Duchess of Destiny (An Allingham Regency Classic)

Chapter One

‘Hurry up, or the milk will have curdled!’

A titter of laughter rippled through the company. The tall figure of Gabriel Claremont, Duke of Amersham, Earl of Rycroft, Baron Everard, draped itself negligently against the warm stone of the building. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets as he surveyed the motley band of companions who had walked with him to the dairy. A pair of intensely blue eyes tempered an otherwise saturnine expression.

Elinor felt a poke in her ribs, then Martha handed her a tray laden with glasses of frothing milk. Scrambling up the steps of the creamery, she almost cannoned into the duke.

     ‘Less haste, girl, or there will be no milk left to drink.’

     There was another titter. Half a dozen men and women had arranged themselves at intervals around the little ironwork tables scattered along the terrace. This was the latest ton fad, Martha had told her, to drink milk straight from the cow.

     ‘Your Grace.’ Elinor curtsied briefly and handed him a glass.

    For a moment he towered over her, one of the few men she’d encountered tall enough to do so. Dressed in riding-breeches and top boots with a Belcher handkerchief loosely knotted about his neck, he was unlikely to pose a challenge to Brummell, but though he was perfunctorily dressed, his broad chest exuded an uncomfortable male strength.

   She snatched a quick glance at his face and a lead weight nudged a path to her heart. It couldn’t be him. He was too young. Far too young to have known her mother. He seemed strangely familiar, though, and she looked again. Yes… she was certain he was the man who last evening had sent her headlong into a ditch. His air of casual disdain spoke an imperviousness to dairymaids and travellers alike. She had been forced to gather her skirts and leap for her life, catching only a flash of an upright figure, dark hair flying, before the racing curricle with its gilded crest was gone in a haze of dust.

    ‘So what happened to Letty?’ A man a few paces away sneered, his face weary with dissipation.

    She met his look. His thin lips appeared to have been reddened, and was that rouge he wore on his cheeks? ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she forced herself to say.

    ‘Don’t try to gammon me, girl! Servants know everything.’

    He was a truly horrible man and she would have liked to throw the milk in his face. How on earth had she come to be in this situation? When she’d made her dawn escape from Bath, she’d realised that she was burning her boats. But this! 

    ‘Don’t you talk?’ It was another of His Grace’s friends, a wispy young man wearing the tightest coat Elinor had ever seen. ‘Pretty high and mighty for a dairymaid, eh, Gabe?’

    The duke had said nothing seeming not hear his companions, but she had felt him studying her intently. Now he turned to her.

    ‘What is your name?’

    ‘Nell Milford, Your Grace.’

    ‘Nell. Short for Helen or Elinor or perhaps Margaret?’

    ‘Elinor, sir.’

    She had hoped no one would ask that question since she’d deliberately chosen Nell as a far more likely servant’s name. When yesterday she had rounded that final bend in the road and seen the formidable gates of Amersham guarded by soldiers, she’d been suffused with panic. This couldn’t be Amersham Hall - she must have taken the wrong road out of Steyning. She had walked through a quiet and green landscape, the hedgerows filled with the sweet scent of late May, but now with dusk falling she found herself stranded - outside a strange mansion in a strange locality, a lone woman, shabby and unkempt from two days’ travelling. She would have been laughed out of sight if she were to ask for charity and a bed for the night. The older guard’s question had been a lifebelt saving her from drowning. Was she the new dairymaid? Just pretend, she’d told herself, just pretend. ‘Yes,’ she’d said, and her voice had rung steady. ‘I’m the new dairymaid, Elinor… Nell Milford.’

    ‘Elinor,’ the duke was musing now, ‘an elegant name.’ 

    ‘Elegant figure too,’ guffawed a high-complexioned man sitting nearby.

    ‘I prefer Letty’s, don’t you know.’ It was the tight coat. ‘A body you could get hold of.’

    ‘And did, Hayward, as I recall­­ - ­­­­­­­frequently.’ This from the florid man. ‘Too frequently by all accounts. It’s no wonder she had to leave.’

    ‘Don’t be sad, Nell,’ the man addressed as Hayward coaxed. ‘You may not be such a plump pigeon, but I’m sure you have other attributes. She’s mighty pretty, ain’t she, Gabe?’

   The duke ignored him and continued to lounge against the dairy wall, an expression of distaste on his face. His gaze wandered from her to the glass of milk he held and back again, and she watched his hesitation with inner amusement.

   He put the glass down after only one sip and roused himself to say, ‘Take no notice of my friends, Nell. They have yet to learn their manners.’

    ‘I don’t, Your Grace.’ She thought of the locket secreted in her dress and her resolve stiffened. ‘Courtesy does not come naturally to all.’

    ‘Listen to that - and from a servant.’ The rouged man had risen from his chair as though he would come towards her. She had to quell an overpowering urge to flee.

    ‘Off with her head, eh, Weatherby?’ someone quipped.

   The duke seemed to have disappeared into his own thoughts once more, oblivious of his companions’ pleasantries. They deserved each other, she decided. He might be good looking in a careless fashion, and no doubt he was extremely wealthy, but he was as haughty and ill-mannered as they. Her leap into the ditch yesterday had been a foretaste of what was to come. She should have kept walking past those gates.

   Or should she? She had nowhere else she could go, that was the stark truth. She had not made a mistake. There was no other Amersham Hall in the district and this grand house was indeed the one she sought. For now at least she had employment, a roof over her head, and food in her stomach. But the notion that there could be any possible connection between her, this enormous property, and the heedless pleasure seeker standing so close, was nonsensical. As she had always suspected, Grainne had been delirious, her words provoked by fever.

    ‘Good morning, Gabriel.’

   A new voice had entered the fray. A neatly attired gentleman, no older than the duke himself and with a passing resemblance to him, was strolling towards the creamery from the opposite direction. His demeanour was one of a modest man and he had a pleasant but unremarkable face. The duke did not seem particularly pleased to see the new arrival and made no attempt to greet him beyond a brief nod in his direction.

   The man ignored the rest of the group and instead turned to Elinor. ‘I am the duke’s cousin, Roland Frant. I live close by at the Dower House. You must be the new dairymaid.’

   She nodded her agreement.

    ‘And this is your first morning?’

    ‘It is, sir.’

    He looked closely at her face. ‘I hope that you will happy here.’

    ‘I’m sure I will, Mr Frant.’ Her voice did not hold conviction.

    ‘Might I ask for a glass of milk, too?’ He gestured to the table where half-empty tumblers were scattered in disarray.

    ‘I will fetch it, sir.’

   Escape at last. She wondered if Roland Frant had seen her agitation and deliberately allowed her to disappear.

    ‘Spoiling the fun, Frant?’ the thin-faced man jeered. Roland merely smiled complacently.

    ‘Show’s over, folks.’ Hayward jumped to his feet, seeming keen to be gone now that the entertainment was at an end.

    ‘Why do you have such a killjoy for a cousin, Gabe?’ the thin-faced man asked.

   Gabriel Claremont did not answer. Instead he said, ‘I need to check on the stables. Emperor looked as though he was throwing a fever last night and I want him ready for the races on Friday.’

****

   Gabriel could not be sure which warranted his greatest contempt, Roland’s ingratiating airs or the boorishness of his friends. The word ‘friends’ was a misnomer; he had no friends, just people who gravitated towards his power and wealth and helped him fill the endless hours. When he’d first returned to England, he had welcomed any company. Jonathan was dead and he was distraught. He must take his brother’s rightful place, play the imposter, or so it felt. No wonder he had surrounded himself with a wall of mindless chatter and pointless action. It had insulated him from reality since he could not face the world undisguised. Life became one long dream through which he blundered, never quite hearing the voices or feeling the handshakes, never quite present. Day after day, month after month, time had blurred and been filled with an indeterminate noise that kept the void at bay. The ramshackle crowd he entertained had been that noise, but they were not his friends. They never would be. Jonathan had been his only friend and he was dead.

