the stairs.

‘Do they not wish to come down?’ he added.

Tallie paused and looked at him in surprise. The Icicle was interested in her cousin’s children? No, for he seemed wholly engrossed in removing a speck of fluff from his sleeve.

‘No, they do not,’ said Laetitia quickly. ‘It is high time they went to bed, and it is one of Thalia’s little duties to see that they do so. Thalia! If you please!’

Tallie ran quickly up the stairs, biting her lip to prevent the retort she knew would escape if she stayed a moment longer. Time they were in bed, indeed! At five o’clock in the afternoon? And one of her little duties? Amongst the other hundred or so her cousin daily required of her in exchange for bed and board. She reached the second landing where two little girls and a boy were sitting. Watched by two pairs of eyes, she lifted up the toddler, took the other little girl by the hand and headed for the nursery, the small boy jumping and hopping on ahead.

‘Now, Magnus,’ said Laetitia, ‘Brooks will show you to your room, and you can prepare yourself to meet my other guests in the drawing room at about six. Brooks, have hot water sent to his lordship’s room immediately. And…brandy, Magnus? Or would you prefer a cup of tea?’

‘A refreshment tray has already been sent up, madam, with hot tea and coffee, sandwiches and brandy,’ said Brooks. ‘And the hot water is awaiting his lordship.’

‘Oh, er, good. Well-done, Brooks,’ said Laetitia.

‘Miss Tallie saw to it all, madam. She does the same for all the guests,’ said Brooks, hiding a smile. Just another of her little duties. He felt the cold gaze of Lord d’Arenville on him and his face pokered up into its usual butlerish impassivity.

‘If you would care to follow me, your lordship. Madam has put you in the Blue Room, as usual.’

‘Thalia, you must dine at table this evening. That wretch Jimmy Fairfax has brought two friends with him and we have a shortage of ladies. And did you tell Cook that we must have goose as well as the capons? I have no time to discuss the menu with her so you must check it. And see that the extra guests have beds made up for them. I am utterly exhausted and need to repose myself before dinner. Lord, I hope Magnus is grateful for the efforts I am making on his behalf. I shall be glad when it’s all over.’

Tallie mentally agreed. The last ten days had been exhausting and frustrating, and she was counting the hours until the guests departed. Still, she flattered herself that everything was going off quite smoothly.

This was, however, one order she felt unable to carry out. ’I have nothing to wear to dinner, Cousin.’

‘Lord, girl, as if anyone will care what you wear. No one will take any notice of you—you are just there to make up the numbers. Any old thing will do.’

‘I have only one evening dress, Cousin, the one you gave me several years ago, and as you must know it does not fit me.’

‘Then alter it, for heaven’s sake! Or wear a shawl or something over it. I cannot be expected to think of everything! Now leave me at once, for if I do not get some peace and quiet I fear I will have the headache by dinnertime.’

‘Yes, Cousin,’ Tallie murmured between her teeth. It went very much against the grain to submit so tamely to her cousin’s rudeness, but poverty had taught her to take a more pragmatic view. In the short term, it was unbearable to be treated in this fashion. On the other hand, Laetitia was rarely here, and for most of the year at Manningham there were just Tallie and the children and servants. In truth, she told herself severely, she had a delightful life. An orphan with not a penny to her name ought to be grateful to have a roof over her head. That she didn’t feel grateful was, no doubt, a deficiency of character.

Tallie hurried downstairs. She consulted with Cook about the menu, Mrs Wilmot about the arrangements for the unexpected guests and Brooks about the wines for dinner, then hurried back upstairs to see to her dress.

Ten minutes later she was in despair. Laetitia was a smaller woman than she, with a dainty, sylphlike figure. The pale green muslin gown was designed to sweep low across the bosom and shoulders and fall loosely from a high waistline. On Tallie the deeply scooped neckline clung, causing her bosom to bulge embarrassingly. The waist was too tight and her ankles were scandalously revealed. Tallie went to her wardrobe and glanced through it again, desperately hoping that by some magical process an alternative would present itself. Two winter day dresses, two summer day dresses, all rather worn and out of date. She sighed and returned gloomily to the green muslin.

She was no needlewoman, and even if she were she could not make larger that which was too small in the first place. After some experimentation she managed to fill in the neckline with a piece of old lace, so that it covered her decently at least, even if it was still too tight. She tacked a frill along the hem. It looked quite ridiculous, she knew, but at least it covered her ankles.

Finally she draped herself in a large paisley shawl to disguise the tightness of the dress. It would surely suffice to get her through dinner. She glanced at herself in the glass and closed her eyes in momentary mortification. The green colour did bring interesting highlights to her brown hair and eyes, and her curly hair was neat for once, but—she looked a perfect quiz! Still, she told herself bracingly, Laetitia was right. No one would take any notice of her. She was just an extra female—the poor relation—and she would slip away the moment dinner was over. In any case, she didn’t like her cousin’s guests, so what did it matter what they thought of her? Taking a deep breath, she headed downstairs to check on the arrangements for dinner.

Magnus took another sip of armagnac and wondered how much longer he could endure the girlish flutterings going on around him. His temper was on a knife-edge and he had no one to blame but himself. The house party had been a disaster.

Ten days of the unalleviated company of high-bred young women would have been bad enough—he’d nerved himself for that ordeal. But he should have realised that Laetitia would select a gaggle of young ladies most like herself—spoiled, vain, vapid and silly. Magnus was almost rigid with boredom.

And exasperation—for he’d hoped to observe the young ladies unobtrusively, make a discreet selection and quietly arrange a marriage. Ha! What a joke! His wretched cousin had about as much discretion as a parrot! That had been made plain to Magnus within days, when he’d realised he was being hunted—with all the subtlety of a pack of hounds in full pursuit.

Creamy bosoms were made to heave and quiver under his nose at every opportunity. Well-turned ankles flashed from modest concealment. And every time he entered a room eyelashes batted so feverishly there was almost a draught. He’d been treated to displays of virtuosity on harp, pianoforte and flute, had folios of watercolours thrust under his nose, his expert inspection bashfully solicited. His superior masculine opinion had been sought and deferred to on every topic under the sun and his every reluctant pronouncement greeted with sighs, sycophantic titters and syrupy admiration.

They accosted him morning, noon and night—in the garden, in the drawing room, in the breakfast parlour—even, once, behind the stables, where a man had a right to expect some peace and quiet. But it was no use—eligible misses lurked, apparently, in every corner of the estate.

Yet, despite his overwhelming aversion to the task in hand, Magnus was still determined to select a wife. The house party had convinced him it was best to get the deed over with as soon as possible. Any courtship was bound to be appalling to a man of his solitary tastes, he reasoned, and if he did not choose now, he would only prolong the process. And this collection of girls seemed no different from any others currently on the marriage mart.

The trouble was, Magnus could not imagine any of them as mother to his children. Not one had two thoughts to rub together; each seemed completely devoted to fashion, gossip and male flattery—not necessarily in that order. And, like Laetitia, they despised rural life.

That was a problem. He had somehow assumed his wife would live at d’Arenville with the children. Though why he should expect his wife to live in the country when few women of his acquaintance did so, Magnus could not imagine. His own mother certainly had not. She hadn’t been able to bear the country. But then he didn’t want a wife like his mother.

Freddie’s wife lived, seemingly content, all year round in the wilds of Yorkshire with her husband and children. The children’s obvious happiness had made a profound impression on Magnus—his own parents had been virtual strangers who had descended on his home at infrequent intervals, their visits the bane of his youthful existence.

But Freddie’s wife truly seemed to love her children. Magnus’s own mother had appeared to love Magnus—in company. So Freddie’s wife could have been fudging it, but Magnus didn’t think so. Freddie’s wife also seemed to love Freddie. But Freddie was, Magnus knew, a lovable person.

It was not the same for Magnus. He had clearly been an unlovable child. And was therefore not a lovable man. But he would do everything in his power to ensure his children had the chance to be lovable. And therefore to be loved.

Magnus glanced around the room again. He supposed it was possible that some of these frivolous girls would settle into motherhood, but it was difficult to believe, especially with the example of his cousin before him.

‘Oh, it is such a delightfully mild evening,’ cried Laetitia. ‘Let us stroll on the terrace before dinner. Come Magnus, as my guest of honour, you shall escort the lady of your choice.’

A dozen feminine gazes turned his way. There was an expectant hush. Magnus silently cursed his cousin for trying to force his hand. Clearly she wished the house party concluded so that she could return to Town and the myriad entertainments there. Magnus smiled. He danced to no female’s tune.

‘Then, as a good guest, I must look to the care of my charming hostess,’ he responded lightly. ‘Cousin, shall we?’ He took her arm, allowing her no choice, and they stepped through the French doors onto the terrace. The other guests followed.

Tallie trailed awkwardly in their wake. She felt most uncomfortable. Several of the young ladies had eyed her gown, whispering and tittering with careless amusement. Their mothers had totally ignored her and two of the gentlemen guests had made improper suggestions. The guests had taken their tone from Laetitia—Tallie was an unconsidered encumbrance, little better than a servant, and in the current mood of thwarted ambition she was a convenient target.

Tallie was angry, but told herself sternly that there was little point in expressing her feelings—they would be gone soon, and she would be left in peace again with the children and Brooks and Mrs Wilmot. It should be simple enough for her to ignore the spite of a few ill-bred aristocrats.

The pale young marquise held her chin high, ignoring the vile insults flung at her by the ignorant canaille, as the tumbrel rolled onwards. She was dressed in rags, her lovely gowns stolen by the prison guards, but her dignity was unimpaired…

Tallie slipped unobtrusively to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the stone balustrade to the closely scythed sweep of lawn and the woods beyond. It was a truly lovely view…

‘Aaargh! Get down, you filthy beast!’ Laetitia’s screeches pierced the air. ‘Get it off me, someone! Aaargh!’

