Читать книгу Silk And Seduction Bundle 2 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 12

Imogen was speechless.

Viscount Mildenhall sounded determined to make her his wife.

But she could not believe he wanted to marry her! Any more than she wanted to…wanted to…She bit down on her lower lip and averted her face.

She could not deny there would be all kinds of advantages for her, if she accepted his proposal.

She wanted to leave town before she embroiled her poor dear aunt in some scandal. And marrying would be preferable to seeking employment. Mainly because her uncle and aunt would be so hurt if she demonstrated she would rather work as a governess than live indefinitely under their care. But also because every time she had thought about approaching Lord Keddinton, she’d had the sinking feeling that if she accepted a job he arranged for her, it would place her more deeply in his debt than she would like. This feeling was usually accompanied by a vision of a large sleek cat with a live bird struggling under its claws.

No, she would not be sorry not to have to go cap in hand to Lord Keddinton.

But then, what would it be like to marry a man who held her in such contempt?

Viscount Mildenhall was mercifully silent all the way back from the park. Nor had she, in the end, voiced one more objection to his threat to make a formal offer for her hand.

‘Well?’ her aunt asked her the minute Imogen trudged in through the front door. ‘Is the matter resolved? What did he say?’

Imogen drooped into the drawing room and sank onto a chair. ‘He asked me to marry him,’ she admitted.

Her aunt shrieked, clapped her hands to her cheeks and collapsed into another chair.

‘I know,’ said Imogen, shaking her head. ‘It’s unbelievable.’

But her aunt had recovered from the initial shock, and had leapt to her feet, beaming with pleasure. ‘Oh, Imogen. Congratulations! Well done!’

It did not occur to her aunt, thought Imogen with resentment, that she might have turned down such a flattering offer. Nor her uncle, who breezed into the dining room that evening, positively gleeful over what he termed ‘Imogen’s conquest.’ The atmosphere at the table was more convivial than Imogen could ever remember it being since she had gone to live there. She had finally, she observed with a sinking heart, managed to do something they approved of.

Drat the viscount for being right about this! She did not have the heart to disappoint them. In the end, with what her aunt declared was a becoming show of modesty, Imogen had bowed her head and accepted her uncle’s congratulations in a muted voice.

‘His Lordship will be coming to dine tomorrow night, so that we may all discuss arrangements,’ her uncle informed them both as he sawed off a generous portion of game pie and tipped it onto his plate. ‘Captain Bredon will accompany him.’

‘Captain Bredon?’ Lady Callandar echoed in astonishment. ‘You have invited him to dine?’

Imogen felt as surprised as her aunt looked. But Lord Callandar quashed any further objections by stating, ‘His Lordship is bringing him, as his guest.’

‘Oh, well, in that case, of course…’ her aunt trailed off, bowing her head over her plate in dutiful submission.

Imogen was sure her aunt would never have raised any objections to having her stepbrother to dine, had she ever plucked up the courage to risk rousing her uncle’s displeasure by inviting him. It had only been surprise that had made her seem to question her husband’s choice of dinner guest. But apparently, the fact that Rick numbered a viscount among his closest friends now outweighed the ignominy of his humble birth.

Lady Callandar did look somewhat anxious when Rick breached all codes of etiquette the minute he entered the house—striding into the drawing room and enveloping Imogen in an enthusiastic hug. Fortunately, her uncle was too busy fussing around the viscount to even notice.

‘I am so pleased for you, Midge,’ Rick grinned. Then he leaned and whispered in her ear, ‘You will like being married to Monty. Always thought the pair of you would suit.’

Imogen guiltily disentangled herself from his embrace. It was hard to know which was making her more uncomfortable; deceiving her brother or exposing her aunt to one of her uncle’s tirades, by indulging in what he would term unacceptable behaviour in his drawing room.

Her aunt, seeing how uncomfortable she was, gamely tried to make light of the situation by swatting Rick playfully with her fan, and saying, ‘You are not in France now, Captain Bredon. We cannot have these continental habits creeping into our drawing rooms.’

Rick backed off, muttering apologies, a dull flush on his cheeks.

Imogen wished there was something she could say to smooth things over. It was not Rick’s behaviour she found difficult. It was the situation with the viscount.

She schooled her features into an expression of polite welcome as she made her curtsy to Viscount Mildenhall.