   Something about the girl had reminded him of his brother, not that he needed any reminder, for the memory never left him. He wasn’t certain what it was about her. Not her colouring for sure; that pale skin and those green eyes were striking in the extreme. Maybe it was the shape of her face or her tall, slender figure or just her expression - resolute and undaunted. It was an absurd connection to make, but he’d been so caught up in the fantasy that he’d hardly registered what his companions were about. He should have realised what was happening and stepped in to protect her. Instead it had been left to Roland to stop the spiteful bantering. Roland, the tell-tale of their childhood, the sly manipulator of their adult years.  

   The truth was that he lived too much in the past. But this morning, as he’d watched her and noticed her every movement, past and present had fused together. She was certainly an unusual dairymaid. Her face was too refined and her voice too cultivated, but cultivated or not she must be Letty’s replacement. She was as slim as Letty had been an armful. Slim and fashioned grey. Only the white close-buttoned bodice relieved the Quaker hues and that had been starched into subjection.

   She had waited while he drank the wretched milk, eyes downcast and hands clasped demurely in front of her. He’d been silently cursing this latest craze of ton society and grimacing in distaste when the girl’s hands had most definitely twitched. Curiously he’d allowed his glance to travel upwards. She was looking directly at him, her eyes the shade of misty lake water, but seemingly lit by an inner delight. She had been laughing at him! Her wide mouth, far too wide, had trembled slightly as though in danger of breaking into irrepressible laughter at any moment. And though he’d stared back haughtily enough, he’d been fascinated. Seeing his look she had lowered her eyes once more and stilled the vagrant hands. An unusual dairymaid indeed! For the first time in years, he felt curiosity stir.

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Georgian Romance - Lady Louise de Winter

Georgian Romance (Steamy Content) 

One grave transgression in her past, and Lady Louise de Winter, has accepted all hope for love and romance is but a dream she dare not embrace. Aware her semi-closeted existence on the Harcourt Estate is no more, and a substantial inheritance awaits her pleasure, her friend Count Casarotto suddenly brings his personal troubles to her door and seeks sanctuary. Worse, pursued by officers of his majesty’s regiment of horse, Louise endeavours to conceal his presence despite qualms as to his innocence when the bare facts are laid before her. What is more, devastatingly attracted to the senior officer, Louise battles to retain sense of propriety as burning desire within takes hold. But despite Major Fitzwilliam’s reassurance he cares not a jot about her past, the truth remains she is not as other young would-be brides. Therefore, dare she give her heart into his care?

One

~

1760 Wiltshire: February 14^th

       ~

Lady Louise de Winter glanced to where swathes of snowdrops along the woodland’s edge had long since withered. She shouldn’t have ridden this way. She should have known it would bring back the dreadful moment when her father had slid from his horse and breathed his last; his death hurting still. It was a dull ache of feeling alone, utterly alone. But she was far from alone, she had servants, she had friends, she was heiress to a fortune, and she even had a lover, of sorts, and none of it mattered. What mattered was the awful fact she would have to relinquish her position as mistress of Harcourt Estate, and within the sennight; for a distant cousin had inherited her father’s title and all that it entailed.

Whilst wiping away a tear with a gloved hand she berated herself for acting the child, when she had known all along the house where she was born, where she had grown from childhood to womanhood, would one day pass to another male heir. As the eldest of three girls, both her younger sisters were now married, and she reaching the age of twenty and five, the age many young women considered themselves on the unwed shelf never to find a husband, and that was a certainty in her case.

She had, admittedly, inherited a sizeable house and lands a county distant. Though it irked somewhat to think it was the house in which her father had kept his mistress for some twenty years or more. Her mother likewise throughout her life had taken lovers, though in some respects worse than father, who had remained faithful to the one mistress. Having never puzzled which of her parents had cheated on the other first; neither had confessed to the truth when asked outright. Thus she had supposed it was a mutual arrangement, and perhaps, taking a lover was in the blood, for she could never go to a husband a virgin bride.

Looking back on a foolhardy moment with a neighbouring landowner, albeit both were very young at the time, it had lessened her chances of securing a good marriage. Despite his never having boasted of his conquest to the male fraternity of the beau monde, she was nonetheless tainted goods. Thus she had set out to ensure Amelia and Rosalie had abided to sage advice, hers, and had told them precisely the consequences of reckless indulgences. The only fortunate aspect from her disastrous moment of hedonistic insanity, she had with the grace of God escaped the indignity of falling with child.

But Max, whom she had met at a garden party, was different and they had become firm friends and then lovers. He was most careful in using the new French Letters, albeit costly, and worth every guinea for two per package. Such had indeed afforded her the freedom to enjoy fully the sensuality of having a man as married women and whores did without fear of consequences.

Whilst she could dream of love and romance, it was merely a dream, and when men had displayed great affections toward her, as happened on occasion of too many encounters at functions, she had always endeavoured to quell any notions of a blossoming romance. She could never in all honesty agree to a marriage and then have a betrothed discover to his horror after the wedding eve she was not his virgin bride.

Urging her grey gelding to the trot they skirted the woodland; and on spying the first splashes of wild daffodils dancing on the breeze near to the river, she reined Maverick down the shallow slope. It was always a tad inconvenient to dismount when there was no mounting block readily to hand, and finding a suitable gate or style or a downed tree might well entail a lengthy walk. But determined to gather a bunch of the dilly daffs she slowed Maverick to the trot, and finally drew to a halt close to the glorious little trumpets heralding spring around the corner. Kicking her foot free from the stirrup iron, and raising her right knee over the lower pommel she slid gracefully from the saddle. As always well-behaved and having let Maverick’s reins rest on his withers he set to with patient nibbling of grass whilst she in haste gathered up her skirts to rest on one arm, and settled to picking dillies with the other.

The task of keeping skirts free from her boots and holding daffs was a tiring exercise, and with a goodly bunch soon to hand she stayed a moment gazing about in search for a first primrose. The river’s flow was relatively shallow, iced grass still noticeable on the far shady bank, and leaning over the edge of the near bank she spied one primrose flowering profusely. Where there was one there would more. She strolled onward, and if there were plenty she determined she would return on the morrow and gather a posy.

Several yards farther along the bank she heard the steady tread of Maverick following in her wake, but the heavier pounding tread of a horse at the gallop drew their attention to the fore. She hadn’t expected Max today, so it was only right to presume his visit was in some way urgent.

As he drew near and reined back to the canter she sensed all was far from well with him. Impeccably attired as ever in buff riding coat and buckskin breeches, he drew his tricorne hat from head; and yelled, “Out of the way, get out of the way.”

Well she hadn’t expected that, nor had Maverick on seeing a horse at the canter and heading straight at them with no intention of reining in. Nor had she expected to see three horsemen in pursuit wearing military attire.”

Snatching at Maverick’s reins she hauled him a little way from the river path, and her faithful mount in his desire to avoid a collision almost knocked her sideways.

As Max passed them by, he said: “I’ll meet you up at the house in about a half hour if I can shake these blighters off my tail, and I’ll explain all then.”

With that said he spurred his horse to the gallop and those in pursuit, a good way farther back, soon reined in to pass her by at the trot in single file. A mere nod and polite, “Thank you, ma’am,” from the lead horseman of mean look and attired in blue military tunic was thus granted, and the second tipped his tricorne but silent in passing onward. Quick in assessing the third rider on a glorious chestnut, she noted the fair hair tied back in a queue, and he of more leisurely countenance. He duly tipped his finger to tricorne hat, his bright blue eyes keening every nuance of her person, her horse too, and with a sudden smile furthered: “Much obliged.”

