Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘Rafe.’ And she had kissed him, deeply, clumsily.

‘Lady Hadleigh.’ He smiled down, suddenly serious. ‘Will you really take me? I don’t deserve you. Perhaps you will change your mind once I have gone.’

‘No! Never. I love you.’

‘Then be mine, Bella. Show me you love me. Show me you trust me.’

‘But…before we are married?’ she queried, anxious and confused.

‘You don’t trust me, I knew it. But what coul

d I expect?’ he said, turning away, his face stark. ‘I will leave, now. It is better. We cannot marry if you do not trust me. I thought—’

He made a gesture of hurt rejection and she clung to his arm. ‘Rafe. Of course I trust you. Of course I do.’ He swept her up, his mouth hot and urgent on hers, his arms so strong and sure, and strode towards the great tithe barn.

Chapter One

23 May 1814

It was a long carriage drive to trudge up in the drizzle, and the walk gave Bella far more time to think than she needed. Rafe must listen to me, she told herself fiercely. He might ignore my letters, but he cannot refuse to help me, not face to face. It was three months since she had lain with him in the barn on a bed of hay and felt his heart beating over hers.

Now she was apprehensive in her heart, queasy and weary in her body and bitterly angry, both with herself and with him. She had believed him. She had been so desperate to be loved, so sure of what she wanted, that when it appeared right in front of her, reached out for her, she had fallen, hook line and sinker for every lure of an experienced, conscienceless rake. And now she was with child. A fallen woman. Ruined.

No, please, she prayed as she walked. Don’t let him be without all conscience. Please let it be all right soon. Oh, Baby, forgive me. I am so ashamed. And unless he helps me, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how I will look after you. But I will. Somehow.

And she was so tired with the pregnancy, with the travelling, with the fear. Rafe had not been in London; his fine house in Mayfair had been locked up and dark with the knocker off the door, but she was here now at the big estate he had described to her, dazzling her with images of her life with him as his wife. His viscountess. She had asked at the gate house and they said his lordship was in residence.

She pictured him as she walked. For a few blissful days he had made her glow with happiness. Rafe Calne, Viscount Hadleigh. Tall, handsome, brown haired and elegant with blue eyes that had smouldered their way into her heart and soul. Rafe Calne, her love and her seducer. She had tumbled into love and into his arms so easily, with every tenet of virtue and modesty forgotten in the whirl of emotion. She had dreamed of a fairy tale, was desperate for a fairy tale, and when she found herself in one she had believed in it implicitly. And now she was being punished for dreaming.

Ruined women like her were supposed to throw themselves into the river out of the depths of their shame. She had walked down to the Thames when she had found his London house deserted. She had looked at the swirling brown water. But she could not, would not, despair. She was the sensible sister, she reminded herself bitterly. She would come up with a plan.

And she was carrying a child and nothing, if she could help it, would hurt that baby. It did not matter what happened to her, it did not matter how much scorn he poured onto her head, the baby must be provided for.

Her feet were wet and cold. Rafe did not maintain his carriage drive in good order. Bella tugged her hood further over her face and shook the foot that had just trodden in a water-filled pothole. But he was a busy man, he had told her that. Doubtless his estate workers had not been supervised as they might. Rafe had been busy seducing another hapless innocent or flirting with some great lady, no doubt.

Bella’s valise was banging uncomfortably against her knee and it was making her fingers numb. For the day after May Day, this was miserable weather: certainly it was not the day to set out on a three-mile walk through the countryside on an empty, unsettled stomach. It was probably a judgement for travelling on a Sunday, one more sin to add to the one she had so gladly, so recklessly, committed. The drive turned around an over-grown bed of shrubs and there was the house, Hadleigh Old Hall, sprawling low and golden brown and beautiful, even in the rain. It should have been her new home.

Bella straightened her shoulders as she reached the front door and banged the knocker. Deep breath, keep calm. He would be surprised to see her, shocked perhaps that she had travelled alone, angry when he heard what she wanted—of that last she had no doubt.

The butler’s face as he opened the door spoke more than the words he was not uttering. Bella dripped in the shelter of the high porch and wondered if her nose was red or blue. She could imagine just what a sight she must present, soaking wet and travel stained after four days on the road, and she could see it in the way the butler looked at her. Eventually the man spoke. ‘Miss?’

‘Good afternoon.’ His eyes narrowed at the sound of her cultivated accent and his face became expressionless. Bella took a deep breath and summoned up the tatters of her poise. She would pretend the butler was the butcher and she was having to complain about the meat again. ‘I wish to see Lord Hadleigh.’

‘His lordship is not at home.’

‘Lord Hadleigh will wish to see me whether he is receiving or not. Kindly tell him that Miss Shelley is here.’ She stepped forwards and the butler, caught off guard, stepped back. ‘Thank you. I will wait in the salon, shall I?’ She dumped her bag by the door.

The butler received her sodden cloak and then looked as though he might drop it, but in the face of her accent, her certainty and one lifted eyebrow, he ushered her into a reception room.

‘I will inform his lordship of your arrival.’

It had been too much to hope the man would offer such an unconventional guest a cup of tea. Bella eyed the satin upholstery, decided not to sit on it in her damp skirts despite her shaking legs and tried to study the pictures on the wall.

She hardly had time to realise she could not focus on the first when the butler returned. ‘His lordship will receive you in the study, Miss Shelley.’

The room tilted a little. Rafe, at last. Please, God. Let me do this right. Let him have some shred of pity. ‘Thank you.’

The study was on the north side of the house, deep in shadows. A fire flickered in the grate; the only light, a green-shaded reading lamp, was focused down on to papers on the desk. It illuminated the lines of Rafe’s jaw, the edge of his cheekbones, the glint of his eyes as he stood, but not much more.