He bowed over her hand, the epitome of a courteous suitor, but there was a look of such cynical amusement in his eyes as he straightened up that Imogen wished she dared swat him with her own fan.

She mastered the impulse, out of consideration for her aunt’s feelings, and the evening proceeded along utterly conventional lines.

‘Do you have a date in mind for the wedding, my lord?’ asked her aunt, as they took their places at the table.

‘Before the week is out,’ replied Viscount Mildenhall tersely. ‘When Captain Bredon will be rejoining his regiment.’

‘Oh, but that will leave no time to purchase bride clothes!’ wailed Lady Callandar.

‘But you have bought me so many pretty clothes already,’ Imogen pointed out.

‘Indeed,’ Viscount Mildenhall put in smoothly. ‘Miss Hebden is a credit to your good taste. She always looks quite…lovely.’

The telling pause as he sought for a suitable epithet to describe her appearance had Imogen grinding her teeth. He did not think she was lovely at all. Though she might be the only one who noticed, he had as good as said that anything praiseworthy about her appearance was due to her aunt’s good taste, not the raw material she had to work with!

However, on one thing they were in agreement. ‘I do want to marry before Rick’s furlough is over,’ she put in, though it almost killed her to appear to side with the viscount. ‘It will mean so much to have him to walk me down the aisle.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, niece!’ blustered Lord Callandar. ‘I shall be giving you away. You are living under my roof and I am supporting you. Captain Bredon is not even a blood relative!’

‘Forgive me, Miss Hebden,’ put in Viscount Mildenhall in a voice that, though quiet, managed to cut straight through her uncle’s hectoring tones, ‘but I have already appropriated Rick for my groomsman.’ He turned then to her aunt. ‘And I am sorry to rob you of your shopping expedition, too, but I have promised my father to return to Shevington as soon as is humanly possible. However—’ and he turned on his most dazzling smile ‘—we will be returning to town after a suitable interlude, and at that time my bride will require a whole new wardrobe to befit her new station in life. I am sure she will wish to involve you in carrying out the requisite purchases.’

Both her aunt and uncle subsided, vastly pleased with the viscount’s suggestions.

Only Imogen still felt disgruntled. Nobody was making any concessions to what she wanted. It felt as though everyone she loved was ranged against her, on the viscount’s side.

But worst of all, it had just hit her that she was going to become a viscountess. The notion was so absurd, she did not know whether to laugh or cry.

Since she was at the dinner table, she naturally did neither, but let the conversation flow round her without any further input.

When the ladies withdrew, her aunt wasted no time in letting her know she had erred, yet again.

‘I know I have told you, time and time again, that it is not proper to display too much emotion in public, but I really think, on this occasion, that it would be permissible to look just a little pleased at your great good fortune. Your demeanour at table could have been interpreted as positively lukewarm.’

Imogen obediently mustered up a wan smile and, when the gentlemen joined them, set herself to being as pleasant as she could force herself to be. Viscount Mildenhall let no trace of the antipathy he felt towards her show at all; he was so charming towards her aunt and uncle, and on such very easy terms with Rick, that before long, she even began to wonder wistfully if, somewhere underneath all the finery and sarcasm she associated with Viscount Mildenhall, the Monty she had once admired so much might still survive.

How differently she would feel towards this match, if he had approached her first as Monty, the hero of her girlhood dreams. If she could believe he was spiriting her away from London because he understood how badly she wanted rescuing!

Instead of being determined to bury her in the countryside, and ‘keep her in line.’

The next morning, Lady Callandar came bustling into the drawing room with her hands full of lists she must have sat up well into the night compiling.

She wore a very smug smile as she offered the first one for Imogen’s inspection.

‘The guest list,’ she explained.

‘It is rather short,’ Imogen observed.

‘Yes,’ replied her aunt with relish. ‘It is going to be a very select gathering. Only family, and those who have shown themselves to be your friends. Oh,’ she breathed, ‘how I am going to enjoy withholding invitations from all those nasty-minded tattle-mongers who have snubbed you!’

Imogen could not help smiling. She could just see her aunt dropping Viscount Mildenhall’s name into future conversations. And dispersing tidbits of information about the massively wealthy but reclusive Earl of Corfe’s country seat of Shevington, where, she would boast, her dear, dear niece now resided!