Tallie hurried to see what had occurred. She wriggled between some of the gathered guests and let out an exclamation of distress.

Her cousin’s small son, Georgie, had obviously escaped from the nursery and gone adventuring with the puppy that Tallie had given him several weeks before. He stood in front of his mother, a ragged bunch of snowdrops held pathetically out towards her. His shoes and nankeen pantaloons were covered in mud, as was the puppy. It was the cause of the trouble—muddy pawprints marred Laetitia’s new jonquil silk gown.

Laetitia, unused to dogs, screeched and backed away, hysterically flapping her fan at the pup, who seemed to think it a delightful game. He leaped up, yapping in excitement, attempting to catch the fan in his jaws, liberally spattering the exquisite gown in the process.

Tallie was still attempting to wriggle through the press of guests when Lord d’Arenville grabbed the pup and handed him by the scruff of its neck to the little boy. Tallie reached the child just as his mother’s tirade broke over him.

‘How dare you bring that filthy beast near me, you wicked boy! Do you see what it has done? This gown is ruined! Ruined, I tell you!’

The small face whitened in distress. Mutely Georgie offered the wilting bunch of snowdrops. Laetitia dashed them impatiently from his hands.

‘Do not try to turn me up sweet, Georgie! See what you have done? Look at this dress! Worn for the first time today, from the finest of London’s modistes, and costing the earth! Ruined! And why? Because a wicked boy brought a filthy animal into a civilised gathering! Who gave you permission to leave the nursery? I left the strictest orders. You will be punished for such disobedience! And the animal is clearly dangerous! It must be shot at once! Someone call for a groom—’

The little boy’s face paled further. His small body shook in fright at the venom in his mother’s voice. His face puckered in fear and distress and he clutched the puppy tightly to his chest. It whimpered and scrabbled for release.

Magnus watched, tense in a way he hadn’t been since he himself was a small boy. He fought the sensation. His eyes darkened with sympathy and remembrance as he observed the frightened child and his puppy. He felt for the boy, but it was not his place to interfere with a mother disciplining her child. And anyway, he supposed it was how it had to be. It was certainly how his own childhood had been.

It would be hard for the boy to lose his beloved pup, but it was probably better for Georgie that he learn to toughen up now, rather than later. Pets were invariably used as hostage to one’s good behaviour. Once the boy learnt not to care so much, his life would be easier. Magnus had certainly found it so…although the learning had been very hard…Three pets had died for his disobedience by the time he was eight. The last a liquid-eyed setter bitch by the name of Polly.

Polly, his constant companion and his best friend. But Magnus had taken her out hunting one day instead of finishing his Greek translations and his father had destroyed Polly to teach his son a lesson in responsibility.

Magnus had learned his lesson well.

By the age of eight Magnus had learned not to become attached to pets.

Or to anything else.

‘I am sorry for the unfortunate accident, Cousin.’ It was the shabby little poor relation. Magnus watched as she interposed her body between the cowering small boy and his infuriated mother, her calm voice a contrast to Laetitia’s high-pitched ranting.

‘You are sorry?’ Laetitia continued. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure of that! The children are in your charge, so how was it that this child was allowed to escape from the nursery? I gave strict instructions…’

Magnus leaned back against a large stone urn, folded his arms and coolly observed the scene. He noted the way the dowdy little cousin used her body to shield the child, protecting him from his own mother. It was an interesting manoeuvre—for a poor relation.

The little boy pressed into her skirts, the muddy pup still in his arms. Magnus watched as the girl’s hand came to rest unobtrusively on the nape of the child’s neck. She stroked him with small, soothing movements. Magnus noticed the little boy relax under her ministrations, saw his shivers die away. After a few moments Georgie leaned trustfully into the curve of her hip, resting his head against her. She held him more fully against her body, all the time keeping her cousin’s rage focused on herself. Her words were apologetic, her body subtly defiant.

Fascinating, thought Magnus. Did the girl not realise what she risked by defying her cousin? And all to protect a child who was not even her own.

‘The accident was my fault, Cousin,’ she said. ‘You must not be angry with poor Georgie, here, for he had my permission to be out of the nursery—’

The little boy’s start of surprise was not lost on Magnus.

‘And I am sorry for the soiling of your gown. However, I cannot allow you to have the puppy destroyed—’

‘You? You cannot—’ spluttered Laetitia.

‘No, for the pup belongs neither to Georgie nor to you.’

The child stared up at the girl. Her hand soothed him, and she continued. ‘The pup is mine. He…it was a gift from…from the Rector, and I cannot allow you to destroy a gift because of a little high spirits…’

‘You cannot allow—’ Laetitia gasped in indignation.

‘Yes, puppies will be puppies, and small boys and puppies seem to attract each other, don’t they? Which is why I was so very grateful to Georgie here.’ She turned a warm smile on the small boy.

‘Grateful?’ Laetitia was astounded. Georgie looked puzzled. Magnus was intrigued.

‘Yes, very grateful indeed, for I have been too busy lately to exercise the puppy, and so Georgie has taken over that duty for me, have you not, Georgie dear?’

She nodded encouragingly down at him and, bemused, Georgie nodded back.

‘Yes, so any damage the puppy has done to your gown you must lay at my door.’

‘But—’

The girl was not paying attention. She bent down to the child. ‘Now, Georgie, I think you and my puppy have had enough excitement for one night, but would you do one more thing for me, please?’

He nodded.

‘Would you please return, er…Rover—’

‘Satan,’ Georgie corrected her.

Her eyes brimmed with amusement, but she continued with commendable control. ‘Yes, of course, Satan. Would you please take, er, Satan, to the kennels and wash the mud off him for me? You see, I am dressed for dinner, and ladies must not go to the kennels in their best gown.’

Her words had the unfortunate effect of drawing all attention to her ‘best gown’. There were a few sniggers, which she ignored with a raised chin. Georgie, however, stared at her, stricken.

‘What is it, love?’ she said.

Guiltily, he extended a grubby finger and pointed at the mud which now streaked her dress, liberally deposited by himself and the squirming puppy in his arms. She glanced down and laughed, a warm peal of unconcern.

‘Don’t worry about it, my dear, it will brush off when the mud is dry.’ She ruffled his hair affectionately and said in a low voice, ‘Now for heaven’s sake take that wretched pup and get it and yourself cleaned up before any other accidents happen.’

Relieved, the small boy ran off, his puppy clutched to his chest.

‘You’ll not get off so easily—’ began Laetitia, incensed.

‘Do you think it is quite safe for you to be out in the night air in a damp and muddy dress, Cousin?’ interrupted Tallie solicitously. ‘I would not want you to take a chill, and you know you are extremely susceptible…’

With a stamp and a flounce of jonquil silk Laetitia left the terrace, calling petulantly for her maid to be sent to her at once. The guests drifted in after her, and Brooks began to circulate with a silver tray.

Tallie bent down and gathered up Georgie’s scattered flowers. She straightened a few bent stems, gathered the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and stepped towards the French doors, then noticed Lord d’Arenville, who had remained on the terrace.

His expression was unreadable, his grey heavy-lidded eyes observing her dispassionately. The hard gaze made her shiver. Horrid man, she thought. Waiting to see if there is any more entertainment to be had. She raised her chin in cool disdain, and marched past him without saying a word.

Chapter Two

‘Well, Magnus, how do you like my candidates? Any take your fancy?’

Tallie froze. Partway into writing the events of the day into her diary, she’d run out of ink. She’d slipped down the servants’ stair to the library, secure in the belief that the guests were all in the ballroom, dancing, or playing cards in the nearby anteroom. Concentrating on the tricky task of refilling her inkwell, she hadn’t heard her cousin and Lord d’Arenville enter the library. She glanced around, but they were hidden from her view by the heavy velvet curtains pulled partly across the alcove where she was seated.

She stood up to announce her presence, but paused, recalling the shabby dress she wore. If she emerged, she would have to leave by the public route, enduring further sniggers and taunts. She’d had enough of that at dinner. Laetitia, still furious about the way Tallie had confronted her over Georgie and the puppy, had encouraged her guests to bait Tallie even more spitefully than before, and Tallie could endure no more of it.

Lord d’Arenville spoke. ‘You know perfectly well, Tish, that my fancy does not run to society virgins. I am seeking a wife, not pursuing a fancy.’

Tallie swallowed, embarrassed. This was a terribly private conversation. No one would thank her for having heard that. Perhaps she should try to slip out through the French doors onto the terrace. She edged quietly towards them. Stealthily she slid the bolt back and turned the handle, but it didn’t budge—the catch was stuck.

‘Well, dearest coz, which one has the teeth, the hips and the placid temperament you require for the mother of your heirs? They all have impeccable bloodlines, be assured of that.’

Tallie gasped at Laetitia’s effrontery and waited for Lord d’Arenville to give her a smart set-down for speaking of his intended bride with such disrespect. It was far too late to declare her presence now, and besides, she was fascinated. She edged back behind the curtains and wrestled half-heartedly with the door catch.

‘As far as those requirements are concerned, most of your candidates would do, although Miss Kingsley is too narrow-hipped to be suitable.’

Tallie’s jaw dropped. Requirements? Candidates? Those young women out there had been assembled as candidates? Miss Kingsley eliminated because of her hips? Laetitia hadn’t been joking when she’d referred to teeth, hips, placidity and bloodlines!

Tallie was disgusted. What sort of man would choose a wife so coldly and dispassionately? No wonder he was called The Icicle. Mrs Wilmot was right—he was as handsome as a Greek statue but he obviously had a heart of stone to match. Tallie passionately hoped he would select Miss Fyffe-Temple as his bride.

