Tangled Reins (Regencies 1)

Lady Walford was well acquainted with Hazelmere’s temper, as she had often, in her childhood, been the cause of it. Looking into the hazel eyes, normally warm and amused, and finding them as cold and cloudy as agate, she merely smiled her agreement. She hoped Miss Darent had more backbone than the normal run of débutantes, for she was undoubtedly in for a most uncomfortable interview. The fact that Hazelmere was head over heels in love with her would not, as might be supposed, help her at all. Like all the Henrys, he possessed an unexpected puritanical streak which would lead him to demand of his wife-to-be a far higher standard of conduct than he might tolerate in less favoured ladies. Consequently she feared that his Dorothea was in for a particularly torrid time.

Having set Lady Walford down amid her friends, Hazelmere drove immediately to Merion House. Arriving there, without a word he threw the reins of his curricle to a bright-faced urchin and strode up the steps to the door.

Admitted to the house by an intrigued Mellow, he merely asked, in a deceptively gentle voice, ‘Where is Miss Darent, Mellow?’

‘In the drawing-room, my lord.’

‘Thank you. You need not announce me.’

He strolled across the hall and opened the drawing-room door. Setting eyes on Ferdie, he smiled in a way that made Ferdie decide to do whatever he wished. Holding the door open, Hazelmere said, ‘I believe you were leaving, Ferdie.’

There was no doubt about the command, but Ferdie, recognising the hardness in the hazel eyes, was having second thoughts about the wisdom of leaving these two together. But as he glanced at Dorothea his decision was unexpectedly taken out of his hands. ‘Goodbye, Ferdie,’ she said.

So Ferdie went. He discarded the idea of telling his cousin that Dorothea seemed to think Helen Walford was his mistress. In his opinion, if anyone was going to talk to Hazelmere about his mistresses it had better be Dorothea herself. Hearing the drawing-room door shut with a click behind him, he decided it might be wise to inform Lady Merion of the reason for, and the likely outcome of, the interview being presently conducted in her drawing-room.

Returning to the hall some five minutes later, having explained the situation as fully as he could to Lady Merion upstairs, he found the drawing-room door still shut. Viewing this with misgiving, he departed for his lodgings.

After shutting the door behind Ferdie, Hazelmere moved into the room. ‘Very wise of you, my

dear. There’s no need for Ferdie to get caught up in this.’

He paused to strip off his driving gloves and cast them on a side-table. One glance at Dorothea, standing beside one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, her hand clutching its back, informed him that she was every bit as angry as he was. He had no idea why, but the knowledge served to make him rein in his temper sufficiently to ask, in a relatively calm voice, ‘Do you think you could possibly explain to me why you cut me in the Park?’

Despite the calmness, the undertones succeeded in igniting her smouldering temper. ‘How dare you approach me while driving that woman?’

Looking into her furious green eyes, Hazelmere felt, like Ferdie before him, that he had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Helen?’ he asked, mystified.

‘Your mistress!’ she replied scathingly.

‘My what?’ The words came like a whiplash, and Dorothea winced. Even angrier than before, Hazelmere moved to within a few feet of her, everything about him radiating barely leashed fury. Eyes narrowed, he asked, his voice deceptively soft, ‘Who told you Helen Walford was my mistress?’

‘I don’t think that need concern you—’

‘You mistake,’ he broke in. ‘It concerns me because Helen Walford has never been, is not and never will be my mistress. So who, my credulous Miss Darent, told you she was?’

Looking into the stormy hazel eyes, Dorothea knew she was hearing the truth. ‘The Comte de Vanée,’ she finally replied.

‘A man of little importance,’ he said dismissively. ‘It may interest you to know that I have known Helen Walford since she was three. However,’ he continued, moving forward so that he was standing directly beside her, forcing her to turn from the chair that up until then had been between them, ‘that aside, you have still not explained why, regardless of what you might have thought, you presumed to censure me in such a public manner.’

Although his voice was low and even, Dorothea could not miss the suppressed anger. She knew she had been in the wrong, but his next words banished any notion of apologising.