‘I include Mrs Leeming, and Lady Carteret, you see,’ she pointed out their names on the sheet of paper Imogen now held. Rick’s name had been included, as had that of Nicodemus Bredon, though he was but a humble lawyer’s clerk.

‘Lord Keddinton, it goes without saying, and his dear daughters, who have taken such pains on your behalf.’

‘And Lady Verity Carlow,’ Imogen nodded. ‘Yes, I should like to include her. She has always been truly kind to me.’

‘And she is Lord Keddinton’s goddaughter too. It would not do to offend a man like him by omitting a connection of his.’

‘Did you know her brother, that is Captain Carlow, is in town at the moment? He is a friend of Rick’s.’

Her aunt pursed her lips. ‘That could lead to some awkwardness. If we invite the younger Carlow merely because he is in town, we shall have no option but to invite the oldest one too. You are aware that he has married,’ she swallowed, ‘Helena Wardale. The daughter of your mother’s…that is, your father’s—’

‘I know there may a little awkwardness,’ Imogen hastily put in, to spare her aunt from having to speak of her father’s gruesome murder or the part Helena’s father had played in it, ‘if she accepts the invitation to my wedding, but I truly hope she will come. She has done nothing for which she need be ashamed. It is not her fault that her father—’

‘Well,’ her aunt interrupted with false brightness before words like adultery, murder or execution could be uttered in her drawing room, ‘it is most commendable of you to take such a forgiving attitude. I am sure I would not like to be at odds with any of the Carlows—’ she lowered her voice and muttered ‘—no matter who they are married to.

‘There!’ she declared, adding the names to the list. ‘We shall invite them all.’

Imogen did not think there was anything particularly commendable about her attitude. She just felt a strong sense of kinship with the daughter of the man who had been hanged for killing Kit Hebden. Though neither girl had anything to do with the crime, they had both lived under the shadow of scandal all their lives. True, Helena now had a place in Society again, but it was only as the wife of Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate. Imogen had no idea what terrible fate might have befallen Helena’s older brother and sister who, to all intents and purposes, seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

And far from believing she had any forgiving to do, Imogen often wondered if Helena was the one who might bear a grudge against Amanda Herriard’s daughter. Helena had lost her father, her home and her position, because of that doomed love affair.

The days until Imogen’s wedding flew by in a frenzy of organization. A Society wedding held at St George’s in Hanover Square, followed by a sumptuous reception for the select portion of Society who had merited an invitation, required a good deal of planning.

And though there was not time to shop for a complete trousseau, Lady Callandar insisted she have just one new gown. She managed to get her modiste to conjure up a wedding dress that was a dreamy confection of soft creamy lace over an ivory satin underdress. Some poor seamstress must have sat up until all hours stitching on all the tiny seed pearls that decorated the snugly fitting bodice. The full-length, narrow sleeves ended in points, which came down over the backs of her hands, were also studded with seed pearls in a swirling design.

‘It is so lovely,’ Imogen said, wishing she could give her aunt a hug when she came into her room on the eve of her wedding, to check over all her lists one last time.

‘You really have worked miracles over these last few days, Aunt.’

Lady Callandar signalled the maid who had come in behind her to deposit the tray on a console table by the door, before saying, with some satisfaction, ‘Yes. I have every confidence that even though we threw this whole thing together at the last minute, it will pass off smoothly.’ She dismissed the maid, took the glasses of rich ruby port from the tray, and carried them over to the bed, where Imogen was reclining.

‘I do not know how much your mother may have told you,’ she said, handing Imogen one of the glasses and perching on the edge of the bed, ‘about the Duties of a Wife.’

Most people would think Amanda had told her young daughter far too much about what it was like to be married to a hell-raising rake. Imogen saw her mother as she had been during the last days of her life, her eyes glittering with pain as she catalogued every detail of her own disastrous marriage and begged her not to make the same mistakes.

But she very much feared that was exactly what she had done. From the very first moment she had clapped eyes on him, she had thought Viscount Mildenhall the most compellingly handsome man she had ever seen. Even discovering what an unpleasant nature he had, had done nothing to quench the fizz that a mere glimpse of him could start running through her.

And then he had kissed her.

