Anne Herries - Lord Ravensden's Marriage

“Forgive me,” he said, his breath ragged with desire. “I had no right to do that, no right at all.”

“No,” Beatrice said quietly. “Nor I to let you. We both know that your duty lies with Olivia, my lord. You are fond of her, and she would make you a fitting wife. Your position demands that, and I have never mixed in society. I am a plain, simple countrywoman, with none of the social arts….”

“As if that mattered…you cannot think it, Beatrice?”

“I do not know what to think,” she said. “Please, my lord, let me go now. I must return to my sister. To stay longer might prove dangerous for both of us.”

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lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, By Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

October, 1811

“Courage, Beatrice! Are you to be daunted by tales of dragons and witches? No, certainly not,” she answered herself, unconsciously speaking the words aloud. “This is nonsense, sheer nonsense! Papa would be ashamed of you.”

Beatrice shivered, pulling her cloak more tightly about her body as the mischievous wind tried to tug it from her. She was approaching the gates of Steepwood Abbey from the eastern side, having just come from the village of Steep Abbot, which clustered outside the Abbey’s crumbling walls at the point where the river entered its grounds.

In the village behind her lay the peaceful beauty of gracious trees, their bluish-green fronds brushing the edges of an idyllic pool in the river’s course. Ahead of her in the gathering dusk was the great, squat, brooding shape of the ancient Abbey, its grounds almost a wasteland these days. It was not a pleasant place at the best of times, but at dusk it took on a menacing atmosphere that was as much a product of superstitious minds as of fact.

“There is not the least need to be nervous,” she told herself as she peered into the shadowy grounds. “What was it Master Shakespeare said? Ah yes! Our fears do make us traitors. Do not be a traitor to your own convictions, Beatrice. It is all careless talk and superstition…”

But there were so many tales told about this place, and all of them calculated to make the blood run cold.

The land had been granted to the monks in the thirteenth century, and the Abbey had been built in a beautiful wooded area bordering the River Steep. Its origins were mystical, and it was held in popular belief that there had once, long centuries past, been a Roman temple somewhere in the grounds. Some of the stories told about the goings on at the Abbey were enough to make strong men turn pale.

So perhaps it was not just the chill of autumn air that made Beatrice shiver and turn cold as she paused to take her bearings.

“Foolish woman! This is autumn,” Beatrice scolded herself, “and you ought to have remembered the nights were pulling in. You should have left half an hour sooner!”

It was now the fourth week of October, in the year of Our Lord 1811, and the nights had begun to pull in more quickly than she had imagined possible. She ought in all conscience to have set out on her journey home to the small village of Abbot Giles at least half an hour sooner.

Most sensible females who lived in one of the four villages that lay to the north, south, east and west of the Abbey would not have considered crossing the Abbey’s land after dusk, or—since the Marquis of Sywell had taken up residence some eighteen years earlier—during the day for that matter!

Beatrice Roade, however, was made of sterner stuff. At the age of twenty-three she was of course a confirmed spinster, the first flush of her youth behind her (though not forgotten!), all hope of ever marrying denied her. She was tall, well-formed, with an easy way of walking that proclaimed her the healthy, no-nonsense woman she was. Attractive, her features strong, classical, with rather haunting green eyes and hair the colour of burnished chestnuts, she was thought slightly daunting by the local squires, who did not care for her cleverness—or her humour, which was oft-times baffling.

“Miss Roade,” they were wont to say of her as she was seen walking between the four villages, “bookish, you know. And as for looks—not the patch of her sister Miss Olivia. Now she is a beauty!”

And this from men who could hardly have caught more than a fleeting glimpse of Miss Olivia for the past fifteen years! But Miss Olivia took after her mother, and she had been beautiful. Miss Roade was like her father’s family no doubt, and known to be sensible.

So what was the very sensible Beatrice doing poised at the gate to Steepwood’s boundary walls, a gate which lay drunkenly open and rusting, useless these many years? Could she really be contemplating taking a short cut?

If they entered the grounds at all, most local folk stayed well away from the Abbey itself, taking either the path which led past the Little Steep river and the lake, or skirting Giles Wood—though only the braver amongst the villagers went near the woods.

There were odd goings on in the woods! Nan had told her that people were talking about it. Lights had been seen there at night again recently, and the gossips were saying that the Marquis was up to his old tricks—for it was firmly believed that when he had first come to the Abbey, Sywell and his friends had cavorted naked with their whores amongst the trees—and they had worn animal masks on their heads!

“Scandalous! That a nobleman of England should behave in such a manner,” Nan had said only that morning as she polished the sofa table in the parlour until the beautiful wood gleamed so that she could see her reflection. “I dread to think what may be going on there.”

“Nan, you intrigue me,” Beatrice had teased. “Just what dire things do you imagine are happening up there?”