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THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

 

Coming soon from Harlequin Historical

Derbyshire—December 1818

T
he hired gig that had conveyed them on the final leg of their long and arduous journey from Yorkshire trundled noisily over the stone hump-backed bridge which spanned the Blairmore River. Pushing back the hood of her red-wool cloak, pulling its comforting folds more tightly around her, for the cold was bitter, Regan Stuart peered anxiously ahead, eager for her first sight of Blairmore Hall in more than a dozen years.

‘We used to climb these trees, Gabriel and I,' she informed the three children sharing the carriage with her, as they passed through a wooded copse, the bare branches silhouetted starkly against the watery winter sky.

Her two young half-brothers looked sceptical, but Regan's nine-year-old half-sister, Portia, gazed up at the mighty oaks in awe. ‘They're huge,' she said. ‘Weren't you scared?'

Regan laughed. ‘A little, but I knew Gabriel wouldn't let me come to any harm.' Though the real reason she habitually rose to whatever challenge he dared her into taking on, she acknowledged to herself, was because she feared losing his
respect more than she feared any potential danger. How she had idolised him in those distant childhood days.

‘Can we climb the trees, Regan, can we?' Jack, her youngest sibling, piped up.

‘We must ask his Grace's permission first,' she replied, wondering for the hundredth time why, quite out of the blue, the Duke of Blairmore had invited them to stay here at the hall over Christmas. Not that it wasn't a most welcome and generous offer, she thought, smiling at the three shining, excited young faces craning their necks to get a view of the huge manor house she had told them so much about.

The curved drive along which they were travelling was longer than she recalled. The ornamental pond with its extravagant Poseidon fountain, although drained for the winter, seemed much larger, too. As the gig turned the final sharp corner in the long drive and the Hall came into view, all three children gasped. ‘Well, what do you think of it?' she asked. ‘Is it as I described?'

‘It's a castle,' Jack said.

‘A fairy-tale palace,' Portia exclaimed.

‘It's absolutely enormous,' Land declared.

They were all in the right of it. Blairmore Hall was built around two central courtyards with a turret at each corner linked by battlements. A huge portico complete with portcullis led to the banqueting hall, which formed the central nave. Though its origins were, like the gardens, Elizabethan, each successive duke had demolished, rebuilt, altered and enhanced, so that the resultant stately pile contained not only a warren of rooms, but a hotchpotch of styles. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, it possessed a unique charm, framed as it was by the rolling hills and cragged tors of the nearby Derbyshire Peaks.

‘Will you show me the beautiful old clothes, like you promised?' Portia asked eagerly.

Regan smiled at the memory of the little shuttered room
in the east tower where she had spent many happy hours dressing up in the finery of bygone days, the ornate gowns and wide-brimmed hats trimmed with ostrich feathers which were stored there in stout wooden trunks. She ruffled Portia's hair affectionately. ‘Perhaps, if they are still there. It was a long time ago.' Though surely no one would throw out such exquisite antique garments.

As they bowled under the gatehouse into the lower courtyard, butterflies began to flutter in Regan's stomach. Before his death, her father had served as steward here for twenty years. Though she knew the Hall and its environs intimately, she had never before been accorded the status of guest. Circumstances had ensured she was a very different person from the gauche child who, with her recently widowed mother, had left Blairmore Hall to face an uncertain future. She wondered what else had changed in the intervening years.

A footman in the familiar claret-coloured livery held open the heavily studded door to the Hall while another helped them from the gig, and another supervised the removal of their meagre luggage. Entering the Hall through the flagstoned reception area in the wake of yet another servant, who relieved them of their outerwear, even the normally voluble boys were stunned into silence by the sheer magnificence of the long gallery, which was, true to its name, over a hundred feet in length.

‘His Grace asks that the young people remain here while he receives you alone,' the footman informed Regan.

Quickly reminding Land, Jack and Portia that they were to be on their very best behaviour, Regan, now so nervous that she had to clasp her hands together to stop them shaking, followed the servant along a wide, portrait-lined corridor, to the rear of the Hall and the most modern of the apartments. The running, skipping footsteps of the ghost of her childhood self rang out along the labyrinth of corridors. The dark oak-panelled walls echoed with her and Gabriel's laughter. The
whole place was redolent with bittersweet memories. How carefree she had been. How very young. Twelve years! It was a lifetime ago.