To such devastating effect, she had agreed to marry him. Oh, she might have told herself she was merely falling in with what everyone expected of her. But she had a niggling suspicion that there were plenty of selfish reasons for marrying him, too. She had been guilty, when he had dined with the family, of sneaking peeks at his handsome profile when she was sure nobody else was watching her. Letting her eyes linger on those full, red lips. Recalling the episode on the terrace. And experiencing a very strong wish to soothe the mark her teeth had put there. And when he had looked up from his plate, and their eyes had met, a thrill had shot right through her, rendering her breathless for several seconds.

She could not even summon up the will power to dislike him any more. Even his arrogant assertion that he was a catch now only seemed like a bald statement of the truth. He could have married anyone he wanted! Yet he had, as a gesture of friendship to Rick, made the truly noble sacrifice of marrying a girl he did not like one bit.

Seeing the downcast expression on her niece’s face, Lady Callandar took a fortifying sip from her own glass.

‘Well, I am sure it will not be so bad for you, my dear, as it evidently was for your mother. I am sure Viscount Mildenhall will be able to set your pulses racing when he kisses you.’

To hear her aunt speaking aloud of kissing Viscount Mildenhall, when that was exactly what she had been thinking about, made Imogen’s face flood with heat.

‘Ah!’ cried her eagle-eyed aunt. ‘So he had kissed you already, has he, the young rogue!’

‘Y-yes, Aunt,’ Imogen confessed. ‘I am so sorry…’

‘Well, never mind,’ she said magnanimously. ‘You are to be married, after all, and I can see that the prospect of becoming more intimate with him is not repugnant to you. Which is a good start. I should think that the first few weeks of your marriage, at least, should prove most enjoyable.’ She sighed, and a faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Ah, what it is to be a young bride, married to an energetic, well-put-together young man like that! Although—’ she gave herself a little shake ‘—you must not make the mistake of thinking, because of the amount of time he spends with you, and the level of intimacy you will share, that he may be doing anything so vulgar as falling in love with you.’

From the way her aunt’s shoulders drooped, Imogen wondered whether the older woman was talking about her own experience of marriage. There were still traces of the handsome man her uncle had once been, beneath the layers of flab that years of self-indulgence had added to his frame. She could just imagine her aunt as a young bride, marrying with high hopes, then having them dashed by her uncle’s selfish, tyrannical attitude towards her.

‘We all know,’ her aunt continued in a rallying tone, ‘that Viscount Mildenhall has chosen you primarily because you are the sister of one of his closest friends. And because you are a healthy, energetic young woman who is likely to give him the heirs his father is so keen to see him produce. For those reasons, he is prepared to overlook your lack of dowry. Or so he told your uncle.’

Ah. No wonder Lord Callandar had looked so pleased. He had managed to get his troublesome niece off his hands without having to dip into his pockets to induce somebody to marry her.

She sighed. She had long since accepted she was nothing like her mother, who had been so beautiful that she inspired men to the heights of passion. Not, she shuddered, that she wanted to cause men to fight over her. Or kill one another for love of her. But it would be nice to think she might stir just a little bit of admiration in her groom’s breast.

Her aunt, misinterpreting that shudder, was instantly full of sympathy. ‘It is the main duty of a wife to provide her husband with sons. It is a compliment to you, my dear, that out of all the women he might have chosen, Viscount Mildenhall picked you.’

He did not pick her, so much as give in to Rick’s pleading to find a home for poor little Midge, she thought, slumping down into her pillows.

‘Oh, Imogen,’ Lady Callandar sighed tearily, ‘I know you are a very affectionate girl, but you must not look for that sort of love within marriage. Especially not from Viscount Mildenhall. From what I have observed of him since he came into the title, he takes after his mother, the Earl of Corfe’s second wife. She was a cold, proud woman.’ Her aunt grimaced. ‘Though that match was arranged by his parents, so it was hardly surprising they barely spoke to one another once she had presented him with a son. No, what you must hope for is that, in time, you will come to an easy understanding which will lead to a lifelong friendship.’

