Michelle Styles - Regency Bride

A cold shiver went down Hattie’s spine. She could just imagine. She knew all about Livvy’s fascination with fan language for flirtation purposes. She’d warned Stephanie about it weeks ago. Obviously nothing had been done. The problem was how to discuss Livvy’s use of the fan without revealing where she had been. ‘Livvy is impetuous, but innocent. It was a game to her, to see if she could. Nothing more.’

His shadowy grey eyes locked on to hers. ‘And was it a game for you, bursting in on them? Attempting to find evidence of a flirtatious game gone too far? Or is any flirtation too far for you?’

‘My niece’s reputation is paramount.’ Hattie hugged her arms about her waist and tried to control the shiver. ‘And anyway, why are you wandering about the grounds on your own?’

‘Your sister is playing the chaperon while I attempt to find the cedar of Lebanon. As Rupert has decided he wants to do more than play infantile fan games with your niece, he needs to make a favourable impression on your sister.’

‘Have you found the tree?’ she asked brightly.

‘I was on my way when your dog discovered me.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to make a good impression is all Rupert requires.’

‘You need to find the tree before your time is up. Truth in all things.’

‘We reach complete understanding at last, Mrs Wilkinson.’ A smile tugged at his features. ‘It is part of my creed.’

Hattie shook her head. His charm was lethal. She was certain most women discounted his words and only focused on the seductive warmth in his voice. Listening to him, it was easy to understand why he enjoyed such a reputation with ladies. But she knew the trick—the words, not the tone, were important.

‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.

‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’

‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.

Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.

‘We should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.

She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’

‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’

‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’

‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’

‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’

He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’

The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.

The news made her blood fizz and tingle.

She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.

‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.

‘You require more?’

‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’

‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.

The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.

‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.

‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.

‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.

‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.

‘Does it bother you?’

‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories …’

Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.

After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.

‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’

‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’

Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.

Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.

Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.

He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.

‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.