Miss Fyffe-Temple was one of the prettiest of the young lady guests and the sweetest-spoken—in company. In truth she was a nasty-tempered, spiteful little harpy, who took her temper out on the servants, making impossible demands in a shrill voice, and pinching and hitting the younger maids in the most vicious fashion. The below-stairs members of the household had quickly labelled her Miss Foul-Temper, and in Tallie’s opinion that made her a perfect wife for the great Lord d’Arenville!

‘Actually, I have come to see, on reflection, that my requirements were rather inadequate,’ said Lord d’Arenville.

Perhaps she was too hasty in judging him, Tallie thought. She did tend to make snap judgements, and was often forced to own the fault when she was later proved wrong.

‘Strong hocks, perhaps, Magnus?’ Laetitia had clearly imbibed rather more champagne than was ladylike. ‘Do you want to check their withers? Get them to jump over a few logs? Put them at a fence or two? Or ask if they are fond of oats? I believe Miss Carnegie has Scottish blood—she will certainly be fond of oats. The Scots, I believe, live on little else.’

Tallie shoved her fist against her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Heavens! To think she would be in such sympathy with Cousin Laetitia.

‘Very funny, Tish,’ said Lord d’Arenville dryly. ‘I have no interest in the culinary preferences of anyone north of the border, nor do I wish to concern myself with any additional physical characteristics of the young ladies you selected for me.’

Tallie’s eyes widened. Laetitia had selected the young ladies? Did he simply expect to choose one? Without the bother of courtship? What an insufferable man! To be so puffed up in his own conceit that he need not consider the feelings of any young lady, assuming she would be flattered enough by his offer!

Well, if a spineless ninny was what he wanted, she hoped he would choose The Honourable Miss Aldercott. Already she showed what Tallie considered to be a very sinister preference for gauzy drapery and sonnets about Death and Lost Love. The Honourable Miss Aldercott had fainted five times so far, had had the vapours twice and made recourse to her vinaigrette a dozen times a day. With any luck, thought Tallie viciously, Lord d’Arenville would think The Honourable Miss Aldercott charmingly fragile—then find himself leg-shackled to a clinging, lachrymose watering-pot for the rest of his life!

‘So, Magnus, what other criteria do you have for the mother of your heirs?’

‘It has occurred to me that most of your candidates are rather spoiled and used to being indulged.’

‘Well, naturally they are a little petted, but that is only to be expected…’

‘You miss my point, Tish. Most of these young ladies have found it an almost intolerable hardship to come to the country.’

‘Well, of course they have, Magnus!’ Laetitia snapped acerbically. ‘Any woman would. Who in their right mind would moulder away in the country when they could have all the delightful exhilaration of London society? Is that your latest requirement?’

‘Yes, actually—it is. I wish the mother of my children to reside with the children, and London is no place for a child.’

‘What rubbish!’

‘You know it’s true, Tish, for you yourself keep your children here in the country all year round.’

‘Yes, Magnus, the children live here all year round, not me. And that is the difference. Why, I would go into a decline if I were buried here for an entire year!’

‘And the children—do they not miss their mother’s care?’

Tallie had to stifle another laugh at that. Laetitia, a doting mother! The children would love her if she would let them. As it was, they tiptoed around on their best behaviour during their mother’s visits, hoping to avoid her criticisms and sharp temper and heaving sighs of wistful relief when she left.

‘Naturally I spend as much time as I can with my darlings, but I have my needs also, Magnus. And I have responsibilities as George’s wife, and they take place in London, which is no fault of mine. But you need not think I neglect my children, for I leave them in the best of care.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed that.’ Lord d’Arenville’s voice was thoughtful. ‘Your sturdy little cousin.’

Sturdy! How dared he? Sturdy? Tallie was mortally insulted. She might not be as sylphlike as Laetitia, but she was not sturdy!

‘You’re wandering off the point, Magnus.’

Sturdy! Insensitive beast!

‘Would you say that any of these young ladies would be willing to live for, say, ten years in the country?’

‘Ten years?’ Laetitia’s voice rose to a horrified screech. ‘No sane woman would agree to that! She would die, rather! Why on earth would you wish to immure anyone in the country for ten years, anyway?’

There was a short silence. Tallie craned to hear, but there was nothing. Suddenly Laetitia laughed—a hard, cynical laugh.

‘Good God, you want a nun, not a wife, don’t you?’ She laughed again. ‘Your father tried that, if you recall, and stuck to it for all of six months, while your mother cuckolded him with every groom, stableboy and tenant farmer in the district. And serve him right, say I. No, you couldn’t possibly think that isolating a wife in the country would ensure her fidelity, not after that.’ She laughed again. ‘And if you have any doubts on the matter, dearest coz, ask George.’

Lord d’Arenville said stiffly, ‘My decision is nothing to do with either you or my mother. It is simply that my bride must not mind spending my children’s growing years at my country seat with them.’

‘Well, I wish you’d told me earlier,’ said Laetitia, ‘for I wouldn’t have bothered wasting everyone’s time with this ridiculous charade. I am very angry with you, Magnus. I should have realised you were not serious about wanting a bride—’

‘I am quite serious.’

‘Well, you certainly won’t find one here who could accept—’

‘But I have.’

‘You’ve what?’ Laetitia sounded flabbergasted. ‘Don’t tell me one has agreed to your outrageous terms, Magnus! Oh, I cannot believe it. Who is she? No—do not tell me—let me guess. Lady Helen…no, she is positively addicted to Almack’s. And it could not possibly be Miss Blakeney—no one so à la mode would agree to be buried in the country for ten years. Oh, I give up Magnus, who is she?’

There was a long pause. Tallie waited with bated breath. Truly, she could imagine no young lady agreeing to such inhuman terms. It was a shame his mother had behaved so shockingly, but not all women were like his mother and Laetitia, and why should an innocent wife be punished for the things they had done?

Ten years in the country indeed! And would Lord d’Arenville confine himself similarly to the restrictions of country life? Tallie almost snorted out loud. Of course he would not! It was only his poor wife who would be shut away from society, breeding his heirs like a good little brood mare.

‘Well, Magnus, don’t keep me waiting all day,’ said Laetitia impatiently. ‘Which bride have you chosen?’

Tallie leaned against the doorhandle, eager to hear his answer.

‘I have decided to wed—’

Suddenly the catch gave, and Tallie tumbled out into the night, missing his reply. Fearful that her eavesdropping would be discovered, she pushed the door shut and slipped away. A little irritated to be denied the juicy morsel of gossip, she hurried towards the kitchen. Which unfortunate young lady had Lord d’Arenville chosen for his bride? She would find out soon enough, she supposed. Whoever it was, Tallie did not envy her. However, it was nothing to do with her, except that his choice would signal the end of the house party. All the unpleasant guests would return to London, the children would be released from their unnatural curfew and she would return to the peaceful life she had led before. Tallie almost skipped with joy at the prospect.

When Tallie came down to breakfast the next morning she was surprised to find many of her cousin’s guests already arisen. She paused on the threshold, feeling dowdy and unwelcome. Still, she decided, this was her home, and she had every right to her breakfast. Chin held high, she entered the breakfast room.

A sudden hush fell. Tallie ignored it. No doubt they were preparing to make sport of her yet again—the dress she wore was even shabbier than yesterday’s. She went to the sideboard and inspected the selection of breakfast dishes, uncomfortably aware of hostile eyes boring into her back. After a moment, the buzz of conversation resumed. From time to time a low-voiced comment reached her ears as she slowly filled her plate.

‘…done rather well for herself.’

‘…but, my dear, one wonders what precisely she did to ensure…’

They were talking of Lord d’Arenville’s bride, Tallie thought. He must have announced his betrothal at the ball. That would explain why so many had come down to breakfast. No doubt those who had not been chosen wished to make an early start on the journey back to Town.

‘And, of course, poor Tish is utterly furious.’

‘Naturally, my dear. Would not you be? After all she’s done for her, and now this! The very ingratitude…’

‘Trapped, undoubtedly.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly!’

Tallie wondered which of the young ladies Lord d’Arenville had chosen. It had to be either Miss Blakeney or Lady Helen Beresford—they were the only two young ladies not at breakfast. That explained why she could sense such an atmosphere of hostility in the room—failed candidates seething with frustration and anger. Tallie tried to close her ears to the vehement mutterings. It would be a relief when Lord d’Arenville, Laetitia and all their horrid friends had gone back to London.

‘Thrusting little baggage. A man of honour…no choice.’

‘And that dress last evening—positively indecent!’

‘No other word for it.’

Tallie began to eat her breakfast, though her appetite had quite vanished. Her cousin’s friends were quite unbearable.

‘More coffee, Miss Tallie?’ murmured Brooks at her ear.

A friendly face at last. ‘Oh, yes, please, Brooks.’ Tallie beamed up at him and held her cup out for him to refill.

As Brooks poured, Miss Fyffe-Temple, one of Tallie’s neighbours, roughly jogged his elbow. Hot coffee boiled over Tallie’s hand and arm. She leapt up with a shriek of pain.

‘Oh, Miss Tallie!’ exclaimed Brooks, horrified.

‘How very clumsy of me, to be sure,’ purred Miss Fyffe-Temple. ‘What a nasty red mark it has made. I do hope it won’t leave a scar.’

‘Yes, it’s quite disgustingly red and ugly. Is it terribly painful?’ Miss Carnegie added.

‘Oh, how horrid…I think I’m going to faint,’ exclaimed The Honourable Miss Aldercott. The others immediately gathered around Miss Aldercott, cooing with pretty concern.