Perhaps that might be possible. Once he had a chance to get to know her, he would see she was nothing like he had so far imagined! And once he stopped being so suspicious of her…

Lady Callandar reached out and stroked a stray curl from her forehead. ‘Knowing you, the first time he strays you will experience agonizing jealousy. But on no account, my dear, must you create the kind of scene that will make your husband uncomfortable. No matter how many little affairs he may have, what you must remember is that you will always be his wife. His viscountess. It is equally important,’ she ploughed on, in spite of Imogen’s shocked gasp, ‘that you do not indulge your craving for affection until you have presented your husband with an heir. Even your mother, silly creature that she was, managed to wait until she had given birth to a healthy boy.’

‘It was not like that! She did not mean to have an affair with Lord Leybourne. It just happened!’

Lady Callandar pursed her lips. ‘These things never just happen, Imogen.’

Imogen flung herself back against the pillows, a scowl on her face. Her aunt did not understand what it had been like for her mother; that was the trouble.

‘It was madness, Imo,’ Amanda had sighed, though her eyes had been alight with an emotion Imogen had not been able to decipher. ‘We knew what we were doing was wrong, but, oh, we could not deny ourselves just a few snatched hours of happiness out of the wasteland Kit had made of my life.’ She had sighed and plucked at the coverlet with her emaciated, yellowed hand. ‘Not that your father cared one whit,’ she had pouted. ‘He thought it was a huge joke. He mocked William for being able to stomach touching me when I was pregnant. He taunted me with accounts of his current mistress. About her taut stomach and firm breasts. But William defended me.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I remember Kit sitting at my dressing table, mopping at a cut over his eye with one of my handkerchiefs and laughing about the impressive physical prowess of the lover I had taken, and—’ she had shuddered disgustedly ‘—saying he was quite looking forward to discovering whether William had managed to teach me any new tricks. He said that if I had learned to be a little more enterprising, then he might not find it such a chore to resume his marital duties once I had delivered his child. That I might look forward to receiving more of his attention—’ The feverish confession had ended in a fit of coughing, as it so often did.

Imogen tried to shut out the image of her mother’s wasted frame, but she could not silence her words. Not when they chimed so exactly with what her aunt was warning her marrying into the nobility would entail.

‘I do concede,’ her aunt admitted, ‘that there were extenuating circumstances. I remember that the Earl of Leybourne was your mother’s most ardent admirer, until Baron Framlingham came onto the scene. The woman he married was nowhere near so beautiful as your mother, and I suppose, when they were all thrown together by that Home Office business—’

‘Yes!’ Imogen sat up and grasped her aunt’s hand. ‘He told her that although he had tried to be a good husband, the feelings he had for his first love had never completely died. And she said the moment she saw him again, she was filled with regret for the choices she had made, and wished she could somehow wipe away all the years of misery she had suffered with Kit. They went outside into the garden, and she wept all over him, and he tried to comfort her, and…’

‘I suppose she told you one thing led to another,’ said her aunt dryly. ‘But I have to inform you that nobody just falls into an affair. They choose it. For whatever reason. Boredom or revenge, or as in your mother’s case,’ she added wistfully, ‘perhaps for comfort.’ She visibly took herself in hand, before saying bracingly, ‘Imogen I do hope you will take your mother’s fate as a warning. You must not yearn for the unobtainable in your marriage. Strive instead to be content with what you have.’

On these words, her aunt left the room, leaving Imogen sickened at the prospect of enduring the kind of marriage her aunt had just outlined. Where she was expected to turn a blind eye to her husband’s infidelity, as her aunt clearly had to whenever her uncle strayed, and count herself lucky anybody had deigned to marry her in the first place!

She was the very last person in the world who ought to become a viscountess!

Although, realistically, she supposed it was too much to hope that a man as attractive as Viscount Mildenhall would stay faithful to any one woman for very long. Especially one as plain as her. She sank back into her pillows and glared up at the canopy.

And her aunt, who she had always thought of as being the arbiter of etiquette, seemed to think there would be nothing wrong with her having adulterous affairs as some sort of…compensation! So long as she had got the main duty of being a wife over with first.

She sat up, blew out her candle with a vengeance and thumped her pillow before flinging herself back into it.

She supposed at least she was going into her loveless marriage with her eyes open. Whereas her poor mother had believed Kit loved her.