Intrigued by the incident overall, the troopers not of the local militia, she pondered what Max had done to cause soldiers to chase after him. Besides, he would be lucky if she made it back to the house within the half hour. Firstly she had to walk to an old willow felled in a winter storm, and that was a good way farther along the river, and then there was the ride back, and it had taken a good fifteen minutes or more to reach her present position at a comfortable gait of trot and the occasional canter.

She again set Maverick loose to walk behind her at his leisure, and apt to dawdle in order to graze en route he was soon lagging a little way behind her. Undeterred by Max’ singular remark inferring he expected her to return to the house forthwith, she determined he would have to wait, just as she had often waited for him in the past. Thus she marched onward quite taken with the array of primroses cloaking the bank with a lemon hue, their subtle perfume drifting on the late February breeze. Max was a grown man, and whilst puzzling his present predicament she wagered he would outrun and fox his pursuers by leading them in one direction and thence back-track by a differing route.

Cheeks and nose chilled, the weight of her skirts cumbersome she dared not let them fall to the floor else the velvet fabric would draw moisture and collect mud from the path. Nonetheless it was a glorious sunny day, the first sunny day in four and she had it in mind to press a few dillies, and likewise primroses to frame behind glass at a later date. It would be a little bit of Harcourt Estate she could take with her upon relocating to Leigh House.

Once she was in the Avon vale she would have to acquaint herself with the local fraternity and church was a good starting place for meeting people and learning who was who in the general run of any locale. The local parson and his wife were always a good source all things rudimentary needs such as a farrier, the nearest wheelwright, whether there was a local cobbler. Whilst resident servants would know these things, it was a social grace to invite the parson for tea soonest rather than let him call unannounced at a time that might well prove inconvenient, albeit at his leisure.

She supposed the first few weeks would be frenetic with settling in, and she had no impression of Leigh House, its structure, it layout, nor its furnished state. She would miss the servants at Harcourt, the majority known for a long while, some since childhood and now almost in their dotage and due retirement. But she would be taking Meg, her trusted maidservant, and the senior footman Parfitt. Both were broadminded individuals, and of the utmost discretion all things the mistress.

Indeed, quite overrun with thoughts of a new home, and to some extent, a new life, the sound of horse’s hooves thundering from behind drew her from reverie. Spinning on her heels and seeing the advancing officer in blue, her heart dived. Oh lordy, he had either guessed she was acquainted with Max Casarotto, or was genuinely retreating the way he had formerly ridden across the estate.

On drawing closer he reined back from the canter to trot, and finally rode close at the walk; his former leisurely countenance given to a friendly if guarded smile. “May I be of assistance in your remounting the horse, ma’am? I should have offered beforehand, but the thrill of the chase and all rather stole my manners. I apologise, most humbly.”

Before she could put forth her preference to continue her stroll, in one liquid smooth transition of muscled legs, pert rump, and broad shoulders, he was out of the saddle and towering over her.

“That’s very kind of you to stop and offer a helping hand, and you are—”

He bowed. “Major Fitzwilliam,” replied he, his blue eyes raking her overall appearance, in particular eyeing below her raised skirts to a little leg no doubt showing above her ankle boots.

“Well major, I confess it is a tad tiresome trying to keep oneself free of mud recently churned by horses at gamely speed, and on private property at that.”

“My apologies for that too, though my lieutenant had every reason to give chase after that damnable rake, Count Casarotto.”

Sensing he had name-dropped to ascertain the slightest implication she was familiar with Max, she would not fall foul to that ploy. “Oh, then you are acquainted with the man, and what had he done to cause three soldiers to give chase?”

“A long story ma’am, suffice to say the lieutenant’s sister is beside herself with heartfelt shame.”

Oh lordy, what had Max done? “Shame?”

“The young chit is an outrageous flirt, and methinks she had it in mind to ensnare Casarotto, and well, therein doth lay the problem, for the count set to in vigorous denial she was bearing his child. Hence Lieutenant Michael Fanshawe challenged the count to a duel on the morrow, and the bounder reined his horse about and bolted, thus the chase.”

Desperate in trying to maintain sense of calm indifference to the major’s statement, and true enough, she had no lasting claim on Max, nor he on her, it was difficult to imagine he had in any way fallen foul of begetting a young miss with child.

“Ah, I see. Well, the poor girl must be beside herself with worry.”

“Indeed ma’am. And Casarotto’s chosen route across this estate led me to assume you were probably acquainted with the damnably arrogant fellow. His familiarity with the lie of the land seemed astoundingly accurate.”

“Even if I and the count were acquainted I fail to see how I could in any way assist the lieutenant in pinning him to a dual.”

“No, ma’am, that is for Lieutenant Fanshawe to achieve, but assistance in knowing where Casarotto may be heading would help in running him to ground. I’ll lay a wager he has by now eluded his pursuers and seemingly vanished on hard ground. I perceive that would likely be a private carriageway.”

“Indeed, he may well have taken to the long winding carriageway that leads from the house to the byway,” said she, aware if Max had fled that way, he would have passed her by on the opposite side of the river: therefore he had already out-foxed his pursuers.

“As maybe; now, can I help you mount, and may I escort you home?” said the major, arrestingly blue and predatory eyes levelled on hers. “I feel it my duty to do so, after having delayed your search for a suitable place to remount.”

“Indeed, I would be most appreciative of a foot up.”

Catching up Maverick’s reins he led the grey gelding forward, and having noted his placid nature, he left the reins to withers, turned, placed his hands about her waist and hefted her to the saddle. Quite the gentleman he held out his hands for the daffodils and placed them aside from the horses and immediately presented her left foot to the stirrup as though well practised in the skill of assisting ladies to saddles. He thence stepped back to retrieve her pickings, whilst she settled her right leg comfortably between the pommels. On striding to his horse flowers in hand he drew forth a handkerchief from pocket and wrapped it around the stems before remounting his steed.

As soon as ready to set off, she was somewhat amused by the major’s generous act of carrying her flowers, albeit wrapped in the kerchief to prevent the juices from the stems depositing a stain to his breeches. And she was further amused by Max’s flight, and the fact that if he had evaded the pursuing troopers he would sweat blood on seeing the major riding with her, or on hearing his voice upon entry to the house.

“You must take tea with me, major.”

“Obliged ma’am,” said he, his eyes levelling on hers in a most delightful way.

If she was not mistaken, the major was inciting a little flirting. Well in that she could oblige, as much to distract him from thoughts of Max, as to see if his gambit was purely motivated by Max’s supposed ill-deed, or whether his return ride had more to do with personal interest in her. If truly honest with herself, the major’s touch had set her pulse racing.

Had something sparked between them, or was it the lonely girl within desperate for love and affection that could never be hers?

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Author asides and historical accuracy: The word tad (tiny) drew forth a comment within a book review claiming the word tad is 20th century word. That claim is inaccurate and means the word was first recorded within a 19th-20th century dictionary, the 19th century being that of the 1800s, when the majority of dictionaries as we know them today came to fruition for standardised literary learning. That little word tad can be seen in Shakespeare plays, its abbreviation is short for something tadpole small (a measure), an expression meaning very "tiny", a "smidgen", a "speck" of dust as relevant to very small!

 There were early word lists that were very scant, not comprehensive dictionaries, such as: 
The first book generally regarded as the first English dictionary was written by Robert Cawdrey, a schoolmaster and former Church of England clergyman in 1604. Cawdrey made use of word lists published earlier in educational texts. As seen throughout history, words were long in use before the 1800s and the coming of dictionaires.  

quote Wiki: Noah Webster (1758–1843), the author of the readers and spelling books which dominated the American market at the time, spent decades of research in compiling his dictionaries. His first dictionary, A Compendious Dictionary of the English Language, appeared in 1806..    

quote Wiki: The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) is the main historical dictionary of theEnglish language, published by the Oxford University Press. ... In 1895, the title The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) was first used unofficially on the covers of the series, and in 1928 the full dictionary was republished in ten bound volumes.

