Tangled Reins (Regencies 1)

‘Ah, mademoiselle, I was only saying it is so like the Marquis to secure the most beautiful women as his mistresses—the lovely Lady Walford, for instance, whom you can see over there, talking with his lordship.’

Dorothea glanced where he indicated and glimpsed Hazelmere deep in conversation with Lady Walford, his dark head bent close to her fair one, listening intently. Even to her inexperienced eye, the pose argued a degree of familiarity. Feeling her heart literally descend to her slippers, she required every ounce of her well-practised poise to meet the Comte’s eyes with her habitual calm. But that young man had felt her stiffen when she had seen Hazelmere and Lady Walford and was more than satisfied with his success. Too wise to belabour the point, he continued in his light-hearted recitation of ton affairs.

Unknown to the Comte, his words plunged Dorothea even deeper into misery than he could have hoped. If she was confused before, she was now utterly wretched. The sole vision in her tormented mind was of Hazelmere in intimate converse with Lady Walford. All the rest seemed to sink beneath a miasma of pain.

On the previous Sunday, before her departure for Darent Hall, Marjorie Darent had sought a private interview with Dorothea, in order, as she saw it, to do her duty. ‘As Herbert is your guardian and I am his wife,’ she had carefully begun, ‘I feel it is my duty to tell you it’s common knowledge that Lord Hazelmere is trifling with your affections. I’ve been told he has acted in exactly this manner with many other susceptible young ladies. I regret to say, your resistance to his charm is most likely the attraction that draws him to your side. Neither Herbert nor I would wish to criticise your grandmama, but we are deeply pained to see you in the toils of such a man.’

Dorothea had listened with a patience born of her certainty that none of it was true. Marjorie had no idea how Hazelmere behaved towards her. And there was no chance that Lady Merion would blindly permit his attentions were these other than honourable.

Marjorie had gone on to enumerate his lordship’s many failings—gambling, racing, addiction to boxing and other low forms of sport, finally coming to the point of her visit. ‘It is my distressing duty to speak plainly to you, my dear. Lady Merion likely feels such subjects should not sully the ears of innocent maids, but, in the circumstances, it is right you should know. Forewarned, after all, is forearmed!’

Dorothea’s lively imagination had run riot at this juncture. She was agog to learn what secret life Marjorie had invented for his lordship. The explanation, when it had come, was so mundane that she had almost giggled.

‘My dear, the man is a rake! A very highly born rake, I’ll agree. But a rake none the less! Why, the stories I’ve heard of his mistresses, many

of them as well born as you or I, and all of them the most ravishing creatures. As you are yourself, my dear.’

The insinuation that Marjorie had managed to infuse into this last statement had nearly overset Dorothea. The idea of Hazelmere offering her a carte blanche was so ridiculous that she had had to take a deep breath to stop herself from laughing aloud and ruining her pose of polite attention. As it was, Marjorie had taken the indrawn breath to signify shock at his lordship’s perfidy.

Her cousin had concluded by stating that neither Herbert nor she would countenance any further communication with the Marquis. Dorothea had managed to keep her temper by reminding herself it was her grandmother, not Marjorie, who had charge of her in London.

After Marjorie had left Dorothea had put her warnings entirely from her mind as the ludicrous imaginings she had been sure they were. But now that it seemed as if one, at least, of her cousin’s facts was not wrong she was forced to question whether she really knew Hazelmere at all.

She had assumed there had been many women in his past—he could hardly have attained his undoubted experience of her sex without practice. But she had imagined these women were of the demi-monde and, furthermore, definitely in his past and not cluttering up his present life. Lady Walford, however, belonged to the ton, and she was obviously part of Hazelmere’s present.