‘I’ve told you provincial manners will not do in London,’ he continued. But there he stopped, for she rounded on him with such naked rage in her eyes that he was taken aback.

‘How dare you speak to me of manners? Explain yours, if you can! I know you’ve been dancing attendance on me purely to see if you could make me fall in love with you, just because I didn’t succumb to your legendary charm. Oh, Cousin Marjorie explained it all, so—’

That was as far as she got. Hazelmere paled as her words struck him. But as he caught the gist of her argument the already frayed rein he had kept on his passions snapped. In one swift, practised movement he swept her into his arms and his lips came down on hers in a kiss almost brutal in its intensity. Panicked, she struggled, but, as before, his fingers entwined in her hair, holding her head still, while the arm around her tightened, locking her in his embrace. And then, in the space of time between one heartbeat and the next, the tenor of the kiss changed to one of unbelievable sweetness. Her interest caught, her lips parted in response to his subtle command and she found herself floating in a sea of sensation. Dazed, she felt desire flooding through her, growing stronger with every second, rapidly building to a force she, in her inexperience, had no hope of restraining. She realised that she was responding in the most shameless way to his ardent kisses. She no longer cared. The only thought in her disjointed mind was the hope that he wouldn’t stop.

His lips left hers to brush kisses on her upturned face, on her forehead, her eyelids, her chin and her delectable white throat. Recapturing her reddened lips, he gently explored the sweet softness within. She moaned, the sound an audible caress, her arms slipping around his neck, her fingers twisting in his dark hair as she held him to her. Inwardly smiling, he allowed the kiss to deepen, fanning the racing flames of her desire until they coalesced into a conflagration that threatened to consume them both. Then, reaching to the depths of a passionate nature that in every way matched his own, he demanded, and received, a surrender so complete and unequivocal that he knew beyond doubt she would be his, body and soul, whenever he so desired. Entirely satisfied, he drew her closer, moulding her body to his, allowing her to feel the extent of his desire for her.

Dorothea was nearly mindless. Some tiny part of her consciousness was detached enough to be shocked and horrified, dismayed as his experienced hands roamed over her, his practised caresses sending ripples of desire from the top of her head to her toes. The rest of her was in no mood to listen. She supposed he would have to stop some time—but oh, she would enjoy this while it lasted! Still, surely not even Hazelmere would seduce her in her grandmother’s drawing-room? Would he?

The tremor that ran through her jolted him to his senses. He would have to leave her, and soon, if he was to leave her at all. And, as they were in Merion House and not one of his establishments, leave her he must. If he looked into her eyes he would not be able to go. And at the moment he was in no mood to talk to her. He needed time away from her to sort out what had happened—right now he wasn’t sure of anything other than his physical need for her. And that required no words to describe. He knew they had passed the point of easy withdrawal; there was no gentle way to stop now. So, abruptly bringing the kiss to an end, he released her and, disentangling her hands from his hair, put her from him almost roughly, before, turning brusquely, he walked straight to the door, picking up his gloves on the way, and, opening the door, left the room.

In the hall he encountered Mellow. As his face had assumed its normal mien and his hair was cut in a style that disguised Dorothea’s rumpling, Mellow assumed that there had been no major fireworks. He hurried to open the door for his lordship.

Leaving the house, Hazelmere headed across the square to his own mansion. While an observer unfamiliar with him would have detected nothing amiss, he was experiencing a degree of mental turmoil that effectively prevented him from thinking clearly. Anger, frustration, hurt pride and a peculiar sense of elation were only some of the emotions running riot in his mind. He would have to leave, get out of London, before his fevered brain would cool sufficiently to accurately assess just where they now stood. Entering Hazelmere House and seeing Mytton come forward from behind the green baize door, he paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ve decided to leave for Leicestershire immediately. I expect to return on Tuesday next. Send Murgatroyd up to me and tell Jim to put the bays to and have the curricle at the front door in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ replied Mytton, who, acquainted with the Marquis since that gentleman’s childhood, returned immediately to the servants’ hall to inform the household of his lordship’s orders, adding that their master was in the devil’s own temper. Without further discussion they all sped to their tasks, Murgatroyd almost running up the stairs.