The footman opened the door to the so-called small salon, and Regan stepped over the threshold. With its gold damask hangings, soft cream walls and straw-coloured sofas, it had been refurbished since last she saw it, though it still had space enough for ten couples to perform a set dance.

‘Miss Stuart, your Grace.'

The door closed softly behind her, and the Duke of Blairmore, who had been staring out of the mullioned windows at the view of the Peaks, turned around. ‘Regan.'

‘Hello, Gabriel.' Regan swallowed hard. The man facing her across the room was the epitome of elegance in a tightly fitting cutaway coat of dark blue superfine with a high collar over a buff-coloured waistcoat. His equally tightly fitting knitted pantaloons showed off a pair of long, shapely legs. His Hessian boots shone with a mirror-like polish. His snowy-white neckcloth was tied into a most intricate-looking knot. He was much taller than she remembered. And broader. And infinitely more attractive.

The fluttering in Regan's stomach spread to her pulses as he covered the distance between them. Blue-black hair swept back from a high forehead. A strong nose, a cleft chin and a mouth that was frankly sensual. She knew she was staring, but she couldn't help it. It wasn't just a struggle to equate this devastating man with the youth she had known, it was impossible. She sank into a belated curtsy, horribly conscious of her grey-wool travelling gown, which no amount of new trimming could make anything less than careworn.

Gabriel helped her to her feet. ‘Little Regan, is it really you?'

His voice was attractively deep. His eyes, which looked at her with detached amusement, were the same grey-blue colour she remembered. The touch of his hand sent a surprising little
tingle up her fingers. She could feel a blush creeping over her pale cheeks. ‘It's me, I assure you,' Regan said with a faint smile, ‘though I barely recognised you.'

‘It
has
been a long time,' Gabriel said, eyeing his visitor with some surprise. He held her at arm's length. ‘Let me look at you properly.' Who would have thought that the wild little hoyden who had doggedly followed him like a shadow would turn into such a striking woman? The red hair which had, predictably, earned her the nickname Carrot Top, had darkened to luxurious auburn. The gangly child with all the awkwardness of a foal was now willowy slim. Though her high brow and rather long face were more intelligent-looking than beautiful, there was something about Regan Stuart that would make any man look twice. Was it her mouth, with that sensuous curve, such a contrast to her serious expression? Or those big hazel eyes? He remembered them gazing up at him imploringly, begging to be allowed to accompany him on his latest childhood escapade.

A curious silence prevailed as each took stock of the other, trying to reconcile their twelve-year-old memories with the very different reality confronting them. An extremely adult awareness thickened the air between them. Flustered, Regan pulled herself free just as Gabriel let her go.

‘You really are quite transformed,' he said.

‘As, indeed, are you.'

‘Come, I don't know what we're doing standing here in the middle of the room,' Gabriel said briskly. ‘Please make yourself comfortable by the fire. I had them bring tea.'

Gratefully focusing on the ritual, carefully measuring out the leaves from the ornate silver caddy, pouring water into the pot from the little spirit boiler, setting out the delicate china cups embossed with scarlet-and-gold dragons, Regan managed to regain a little of her usual poise, though not all. She was acutely aware of Gabriel lounging opposite her, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had very shapely legs.
It was as well he did, for those pantaloons fitted him like a second skin. She wondered if he fenced. Or boxed, perhaps. She dragged her eyes away. ‘Cream or lemon?'

‘Cream. Lemon. I don't care. I hate tea.'

‘Well, I must say, I'm thankful for it.' Regan passed him a cup, careful not to allow her fingers to touch his. ‘I was so sorry to hear the news of your father's death. I sent my condolences to your mother.'

‘Did you?' Gabriel frowned. ‘I don't remember her mentioning it.'

‘I don't expect she would. Your mother never did approve of your friendship with a mere steward's daughter.'

‘I'm sorry,' Gabriel said automatically.