Blinking back tears, Tallie ran from the room and headed for the scullery. She plunged her arm in a pitcher of cold water and breathed a sigh of relief as the pain immediately began to ebb. After a few moments she withdrew it and blew lightly on the reddened skin. It was quite painful, but she didn’t think it was too serious a burn. But why had Miss Fyffe-Temple done it? Tallie hadn’t missed the gleam of spiteful satisfaction in her eyes as she had made her mocking apology.

‘Are you all right, Miss Tallie?’ It was Brooks, his kindly old face furrowed with anxiety. ‘I am so sorry, my dear.’

‘It is not serious, Brooks, truly,’ Tallie reassured him. ‘It gave me more of a fright, really. It hardly hurts at all.’

‘I don’t know how it happened. She…My arm just slipped.’

Tallie laid a hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right; I know whose fault it is, Brooks. The thing I don’t understand is why.’

Brooks stared for a moment, then suddenly looked awkward. ‘I think you’d best speak to your cousin, miss,’ he said. ‘She’s still abed, but I have no doubt she’s expecting you.’

Tallie frowned. ‘I shall go up to her, then, as soon as I have put some butter and a piece of gauze over this burn,’ she said slowly. Judging from Brooks’s expression, something was amiss. She could not think what it was. No doubt her cousin would enlighten her.

‘Me?’ Tallie’s voice squeaked. She stared at her cousin, her jaw dropping in amazement. The effects of her indulgences the night before had kept Laetitia in bed, and from the sounds of things she was still inebriated. Or demented.

‘Me?’ repeated Tallie, stunned. ‘How can you possibly say such a thing, Cousin? He does not even know my name.’

‘Ha!’ spat Laetitia, holding her delicate head. ‘I’ll wager he knows you in other ways, you hussy! In the Biblical sense! Why else would he choose a wretched little nobody?’

Tallie gasped, first in shock and then in swelling outrage. It was one thing to be asked to swallow such a Banbury tale—Lord d’Arenville wishing to wed Tallie Robinson, indeed! But to be accused of immorality! She was not entirely sure what knowing ‘in the Biblical sense’ meant, but she was very certain it was immoral. Tallie was furious. She might be poor. She might be an orphan, shabbily dressed and forced to live on other’s generosity. But she was not immoral.

‘Firstly, let me tell you, Cousin,’ Tallie said heatedly, ‘no man has known me in the Biblical sense, and I am shocked that you could even suggest such a thing! Secondly, I cannot help but believe you must have made an error about Lord d’Arenville’s intentions. Perhaps you misheard him.’

‘I did not,’ snapped Laetitia. ‘Do you think I would imagine such an appalling thing?’

Tallie gritted her teeth. Imagination indeed! She could imagine no member of the aristocracy, let alone the arrogant Lord d’Arenville, choosing his cousin’s poor relation for his bride.

‘But I have not exchanged even one word with his lordship,’ exclaimed Tallie.

‘I do not believe—’ shrilled Laetitia, holding her head.

‘Cousin! I promise you.’ Tallie tried to keep her voice calm, despite her frustration. Her cousin was very angry.

‘Do not lie, girl! He told me himself he had chosen you.’

A small, cold knot of fear lodged in Tallie’s stomach. She had never seen Laetitia this furious before, and she knew her cousin well. There was a hard, ruthless streak in Laetitia. This foolish misunderstanding—the result of too much champagne, no doubt, or perhaps a jest on Lord d’Arenville’s part—could have dire consequences for herself.

‘Well, either you misheard him, Cousin, or else he is playing a nasty joke on you. Yes, that’s it—it must surely be a jest.’ People like her cousin’s friends were always playing tricks on some poor unfortunate. The joke this time might be on Laetitia, but Tallie was the poor unfortunate.

‘Jest?’ Laetitia snorted. ‘Magnus does not jest—not about marriage.’

‘Perhaps you took a little too much champagne, Cousin, and did not realise he was hoaxing you,’ Tallie suggested tentatively.

‘Nonsense! I know what I heard!’ said Laetitia, but her tone belied the words. It was clear that she was starting to entertain doubts. Tallie felt a trickle of relief.

‘I will speak to his lordship, shall I, and clear the matter up once and for all?’ Tallie rose to her feet. It just had to be some trick Lord d’Arenville was playing on Laetitia. Tallie was not amused. His little joke had already got her scalded by boiling coffee, and now it threatened her position in Laetitia’s household. But would His High-and-Mightiness think of that? Not he!

He who had been given everything his heart desired, ever since he was born—it would not occur to him that some people existed on a fine line between survival and destitution. All that stood between Tallie and abject poverty was her cousin’s good will, and no careless jest was about to jeopardise that! Lord Look-Down-His-Nose would soon learn that one person at least was not prepared to have her life wrecked for a mere lordly whim!

She found him in the downstairs parlour, idly leafing through a freshly ironed newspaper, lately arrived from London. Fortunately he was alone for a change.

‘Lord d’Arenville,’ she began, shutting the door firmly behind her. ‘I have just been speaking with my cousin Laetitia, and she seems to be under the impression that you…’

He laid the paper courteously aside, stood up and came towards her. Tallie’s voice dwindled away. Heavens, but he was so very tall. She’d noticed it earlier, of course, but now, when he was standing so close, looming over her…

‘Ah, Miss Robinson. Good morning. Is it not a pleasant day? Will you be seated?’

Miss Robinson? He remembered her name? She could have sworn he hadn’t taken a whit of notice of her the day they were introduced. Or since.

‘Er, thank you.’ Tallie allowed herself to be led to a low divan. He drew up a chair opposite, a look of faint enquiry lifting his dark brows.

‘You wished to speak with me?’

To her great discomfort Tallie felt a blush rising. It was one thing to storm out of her cousin’s boudoir, declaring she would soon clear up this whole silly mistake, and quite another to confront this immaculate, gravely polite aristocrat with a wholly impossible tale.

‘Laetitia seems to be under the impression…?’ he prompted.

Tallie felt her blush intensify. The whole thing was too ridiculous. She had to escape. She could not ask this man whether there was any truth in the rumour that he wished to marry her. It was obviously a mistake. She knew she was being cowardly, but she could not imagine this coldly serious creature considering her—even for a jest—as an eligible bride. On the other hand, Tallie would not put it past her cousin to set her up for a humiliating fall. In fact, it would be very like her…

Tallie could just imagine Laetitia entertaining her London friends with the joke…Imagine, that plain, foolish lump of a girl actually believing that Magnus wanted to marry her! When he has the pick of the ton at his fingertips! Oh, my dears, I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks! But there, ’tis not kind to laugh at one’s inferiors…but really, if you could have seen Magnus’s face when the girl confronted him, Lord, he thought he was being pursued by a lunatic! And gales of laughter would follow.

‘Er…Cousin Laetitia was under the impression…’ Tallie’s eye fell on the newspaper ‘…that the maids might have forgotten to press the paper for you, but I see they have, so I will go at once and tell her that everything is…organised.’ She stood up to leave. Lord d’Arenville rose also.

Heavens! He was looming again, standing so close she could just smell the faint tang of a masculine cologne. Tallie took a step backwards and stumbled against the divan. A strong hand shot out and caught her by the arm, holding her until she steadied, then releasing her.

‘Thank you…So clumsy…’ she muttered, flustered, and annoyed with herself for being so.

‘Stay a moment, Miss Robinson. I wish to speak to you.’ His hand touched her arm again, a light touch this time, not the firm, warm grip of before.

Tallie looked up, puzzled. A faint warning bell sounded in her mind as she saw the purposeful look in his cold grey eyes, but she quashed it immediately. No doubt he had some complaint about a servant, or a message he wished her to carry to her cousin. Outwardly calm, she allowed herself to be seated a second time, folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited.

Magnus noted the quiet way she folded her hands. It seemed to him a pleasantly womanly gesture. Her whole demeanour pleased him. Clearly Laetitia had told her of his decision, and, whilst he wished she had not, this girl’s reactions bore out the soundness of his choice. She was neither filled with vulgar excitement nor coy flutterings. Yes, she would do nicely. He took a deep breath, surprised at how unexpectedly nervous he suddenly felt.

‘You said you had spoken with Laetitia?’

The cold knot in the pit of Tallie’s stomach grew. Wordlessly she nodded.

‘Yes, I should have expected she could not keep it to herself.’ Without waiting for her reply, Lord d’Arenville began to explain. ‘It would be best if the wedding took place almost immediately—it takes three weeks for the banns to be called. We would be married from this house and my cousin’s husband George would give you away. I would prefer a small affair, just my immediate family—Laetitia and her husband—and of course any friends or relations you wish to invite…’

It could not be true. She was not sitting here listening to this cold, proud man elaborate on the arrangements for his wedding. Her wedding! His wedding to Tallie Robinson! A girl to whom he had scarcely spoken two words.

But his cool, indifferent demeanour, his very seriousness convinced her. It was not a joke, not a malicious trick to make sport of the poor relation.

But he hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to marry him!

After a time, Tallie’s shock wore off, and she realised she was furious. And utterly mortified. She had known the likelihood of her ever marrying was slim. Living in the country as Laetitia’s unpaid governess, she came into contact with few eligible men, and with neither looks nor fortune to recommend her, her prospects were few and far between. But it was one thing to face the prospect of a lonely and loveless future, and another to be so little regarded that she did not even merit the appearance of a courtship. Were her feelings and desires of so little significance to him?

Tallie stared down at her knees, flushed and fuming, biting her lip to prevent her rage from spilling out. Her hands shook, itching to slap the smug condescension off his face. She clenched them into fists, dwelling on how pleasant it would be to box his arrogant ears! She took in very little of what he was saying!

Lord d’Arenville rose from his seat and paced up and down before her, explaining the arrangements. He noted his bride’s delicate blush, her modestly bowed head, and congratulated himself again on the excellent choice he had made. No pampered miss, this. She sat there, meekly listening to his plans for her future. Quiet, submissive, delightful!

