Mesmerising the Duke (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 1) (5 page)

CHAPTER 1

As make-believe as fairy tales are, they give pretty young women a sense of vanity while in good fortune, and hope while suffering. Raised on the dreams of poetry and make-believe, Emmeline Knight had received a fair share of both. Despite being a gentleman’s daughter, she held herself loftily above the flirtations of those who shared her rank—and of those flirtations there were many. She instead dreamt of a prince charming, or at least a wealthy peer, who would sweep her off her feet into a world of more lavish living.

She had spent the entire evening in the centre of revelry, passed from one gentleman to another, until she had torn herself away for a moment to breathe. Bodies were packed close together and potential lovers stole furtive glances at one another as the music continued to swell. Her dearest friend, Miss Lucy Grove, pulled her behind the crowd.

“Well now, Emmeline, are your feet sore yet?” she teased. “You have hardly found a moment’s rest since the night began. Quite popular among the local prospects, are we?”

“Even so, I can hardly remember the name of a single gentleman from this evening,” Emmeline admitted.

“Ah, they would weep to hear such news. Half of them looked ready to propose.”

Emmeline merely scoffed. “Forgive me if I feel relieved that none acted on such urges. A rejection would absolutely ruin the mood of the ball.”

“Now, now, Miss Knight. That is not an attitude befitting a lady such as yourself,” Lucy said with a wry smile. “They all seemed perfectly nice. You have plenty of time to find a husband who fits your tastes, but if you reject every kind soul who comes your way...”

“Oh, Lucy. I hardly think it any fault of mine that the local boys are all just that—boys.” She sighed. “Is it wrong to wish for a few better options?”

The surrounding people parted like the red sea, eagerly making room with eyes politely downcast and hungry. Lord William Blackwood, viscount and heir to the Earl of Dingby, wore a light expression of haughtiness, that was so common of the aristocracy, as he sailed through the crowd.

Lord Blackwood had come by his title suddenly, when his older brother had died during his commission in the French revolutionary war of the Second Coalition. As the sole heir of the Earl of Dingby, it was anticipated that he should marry soon. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the Berkshire society. Unfortunately, he was also not the most eloquent gentleman around, frequently comporting himself much older than his mere 28 years.

“What of Lord Blackwood? He has always been most cordial to you,” Lucy murmured, “and you cannot do much better than a viscount.”

“Archibald told me that there’s only one thing he would want from someone of my status, and it is not marriage,” Emmeline whispered back.

“How oddly realistic. I would never have expected such beliefs from you.”

“I trust my brother’s judgement. Besides, he is too much of a cold fish. Now, come along before he sees me; I should not wish to dance again yet.”

Her mother stood at the side of the dance floor next to her younger brother, Archibald, who was only half listening to her, as the couples in the centre of the room giggled and pranced around each other. Emmeline made her way towards them.

“Yes, mother. Of course,” Emmeline heard him say as they approached.

“Archibald, you always say that. When will you accomplish the task of providing an heir?” her mother chided in response. “The matter is of outmost importance. You’re getting to the age that—oh! Emmeline! Have you been enjoying the dance?” Mrs. Knight smiled in an eager manner that indicated she was asking something else entirely.

“The dancing, yes. The gentlemen, however, I found far less interesting,” she responded. Mrs. Knight’s face fell.

“Oh, Emmeline. Must you be so choosy?”

“Mother, these boys are hardly worth your fretting. Besides, it is not as if there’s a threat of me becoming an old maid.  At nineteen, I can afford to wait for someone truly wonderful for a little while longer, can I not?”

“I fear your judgement may be tainted by all those fairy tales you love so dearly,” Archibald muttered.

“Oh, you are hardly in a place to lecture me on judgement,” Emmeline shot back at her brother.

Archibald tutted. “So bold. You are fortunate that none of your followers heard that.” Miss Lucy Grove watched the playful sibling rivalry with an amused smile, but Mrs. Knight seemed eager to change the subject.

“Now, you two, please. Emmeline, I
would
like you to be married in a timely manner,” Mrs. Knight said. “Though a love-match would be perfect, my dear, most maidens marry out of practicality and convenience. You are unlikely to find a prince in these parts.”

“That’s not quite so,” Lucy interjected, lips touched with a sly smile. Emmeline’s curiosity was piqued.

“What do you mean, Lucy?” she asked.

“Well, I heard whispers while you were on the dance floor. Apparently, someone just rented Archester Manor.”

“Archester? Really?” Emmeline said, breathless. Archester Manor was no humble abode. The estate covered nearly 4,000 acres and looked fit for a royal’s summer retreat. For the money it would take to rent it, the guest may as well be royal. Lucy watched her friend’s shock with excitement.

“You have yet to hear the best of it,” she said.

“Please stop holding me in suspense and just say it, Lucy!” Emmeline cried. By this point, all three Knights were leaning in, eyes wide.

