Helen Dickson: Rogue in the Regency Ballroom: Rogue's Widow, Gentleman's Wife / A Scoundrel of Consequence

‘I’m sho she’ll tell yo’ all about it later, Miss Nan.’

With that Nan had to be content to wait—not that she wanted to enter that dreadful place anyway—but what wouldn’t she say to that wilful, disobedient girl when she returned.

With her heart beating fast, Amanda spoke to the desk sergeant and a moment later Mr Hennesey materialised out of the shadows. He was a distasteful individual, untidy and with sly eyes, which lit up with a greedy light at the sight of the leather purse.

‘This is for your silence, Mr Hennesey. No one must know of my visit. Do you understand?’

He nodded, taking the purse from her gruffly and telling her to follow him. The prisoner was expecting her. Under the bombardment of many curious glances and trying to close her ears to an assortment of crude noises made by the dangerous portion of humanity incarcerated within the walls of the City Gaol, she followed Mr Hennesey along corridors between iron-barred doors to the rear of the building.

The prisoner occupied an individual cell, so they could talk privately. It was quite small. Directly opposite the door, high in the wall, was a barred aperture that let in air and daylight. The stench was appalling and Amanda had to resist the temptation to take the scented handkerchief from her pocket and put it to her nose.

She glanced at the turnkey. ‘I wish to speak to Mr Claybourne alone.’

Hennesey shrugged. ‘Suit yerself. It’s not the usual practice, but you’ve paid for it. But I’ll be just outside and will hear if he gets up to any funny business.’ Before he went out he threw the prisoner a warning glance. ‘Treat the lady with respect now, you hear—or ’twill be the worse for you.’

A voice from the shadows gave a derisive laugh. ‘Your threats are useless, Hennesey. Do you forget that I have only one life to lose and that it’s already forfeit?’

With a grunt, Hennesey went out, closing the door with a bang. Amanda examined her surroundings and Christopher Claybourne. His feet were shackled together. He was exactly as she remembered him, except that he was fresh shaven and his dark eyes were alert, watching her. His clothes were ragged and soiled, his uncombed hair hanging loose about his face, but even in his wretched state his strength of character shone through.

Kit—the shortened version of Christopher, which was how he had been addressed all his life—had been told to expect a visitor and nothing more. Recognition widened his eyes when the woman lifted her veil back over her bonnet. Miss O’Connell’s appearance had taken him unawares—although what she was doing swanning it through this hell hole, like a lure to a pond full of piranhas, he could not conceive. He recalled seeing her the day before, recalled the way she had looked at him, had seen the interest kindle in her eyes, and he was bewildered as to why she had come to see him. He moved forward, watching her, speculative, admiring, alert. She looked magnificent—like a gilded statue.

The rich vibrancy of her hair was neatly coiffed beneath her bonnet, and as she stared up at him he felt himself momentarily fixed on her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive green, incisive and clear, and tilted slightly at the corners. She had a healthy and unblemished beauty that radiated a striking personal confidence. There was about her a kind of warm sensuality, something instantly suggestive to him of pleasurable fulfilment. It was something she could not help, something that was an inherent part of her, but of which she was acutely aware.

To Kit, starved of a woman’s beauty—of any kind of beauty—for so long to behold so much loveliness, to find himself alone with her, a woman forbidden, inaccessible to him, to be surrounded by the sweet scent of her, was torture indeed.

Alone with Mr Claybourne at last—alarmingly, nerve-rackingly alone. Amanda stood looking at him by the light slanting through the small window. With his wide shoulders and lean waist, there was no concealing that here was a man alive and virile in every fibre of his being. He had far and beyond the most handsome face she had seen in her life.

However, she felt a moment of unease. It might have been the way his eyes were looking at her, touching her everywhere, an inexplicable lazy smile sweeping over his lean face as he surveyed her from head to foot, that suddenly made her feel as if she had walked into a seduction scene, which momentarily threw her off balance.

She averted her gaze and casually widened the distance between them, stalling for time, steadying her confused senses, while he stood several feet away, towering over her. When she looked at him again his broad shoulders blocked out her view of anything but him. She tried to turn away, but his extraordinary eyes drew her back. She had never met anyone quite like him, and she felt conscious of nothing except the lingering riot in her own body and mind. Despite his deprivations, his manner bore an odd touch of threatening boldness, and she was beginning to regret insisting that she be left alone with him.

Forgetful for the moment of why she was there, with hard-won poise she coldly remarked, ‘Do you always look at a woman in that way, sir?’

His broad, impudent smile showed strong white teeth. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I suppose I could find several things to occupy my attention, but nothing that’s nearly as enjoyable as looking at you. So much loveliness in my prison cell certainly is a wondrous sight for eyes deprived of feminine beauty for so long that it is not easily borne.’

His smiling eyes were studying her closely and Amanda was aware of the tension and nervousness in herself. There was a pink flush on her cheekbones, much to her increasing annoyance. His direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious of his close proximity to her. She felt the crazy, unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins, which she had never experienced before. Instantly she felt resentful towards him. He had made too much of an impact on her.

‘You are conceited, sir. Despite your deprivations, you do not appear to have forgotten how to flatter a woman, and I don’t doubt you have used it on a good many.’

‘There have been some along the way, but I never lie, and you are unsurpassed. For what reason does a lady come visiting a condemned man in his cell—and looking as grand as a Southern belle going to a ball?’

Forcing herself to ignore the fluttering in her stomach on hearing the rich, deep timbre of his voice, Amanda raised her chin. ‘My name is Amanda O’Connell.’

‘And I am Christopher Benedict Henry Claybourne,’ he replied, bowing his head respectfully, yet without removing his gaze from her face.

‘My …’ she breathed, impressed ‘… such a grand array of names for a convict.’

He grinned. ‘My father always did have aspirations of grandeur. However, most people call me Kit. And what of you, Miss O’Connell? You are from England?’

‘Yes. I’ve been staying with my aunt, Mrs Lucy Cummings, at Magnolia Grove for the past twelve months.’

‘I have heard of Mrs Cummings.’ There were few who hadn’t, Kit thought. Her husband had been an important, influential man among Charleston’s elite, with some rather high connections in the county and beyond.

‘She died recently, and as a result I have to return to England.’

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Kit tilted his head on one side and looked at her quizzically. ‘Miss O’Connell, forgive me, but I am bewildered as to why you should seek me out. You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble. I do not believe you would brave the City Gaol merely to pass the time of day.’

‘I have a proposition to put to you.’

‘Yes?’ Kit prompted.

Straightening her back and raising her head imperiously, she met his gaze direct. ‘I—I want you to marry me.’