Her aunt seemed to think Viscount Mildenhall would restrict himself to her, until he had got her pregnant, too, whereas her father…

She rolled onto her side, drawing her legs up to her chest. Kit had never had any intention of so much as nodding towards the conventions of marriage. As soon as he had got his hands on the inheritance he had married Amanda to secure, he had gone out and celebrated in the wildest fashion imaginable. He had flaunted a succession of mistresses in public. And then, when Amanda did not immediately fall pregnant, set out to prove that the fault was not his. He had eventually brought home a baby boy that he had fathered on a Gypsy woman, informing Amanda that since she could not give him a son, she would have to see a bastard filling the empty crib in the nursery.

Kit had intended to humiliate her by forcing her to care for his illegitimate son. But he had overlooked the fact that Amanda adored babies. And that by this time, she had given up all hope of ever having any children of her own. He had told her so often she must be barren, that she had come to believe it.

‘Imo,’ she had sighed, her eyes filling up with tears, ‘he was such a beautiful baby. With a shock of dark hair and your father’s smile. I might not have been his real mother, but I felt just as though he was my firstborn. He was not responsible for his parents’ actions. Poor, helpless little mite! It was cruel of Kit to bring him into our home and try to use him as a weapon. I never forgave him for that!’

Kit had been disappointed to see Amanda finding consolation in caring for the boy as if he was her own, and quickly tired of having a squalling brat in the house. So he began to torment her by threatening to send the boy back to his real mother. What had sealed little Stephen’s fate, though, had been Grandpapa Herriard storming into the house and demanding that Kit house his by-blow elsewhere. Amanda had, she told Imogen, gone up to the nursery and held the little boy in her arms, fearing it might be the very last time she held any child she could call her own. But her father’s attempt to browbeat him into ‘doing the right thing’ made Kit dig in his heels. For if there was one thing Kit Hebden relished, it was behaving badly. Having a Gypsy brat openly living in his house, forcing his wife into what everyone interpreted as a humiliating position, suited his warped sense of humour down to the ground. And so Stephen had stayed.

And Society had been duly shocked.

Imogen frowned. Viscount Mildenhall had told her he was no stranger to scandal, on account of his stepmother’s actions, but he had not said he would ever actively court it. On the contrary, he had not even wanted anyone to know what had happened out on Lady Carteret’s terrace. He also said he was willing to take her in hand, to spare Rick’s blushes for her future conduct. If he had an affair—no, when he had an affair, she corrected herself—he was the kind of man who would conduct it with discretion. And if there were any by-blows, he would certainly not bring them home and force her to raise them!

Viscount Mildenhall might be a handsome charmer, but he was not cast in the same mould as her father. In his own fashion, he would probably attempt to be a good sort of husband.

Anyway—she huffed, turning over—if he wasn’t, he would have Rick to answer to!

Imogen woke the next morning, feeling a sense of hope rising unbidden within her. It was the culmination of every girl’s ambition to marry well. And in Society’s eyes, she had succeeded.

Viscount Mildenhall was handsome and wealthy, and his kiss had been so potent she still felt a little thrill every time she thought of it. She had no reason to feel cheated. Persons of her class very rarely found love within marriage. Her aunt may have had hopes at one point, but now she seemed heartily thankful that Lord Callandar scarcely set foot in his own house. She had her own social circle and her own interests which kept her cheerfully occupied.

And very few endured such misery as Kit Hebden had put her mother through, either.

No, it was far better not to marry for that sort of love. For, after the fires of passion had burned out, her mother had warned her, all that was left were the ashes of cold despair.

She flung the covers aside and swung her legs out of the bed. There was no way of knowing what marriage with Viscount Mildenhall would bring her, but today she was going to cling to the hope that perhaps, given time, they might achieve that state of easy companionship she had observed her mother enjoying with Hugh Bredon.

And at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she was repaying all the kindness her aunt had shown her, by entering into a marriage of which she thoroughly approved.

Imogen smiled wryly to her reflection in the mirror as her maid fixed her bonnet in place. It had felt like a crime to hide her gorgeous gown under her coat, but the day was too chilly to drive to the church without one.

As she climbed into the carriage, it struck Imogen that there was another aspect to her wedding day that pleased her. Gathered in St George’s chapel that morning would be representatives of all the families that had been torn apart by the murder of her father. Lords Framlingham, Leybourne and Narborough had once been friends, working together to solve a crime that was taking place in some high office.