Cardinal Vices free chapters - every woman deserves a touch of GW

1

Leviticus – Abomination, thy name is Percy

“Stop this, Percy, please,” begged Georgina, “We agreed that we would move forward and that we would not wallow in the murky depths of society’s fickle values.”

“It is only that I know you are not happy,” replied Percy, gripping the cushioned arms of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. It was hard to enjoy life when someone as precious as Georgina suffered so much. She was quite simply a dear. She was too patient and far too kind for her own good. And she was stubborn when it came to placing her own happiness first, refusing to listen to reason even when her counter arguments had as much merit as a house built on the wind whipped sands of perilous Cornish coast. Percy took deep, pained breaths as if the air in the room was polluted with minuscule pins that cut at his throat as he swallowed and his stomach twisted into painful knots. Georgina’s losses were really too much too bear.

Georgina rose from the dining table like a graceful swan to crouch beside her husband’s chair and gazed into his gentle eyes. Percy was titled, had enough wealth to support an entire county, he was angelic in looks and he was blessed with a sweet temperament. To the unknowing eye, it would appear that Percy had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but Georgina knew the truth of the matter. His outer beauty hid a dark, swirling pit of torment. Today, his shoulders bowed under the strain of self-loathing and fear. He certainly did not need the added pressure of her emotional wellbeing and guilt which twisted the lines of his sweet face.

“Percy, I love you and I want this for you. I would never have agreed to marry you if I was not convinced it was moral and right to do so.”

“Georgie, our situation is neither moral nor legal. I should never have allowed you to sacrifice yourself for me. Now, we are both consigned to hell.”

Georgina stood to place a chaste kiss on Percy’s cheek. “I welcome purgatory in the next life if it means that you have experienced the wonder of true love in this one. You have the blessing of being loved by two people. Besides, so many of our peers marry for duty and where has it got them? A loveless marriage is purgatory and we will never have to know that pain.  I live with my best friend and I have come to love your lover, as if he were my brother. These are gifts from God.”

“Sh, Georgie, someone may hear you,” hushed Percy, his sweet face stricken with panic. He had long since ordered the servants out of the room, but like so many noble homes, the walls had ears and a coin or two could easily loosen an otherwise loyal tongue. Under Percy’s patronage and with Georgina’s maternal eye, the Harrington servants were exceptionally well remunerated and cared for, but they continued to feel the drain of large families, some living as far afield as poverty stricken Limerick in Ireland. With six, seven and sometimes nine brothers or sisters, refusing handsome reward for disreputable information was almost impossible to refuse. The circumstance of his servants’ financial deficiency made Percy’s situation even more precarious. If anyone of the poor blighters heard the truth of his proclivities, it would be the end of his privileged, silk-wearing existence. Percy ran his hands through his golden hair and shook his head before responding to Georgina’s romantic, but misguided view of their situation.

“No, Georgie, the feelings Horace and I have for one another are not gifts. We are a constant reminder of the life you should have had and our devotion is a punishment- Leviticus, Georgie, Leviticus!”

Georgie knew that dratted verse by heart. Percy kept a Bible hidden in the otherwise empty set of drawers next to his bed, permanently opened to one worn page with one powerful bleeding ink line circling the condemning passage. Ten and seven fading words swung over Percy’s head- threatening, 18:12 threatening: You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female, it is an abomination. Georgie imagined Percy bent over the scripture reading that verse at night, alone in his chambers, his finger straining over each word, as if to obliterate them from existence. Only, it was too late for that. The verse had been written hundreds of years before and the future suffered for it. The condemnation ‘abomination’ was branded to humanity’s soul and tainted the purity of the love Percy felt for Horace, sentencing their relationship to lurk in the shadows of society. It was a small sacrifice on her part to be Percy’s wife by law, if not in body. At least she could shield him from certain death. The turn of the century had seen many English men prosecuted for sodomy and too many executed. Every one of those men was probably as sweet and sensitive as her dear Percy. Georgina’s dreams were haunted by the prospect of a swaying body turning slowly to reveal the pained and twisted face of her best friend, his hands pulling desperately at the rope coiled about his straining neck and his colourful breeches soiled by terror. This was not a deserved or dignified farewell for a person whose only sin was to love another person. Abomination, indeed! The very existence of such a hateful verse within a theology that preaches patience, forgiveness and the magnanimity of a Lord, made Georgina’s stomach twist with outrage. In her humble opinion, man was not and never would be worthy to pen the beliefs of the Lord, except of course for the Ten Commandments which were carved by the Lord himself using Moses as an instrument of communication. So, as far as Georgina was concerned, Leviticus could go to hell and she would continue to tell Percy this until such time as the truth of the matter obliterated society’s gravelly morality.

“A lot of fuss and nonsense has polluted your head, my sweet husband. You know I do not believe that God will punish us in this life or when we beg entry at the Pearly Gates. He will see at once that our hearts are pure. No, my prayers are not for forgiveness, but that God sees fit to protect you and the very special relationship you have with Horace. What kind of God would our Saviour be if he did not have room in his heart for love, of any kind? There is enough hate and sorrow in this world without condemning the truly beautiful. Look at yourself, Percy; you are truly a bang-up to the mark person. Besides, it would not surprise me if parts of the Bible were written by priggish old men with dusty grey wigs.”

Percy rose from the table to gaze into his beautiful wife’s passionate eyes, “Be careful, Georgie, those wigs are some of the most powerful men in England.”

Georgina sniffed and raised her pert nose. She did not believe that the aristocracy had a right to be appointed to the upper court judiciary on the basis of their birth rite. It was also entirely possible that she had way too much time on her hands. Her esteemed brother, called Oliver Harper and not plain Oliver or Harper on his firm insistence, warned that Georgina’s learned ways and search for justice in the written word would only cause her mind to twist and turn on itself like an unconquerable maze. But her brother’s advice to spend more time on Bond Street in the haberdasheries and milliners or with the divine Lady Duff-Gordon whose fashion house had taken the ton by storm, and less time in the legal repository of his library had fallen on deaf ears and Georgina was left with the knowledge that England’s laws had little integrity and the upper echelons of society rode the lucrative waves of corruption and the lower class drowned in the turbulent wake.

“Alright, let us consider this from another angle, what about your wellbeing, Georgie?”

“What about me? I told you only minutes before that I am perfectly happy with the decision I took near on eight years ago.”

Percy shook his head, his golden locks falling over his forehead and his azure blue eyes like a cloudless sky, filling with tears. “Stop this, Georgie! I see what is happening to you and I cannot bear it anymore. You bury yourself in dusty books to avoid anything that reminds you of the life you should have had. Marrying you was selfish and…”

“Percy, there is no other way that you and Horace can be together without risking your necks, literally. Did you know that only last month the Marquis of Custine was beaten and left for dead after propositioning a soldier at Saint-Denis? The man was one of the most genuinely thoughtful aristocrats I have had the privilege of meeting and yet, his title, wealth and sympathetic consideration of others served him ill, naught but ill-forged armour against the ignorant hatred in man’s heart. You, my dear, sweet friend and trusting husband, must accept that the danger is as real today as it was eight years ago. There is still no place in people’s hearts or minds for an encompassing love. Besides, by the time you realised that danger was knocking at the door, it was too late to find another way. We had to marry.”

Percy placed his fine hands either side of Georgie’s face, admiring the perfect arch of her dark brows, her thick lashes and passionate hazel-coloured eyes. “Once, you had the power to enslave men and, if my memory serves me correctly, you caused quite a few to behave in the most outrageous way to gain your affection. Hell, Bertram and Hollingsworth made right fools of themselves, floating about, forever in your shadow like dogs waiting for scraps. But instead of flowers and poetry, kisses and romance, you were forced into a life of servitude. I am belittled by the knowledge of what you have done for me, what you have sacrificed for me.”