Dorothea heard not a single word of the rest of the Comte’s conversation. Just before the dance ended she noticed Cecily dancing with Fanshawe. From her sparkling eyes, Dorothea concluded that they had made up their differences. Fanshawe, catching a glimpse of her through the throng, looked surprised, but they were immediately separated by the movement of the dance, so Dorothea failed to see what had excited his attention. At the end of the dance the Comte punctiliously delivered her to her grandmother and immediately took his leave of them, disappearing into the crowds. His departure was rapid because he, too, had seen Fanshawe’s surprised look and, unlike Dorothea, knew the cause.

As the Comte could have predicted, it was not many minutes before Hazelmere materialised at her elbow. Immediately noticing her drawn face, he forebore to ask what the matter was, instead suggesting to Lady Merion that they could with impunity leave the ball, as the Prince had retired. Her ladyship, disliking the tone of the entertainment, readily agreed. As Fanshawe and Cecily reappeared at that moment, it only remained to find Ferdie before they could leave. This was easily accomplished, and the party departed Carlton House.

Seated opposite Dorothea in the carriage, Hazelmere desperately sought for a clue to what had so agitated her. Tony had told him that she had danced with one of the French diplomatic staff, a man of questionable standing. But it seemed unlikely that anything he could have said would have so overset her. He sensed that under her outward calm she was close to tears, but he had no idea why. Knowing he would get no chance to ask her directly, and so could not comfort her, only added to his frustration.

The carriage drew up outside Merion House and the ladies were escorted within. Ferdie left on foot and, sending the carriage on, Hazelmere and Fanshawe walked across the square. For more than half the distance Fanshawe kept up a rapturous monologue on the delights of love. He had made good use of Dorothea’s advice, borrowing some of Hazelmere’s arrogance to lend it weight, and it had been most successful.

Realising that Hazelmere was not responding and catching sight of his friend’s serious face, Fanshawe exclaimed, ‘Don’t tell me you two have fallen out?’

Hazelmere grinned at the tone. ‘To be perfectly truthful, I don’t know whether we have or not.’

‘Great heavens! You’re worse than us!’

‘Unfortunately true.’

‘Well,’ continued Fanshawe, ‘why don’t you just use Dorothea’s advice on herself?’

‘I have been reliably informed that firm handling will not work with the elder Miss Darent,’ replied Hazelmere with the ghost of a smile.

‘Which means very likely it will,’ rejoined Fanshawe, still in exuberant vein.

‘As a matter of fact, you speak more truly than you know,’ returned Hazelmere as they parted on the steps of Hazelmere House.

Not as observant as Hazelmere, neither Lady Merion nor Cecily noticed the strained look in Dorothea’s eyes. Her ladyship retired to bed with a headache, and Cecily was so bubbling over with her own happiness that for once her sister’s pallor escaped her sharp eyes. To Dorothea’s relief, she was able to retire to her bed without having to answer any difficult questions.

She lay staring at the window for what felt like hours. Her heart would not accept what her mind knew to be fact. While Hazelmere had been dancing attendance on her, making her lose her heart with his easy address and gentle caresses and those wicked hazel eyes, he had been simultaneously enjoying a far more illicit relationship with the beautiful Lady Walford. And what was more, she thought, wallowing in misery, that meant he was not in love with her at all.

It had taken her a long time to sort it out, but now, at last, she had it clear: Hazelmere had to marry, so he had decided she would do. Not the icily uncomfortable Miss Buntton, but a naïve country miss, not at home in the ton, someone who would be a sweet, conformable, entirely acceptable and totally manipulable wife, providing him with heirs and presiding over his household while he continued as he always had, enjoying the more exotic delights provided by the likes of Lady Walford. And, most likely, her apparent indifference was the lure that had drawn his eye. She was a challenge and a convenient conquest, all rolled into one.

For the first time since she had come to London she thought longingly of the Grange, where life had been so much simpler. No having to deal with imperious peers with beautiful mistresses who made one fall in love with them for entirely selfish reasons. It was close to dawn before she finally drifted into troubled sleep.

On entering his house, Hazelmere went into the library and, pouring himself a large brandy, settled down to stare into the dying fire.