Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (71 page)

‘Is that so, my beauty?' he replied, taking the brush from her hand as it rose to make the first sweep. ‘Then you'll have to make do with me until he appears, won't you?' He sat himself behind her astride the long stool and took a fistful of her hair, sweeping down it expertly with the brush. ‘So what is this polite conversation to do with?'

‘You wouldn't understand.'

‘Try me.'

‘No. It's to do with some jewellery I own.'

‘Amethysts and diamonds, by any chance?'

‘Could be.'

‘You want them reset? Is that it?'

‘No. I want to give them to someone.'

‘I told you. I don't think he'd appreciate the gesture.'

‘I was intending them for a
her
, not a
him
.'

‘Do I know her?'

‘Apparently, you knew of her before I did. She must be sorely in need of funds. She has a small child. Children are expensive. She has no protector, as far as I know. She could make better use of the jewels than me. They must be worth thousands.'

‘Very commendable, sweetheart,' he said, brushing tenderly away from her temple. ‘But has it occurred to you that, if Mrs Mytchett were to take them to any jeweller, there would be questions asked about how she came by them? She'd be hard-pressed for a convincing answer, I should think.'

‘Then I'd better sell them myself, hadn't I?'

‘Better still, let me take them back to Rundell and Bridges. They'll give you a good price and they'll be glad to see them again. There'll be no questions asked.'

‘You agree that it would be a good thing to do? To help her out?'

The brushing continued. ‘An excellent thing. Generous. Typically charitable.'

‘She's been badly used, but I hope she won't regard it as charity.'

‘What, then?'

‘Recompense. Her deserts. I bear her no grudges. She need not know who the money comes from. In fact, I'd rather she didn't.'

‘She might guess, though.'

‘I don't see how. It's worth a try.'

The brushing stopped as his arms enclosed her, his face nuzzling into her neck where he held the hair away. ‘It is indeed, sweetheart,' he said. ‘Now, are you still waiting for that exquisitely mannered gentleman to turn up?'

‘Too late,' she murmured. ‘Perhaps I should make do with you, after all.'

‘Come to bed, then,' he said, sliding the silk negligee off her shoulders. ‘We've had enough polite conversation for one night. Don't you agree?'

‘Mmm,' she said, leaning her head back to receive his kiss.

* * *

In her own white bedroom, Esme Benistone also made use of her husband's services as lady's maid, a task stretching way beyond the usual time with each detail of the room to be examined and reflected upon. ‘This thing,' said his lordship, referring to her corset, ‘is not going to come off unless you stand still and allow me to unlace it. Is it?'

‘Dearest, I can unhook it from the front. Didn't you know?'

He sighed. ‘How am I supposed to know that, after...?'

She turned to face him. ‘Don't say it, love. We have some catching up to do, don't we? It'll be like old times when we were just finding out about each other.'

‘And loving what we found.'

‘I never stopped loving you, Elmer. I so wanted your love.'

‘Oh, dear heart, you never lost it. I've been so foolish. Please forgive me.'

‘We both have. Come to bed. Just your arms, your warmth, your love. The rest will come, in time. Will you give me some time, dearest?'

‘All the time in the world. I shall not lose you again. Come, lass.'

* * *

With so much else happening that summer—fêtes and garden parties, processions and massively over-subscribed dinners followed by balls, displays and exhibitions—the Benistone Ball, as it came to be known, was an exclusive affair to which only family and good friends were invited to celebrate the restoration of a divided generation. The Hertfords found it a perfect opportunity to reconnect with Verne's family from Salisbury, the Marquess and Marchioness of Simonstoke, their younger sons, Robbie and Christopher, and the elder sister, her husband and young ones all of whom were overjoyed to know that, at last, Jacques had found a woman for whom he'd had to make rather more effort than usual. The scandal attached to her and her mama only added to their fascination, particularly in the case of the two young men whose immediate interest in Lady Golding's younger sister caused a certain rivalry with Lord Bockington.

Bock had already won an advantage by being present at several family dinners in the preceding weeks, since when he had called on Marguerite almost daily, with her parents' approval, to take her driving, with and without Cecily. By this time Marguerite's affections were fully engaged by the handsome cavalry officer who had seen some action and who now understood the value of his information to Lord Verne. Smitten by Marguerite's good looks, and already in love with her, he found himself enchanted by the fusion of innocence and finesse which had begun to show and which, quite naturally, she was learning to cultivate as a far more successful and attractive lure than her previous gaucherie.