“You know I do not see our marriage like that!” Georgie snapped, trying to turn her face to hide the threatening tears. Of course, she felt the loss of a romantic attachment, but the need for love no longer burned like a branding to her heart. The wound had long since healed, leaving little but a raised scar and a distant memory of the joys of fanciful youth. Fluttering butterflies and romantic daydreams were in the past; Percy and Horace were her future, her family.

“Georgie, for two years you were the most beautiful woman to grace the halls of Almacks and you would be now if only you would return to the rout-parties.” Percy could see the thunder cloud drawing across Georgina’s brow. She could be as stubborn as the English spring season with its soggy days, but in the end summer always revealed the true miracle of life- rejuvenation and new birth. And so it would be for Georgina. Percy would pester her until the clouds parted and the sun’s rays drew forth the seeds of her vitality.

“There is no other way to see it. By marrying me you rescued me from a life of cruel disdain and more than likely saved my life, but what did you get in return, Georgie?”

“I want for nothing more than what I have, Percy. Your friendship means the world to me. I was very young when those men were arrested from the White Swan and charged with sodomy, but I remember your face when you recounted the story to Oliver Harper. You were terrified. You were there that night, at the Swan, were you not?” Percy nodded. He had been in the White Swan, cosseted away in the farthest, darkest corner with Horace when the Bow Street Runners stormed the pub, wooden truncheons in hand. The deafening chaos had given Percy enough time to dive under the table and to pull Horace alongside him where they cowered on the dirt strewn floor like swine for most of the night, too afraid to raise their faces in fear of detection.

“You were listening that night I sought your brother’s help? I am sorry you heard that story. You were very young, too young to hear of such violent dealings.”

Georgie nodded and rested her head on her husband’s chest.  

“I was so scared that the Runners were going to take you away that I would have married you right there and then if Oliver Harper had asked me to.”

A tear slipped down Georgie’s pink cheek and her lip trembled. Percy had been a constant feature throughout her life and because of his jovial ways, Oliver Harper had been less serious and Georgina’s care as his ward, more lively. She was grateful for Percy’s lifelong friendship with Oliver Harper and with her.

“You are very good to me and you love me. I am most blessed, so please, can we not discuss this again.”

“I do not love you like a man should love a wife and we will never have children. These are not blessings, Georgie.”

“I know you have tried. It is not your fault that…” Percy had tried, but to no avail. The turn of a fine ankle or the soft, white rise of a woman’s bosom did nothing to inspire desire in Percy’s chest. No, he was drawn to the rumble of a deep voice and the breadth of a well-exercised chest. For that Georgie could not blame him. It was a prospect that she too appreciated. It made no difference to Georgie that Percy was a man attracted to a man. She determined that attraction between the sexes was similar to taste in food- she liked brown sugar frosting, as did Percy. In Georgie’s mind, sexual attraction was akin to personal preference and not God’s decree. It was only that English society was so morally stunted and could not accept free-will. In her hours of research, Georgie discovered reams of history evidencing ancient civilisations acceptance of polari love and sexual gratification. Georgie smiled to herself as she recalled the book of drawings of Greek relief carvings lodged on the top shelf of Oliver Harper’s otherwise legal repository. Orgy scenes with no reserve, of any sort- ancient Greek men enjoyed great latitude in their sexual expression and in Rome, it was considered natural for a man to have same-sex relations, without perceived loss of masculinity or social standing, merely because it was expected that a man would submit his body to giving and receiving pleasure.

“Why are you smirking?  Georgina! Your circumstance is not amusing. And stop defending me, it is my fault. I should have taken responsibility and publically owned what I am, instead of allowing you to bear the yoke. You have set me free and in return I have sentenced you to a life devoid of the very blessings that are at a core of being a woman.”

“Percy, please, it is not as if you did not try and I do understand. I too would not want to lie with a person I am not attracted to.”

“Georgie!” exclaimed Percy in frustration. His wife was entirely too understanding and self-sacrificing. He sat back down and ran his long, elegant fingers through his tumble of blonde curls again, “You deserve to be loved, passionately. You need romance in your life. You should have children to cosset. I want you to have those experiences.”

“Oh, Percy, you are upsetting me by rehashing this so often. I chose you, we love each other and that is all there is to be said about this matter,” Georgina cried in frustration, seating herself on the window seat looking out over Eaton Square and dabbing at her eyes. She refused to dwell on what she could not have rather than celebrate the opulence of her life- Percy’s generosity knew no bounds, although she suspected her unrestricted spending allowance sprung from guilt rather than his sizable income; her eight homes were obscenely large and well decorated; her title brought her respect and her beauty brought envy. Moreover, she and Percy were the best of friends and she loved him dearly. No matter what he said, all of these things were blessings. Still, she knew he would not relent. Percy wanted more for her and she could see his dramatic flair would persist until such time as she found herself a playmate or worse, a lover. Right on cue, Percy drove his point home, determined to force her into a life of promiscuity. Although, she doubted she could be labelled licentious when she had never been bedded before. Perhaps there was another word for taking a lover to your virginal bed? Regardless, it was a state of being that Georgina was not interested in. For sweet Georgina Harper-Crewe, the intimate act between a man and a woman was an opportunity to deeply connect and not merely ‘go at it like dogs’, as she once heard the footman proposition the kitchen maid only to blush profusely when he realised his uncouth comment had been overheard by none other than their respected and beautiful Countess of Harrington.

“Georgina, are you even listening to me? I am trying to make the point that you did not have a choice when it came to marrying me. I was desperate for rescue and if I recall correctly, your brother was most insistent that it was your duty to protect me. You were but ten and seven years of age and hardly in a position to reject the force of your brother’s argument or to understand the consequences of marrying me. I tell you what we will do- I will stop scratching at this wound if you will just try. What do you say, my love? Will you try to enjoy a ball or perhaps a game or two of whist at Lucilles?”

Georgina wrinkled nose told Percy everything he needed to know about that particular suggestion. Lucilles, was an exclusive club of hand-selected ladies of the first water. Georgina had received no less than three invitations to join the favoured few of Lady Bovary’s card-toting circle, but Georgina laughed each time an invitation was delivered and tossed the gold-embossed cards carelessly aside. The more fervent the Lucilles’ pursuit of Georgina, the more convinced she was of their insincere nature. The very code of the club made a mockery of their very existence- ‘The cultivation of friendship amongst its members, the acquirement individually of high degree of mental culture, and the attainment of the highest standard of morality’. La, the Lucilles had never extended themselves beyond playing whist or the sponsorship of pitied spinsters, as if being on the shelf beyond the age of four and twenty was the greatest travesty known to man. As far as the Lucilles were concerned, extreme poverty was an ordained state of being, the likes of which was beyond their power to influence. Georgina despised the Lucilles’ very existence and would rather suffer an evening of swishing silk and being sized up by envious mamas, unmarried ladies and rakes on the search for an easy romp than engage in frivolous conversation with Lady Bovary and her shallow followers.

 “Firstly, I am no longer ten and seventeen. At twenty and five, I am well able to make independent decisions, including whom I choose to befriend,” Georgina reminded Percy. “Secondly, it is not in my nature to proposition men. I do not need a lover,” she asserted, turning her devoted hazel eyes to consider her husband. The poor man was fairy-tale-prince beautiful and even though he was married, he drew the attention of both married and supposedly chaste woman. She could only imagine female attention to be a sore trial to a man who was almost wholly preoccupied by thoughts of one very special man.

“Presumably, by virtue of my choice, having an affair is well within my nature!” defended Percy, wounded by the implication of Georgina’s words.