How could he ever have been so foolish as to consider a sophisticated woman of the ton as the mother of his children? Laetitia’s candidates had been self-centred, selfish, and far too sure of themselves. Much better to have chosen this sweetly shy girl with her modest, downcast eyes. Thalia Robinson would be grateful for his offer—she had no worldly ambition, no highly strung temperament.

His eyes ran over her figure. It was difficult to tell in that frightful dress she wore, but she seemed sturdy—certainly robust enough to survive the rigours of childbirth. And this girl, he believed, had the capacity to love, and he needed that—for his children. He recalled the tender way her hands had caressed young Georgie. He wanted that for his child…yes, for his child…

Her hands were trembling, he realised. Magnus watched approvingly as she clenched her fingers tightly together in an effort to control her emotions. Excellent. Self-control was a good thing in a wife.

He gentled his voice. Doubtless such disparity in their respective stations in life made her a little nervous, a little eager to oblige. The thought did not displease Magnus. He intended to treat her kindly—her nervousness would pass with time and she would no doubt be grateful for his forbearance. It would be a start…She would find him a good husband, he hoped. He would look after her, protect her, take care of all her needs. He continued to pace the floor, describing d’Arenville, the family seat, and how much she would like living there.

Tallie fumed silently, letting his words wash over her. So she was to be his quiet, compliant little brood mare, was she? The wife he intended to keep immured in his beastly d’Arenville for ten years or more!

In a pig’s eye she was!

The nerve, the arrogance, the presumption of the man! He must have decided a plain, poor woman would give him the least trouble, a woman without prospects but with the hips and teeth and bloodlines to bear his heirs! A sturdy woman!

She longed to leap up, to fling his proposal of mar…No—Tallie Robinson, poor relation, did not merit a proposal, for he had not even waited for her reply. He’d presented his prospective brood mare with an assumption of marriage!

Well, whichever it was, she would fling it in his teeth! That would bring a shocked look to that insufferably complacent face. And how she would enjoy snapping her fingers under that long, proud nose! She would wait until he had finished describing the wonderful treats that marriage to him would bring her! What was he talking about now? The view of the lake from the summerhouse at sunset? Hah!

I’m sooo sorry, Lord d’Arenville, she would tell him, but even the delightful prospect of viewing the d’Arenville duck pond at dawn cannot tempt me to marry you. I would much prefer to remain unwed. Sooo sorry to disappoint you. And she would sail out of the room, head held high, leaving him stunned, furious, gnashing his teeth with chagrin.

No, she decided. Too tame, too straightforward. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. He hadn’t even bothered to speak to her! He’d merely informed Laetitia, no doubt offering to take a poor relation off her hands. Tallie had been scalded and abused and accused of outright immorality. And all because of his arrogance. He needed to be taken down a peg or two! Or three!

Tallie smiled to herself, planning her revenge—she’d keep him guessing. A man of his pride and consequence would loathe being kept waiting. Especially by a little nobody from nowhere! A sturdy little nobody at that!

Laetitia’s guests obviously knew of Lord d’Arenville’s choice. They would be waiting for the announcement. And Laetitia—what would it do to her pride to have the despised poor relation keeping the head of the family dangling?

The thought filled Tallie with glee—she would let them all wait…and wait…and wait. And they would marvel at her temerity in making her future husband wait, for of course it would never occur to any of them that she could be so foolish as to refuse such a prize!

A prize indeed, Tallie thought scornfully, glancing up at him from under her lashes. As if a handsome face and figure and a wealthy purse were everything!

Yes, she would make him, and everyone else, wait. And then, just when everyone was starting to wonder how much longer Lord d’Arenville’s temper would stand it, Tallie would carelessly decline his offer. That would serve him right! How his pride would suffer—the great Lord d’Arenville, prize of the marriage mart, courted and pursued by every matchmaking mama in the country, rejected by the plain and insignificant poor relation!

‘The banns would be called immediately and the wedding set for three weeks from now. Would that be enough time for you to organise your bride clothes?’ said Lord d’Arenville.

Tallie blinked up at him in mocking surprise. Was that a question he was asking? Something he didn’t know? An arrangement he hadn’t made? Something for her to comment on? Amazing.

She stood up. ‘Lord d’Arenville. I thank you for your very…surprising…offer of marriage. May I consider my reply?’ Without waiting for his response, Tallie hurried on, ‘Thank you. I will let you know my answer as soon as is convenient.’

Magnus’s jaw dropped.

She walked to the door, opened it, paused, turned back to face him and smiled sweetly. ‘Until then, may I suggest you make no irrevocable arrangements?’

Chapter Three

‘Well, what did he say? It was a hum, was it not?’ Laetitia dragged Tallie into a nearby anteroom.

‘No, I am afraid it was not,’ said Tallie reluctantly. ‘You were perfectly correct, Cousin, he thought to marry me.’

Laetitia caught the tense Tallie used and pounced eagerly. ‘But he has changed his mind?’

Tallie knew she had to choose her words carefully, so as not to exacerbate her cousin’s volatile temper any further. She was skating on very thin ice as it was. ‘No, not exactly.’

‘I knew it!’ Laetitia stamped her foot. ‘He is such a selfish wretch! How could he put me in such a position? Each girl out there was in daily expectation of being made an offer!’ She glared at Tallie. ‘Each one a diamond of the first water, an heiress or a duke’s relative—and he chooses you!’

Tallie nodded, ignoring the insult. She understood how foolish her cousin felt. She even felt some sympathy for her. Lord d’Arenville was an arrogant, selfish, thoughtless boor.

‘It is all right, Cousin,’ she said soothingly. ‘I intend to refuse him.’

Laetitia froze. She stared, stupefied. Her face went white beneath the rouge. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

‘I am going to refuse him.’ Tallie smiled reassuringly.

‘Refuse Magnus?’

Tallie nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You—to refuse my cousin Magnus? Lord d’Arenville?’

Tallie nodded again. ‘Absolutely. I have no wish to marry him, so there is nothing for you to be upset—’

‘Of all the brazen effrontery! You arrogant little bitch!’

Tallie took a step backwards, unnerved by the fury she saw in her cousin’s face.

‘Who do you think you are to refuse my cousin Magnus? You—a complete nonentity! A mere Robinson! Why, he is so far above the likes of you that he is the sun to your, your…’ Laetitia waved her hand in frustration, unable to find a suitable comparison to convey to Tallie just how far beneath him she was. ‘How dare you think to humiliate me in this fashion?’

‘But, Cousin, how does my refusing Lord d’Arenville humiliate you?’ interrupted Tallie, confused by her cousin’s abrupt volte-face. ‘I can see how choosing me instead of your—’

‘Do not for one minute dare to gloat, you insolent hussy!’

‘I am not gloating,’ said Tallie indignantly. ‘But I don’t understand. Surely if I refuse him it saves you the embarrassment of people knowing he preferred me to your friends? We can say that your guests misunderstood.’

Laetitia threw up her hands. ‘She even has the brass to boast of her conquest!’ she muttered. ‘Mortifying enough that my cousin chooses a shabby little nobody over my friends, but for the nobody to refuse him! No. No! It is too much!’

She turned to face Tallie, hands on hips. ‘Little did I think when I accepted you into my household that it would come to this. You will pack your bags and be out of here within the hour. John Coachman will take you back to the village where you lived before you insinuated yourself into my home.’ Laetitia’s voice was low, furious and vengeful, her expression implacable.

Tallie stared at her, shocked. There was no hysteria in her cousin’s manner now. ‘You…you cannot mean it, surely, Cousin?’

Laetitia sniffed and turned her face away.

Tallie tried again. ‘Please, Cousin, reconsider. There is nothing for me in the village. The school closed down when Miss Fisher died. And…you know I have no money.’

‘You should have considered that before you set your cap at my cousin.’

‘I did not set my cap at him. I never even spoke to him! It was Lord d’Arenville who—’

‘I am not interested in your excuses. You have one hour.’ Laetitia was adamant.

Tallie’s mouth was dry. ‘You cannot mean it, surely, Cousin?’ she began. ‘I have nowhere to go, no one to turn to.’

‘And whose fault is that, pray? Had I known before what an ungrateful, scheming jade you were, I would never have taken you into my home. The subject is closed. One hour.’ Laetitia swept towards the door.

‘Cousin!’ called Tallie. Laetitia paused and glanced disdainfully back. Tallie swallowed. She had been about to beg, but she could see from her cousin’s expression that her cousin was hoping for just that. No, she would not beg. In her current mood Laetitia would enjoy seeing her grovel, and it would do no good; Tallie could see that now.

‘Will you write me a letter of recommendation so that I may at least seek work as a governess?’

‘You have a nerve!’ spat Laetitia. ‘No, I will not!’

Magnus strode through the damp grass, snapping his whip angrily against his booted leg. He’d planned to go for a long ride, but had found himself too impatient to wait for a groom to saddle his horse so he’d gone for a walk instead. The gardens were looking quite pretty for the time of year. He stopped and stared at a clump of snowdrops, their heads nodding gently in the faint breeze.

He recalled the way she’d sat there, listening to his words with downcast eyes, all soft and submissive, her pale nape exposed, vulnerable and appealing. Her hair was not plain brown after all, but a soft honey colour, with a tendency to curl. And when she’d looked up at him at the end he’d realised that she had rather pretty eyes, a kind of deep amber, with long dark lashes. And her skin looked smooth and soft.

Yes, he’d been pleased with his choice. Right up until the moment she’d spoken and revealed that flash of…temper? Pique?

Magnus lashed at the nodding snowdrops with his whip, sending them flying. He stared unseeing at the carnage.

The chit was playing games with him! Make no irrevocable arrangements. There’d been a malicious kind of pleasure in the way she’d said it, sweet smile notwithstanding. He strode on, frowning.