‘I can hardly believe the change in her,' said Verne, throwing down his riding gloves and whip. ‘She's actually talking sense at last. She'll be quite a woman in a year or two.'

Untying the veil knotted behind her head, Annemarie lifted off her riding hat to loose a river of black silk over her shoulders, at once softening the austere dark brown of her habit. Unbidden, the memory of that terrible episode after the theatre reminded her of how far she, too, had come when even something as meaningless as Marguerite's girlish boast had set her afire with jealousy. Now, she could accept Verne's praise of her sister without a qualm. She took his hand and led him into the morning room, recalling how her fortunes had changed so dramatically and how proud she had been riding beside him in the park, how striking he looked, how attentive, well liked by everyone and loved by her. ‘Have I told you...recently...?' she said, closing the door and placing a hand on his lapel.

‘No,' he said, automatically. ‘What?'

‘That I love you. Adore you. Is there another grade upwards of that?'

‘If there is, sweetheart,' he said, taking her waist between his hands, ‘I don't need to hear it. Love and adoration will do very nicely, thank you. It's more than I ever expected, more than I ever dared to hope for and much more than I deserve.'

‘Oh...' she smiled, tracing a line round his jaw with her thumb ‘...nobody said anything about
deserving
, my lord. No, you probably don't deserve it, but there it is. Unconditional. Free. All yours.'

‘All mine,' he whispered. ‘My glorious, scandalous woman.' There was more than a hint of laughter behind the kiss that surfaced once before being submerged in a deeper passion that told them both how permanent their love had grown.

‘And there's more,' she said.

She had no need to elaborate when the way she said it, half-shyly, half-proud, gave him all the clue he needed. Sliding one hand down between them, he rested it below her waist, his eyes searching hers, questioning. ‘Truly?' he said. ‘You're sure?'

‘Fairly sure. Yes.'

‘Oh, my darling...sweetest...most wonderful creature!' Tenderly, he held her close to him, the finest and rarest treasure he had ever beheld in all his searches.

Epilogue

T
he summer of 1814, as the story indicates, was packed with events to celebrate Napoleon's defeat, although no one at the time believed he would ever escape from his confinement on Elba to organise another army in 1815. Annemarie had partly relied on these hectic celebrations to help her find her mother, thinking that, somewhere in the crowds, there would surely be a sighting. The discontent of the Prince Regent and his unpopularity is no exaggeration, and I chose to pity him rather than to mock, his unloving parents having a lot to answer for in making him the irresponsible man he became. It was part of Annemarie's transformation to find in him the opposite of what she had expected.

His friend, the Marquess of Hertford, was in many ways the same, living a life of dissipation while indulging in a genuine love and appreciation of art, and Ragley Hall in Warwickshire is now open to the public, still full of the treasures Annemarie would have seen. The Hertfords' London home is known as Manchester House, though Carlton House was demolished, after all the money spent on it. Brighton Pavilion is still there, thriving, recently renovated and utterly splendid.

Montague Street lies behind the British Museum, which was then a fledgling institute, and the recipient of several collections, including Lord Townley's and the library of the Prince Regent's father, George III. In 1814, the British Museum was not quite the thriving organised place I have made it out to be. The public were only reluctantly admitted on certain days and in limited numbers, hustled round by guides far less knowledgeable than those of today. However, it suited my story to endow them with an eagerness to acquire Lord Benistone's treasures which, only a few years later, they would have deserved.

Lady Emma Hamilton spent some years, on and off, in various debtors' prisons after the demise of her protector, Lord Nelson in 1805. The story of the publication of letters from him to her is true, though she gained only publicity and scorn by it. But then, I do not believe she was responsible for that catastrophe, except by neglecting to keep them more safely. There is no record of any letters from the Prince Regent to Lady Hamilton; I have invented that because it sounded like a possibility. After the Prince's death, thousands of trinkets, jewellery, letters and locks of hair were discovered amongst his belongings, most of which were destroyed.

On July 1st 1814, Lady Emma Hamilton and her daughter Horatia escaped by night on a chartered boat to Calais. She died in the following January, penniless and suffering from a debilitating illness.

Lord and Lady Verne's marriage took place on the same day as that of her elder sister to Colonel Harrow, though it was Annemarie's son who was born only a month before Oriel's. The Vernes had two more sons after that.

Marguerite and Lord Bockington married in the following year on her eighteenth birthday, by which time the scandal surrounding the Benistones had been well and truly eclipsed by the Battle of Waterloo and all its repercussions.

* * * * *

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ISBN-13: 9781460325230

MISTRESS MASQUERADE

Copyright © 2014 by Juliet Landon

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