“For goodness sake, Percy, falling in love with Horace was not a choice and had very little to do with your nature, unless you are referring to your turn for the dramatic. Horace is a miracle and I am thrilled to have both of you in my life.”

Percy tapped the prongs of the silver fork against the china plate and stared blindly across the large, polished mahogany table laden with the finest of everything. Even the pretty free flowing Rococo-style sauceboat no longer brought him joy. His possessions and wealth had become a splinter in his side, causing him pain at every turn- a man who has everything, but cannot bring his wife the happiness she deserves, is not a man.

“Georgie, I cannot live like this anymore,” Percy stated, deflating before Georgie’s eyes. What kind of man would he be if he lived life to the full at his wife’s bequest whilst she languished before his very eyes?

“What do you mean?”

“We are living a lie,” Percy started, leaving his position at the head of the table to sit next to her at the window. He took Georgie’s hand in his and caressed the soft skin beneath her wrist. She was such a dear and he did not know what he had done to deserve her protection and friendship. He did know that the world deserved to experience the sweet and beautiful Georgina Harper-Crewe, Countess of Harrington and, in turn, she needed Mother Nature to rekindle the fire that had once caused her eyes to burn bright and her cheeks to glow. “Is it not obvious to you that I cannot be happy unless you are happy? I cannot even enjoy Horace’s company because I know you spend the nights alone in one of my echoing, pointless homes or in your brother’s sombre library, as if it holds the judicial key to our freedom.”

“Percy…”

“No, Georgina! It is about time you found your miracle.”

2

Vanity, thy name is Gabriel

 “Bloody Hell, Conway, this is my worst nightmare. Do something?”

“What would you have me do? Punch you in the nose!” laughed Findley Travers, Baron of Conway and long suffering friend of Gabriel Charles Weston, the 10th Duke of Huntingdon and a complete rogue- a genius rogue, but a rogue nonetheless. Despite their long-standing friendship, Conway had long since itched to gift Huntingdon a thorough beating. The man was outrageously wealthy in every possible way- his looks were a shade short of beautiful, admired and most likely desired by both sexes; his mind was as sharp as a new fishing hook and his wealth was, well, obscene. His downfall was most certainly his barbed temperament and his apparent unwavering self-regard. Huntingdon was as selfish as English winters are long and as obstinate as a goat.

“If that is what it takes, then yes, cause me serious bodily harm and send word post-haste to Lady Audley so that I may escape suffocation by batting eye-lashes and scheming consideration.”

Huntingdon looked about his person suspiciously and tugged at his waistcoat. Lady Bristow had long since set her heart on him and had been casting her line in his direction for the past hour and a half, whilst her pasty daughter languished at her side wholly aware of her widowed mother’s attempts to engage the ton’s most beloved rogue. Huntingdon shuddered. Perhaps he was getting too old for the game, but it was the only one he knew how to play. His parents had set the worst example of marital bliss north of Watford, the likes of which left Huntingdon entirely at a loss when it came to happiness in general. He had long since accepted that his head and heart were more attuned to business. By forever scanning the horizon for opportunity, Huntingdon had his finger firmly on the pulse of future demand. The best of it was, because of his noble heritage, no one person batted an eye at his commercial prowess- he had the freedom to come and go where he pleased. Perhaps it was because he prided himself on honesty. People trusted him, well, when it came to commerce, they did. Women were an entirely different matter and at that moment in time, Lady Audley’s matchmaking antics were the bane of his morbid existence.

“There was a time when you would not have hesitated to conquer a room brimming with eager maidens or matrons for that matter,” laughed Conway whilst accepting a generous drink on behalf of his suffering friend. “One can only believe that your reticence stems from your advanced age or the softening of…”

“I have not gone soft!” scowled Huntingdon, “And I am not old. It is only that my tastes have matured.” It was one thing to start questioning your own position in life, but quite another beast when called old and infirm by a so-called friend.

“Have they now?” quipped Conway, taking his friend’s measure through narrowed eyes as he passed him a snifter of whisky. Huntingdon was disconcertingly handsome and terribly charming. It would almost be a sin to see him settle down. Almost, but not quite- Huntingdon’s popularity was a tad bit embarrassing for less revered men. If he were taken off the marriage market, the sweet cherries of the season may actually condescend to seek the company of equally worthwhile, if not a little less handsome prospects.

“Why not marry then? An older, more settled woman may be more to your seasoned liking,” teased Conway who knew that Huntingdon was far from weathered. In fact, he was dangerously virile and determined to act the part of the devil. At six foot in height and with a head of hair as thick and black as the day of his birth, Huntingdon cut quite the handsome and intriguing figure. In other words, women found it terribly difficult to resist his charms. It was far more likely that Huntingdon’s foul mood be accounted for by Lady Audley’s insistence that the night be filled with conversation and ‘appropriate’ dancing rather than Huntingdon’s preferred occupations of drinking, gambling and cavorting. As the dear Lady was Huntingdon’s favourite ex-mistress, he did not behave as uncouth as to turn down her invitation, even with her prior advice that the night would threaten boredom. In fact, he saw her invitation as a great compliment to his person. None of his ex-mistresses bore him ill-will and all continued to enjoy his company, without the promise of ongoing financial support. Truth be told, he was sensitive to their needs and had not abandoned any one of them. He always ensured that his care of the lovely ladies ended only after they had transferred their attentions to another worthwhile benefactor. In fact, Huntingdon perceived Lady Audley as a prime example of his benevolence. He had saved her from ruin after her husband’s unexpected demise which had left the dear woman in the clutches of determined debt collectors. If the old Earl had died quickly and with pride, taking his debts with him, all would have been well for Lady Audley, but no, the Earl accomplished dying much as he did living- with painstaking tedium. It took eight long months for the Earl to pass and, during that period, the pretty treasure was harassed to wits’ end until news of Huntingdon’s favour spread through society like wildfire, calming the tetchy proprietors who had been left carrying the burden of the almost late Earl of Audley’s extravagant tastes and lack of business acumen. One could almost say that Huntingdon’s desire for the woeful widow had saved the very skin on her back. And now Lady Audley enjoyed a well-established home of her own and the care of the Earl of Buckley whose perpetually sour wife meant that he was likely to require the solace of Lady Audley’s sweet embrace for many years to come. Regardless, a night of monotony was a little more than Huntingdon’s benevolent soul could bear and as he no longer felt beholden to the pretty dowager as he had graced her ball sufficiently, he was deuced determined to bring the night to an early end.

“Will you just do a friend a favour and figure out a way to save me from a night of purgatory?” Huntingdon asked through clenched teeth. If he had to dance with another sugary-sweet, over-powdered debutante determined to make an impression and severely chaperoned by an overzealous mother, he may just have to wrap his hands around one of their fine little necks to eke a tad bit of enjoyment from the night.

“I bloody-well will not! Concoct your own disingenuous excuse,” Conway scolded, enjoying his friend’s discomfort for a short while longer.

Only it did not take long for Huntingdon to irritate Conway’s nerves which saw him agreeing to smooth the way for Huntingdon’s escape. Huntingdon had been downright rude when delivering his farewell, leaving Lady Audley’s ruffled feathers in Conway’s sensitive hands.

Lady Audley blushed prettily, tapped Conway lightly on his shoulder with her fan and then glared across the room to where Huntingdon stood in the shadow of a solid fluted column. He had already taken his leave and Lady Audley had been less than pleased with his discourteous attitude. Bolstered by four fingers of whisky, Huntingdon had not even bothered to present a half-baked excuse for his rude behaviour. He had quite simply advised his hostess of his impending departure, informed her that Conway would fabricate a story for her to pass about, bowed, turned on his heel and cut across the swirling dancefloor to make a swift exit.