For almost the whole of the house party the girl had been quiet, docile and obedient. He was convinced it was her usual state—it must be—how else had she survived living with Laetitia? And she lived here with the children all year round without complaint.

No. He must have imagined her anger. He’d taken her by surprise, that was all. He should have given her a little more warning of his intentions. And perhaps he’d been a little clumsy—he had never before offered marriage, and his unexpected nervousness had thrown him a little off balance.

He should have made a flowery speech and then a formal offer, instead of rushing into his plans. Females set store by that kind of thing. She was quite right to put him off for a time. It was what every young girl was schooled to do, pretending to think it over, as a true lady should.

His mouth twitched as he remembered the way she’d held her chin so high. For all the world as if she might refuse. Cheeky little miss! The small flash of spirit did not displease him. A spirited dam usually threw spirited foals, and he wouldn’t want his children to be dull. Not at all. And he’d seen the mettle in her when she’d flown to little Georgie’s side, like a young lioness defending her cub.

And spirited defiance was permissible, even desirable in the defence of children. It was a little disconcerting for it to be directed against himself, perhaps, but he was not displeased, he told himself again.

So why could he not shake the feeling that he’d reached to pluck a daisy and had grasped a nettle instead? He savagely beheaded another clump of his cousin’s flowers and strode on, indifferent to the damage the wet grass was doing to the shine on his boots.

‘Magnus, what on earth are you doing to my garden?’

Laetitia’s voice jerked Magnus out of his reverie. He glanced back the way he’d come and flinched when he realised the havoc his whip had wrought.

‘Sorry, Tish. I didn’t realise—’

‘Oh, never mind that. I need to talk to you at once, but do come away from that wet grass; it will ruin my slippers. Here, into the summerhouse, where we can be quite private.’

Laetitia settled herself on a bench and regarded her cousin severely. ‘How could you, Magnus? In front of all my guests! I could just kill you! You have been extremely foolish, but I think we can pass it off as a jest—not in the best taste, of course, but a jest all the same. In any case, I have got rid of the girl—for which, I may add, you owe me your undying gratitude. Although, knowing you, you will be odiously indifferent as you always—’

Magnus cut to the heart of the rambling speech. ‘What do you mean, “got rid of the girl”? You cannot mean Miss Robinson, surely?’

‘Miss Robinson indeed!’ Laetitia sniffed. ‘She is lucky I even acknowledged her as cousin. Well, that is all at an end now. She will be gone within the hour!’

‘Gone? Where to?’

‘The village she grew up in. I forget its name.’

Magnus frowned. ‘What? Is there some family emergency? I understood she was an orphan.’

‘Oh, she is. Not a living soul left, except for me, and that’s at an end after her base ingratitude and presumption.’

‘Then why is she going to this village?’

Laetitia wrinkled her nose. ‘I believe she spent virtually all her life in some stuffy little school there. Her father was in the diplomatic service, you know, and travelled a great deal.’

Poor little girl, thought Magnus. He knew what it was like to be sent away, unwanted, at a young age. ‘And she wishes to visit this school? I suppose she must have friends there whom she would wish to ask to her wedding. I did not realise.’

‘Magnus, what is wrong with you? What does it matter where the wretched girl goes?’

‘Tish, of course it matters. Do you not realise I asked Miss Robinson to be my bride?’

‘Of course I do, and it will be a long time before I will forgive you for making such a fool of me, Magnus! But that wretched little nobody plans to make a fool of us both, and that I will not allow!’

Magnus frowned. The uneasy feeling he’d had ever since he’d spoken to Miss Robinson intensified. His whip tapped a sharp and fast tattoo against his boot. ‘What do you mean, “a fool of us both”?’

‘She plans to refuse you!’

‘What?’ The instant surge of temper caught Magnus unaware. He reined it in. ‘How can you know such a thing, Tish?’

‘She told me to my head, not fifteen minutes ago. Boasted of it!’ Laetitia noted his stupefaction, nodded smugly and laid a compelling hand on his arm. ‘You see now why she must be got away from here at once. I will not have a Robinson crow to the world that my cousin, Lord d’Arenville, was not good enough for her!’

‘Are you sure?’ Magnus was flabbergasted. He had not expected any girl to refuse his offer…but a penniless orphan? Boasting? If it was true, it was more than a slap in the face.

‘She actually said so? In so many words?’

‘Yes, Magnus, in just so many words. First she gloated of her success in cutting all my friends out to snare you, and then she boasted of how foolish we would all look when she refused you. The ungrateful trollop! I would have her drowned if I could!’

Magnus stood up and took a few jerky paces back and forth across the small summerhouse, his whip slapping hard and fast against his boot. ‘I…I must consider this. Until I speak to you again, do nothing,’ he said, and stalked off into the garden, destroying the herbaceous border as he passed.

No, no, dearest Tallie, you cannot leave us…it was a foolish misunderstanding…What would we do without you? What would the children do? And George and I—oh, please do not let my wretched cousin Magnus come between us—he is nothing but a cold, proud Icicle! You are family, dearest Tallie, and you belong here! Oh, do not leave us, we need you too much…

‘I…I’ve been sent up to make sure you’re packed, miss.’ The maidservant hovered uncomfortably, wringing her hands in distress. ‘And John Coachman has been told to ready himself and the horses for a long journey…I’m that sorry, Miss.’

‘It’s all right, Lucy,’ said Tallie shakily. Reality crashed around her. Laetitia had not changed her mind. Tallie truly was being thrown out of her cousin’s house.

She got off the bed where she’d been huddled and tried to pull herself together, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. ‘There’s a bag on top of that wardrobe—if you could put my clothing in that…I…I must see to other matters.’ She rushed out, her brimming eyes averted from the maid’s sympathetic gaze.

Moments later she slipped out of the side door, across the south lawn and into the garden maze. Tallie knew the convoluted paths by heart, and unerringly made her way towards the centre. It was a favourite spot. No one could see over the high, clipped hedges, and if anyone entered it she would have plenty of warning. She reached the heart of the maze, hurled herself down on the wrought-iron seat and burst into tears.

She had lost everything—her home, the children. She was about to become a pauper. She’d always been one, she supposed, but now she would truly be destitute. Homeless. Taken out and dumped like an unwanted cat.

She sobbed until there were no more tears, until her sobs became hard, dry lumps stuck in her chest, shuddering silently out of her with every breath she drew. Eventually they subsided, only coming every minute or so, in an echo of the distress she could bear no more of.

What would she do? This very night, unless some miracle intervened, she would find herself deposited in the village square. Where would she go? Where would she sleep? Unconsciously her hand crept to her mouth and she began to nibble at her nails. No one in the village would remember her. The vicar? No, she re-called—he’d died shortly after she’d left. A churchgoer might recall her face amongst the dozens of schoolgirls who’d filed dutifully into St Stephen’s each Sunday, but it was unlikely. It was two years ago—vague recognition was the best she could expect from anyone in the village. And no one would be likely to take her in.

There was not a soul in the world she could turn to.

The sharp, clean scent of the close-trimmed cypress hedges was fresh in the damp, cool air. Tallie drew her knees up against her chest and hugged them to her. In the distance she could hear the haunting cry of a curlew. It sounded as lost and alone as she felt.

She’d been happy at Laetitia’s, but her happiness had been founded on a lie. She had deluded herself that she was part of a family—the family she had always yearned for. In fact she was little better than a servant. Worse—a servant was paid, at least. If Tallie had been paid she would have had the wherewithal to pay for a night’s lodging or two. As it was, she had nothing.

Enough of self-pity, she decided at last. There was a way out of this mess. It was the only possible solution. She knew it, had known it all along; she’d just been unable to face the thought until she’d explored every other option. But there were no other options. She would have to marry Lord d’Arenville.

Lord d’Arenville. Cold-eyed, cold-voiced, handsome Lord d’Arenville. A cold proud Icicle, who simply wanted a brood mare for his heirs. Not a wife. Not a loving companion. A vessel for his children. A sturdy vessel! Tallie’s mouth quivered and she bit down hard on her nails to stop herself weeping again.

There would be no love for Tallie now—the love she’d dreamed of all her life. But there would be security. And with the thought of sleeping in the village churchyard that night, security was suddenly more important than love—or, if not more important, certainly of more immediate significance.

No, there would be no Prince Charming for Tallie, no Black Knight galloping to her rescue, not even a dear, kind gentleman who was no one in particular. Nobody for Tallie to love, nobody who would love her in return. There was only Lord d’Arenville. Was it possible to love a statue? An Icicle?

Oh, there would be children, God willing, but children were different. You couldn’t help but love children. And they couldn’t help but love you back. Children were like puppies, loving, mischievous and endlessly thirsting for love.

Tallie knew. She’d thirsted all her life, ever since she’d turned six and had been sent away to school.

That was one thing she’d have to make clear to Lord d’Arenville from the start. She wouldn’t allow him to send her children away to school. Not until they were quite old—fourteen, fifteen, something like that. And she would write to them every week, and send them special treats sometimes to share with their chums. And they would come home for every holiday and term break. And bring any of their schoolfriends who couldn’t go to their own families. None of her children’s friends would spend Christmas after Christmas alone in an empty school, with no one but an elderly headmistress to keep her company.

Her children would know they were loved, know they were wanted, know that their mother, at least, cared about them.

And the love of her children would have to be enough for her, she decided. It was only the lucky ones, the golden ones of this world, who were loved for themselves, after all. Who found a partner to share secret dreams and foolish ideas with. Who found a man to cherish them. Cherish. Such a beautiful, magical word.

Tallie took a long, shaky breath, a sob catching in her throat as she did so. Such dreams were for silly girls. She scrubbed at her swollen eyes with a handkerchief. It was time to put her dreams and her girlhood away.