Until the night Lord Narborough had found Lord Framlingham bleeding to death in his garden, with Lord Leybourne bending over him, a bloodied dagger in his hand.

Narborough had refused to believe his friend’s protestations of innocence, and had given evidence against him that resulted in him being hanged for treason, as well as murder.

Shattering the bonds of friendship.

Yet today, their children would stand together in St George’s chapel, each, she fervently hoped, demonstrating by their attendance that they were putting past enmities aside. The fact that a Wardale had already married a Carlow had been a good start.

Now she fervently hoped that a Wardale could look a Hebden in the eye in a spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation.

When the carriage drew up outside the chapel, Imogen, determined to look her best for the viscount, waited for the footman to let down the steps and hold out his arm to steady her, rather than jumping down carelessly, scarcely looking where she put her feet, as she usually did. She had no intention of beginning her marriage to a man who set such store by appearances by walking up the aisle with muddy shoes or a dripping flounce from landing in a puddle.

She waited patiently while her maid smoothed down her skirts, adjusted the set of her bonnet and brushed a piece of fluff from the shoulder of her coat, while her uncle distanced himself from the feminine flutter by strolling up and down.

Pansy was just leaning back into the carriage for Imogen’s bouquet, when a man who had been lounging against one of the pillars called out, ‘Imo?’

Imogen looked up with a slight frown on her brow to see who was calling to her. Nobody called her Imo these days. She was either Miss Hebden, or Imogen or Midge. So the voice felt like a dark hand, reaching out to her from her very distant past. A past that she had hoped was going to be laid to rest today. And so her voice, when she replied, ‘Yes?’ quivered with trepidation.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the light, and Imogen gasped.

It was the first time she had seen a Gypsy up this close. But there was no mistaking his origins, with the flamboyance of his clothing, his long, black hair and the swarthy complexion set off by the gold hoop in one ear.

He came a step closer.

‘For you,’ he said, holding out a small packet tied up with string. The silver bangle he wore round his wrist glinted like a knife blade in the sunlight. ‘A reminder.’

Though the gift and his words made him appear to be a well-wisher, something about his stance and the tone of his voice were vaguely menacing.

But even though her instinct was to draw back, she thought it would be unwise to offend a Gypsy, especially on her wedding day. The woman who had borne Stephen had tracked Amanda down after Kit died, and cursed her for robbing her of her son, swearing she would never see a son of her own reach adulthood. Amanda had only just had a miscarriage and then she promptly lost little Thomas to a fever. After that, Amanda had been convinced that if she had any more sons, they would die, too. The Gypsy woman’s curse had haunted her for the rest of her life.

So Imogen steeled herself to reach out her hand and accept the man’s gift.

But just before she could do so, her uncle, who had finally noticed what was going on, let out a bellow of rage.

‘Get away from my niece, you filthy cur!’ His walking cane made a swishing noise as he lashed out at the Gypsy’s extended arm.

But the Gypsy’s reactions were swift. The cane clattered down upon the flags without striking his arm.

Her uncle then rounded on her, growling, ‘Who have you been tattling to, you stupid girl? The one thing, above all else, you should have kept quiet about…and now somebody is using it to make trouble.’

Imogen gazed at her uncle in stupefaction. Then turned her bewildered gaze on the stranger, who was regarding her uncle with a smile of what looked like grim satisfaction. Her heart began to pound in her chest. It was the most incredible coincidence that a Gypsy should turn up at her wedding, with a gift and an admonition to remember, after she had spent so much time the night before, lying in bed, thinking about her illegitimate Gypsy half brother.

She saw what her uncle meant. The man who stood before them, a mocking smile on his face, was a visible reminder of her family’s deepest, darkest shame.

‘Go on!’ Her uncle blustered, waving his stick ineffectually at the Gypsy, who dodged each blow with ease. ‘Be off with you!’

‘Nothing to say, Imo?’ The man rounded on her, his eyes burning with blatant hostility. ‘Don’t you want me to leave?’

Imogen’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was so shocked, she did not know what to say. It seemed incredibly cruel of someone to have sent a Gypsy to her wedding, to remind everyone that she had once had a half brother with Romany blood in his veins.

Her uncle seized her by the arm and began to drag her across the portico, towards the door of the chapel.