Only, he no longer had the will to make his escape- not with her sweet, herbal scent clawing at him like a leech in the throes of bloodletting as she passed him by. For Christ’s sake, a woman was not meant to smell like pine and woodland after a burst of spring rain. The smell was unnatural, or too natural. Huntingdon was not sure which, but he knew it was cursed not right. For the life of him, he could not think of a way to rid himself of the stench of his attraction to her, other than introduce himself to the blasted woman. Huntingdon leaned his dark head against the cold, white pillar as he watched her traverse the ballroom. Her figure was too rounded to be in the first bloom of youth and her hips swayed gently beneath a pale pink, sheer silk gown. Her carriage spoke of a degree of experience and confidence. Her dark auburn hair was arranged in a soft bun of interlacing plaits on the crown of her head. A braided headband served as the only other adornment and natural ringlets curled invitingly in the soft curve of her neck. Huntingdon waited for a glimpse of the woman’s face he was already determined to bed. It was pathetic to feel the swirl of attraction without having seen the woman’s face, but here he was – his feet led heavy and his heart racing like a hummingbird. He could only hope that her looks were gorgon repulsive, freeing his body from the grips of sexual tension.

Conway eyed Huntingdon from across the room and gestured discreetly with his hand to indicate that he could make a swift exit without causing further offence, as Lady Audley was well mollified by Conway’s soothing presence and sweet talk. But he was surprised to find that Huntingdon had lost all interest in escape and was instead invested in the cloud of pink silk drifting across the ballroom. Instantly, Conway recognised sweet Lady Harrington and sent Huntingdon a scathing look. When Huntingdon eventually looked up to meet his gaze, Conway mouthed a firm ‘NO’ and shook his head. Conway was well acquainted with said lady’s brother. He was not only a good friend, but an accomplished and respected barrister.  On occasions when visiting Oliver Harper, Conway had the good fortune of spending an hour or so in Lady Harrington’s delightful company and had once fancied a life tied to her strings, but he had missed his opportunity. Although he still had the occasional wistful thought about Georgina, he took solace in the belief that his loss saved her husband’s life. Percy Crewe was the best of men.

Regardless, the short and the dirty of it was that Georgina Harper-Crewe was too pure and giving for the likes of Gabriel Weston- rogue extraordinaire. If Fate brought Georgina and Huntingdon together, the liaison would kill her- one soul destroying moment at a time. Conway could see the travesty play out in his mind’s eye: Georgina would give and give and give of her person, in the fullest belief that what she shared with Huntingdon amounted to love; only to discover he was a creature who thrived on possession. Like a hoarder gathers things to feed his own carnivorous ego, but never truly understands the reciprocity of the relationship. And so Huntingdon will go on to need more objects. One perfect being would never quench the desire for more, not for Gabriel Weston. Hell, Conway doubted he would recognise perfection if it stared him in the face, which was seemed frighteningly likely. Huntingdon had not taken his eyes off her for the past two minutes.

When Conway recognised the predatory glint steal into Huntingdon’s dark eyes, he moved quickly to intercept Huntingdon’s prey and to escort her into the safe hands of Lady Audley who knew full-well what her ex-lover was capable of, or not capable of.

Georgina went willingly in the direction Conway led her. She liked the Baron immensely and welcomed a chance to further their acquaintance. She had always been a little in awe of the political debates played out between her brother and Conway, the likes of which portrayed a world of intrigue and danger. Georgina looked forward to gaining a deeper understanding through an intimate discussion with Conway without encountering her brother’s disapproving glare. Her ‘manly’ mind was a circumstance her brother respected, but could not understand. To his traditional paradigms, a woman as beautiful and regal as Georgina should be attracted to bolts of silk, ribbons and the gleam of pearly buttons. But Georgina was not willing to be defined by womanly wiles and superficial interests like a sleek, pretty magpie lured by shiny baubles. God bestowed her with a lively, curious mind and she had the skill of seeing into people’s souls. These were gifts she intended to use because knowledge made her feel connected to the world, marginally purposeful and less guilty about the wealth at her disposal.

Conway’s sly manoeuvre was not lost on Huntingdon. Conway truly did believe that dignity and compassion were the traits of people who aspired to be more than singular and part of greater good, and he could not help exercise this believe. And here was a prime example of his heroic and selfless behaviour, stepping in to protect a lamb from spoil.

Huntingdon swore and mumbled under his breath, “Findley Travers, bloody valiant Baron of Conway, always playing at being the frigging hero!”

Conway’s move did not rescue Lady Harrington. Instead, it served to set Huntingdon’s instincts firmly to hunt mode. Conway knew that Huntingdon was a scoundrel, but generally did not interfere in his rakish business on the understanding that Huntingdon used his discretion and steered well clear of the innocent.  But the woman standing beside Conway was not an innocent, so why did he feel it necessary to come to her aid? Huntingdon’s body twitched to discover what it was about the pristine little lady that caused Conway to step in so quickly. Let the games begin, Huntingdon thought as a sliver of excitement wound through his body. He smirked, righted himself and crossed the room to stand beside his friend.

“Conway, Lady Audley, will you do me the honour of an introduction?” Huntingdon asserted, shooting his friend a warning look. If Conway played Huntingdon’s game, it was possible that he would be bored before the evening’s final chords were struck and he would be satisfied with nothing more than a kiss and fondle in a dark corner or at worst, behind an earthy hedge. However, if Conway chose to play his cards too close to his chest, Huntingdon would ensure that the little lady experienced the full Gabriel Weston ride, simply for the power of it.

Georgina turned her gaze towards the baritone sound of the Duke’s voice and was immediately irritated by his brazen consideration of her person and the haughty turn of his smile. There was nothing about her toilette that invited such scandalous scrutiny- her dress was pretty, but quite conservative in design, allowing for the merest hint of her bosom. Her hair was arranged in a dignified waterfall-style, braided bun and her features were not accentuated by paint. Georgina did not hold by the fashion of clownish white skin, dripping red lips and heavily rouged cheeks, not even when applied conservatively. A little crease appeared between Georgina’s full, dark eyebrows as she contemplated the Duke’s attentive gaze. She could not fathom why the Duke seemed intent of devouring her with his eyes, except that Percy had warned she would undoubtedly draw attention if she re-joined society’s festivities and routs. Still, the Duke’s admiration was so blatant that Georgina was tempted to slap his chiselled cheek before he offended her with trifling flowery words set to cause her tummy to flutter, heat to race to her core and her heart to constrict.  Although she doubted he was the type to lower to such trifling flirtation.

 Huntingdon was entirely surprised by his body’s continued thrumming demands. Georgina was simple in her beauty, dignified in a puritanical sort of way and apparently quite oblivious to the attention she was drawing; and she was too long in the tooth to fall for simpering attempts to get her into bed. Truth be told, she was a little out of his league and a challenge to be conquered.

Georgina returned the courtesy of laden consideration- Gabriel Weston was an incredibly handsome man. He stood a good six inches taller than most men, his thighs rippled beneath his breeches as he shifted his position and his shoulder to waist ratio was perfectly V-proportioned.  And of course, the Duke of Huntingdon’s reputation preceded him. He was said to have mistresses placed strategically across England to ensure that his wicked needs be readily seen to. Oh! Georgina thought as Percy’s words infiltrated her reasoning and she turned her hazel eyes to consider the Duke again.  

Now, what precisely did Percy say? ‘It is about time you found your miracle…’

Georgina turned to face the Duke squarely and cast another appreciative gaze over his person. Tall. Trim. Strong... Georgina smiled as she turned her gaze to his handsome face. She freed her mind from the constraints of high society’s strictures to consider the potential of engaging a man of Huntingdon’s reputation and allowing her body to react to his leering invitation. He may not be the love of her life, but the Duke of Huntingdon would make an intriguing playmate and he would likely be game without imposing demands on her loyalty to Percy.