Lucy enjoyed her last few moments of superior knowledge, then spoke. “The guest is a Peer from France.” Her small crowd let out a single synonymous gasp. She continued, “His name is
Le Comte de Coligny
, and rumour is he plans to stay all season.”

“Did you say his name was de Coligny?” Mrs. Knight echoed. “Hmm…a Count…I believe my grandfather knew him. Archibald, perhaps you should call on him?”

Emmeline seemed not to have heard her mother.

“Did you say that he came alone?” Lucy nodded.

“I hope I do not presume too much to say that may be the reason he came for the season,” she said.

“Why Berkshire?” Archibald mused quietly. “If he is truly of the peerage as the rumours say, why not look for a companion in a city like London?”

“I do hope you do not mean to insult Berkshire ladies, Mr. Knight, or some of us may take offense,” Lucy said, still wearing her sly and amused smile.

“I can hardly believe—here. A French Count!” Emmeline said. Her thoughts enveloped her. She imagined a reason as to exactly why he had come to their humble village instead of some city; he wanted to meet women of a more non-material nature, who had lived in luxury less than those he was used to. This golden-hearted Lord wanted the company of humble ladies, polite and plain in attitude despite soft and lovely appearances. In her mind, they were already a perfect fit.

“Well, we already have the heir to an earldom. Not that I’ve seen you pay any attention to Lord Blackwood,” Mrs. Knight said, sounding sour. Emmeline paid her no head.

“Oh dear,” Emmeline sighed, fanning herself, “a Peer.” Distantly, the music swelled and descended into silence as the band prepared itself for the next song.

A hand fell softly on her shoulder and rested there for a moment before jerking off as if it had been burnt. It tore Emmeline from her thoughts, and she stared into the stern face of Lord Blackwood. “My apologies, Miss Knight. I simply wanted your attention.”

“Apologies for what?” She looked at his hand, held carefully at his side, then back at her shoulder. He looked about as surprised as she did—perhaps at his own boldness.

“Oh. There is no need for apologies, Lord Blackwood. How may I assist you?”

“I would like to ask your company for this final dance of the evening, if it would please you.”

“Hmm? Oh, of course,” she replied with a dreamy lopsided grin. Lord Blackwood’s eyebrows furrowed at her distance.

“Thank you, Miss Knight.” He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. He looked down at their joined hands and breathed in deeply before leading her to the dance floor.

The band began to play. This song was one that they had clearly been saving, for it was the lightest tune of the evening. It seemed to lift Emmeline’s spirits even higher, even as she was not fully present for it. In mind if not in body, she was with her imagined Count de Coligny, living her dearest fantasy. If Lord Blackwood held her hand a little tighter than was considered polite, or caressed the underside of her gloved wrist with his thumb for a brief, blissful moment, she did not notice. Nothing could distract her from her daydreams. Her very own fairy tale had just begun.

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Lord Nathaniel Hughes, the Viscount of Wiltshire was bored. Ever since his close friend, the Duke of Staffordshire had tied the knot with the beautiful Miss Georgette Danford, he had been questioning his own bachelor status.

The loving bliss the couple exuded had him longing for something other than his current, temporary liaisons with married women. He was by no means looking for a love match, far from it. However, the issue of an heir was of outmost importance. The only problem with his new, inexplicable yearning was that he did not trust women at all.

Anything else would have been unusual; after all, he had witnessed the treacherous nature of a woman first-hand.

Now, Nathaniel was not prone to the incessant musings that afflicted many a gentlemen of his advanced age. That said, at twenty-eight, surrounded by many a gentlemen who were already married, he was hard pressed to ignore the need to father a legitimate heir. This was one of the reasons he was now languishing in the Gloucestershire countryside.

Bored to tears in London, he had decided to visit his cousin at Langdon Manor. He had the misfortune to have agreed to stay for three whole weeks, when he first arrived. Having spent two weeks in the company of his nieces, he was happy to notice he had somewhat regained his senses. As he suspected, the delightful little monsters had been exactly what the doctor ordered. Five more days of
Uncle Nathaniel this, Uncle Nathaniel that
and he could rush back to London and freedom.

Luckily, his boredom had been cut short when his dear friend Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton had come calling. He had known Alden for several years. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire. The Earl had particular strong, disapproving views on Nicholas’s string of mistresses. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.

Alden was currently an esteemed Member of Parliament. Although he was certainly very vocal in the House of Lords, Nathaniel was one of the few people who knew Alden found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.

It was a longstanding joke between them, that at this rate he would die never having known a woman. However, despite their markedly different dispositions, his friendship with Nathaniel had remained strong over the years.

“Nathaniel, are you listening?” the Earl queried bemused. “I see you are studiously avoiding the topic,” he continued as he climbed on to his horse.

“What topic would that be?” Nathaniel replied, puzzled at the sudden line of questioning. His thoughts were elsewhere.

“That of your self-imposed loneliness.”

“Loneliness? That’s a bit harsh, my dear fellow.”