It was time to go to Lord d’Arenville and tell him she would marry him.

It was a chilly, withdrawn and much chagrined Lord d’Arenville who returned from the garden half an hour after he’d spoken with Laetitia. The house party had been an unmitigated disaster. And now his ego was severely dented by the news that a penniless girl could not bear the thought of marrying him. Part of him concurred with his cousin that he would like to drown Miss Thalia Robinson. Or strangle her slowly, taking her soft, creamy throat between his bare hands…But an innate sense of fair play told him it would be a gross miscarriage of justice if he allowed his cousin to turn Thalia Robinson out on the streets merely because she didn’t wish to wed him.

And he had been uncannily disturbed by the sound of someone weeping in the maze. Weeping as if their heart would break. Magnus hated it when women wept!

He’d taken a few steps into the maze and hovered there for some time, clenching and unclenching his fists, listening helplessly. Not knowing what to do. Knowing who it was, sobbing so piteously. Thalia Robinson.

He had told himself she’d brought it on herself, boasting to Laetitia of how she would spurn his offer. He’d told himself she deserved to be miserable, that the girl must be a cold-hearted little bitch. He’d made her an honourable offer—there was no need for her to publicly humiliate him. He, who had long been regarded as the finest prize on the marriage mart, hunted by matchmaking mamas and their daughters alike! Most girls would have been grateful for an offer from him, but not Miss Thalia Robinson. No. She planned to humiliate him—and so she was reaping what she had sown. Her regrets had come too late.

Magnus had told himself all these things, but they hadn’t helped—he just couldn’t bear the sound of a woman sobbing.

The part of him that didn’t want to strangle her had wanted to go into the maze and speak to her—and what a stupid idea that would have been! As if women ever made any sense when they were weeping. And as if he would know what to do anyway. He’d always managed to stop them crying by giving them some bauble or other, but then all the women he’d ever known had cried at him, not taken themselves into the middle of a maze on a damned cold day and sobbed their little hearts out in absolute solitude.

Magnus was sure he wouldn’t know how to deal with someone who wept like that.

‘Tish, I intend to withdraw my offer. She cannot refuse me if there is no offer, so you need not worry about any insult to the family pride. No one will know of it. I will speak to the girl before any irrevoc—’ He faltered for a moment, recalling those cheeky last words: make no irrevocable arrangements. Thalia Robinson had not realised she was sounding her own doom. ‘Before any irrevocable steps have been taken. Have her sent to me at once, if you please.’

‘But, Magnus—’

‘At once, Tish.’

‘Oh, very well. But it will make no diff—’

But Magnus had left. Laetitia pulled the bell cord to summon Brooks.

Magnus decided to receive Miss Robinson in the library. He would speak kindly to her, show her he bore her no grudge for her poor judgement. She would have no idea that she had, somehow, got under his skin. He would be casual, relaxed, indifferent. He would not receive her in formal dress, as a gentleman would normally do when receiving a lady’s answer to his proposal of marriage. His offhand manner would be conveyed by the silent message of his riding buckskins. It would appear to be a spur of the moment chat, the outcome of which held only lukewarm interest for him.

His brow furrowed as he tried to recall every detail of their previous conversation. A cold smile grew on his face as he realised he had not actually asked her to marry him. Not in so many words. He had spoken of an intention to organise a ceremony. Had used the conditional tense. Thank heavens. He might be able to fudge it. He would make Miss Robinson understand she was mistaken, that he’d made her no actual offer.

It was not an honourable solution, but it should smooth things over with Laetitia—enough to stop her throwing the wretched girl into the streets. And then he would get the hell out of this appalling house party and never have to set eyes on the blasted girl or his blasted cousin ever again!

He leant against a high, leather-covered writing desk, one leg crossed casually over the other, awaiting her entrance with an expression of bored indifference on his face. The whip snapped fast and furious against the glossy leather of his boot.

‘Lord d’Arenville?’

She’d entered the room so silently that Magnus was caught unaware. He stared, mesmerised, at the red-rimmed eyes which failed to meet his, the drooping mouth and the woebegone little face, and it was as if he could hear every choking sob again. With an effort, he gathered himself and began to speak, feeling dishonest and uncomfortable as he did so.

‘Miss Robinson, I gather from my cousin that you are under the mistaken impression that I off—’

‘Lord d’Arenville, I accept your offer of marriage,’ she said at the same time.

There was a long, tense moment of silence in the room.

What happens now? wondered Magnus. In all honour, he could not continue with his reluctant pretence that he had made no offer. There was no need—she had accepted him. So that was it. An offer had been made and was accepted. The rest was inevitable. Irrevocable. Ironic, that. She could call the wedding off, but there was no question that he could do the same. Lord d’Arenville was to wed Miss Thalia Robinson. Thalia Robinson, who looked more like a martyr going to the stake than a blushing bride.

The realisation was like a kick in the teeth. Until this moment he’d half believed that Laetitia was mistaken in saying the girl was going to refuse him. But this miserably bleak acceptance of his offer had convinced him as a thousand explanations could not.

It could not be said that Thalia Robinson actually preferred poverty to himself, but it would be clear to a blind man that it was a damned close race. The girl might be going to her execution, the face she was wearing. Magnus stared at the downcast face, the red-tipped nose, the resolute chin and the trembling lips and felt his anger rising. It had clearly taken a great deal of anguish and resolution for her to decide between abject poverty—or marriage to Lord d’Arenville.

Starvation and misery—or Lord d’Arenville!

The gutter—or Lord d’Arenville!

And finally, by a nose, or a whisker, or a hair’s breadth, Lord d’Arenville had won. Lucky Lord d’Arenville!

Lord d’Arenville was furious. He could not trust himself to speak another word to her. He bowed stiffly, turned and stalked out of the room. Tallie watched him leave, blinking in surprise.

‘Magnus, what—?’ Laetitia was standing in the hallway, speaking to the vicar. Her voice died as she saw the look on his face.

‘You may wish me happy!’ he snapped.

‘What?’

‘She has accepted me.’ He broke his whip in half and flung the pieces into a corner.

‘Oh, Magnus, how dreadf—’

‘I am ecstatic!’ he snarled. ‘The wedding will be in three weeks’ time. Make all the arrangements. Spare no expense.’ He laughed, a harsh, dry laugh. ‘Nothing is too good for my bride!’ He noticed the vicar, standing there, jaw agape and added, ‘You, there—Parson. Call the banns, if you please. I will return in three weeks for the ceremony.’

He stormed out of the door and headed for the stables. Laetitia trailed after him, pleading with him to slow down, to explain, but to no avail. Lord d’Arenville mounted his horse, and with no warning, no preparations and no baggage, set off for d’Arenville Hall, a good two days’ journey away.

Chapter Four

‘Blast and bother!’ Tallie glared at her reflection. She’d brought a mirror up from one of the salons and propped it against the wall. It told her what she had already suspected—that she was the worst seamstress in the world and that her wedding dress looked like a dog’s breakfast.

She tugged at the recalcitrant sleeves, pulling them this way and that in an effort to make them appear balanced. It was hopeless. One sleeve puffed beautifully whilst the other, which should have been an exact twin, sagged and drooped. She’d put the sleeve in and taken it out a half-dozen times and still it looked uneven—and slightly grubby from all the handling.

Tallie had no idea what arrangements had been made for her wedding. She’d tried several times to speak to her cousin, but Laetitia was still furious and had ordered Tallie to keep out of her sight or she would not be answerable for the consequences.

No one, not the servants, Laetitia nor Lord d’Arenville, had seemed to recall that the bride had not a penny to her name. Hopefully someone would remember the bride needed a suitable gown, but as the dreaded day grew closer Tallie decided she had better make alternative arrangements—just in case.

The attics contained dozens of trunks and bandboxes, filled with old dresses and ballgowns, relegated there over the years. She and the children had rummaged through them frequently, searching for dress-up materials. Tallie had found a lovely pale amber silk ballgown, hopelessly outmoded, with wide panniers and yards of ruching, but with enough good material left, when it was unpicked, to make a wedding frock. Using one of her old dresses as a pattern, she had cut and sewn it laboriously, wishing she had been more diligent in Miss Fisher’s sewing class.

In another trunk she had found an almost new pair of blue kid slippers, which only pinched her feet a little, and a stained pair of long white satin gloves. The stains were impossible to remove, so she’d dipped the gloves in coffee until they almost exactly matched the amber silk.

She smiled at her reflection and pirouetted several times. It was not so bad after all. Oh, the neckline was a trifle crooked, to be sure, but Tallie was convinced only the most critical would notice it. And if the gathers she had made at the back were slightly uneven, what did that signify? It was only obvious when she was motionless, so she would be sure to keep moving, and if she had to stand still for any reason she would keep her back to a wall.

She examined her reflection in the mirror again as she tugged on the long satin gloves. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. She frowned at the sleeves…A shawl! she realised in a sudden flash of brilliance. Laetitia’s spangled gauze scarf would hide the sleeves! It was not precisely a bridal mode, but perhaps observers would think it a new fashion. After all, she was wedding a man well-known for his elegance. Tallie’s mouth grew dry as she stared at her reflection.

She was not just wedding a man…she was wedding The Icicle. Tomorrow morning. And afterwards he would take her away from the children she loved so much—the only living creatures in the world who loved her. Tomorrow she would belong only to him, swear before God and witnesses to love, honour and obey him. A man she barely knew and certainly didn’t like. A cold man, who was famed for caring nothing for the feelings of others. Who wanted a wife he need not dance attendance on, a wife he could get with child and then abandon in rural fastness while he enjoyed himself in London, awaiting the birth of his heir…

Tallie shivered. What did it mean, get with child? She knew women bore children, of course, but how it came about she had no idea. She’d lived virtually her entire life in Miss Fisher’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen, and the subject had certainly never been on that prim spinster’s curriculum.