Regan shrugged. ‘What for? I never made the mistake of equating her opinions with yours. In fact, you were disposed to take up a contrary position to her on almost any subject. Your father, too, if memory serves, but his death must have been a shock all the same.'

‘As you rightly say, my relationship with my parents could never be described as close,' Gabriel said drily, ‘but, yes, it was a shock none the less. Or more accurately, a shock to the system.'

‘A strange way to put it.'

It was Gabriel's turn to shrug. ‘It was five years ago. Water under the bridge.'

She felt rebuffed, though she knew she had no right to. Her notion that they would pick up where they had left off was not only naive, but frankly foolish. The man opposite her was not Gabriel, friend of her childhood, but the sixth Duke of Blairmore, a man of the world, assured, hugely attractive and essentially a stranger. A rather intimidating stranger. Her teaspoon tinkled against the delicate china, and she realised she was holding an empty cup, which was shaking slightly in her hand. The silence between them was almost palpable. Regan put her cup back on to the table. ‘So, how does it feel
to hold one of the most prestigious and respected titles in England?' she asked brightly.

‘Onerous. Oppressive. I could go on, but I won't bore you.'

‘You never did have time for the trappings of authority, did you?'

‘I no longer have the option to dismiss them.' Gabriel's expression tightened. ‘Authority and its trappings come with the territory, along with other, equally unwelcome responsibilities. My priorities are different now.'

Regan's smile faded. ‘I only meant that when you were younger…'

‘That was a long time ago, Regan.' Gabriel put down his untouched cup of tea and forced a smile. ‘Did you notice the unicorn's horn has grown back,' he said, referring to the elaborate topiary creature that stood guard at the portcullis.

‘The one and only time, I think, that I refused to accept one of your challenges.' Regan poured herself another cup of tea. ‘What a fuss there was. And though all I did was stand guard while you lopped it off, Papa read me such a lecture.'

‘You must miss him.'

She nodded. Gabriel had been away at school when her father had died. He had not written, and by the time he came home for the summer, she and her mother were gone from Blairmore; she had never heard from Gabriel again. The pain of his silence had taken a long time to fade.

She waited for him to comment on it, but either Gabriel did not recall his omission, or guilt kept him silent. Or perhaps he simply did not care. ‘Your mother did not wear her weeds for long,' he said.

Regan stiffened. ‘When Papa died, my paternal grandfather, Lord Dallilongart, wanted nothing to do with us, Papa being but a fourth son and I, his only child, a mere female. One cannot blame Mama for choosing to marry again. She was very fond of my stepfather. They had five happy years together.'

‘It was a fever, I believe, which took them?'

‘Yes, it swept the village. We nearly lost little Jack, too.' Once again she waited, but Gabriel obviously deemed the five years which had elapsed since that dreadful time was suffice to preclude commiserations. Regan put her teacup carefully back down on the table. ‘Jack is my youngest brother.'

‘And there are two other half-siblings also in your care, I understand?'

‘Yes.' Gabriel's expression gave nothing away. He was making her nervous. Was he just making conversation or was he actually interested? ‘Portia is nine, Land is eight and Jack is six,' Regan explained.

Gabriel frowned. ‘Land?'

‘Orlando. And Jack is actually Ajax.'

‘Good grief!'

To her relief, Gabriel finally smiled. ‘Mama's passion for the bard went a little overboard when it came to naming her children,' she said with a little laugh.

‘You should be grateful you are not called Goneril,' Gabriel said, finding himself rather distracted by Regan's smile. Her mouth tilted up at the corners delightfully. She had an attractive laugh, soft and seductive, like satin brushing over skin. Regan, who was not at all the Regan he had expected. Had he made a mistake, asking her here? He had been so intent on making good his carefully constructed plan, he had not thought to question her likely reaction to it.

Almost as if she read his mind, Regan turned the conversation resolutely to the question which had been uppermost in hers since she received his invitation. ‘I have to tell you, Gabriel, your letter came as a complete surprise. A very pleasant one, of course. I am very much aware of the honour you do us in inviting us to the Hall, especially at this time of year. What prompted you to get in touch after all this time?'