Conway was quick to notice Georgina’s interest in the dark Duke and sought to intercede with a gentle touch to her forearm, to draw her attention and a whispered warning, “Oh, no, Lady Harrington, I must counsel against any association with…”

“Lord Conway, thank you for your concern, but I know of his Grace’s tainted character,” interrupted Georgina, smiling at her protector with the intention of reassuring him. Conway was a genuine and caring soul, and his interest in her had been most welcome over the years, but Georgina had never felt the stirrings of attraction rise through her body in response to him. The Duke, on the other hand, had just this affect and it made Georgina wonder how far his carnal power would take her if she gave him the opportunity.

“Perhaps you have not heard the worst of the stories, Lady Harrington,” offered Lady Audley who was feeling increasingly alarmed by the way the Duke was looking at Georgina. Although Lady Audley had experienced Huntingdon’s particular patronage, he had never looked at her in the way he was the Countess of Harrington. It was more than lust and impossibly love, as it was clear that they were virtual strangers. And yet the searing emotion belying Huntingdon’s eyes came close. Lady Audley’s brow lifted as she recognised the intelligence behind Huntingdon’s intent gaze- lingering on the cliff edge of enlightenment.

“If my presence offends you so much, it is a wonder you deign to invite me to your little soirées,” Huntingdon commented haughtily, not at all perturbed by the crass exchange about his person.

Lady Audley gasped at his audacity and promptly told him that it would certainly be the last time he received such an honour from her.

Huntingdon laughed aloud and returned his gaze to Georgina before answering, “The absence of such scintillating company would be a sad loss indeed.”

Georgina felt it necessary to step between the protagonist and his opposition. It least, she felt duty bound to intervene  before Lady Audley clawed Huntingdon’s sensual dark blue eyes out with her fingernails or worse, before she delivered an insult about his person from which there could be no recovery. Insulting a man of the Duke’s reputation could damage Lady Audley’s standing. For some reason, the ton adored the dastardly Duke. With her back turned to him, Georgina whispered platitudes and reassurances which saw the vexed hostess retreat willingly with Conway following tentatively in her wake. But not before Lady Audley aimed a final well-placed barb.

 “Your Grace, I raise the white flag with the fullest belief that in this precious soul, you have met your match and perhaps even your salvation.”

“Well, that was impressive. Perhaps there is more to you than a pretty face and determined hazel eyes,” commented Huntingdon, offering Georgina his undivided, simmering attention. With his impertinent dark eyebrows arched in intrigue, he proceeded, “May I ask what you said to our hostess that saw her retract her claws?”

“I merely pointed out the obvious,” Georgina answered innocently.

“Oh?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“I am afraid that I am still in the dark here, my dear,” he commented dryly, feeling increasingly irritated by Lady Harrington’s quiet confidence and blasted earthy smell. What was it- thyme, sage or both?

“Your Grace, you are the obvious. I cannot help but see your behaviour for what it is and you for what you are.”

The Duke’s lips twitched in amusement. With rampant rumour about his dalliances, he could well imagine what Lady Harrington thought of his person.

 “With flattering lips and with a double heart they speak,” Georgina quoted.

The mischievous look in Huntingdon’s eye was replaced by a look Georgina recognised all too well. She had hurt his feelings and was instantly repentant. Only, she did not have the foggiest idea why his mood had changed so swiftly.

“I am sorry, your Grace, perhaps I have misjudged you. It is unfair of me to take rumour as gospel truth.”

Georgina’s initial intuition had certainly not failed her- the Duke of Huntingdon was as vain and arrogant as she first believed him to be. He worked damn hard to hone that particular cloak of defence against the fickle, perilous ton and he had sworn that nothing short of the invasion of the Empire would see him shrug off its protection. He probably had his fanatical parents to thank for his suspicious nature which led him to be as calculating as he was self-obsessed. He was yet to meet a person of noble birth in whom he would trust his life.  Not even Conway, a life-long friend, could convince him to place his full confidence in anyone but himself. And yet, in a matter of minutes, sweet Georgina Harper-Crewe had managed to make a dent in his armour. He could not let his guard down with her. He was quick to realise that Georgina was not only beautiful and intelligent, but she was also a sensitive and compassionate woman and these qualities would essentially be her downfall if she chose to pit her wit against his. With flattering lips and with a double heart they speak, indeed! He could use her depth of feeling to bend her to his will and her concern for his feelings would easily allow him to take advantage of physical closeness. He schooled his expression into that of a deeper hurt and leaned towards her sweet person. He knew she would not object under the circumstance of having offended him. Huntingdon leaned in further to whisper into Georgina’s ear.

 “Psalm 12 verse 2.”

And then he withdrew ever so slightly, just enough to allow her an unfettered view of his pained eyes. She turned surprised eyes to meet his and her breathing deepened when she realised she had misjudged his character.  He was pleased to see her startled reaction, but hid his joy beneath the mask of being wronged. Huntingdon maintained the façade for a moment longer and waited for the tell-tale sign, a tug on the fishing line. And when Georgina’s startled, hazel eyes grew watery with compassion and her body swayed towards his, Huntingdon knew she was well-and-truly hooked and there was no longer any need to hide his true nature. She would forever strive to reach the sensitive, needy man hidden beneath his arrogant ego, the one she had caught a glimpse of and longed to protect. Women, the motherly types, were so predictable.

“Ah, you see, even the devil attends church to heed the Word and because listening without hearing makes a mockery of our Lord’s teachings, I listen and learn His ways. Even the devil concedes this point and finds knowledge of humanity’s principles and values particularly useful in times of strategy. Although, it appears I present a Christian opportunity too. Let me explain my thinking: your observation of my person is largely correct. I am consumed by my own importance and care for no other way. I suppose, some may call me conceited or vain.”

Georgina tilted her head to allow the rumble of his deep voice unrestricted access to the needy skin stretching below her neckline. The heat of his spoken word stroked her in ways she had not previously imagined. She could not help but be drawn to his male prowess. The Duke of Huntingdon was like no other man she had ever met. His attractiveness extended beyond his dark beauty. It had more to do with his insular confidence, as if he was divinely happy with his own company and determined to spurn true intimacy. He depended on no-one, toyed with emotions and he laughed at society’s ways, as if he felt deep scorn for his kind. She did not care one penny for his duplicitous nature or rather she was relying on it to ensure a smooth journey to his chambers and into his bed. She certainly had no intention of aiding his reform or caressing his wounded pride. That would require an emotional investment on her part, the likes of which she saw no merit. Intuitively, Georgina understood the Duke wanted little more than a playmate. It was of no consequence to her. After all, Georgina was happily married to her best friend, so all the Duke had to do was to fulfil his reputation as a most committed lover. In that moment of feeling the warmth of his breath on her skin and the brush of his hand against her thigh, Georgina knew why she lusted for his company- the Duke was predictably dangerous and her virginity would certainly not be safe in his hands.

“Reform me, Lady Harrington, make me a better person, turn my eyes from vanity.”

“Psalm 119,” Georgina exhaled, wholly excited by the prospect of sparring with the most dastardly duke to blacken the dominions, colonies and protectorates of the British Empire.

“Quite, my beautiful Countess,” acknowledged Huntingdon, surprised by the quickness of her mind. He stepped away from the fairest lady of his acquaintance, realising that it would be a shame to sully her pure essence.  He decided that she was best left to the sanctuary of her matrimonial state. After all, her nature was as blindingly white as his was torrid and tainted, making the conquest of her person a little too dodgy, even for him. He took another step away from her and bowed to take his leave, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I fear that my good friend was right about my prospects. You should keep your distance- my nature is below you, I cannot be transformed and my future is bleak.”

“Your Grace, I think you misunderstand my intent. I do not wish to convert you or alter what you are, but I do wish to take full advantage of your base nature. It is I who invites transformation.”

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