Diane Gaston - The Liberation Of Miss Finch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

England, 1829

Eleven years ago, Claude Mableau came to Rappard Hall as a stable worker seeking revenge—and fell in love with the noble family’s poor relation, Miss Louisa Finch. Now home after making his fortune abroad, he discovers that his youthful infatuation is as strong as ever, as is his body’s craving for the beautiful lady. Claude cannot resist her plea to introduce her to the pleasures of lovemaking before her arranged marriage. Yet despite their intense passion, Louisa will always be forbidden to him as a bride….

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.

—John Keats

Dear Reader,

You met Claude Mableau in each book of my Three Soldiers series. This quote from Keats could have been written for him. Here’s Claude’s quest for his own happy ending. Enjoy!

Diane Gaston

http://dianegaston.com

To my son, Dan, who deserves love and happiness always

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Badajoz, Spain, 1812

Twelve-year-old Claude Mableau cowered in the corner of the Spanish courtyard, covering his ears with his hands.

No use. The sounds of the rioting, his mother’s screams, fists pounding on his father’s body, continued to assault him. The siege of Badajoz was lost, and British soldiers swarmed the city, shouting and killing and looting. He’d been frightened when his father appeared at the door of their home, his French uniform torn and stained with blood. They’d fled. No time to pack. No time to think. The entire French army was in flight.

When they reached the courtyard, three British soldiers, wild-eyed and smelling of drink, attacked. His father fought. His mother pushed Claude away and one of the red-coated men seized her. Claude ran and hid.

But he could still see two of the soldiers beating on his father, over and over and over. Suddenly Claude watched his father’s eyes widen in shock. His father fell, hitting the stone pavement so hard Claude heard the thud. The British soldier backed away holding a knife dripping with blood.

Claude covered his mouth with his fist. Was his father dead? Where was his mother? One of the soldiers had forced her to the ground while the others laughed. Claude screwed his eyes shut.

A pistol shot rang out. Two of the red-coated soldiers ran, but the third straddled his mother and pulled up her skirt.

Claude heard his father’s voice in his head. You are not a helpless baby. Be brave.

Claude dashed from his hiding place and jumped on the British soldier’s back. The man was too big. Too strong. He flung Claude away like rubbish.

Other British soldiers came and he was terrified at what would come next. Would they kill his mother? Would they kill him?

Instead these men talked in calm voices. They led Claude and his mother away, away from the body of his father, back to his house, now a shamble of broken furniture and shattered dishes.

Through the fog in Claude’s mind, though, he remembered with clarity one British face, one British name.

Edwin Tranville.

Claude repeated the name over and over so he would never forget it.

Edwin Tranville.

Someday, even if he must travel to the ends of the earth, even if it took a lifetime, he would make Edwin Tranville pay for the death of his father and the attack on his mother.

Someday.

Lancashire, England, 1828

At one time Claude thought Lancashire to be the very ends of the earth. It had seemed so eleven years ago, when he’d tracked Edwin Tranville to Rappard Hall and procured employment as a stable worker there. Claude never intended to return, but time and distance and a great deal of life made returning a matter of some importance.

It was not easy. Lancashire held memories difficult to face. Memories of failure and loss and shame.

His horse crested the hill, dotted with sheep just as he remembered it. Claude gazed into the valley where the stream still meandered through shrubbery and trees, its blue water sparkling in the sun.

More pleasant memories came to mind, of peaceful hours spent at the water’s edge, moments when he’d felt almost happy. What harm to detour for a few moments, refresh the horses where he’d done so before? He left the road and made his way across the field, riding one horse and leading the other.

When he came to a familiar break in the trees, he halted.

She was there! Dancing in the stream like some sprite, barefooted, skirts held up to her knees, scattering the water into glittering crystals.

He shook his head. No. Impossible. Impossible to find her again in this same spot. His unlikely friend, his unspoken infatuation, and in some ways his salvation.

She turned and caught sight of him. A look of wonder filled her face.

He dismounted.

“Claude?” Her voice was tentative, as if she, too, could not believe her eyes.

“Louisa,” he rasped.

She dropped her skirts into the water and closed the distance between them, rushing into his arms. “Claude! I thought I had imagined you! I did not hear your approach. Suddenly you were just there!”

He’d held her only twice before, once to comfort her, once upon their parting. After all, a French stable worker was not permitted to embrace an aristocratic English lady. In truth, he should not be touching Miss Louisa Finch now, but in the moment, he did not care.

Her scent was as intoxicating as he remembered, and his body reacted as it had before, as if his senses only came alive by holding her. He never wanted to release her.

She pulled out of the embrace, but kept her hands on his arms, gazing at him at arm’s length. “You look wonderful, Claude. Taller…and…and…more manly.”

It pleased him perhaps too much that she noticed he was no longer a youth of eighteen. “I suppose I have changed after all this time.”

She also had changed, although her brown eyes were still as warm as a cup of coffee on a cold morning. Her face was leaner, her chin and cheekbones more prominent, more refined, as if a master sculptor had envisioned a way to make his creation even more beautiful.

Their gazes held and his yearning grew, a yearning he’d never dared to admit, even to himself.

“What are you doing here, Claude?” she finally asked, breaking the spell between them.

“A visit to my mother,” he managed, through a throat thick with emotion.

He had not seen his mother these same ten years, not since she married a British soldier, the man whose life had been so entwined with theirs.

Louisa blinked. “Yes, of course, I assumed you came to see your mother, but I meant, why did you come here, to this place?”

“I thought of you,” he said simply. “I remembered our rides and I remembered this stream.”