It had, however, been a subject of much speculation and whispering in the dormitories. But none of the various theories put forward by the Daughters of Gentlemen had convinced Tallie that any of her schoolfellows were more enlightened than she on the subject. Some had insisted that women carried a baby around in their stomach, for instance. Well, if that was so—how did they get the baby out? Cut it out? Vomit it?

In any case, how did a baby get in there in the first place? The man planted a seed in the woman? A seed? Babies didn’t grow from seeds! They did, Amanda Forrest had said. Her mother had told her so. Well, how did they plant the seed—swallow it? Tallie suspected it was an old wives’ tale—like that which said if you swallowed pumpkin seeds, pumpkin vines would grow out of your ears. Tallie had proven that one wrong by eating more than twenty pumpkin seeds—no hint of a vine had appeared from her ears, though she’d been a little anxious for a week or two!

No, Amanda hadn’t been sure how the seed was planted, but it was much the same as animals did, she believed. Tallie had scoffed at that one—animals planting seeds? Ridiculous.

One girl, Emmaline Pearce, had spoken ghoulishly of wedding nights and blood and screaming, but everyone had known Emmaline Pearce was a shockingly untruthful girl who made up all sorts of deliciously scary tales. Miss Fisher had forever been punishing her for it.

Get with child. Surely she had the right to be told how it was done. Had her mother lived, she could have explained, but all Tallie’s mother had left her was a few letters. And possibly—But there was no time to think on that…She had a wedding night to worry about first.

Tallie decided to ask Mrs Wilmot. She sought her out in the linen room and, with much beating around the bush, blurted out her question.

‘Lord love you, Miss Tallie.’ The housekeeper blushed. ‘I’m not the one you should ask about such matters. I’ve never been wed, my dear.’

‘But—’

‘All housekeepers are called Missus, dearie, whether they’re wed or not. But Wilmot is my maiden name.’ She patted Tallie on the hand. ‘You go ask your cousin, miss. She’ll set you right.’ The kindness shone so warmly from the elderly housekeeper’s face that Tallie didn’t have the heart to explain how very hostile Laetitia was.

Then she thought of the scullery maid, Maud, who was, according to rumour, no better than she ought to be. Surely Maud would know. But when Tallie asked her, Maud shrieked with laughter, tossed her apron over her face and ran from the room giggling, leaving Tallie red to the ears.

Finally she decided to approach her cousin about it.

Laetitia took one look at Tallie’s blushing embarrassment, and snapped impatiently, ‘Oh, God deliver me from puling virgins! Don’t look so mealy-mouthed, girl—I’ll tell you all you need to know about your wedding night.’ She pulled Tallie down beside her and whispered detailed instructions in her ear. After a moment she sat back and pushed Tallie away.

Horrified, but too mortified to ask questions, Tallie turned to leave, but as she reached the door Laetitia hissed after her, ‘Be sure you do not disgrace my cousin or your family. Remember, a lady endures it in silence—without moving or flinching. Do you hear me, girl?’ She turned back to her mirror, a knowing smile on her face.

They were the last words Laetitia spoke to her, and the more she thought about them, the more nervous Tallie became. Endure it? What was it? Endurance sounded most unpleasant…And in silence? Why would she wish to cry out? Or flinch…It sounded painful. She thought briefly of Emmaline Pearce, then shook her head.

‘Miss, miss, he’s arrived!’ Lucy, the maid, put her head around the door, her face lit with excitement. ‘Your betrothed, miss—Lord d’Arenville—he’s here!’

Tallie’s heart seemed to stop for a moment, and then began to beat in double time. He was here. She would be able to speak to him, then—about Italy—before the wedding. It was what she had been hoping for. In the three weeks since he had galloped off so intemperately, she’d kicked herself often for not having sorted out everything to her satisfaction. She had to speak with him, get the whole thing settled before the wedding, for afterwards there would be little likelihood of him agreeing to the demands of a woman who’d sworn in church to obey him.

‘I must see him at once.’ Tallie started towards the door.

‘Oh, miss, miss, you can’t! It’s bad luck, no matter how eager you are to see your handsome gentleman again!’ Lucy beamed in fond indulgence. The entire household had reacted to the news of Tallie’s wedding as if it was a fairy tale come true for her, and Tallie found she didn’t have the heart to disillusion them.

‘Bad luck? Why?’

Lucy gestured to Tallie’s gown. ‘For the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress, a’course.’ She looked more closely at the wedding dress, and, frowning, reached out to tug one sleeve into place. ‘Are you sure this—?’

‘Oh, never mind that,’ said Tallie. ‘I’ll change my dress, Lucy, since you say it’s so important, but will you please take a message to Lord d’Arenville and tell him I must speak to him as soon as possible? In private.’

Realising she was to be Cupid’s Messenger, Lucy beamed and said dramatically, ‘Of course I will, Miss Tallie. I’ll go straight away, and before you know it you’ll be reunited once more with Your Beloved.’ She sailed from the room.

Tallie giggled. Her Beloved? She giggled again, trying to imagine The Icicle involved in anything so human as a romantic assignation. It was simply not possible.

Having told the irritatingly coy maidservant he would meet Miss Robinson in the summerhouse in twenty minutes, Magnus found himself wondering why the girl wanted to speak to him so urgently. Something to do with her wedding finery, no doubt. He allowed himself a faint, cynical smile and felt in his pocket for the long oblong package. He was well ahead of her.

Magnus had ridden away from his last interview with his bride-to-be in a white-hot rage. He was still angry, but his rage had cooled to an icy implacability. Thalia Robinson would have to learn her place. If she wanted to be treated as a bride would wish to be treated she had better tread very lightly around him until she’d earned his forgiveness. He frowned and felt the package. He must make his motives for this gift very clear to her. He would not wish her to misunderstand him.

It had occurred to him a week before that she would very likely not possess any adequate jewellery. It was unthinkable that his bride wear cheap or shoddy jewellery at her wedding, so Magnus had looked through his late mother’s jewel case until he had found a very pretty rope of matched pearls, earrings, and a bracelet—just right for a young bride. Simple enough to look modest and maidenly, yet the rope was very long and the pearls priceless. They were the perfect betrothal gift—and would be bound to go with whatever she had decided to wear.

From the little he had seen of her clothing, Miss Robinson preferred an odd style of garment, but Laetitia’s taste was exquisite, and she would have ensured that his bride would not wear anything outrageous. And after they were married he’d supervise her wardrobe himself. The rest of his mother’s jewels he would present to her as and when she deserved it.

‘Lord d’Arenville?’

Magnus rose and turned quickly. He bowed slightly. ‘Miss Robinson.’ His eyes were cold, his patrician features impassive.

Tallie closed the door to the summerhouse behind her. Her heart was pounding as if she had been running and her hands felt clammy. She curtsied automatically, trying not to stare. Gracious, she’d forgotten how very handsome he was. It made it so much harder to remember how cold he was.

‘I was under the impression that you wished to converse with me, but perhaps you merely wished to see for yourself that I had returned.’ His tone was blighting.

‘Oh, no,’ Tallie responded instantly. ‘I believed Lucy when she told me you’d arrived. Lucy is a very truthful girl.’

He missed her irony. ‘Lucy?’

‘The maid.’ Tallie seated herself on a bench beside a wall.

Lord d’Arenville folded his arms, leaned against the wall and regarded her sardonically. He was looming again, Tallie thought resentfully, and obviously had no intention of making this any easier.

‘I wished to see you in private because there are things we need to have clear before the wedding,’ she said in a rush.

Have clear? His eyes narrowed. ‘Are there indeed?’

‘Yes. You left so suddenly I had no chance to talk to you about them.’

‘Well, I am here now,’ Magnus drawled.

‘Th…they are very important to me, and I could not agree to marry you unless we do so.’

‘I was under the impression that you had already agreed to marry me, madam,’ he said silkily.

‘Well, I did, yes, but we had not finished our discussion when you rushed out, and I only discovered later that you had gone to d’Arn…d’Anvil…’ She stumbled over the word in her nervousness.

‘D’Arenville Hall, madam. You had best learn the name, as it will be your home for the rest of your life.’

This veiled allusion to the rural imprisonment he planned for her threw Tallie into a temper. He did not know she had overheard him in the library that night, telling his cousin his plans for a bride and an heir. She recognised his threat.

‘It is not my home yet.’ Tallie bared her teeth in what she hoped would look like a smile. ‘And there are issues to resolve before I agree to make it so—several conditions, in fact.’

Conditions! Magnus was outraged. The chit was trying to blackmail him. Threatening to jilt him unless he agreed to her demands. The day before the wedding, when guests would be arriving at any moment. By God she had a cheek!

With difficulty he held onto his temper, kept his face impassive. He would wait until he had heard her ‘conditions’—then he’d show her who was master here! He’d march her to the church and marry her out of hand, and then set about teaching Miss Thalia Robinson a lesson she’d never forget! Gritting his teeth, he coolly inclined his head, inviting her to continue.

Tallie regarded him nervously. He was leaning casually against the wall, seemingly relaxed and at ease, but his jaw was clenched tight, and there was a most disturbing look in his eyes. She should not have spoken of conditions, should have put it more tactfully. He was annoyed. Still, this was her only opportunity to ensure that not all her dreams ended in the dust. A betrothed female still had some power—a wife had none.

‘There are a number of cond—matters that we need to agree on. The first concerns children.’

He stared at her and his frown darkened. ‘Go on.’

‘I…I know you want children…but I must tell you that I will not…’ Tallie gulped at the black look on his face, but forced herself to continue. ‘I will not allow you to send them away to school.’

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