“Pray tell, what would you call burying yourself in the countryside?” Alden asked with a raised eyebrow. Nathaniel shrugged.

“Well, I am of the opinion that your loneliness would swiftly be solved by a matrimonial arrangement,” Alden continued dryly.

“Good Grace! I am not yet at my deathbed to be sentenced to such domestic hell,” Nathaniel exclaimed, “An incidental marriage is not something I aspire for in any near future.”

The Viscount had no wish for Alden to get a whiff of the fact that he had very much been reconsidering his bachelor status for the last couple of weeks. Once the Earl fixated on an idea he didn’t let it be. Whilst this was useful in Parliament, it was highly annoying to his friends. Nathaniel had no intention of becoming his next pet project.

The Earl laughed, then grew silent and said quietly:

“How much longer are you going to let her treachery dictate your life?” His question was followed by a pregnant silence.

“I do not know what you are referring to,” Nathaniel replied, squirming in his saddle.

Alden seemed to sense his rising discomfort, and let that particular matter drop by changing the subject. “Sooner or later you will have to produce an heir,” he said instead. “You know as well as I do your cousin Albert is not the right man to wear your coronet with dignity.”

Nathaniel laughed aloud. His cousin Albert was fat, bald and mostly intolerable. He turned in his saddle to face his friend. “Any woman I would marry would find me insufferable and swiftly be plotting my murder.”

“Beget you heir first,” Alden replied with mirth, “then you can see how long it takes for one of you to throw the other in the lake.” Both men chuckled ruefully. “Right, I best be on my way. I am due in London in a week,” the Earl, exclaimed.

“Rushing off? Do not tell me it is the lovely Phoebe Alexander that is your urgent business,” Nathaniel replied with a knowing smirk. “When are you going to get the courage to tell her, she has stolen your heart?”

“Right after you get married and produce an heir, old chap,” Alden retorted without missing a beat.

“So never then?”

The Earl laughed, bid his friend goodbye and set his horse to a gallop across the manor drive and on to the road towards London.

Nathaniel watched him race on with a wistful smile. He was loath to turn back towards the house. On an impulse, he decided to explore the surrounding landscape instead. This would be a great opportunity to take a break from his nieces. He urged his horse into a trot and was soon deep into the Gloucestershire countryside. The peace of his surroundings, was surprisingly working wonders on his nerves. As he reached the outskirts of the Crown Forest of Dean, he dismounted, tied his horse and continued on foot.

He thought of Lady Anne Smithey, the most treacherous woman he had ever met. An incomparable beauty. Her skin flawlessly pale, her
visage
a vision of innocence and her heart as dark as charcoal.

It had been five years and still the invisible wound she had inflicted upon him had not yet healed. He knew full well that his reputation as a lover, was only gained after Lady Anne crushed his young heart. He had set out to conquer every beauty, learn every trick, so as to never be at the mercy of a woman again. And he had succeeded. He had vast experience of women and his expertise had gained him the reputation of the best lover in London. Nathaniel took a deep breath. 
Why am I so restless?

Irritated he walked past a configuration of trees and then stopped dead in his track. Somewhere a woman was singing.

Intrigued he parted the bushes and walked into a clearing. In front of the clearing, there was a small lake and on the other side was a woman. She was blissfully unaware that she was being watched. With her eyes closed, she sang her heart out. It was Sir. Thomas Moore’s
The
Last Rose of Summer
. She wasn’t the best songstress he had ever heard, but her voice vibrated with the joy and innocence of youth.

Bewitched, the Viscount slowly dropped to his knees, tucked his legs underneath him and drank in the scene before him.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter,

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.’

As she sang the last word, she seemed to feel that she was being watched and turned around. Time stopped. Nathaniel was transfixed.

Hers was not a classical beauty; her features were too strong for that. But, fire burned fiercely in her eyes. Her softly curved lips looked like they were made to be kissed.

The young woman looked startled and made to dash off. Hurriedly, Nathaniel rose and stretched out his hand besieging.

“Wait!” She stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly she turned around and looked at him. Her eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Surely you would not run away from a man separated from you by a stream?” he asked soothingly. The mischievous lady smiled, and he felt his heart turn.
Not again
.

“Only if such a man is not a
gentleman
,” she replied.

“And what makes you think I am not a gentleman?” he asked with a roguish smile. “Although I must admit you are as beautiful as any English rose.”

The young lady blushed. Then she bit her lower lip and responded, “No gentleman would so brazenly spy on a lady. No sir, you are no
gentleman,
so I bid you goodbye.”

Before he could react, the young lady had turned around and dashed through the woodland. There was no way he would be able to catch up to her. Stunned, Nathaniel sat back down, his heart racing.

He had no wish to follow the lady. He had been through this before, five years ago. He was NOT going to go through this again. On the morrow he was leaving for London. With gritted teeth and steely determination, the Viscount of Wiltshire, rose and went in search of his horse. But despite denying it to himself, he was fighting a losing battle. His heart had already been conquered.

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