‘Come away,’ he huffed. His face was red and shiny from unaccustomed exertion and thwarted rage. ‘The impudent fellow won’t dare to follow us in there!’

‘You may have forgotten me, Imo,’ the Gypsy snarled as her uncle dragged her away. ‘But I, Stephen, have never forgotten you!’

From somewhere she managed to find the strength to tear herself from her uncle’s grasp, and turn back. Surely, hardly anybody alive today could know the name of her Gypsy half brother.

‘How could you know his name was Stephen?’ she grated. ‘Are you from his tribe? Is that how you know about me?’

The man who claimed to be Stephen smiled in a way that was totally without mirth. And she felt a jolt of recognition. She had seen that very smile in the mirror, not an hour since! It was the way she always smiled, when she recognized some absurdity. A shock of dark hair…she seemed to hear her mother saying ‘…and his father’s smile…’

Everyone said how very like her father she was, too! She took another step towards him, her eyes searching his features, her breathing ragged. His lips were the same shape as hers. He had the same slant to his eyebrows, the same prominent cheekbones.

‘Stephen?’ she whispered, stretching her hands out towards him. ‘Can it really be you?’

‘Don’t be so foolish, niece!’ her uncle snapped. ‘This is just some miscreant, out to make trouble for you. Come away, girl, before it is too late.’

But she could not tear her eyes from the Gypsy’s face.

‘Are you really my brother?’ she demanded.

The Gypsy held her gaze boldly, proudly, unashamedly.

And then he nodded.

‘Uncle,’ she declared, whirling round to face him, ‘I have not raised one single protest about any arrangement you and my aunt have made regarding this day. In fact, I have had no say in any of it! But I will stand firm in this matter. If he really is my brother, then I want him at my wedding!’

Snatches of Imogen’s protests echoed all the way to the front of the church, where Viscount Mildenhall was standing waiting for her.

‘…not raised one single protest…arrangement you and my aunt…will stand firm…’

The guests were turning in their seats, peering over the tops of the box pews, curious to see what all the commotion was about.

Something like a cold fist clutched hard inside the viscount’s chest. Miss Hebden had told him she did not want to marry him, but he had not believed her. He had trampled on all her objections, then approached her uncle, having uttered dire warnings of what the consequences would be if she refused him.

Yet Rick had told him his sister was straight as a die. That she would always be honest.

Right from the first, she had said she was not interested in him. That very first night, when she had thrown her drink over him…

There had been a group of girls standing behind her, laughing behind their fans as she had tried to apologize for what she claimed was an accident.

He had not believed her then. He had bracketed her with all the other females who had attempted such encounters to gain his attention. Especially once he had learned she was Miss Hebden, daughter of a notorious rake and a shameless adulteress.

He cast his mind back to the stories Rick had told of her growing up and how difficult she was finding it to behave with the decorum expected of young ladies in Society. And replayed the scene in his mind with her as Midge, Rick’s tomboyish little sister, chatting away to her companions, waving her hands about exuberantly…with her back to the door.

She had not, he realized with cold certainty, known he was there at all.

Though her so-called friends had.

They had set her up!

His head snapped round to where the Misses Veryan were sitting, craning their necks to see what was going on in the porch. Their faces were alight with the same malice they had exhibited that night.

And as for the terrace outside Lady Carteret’s ballroom…He almost groaned aloud. She had strenuously insisted she had only gone out onto that terrace for some fresh air. Now he fully understood why she had bitten him and punched him in the face. His behaviour had been unforgivable!

But she had looked so alluring in that silver gown, that wistful expression on her face…he almost doubled over as hurt pierced him through. She had claimed she had been thinking of some other man. If that was the truth, as he now accepted all her other protestations were the truth, then Midge’s affections were engaged elsewhere! She had never intentionally pursued him, let alone wanted to marry him. That notion had sprung entirely from his own vanity.

The girl who had written all those loving letters to Rick had such a giving nature, she was bound to yield to her family’s wishes. Yes, he could see it all now. She had tried valiantly to give up all hope of this other man, but he had seen the night he had dined in their home what it was costing her. Her sense of family duty had got her as far as the church door. But the thought of actually tying the knot with a man she had not hesitated to call a vile worm was just too much.

‘Rick,’ he grated, feeling as though something inside him was dying. ‘Go and find out what she wants. And make sure she gets it.’

With a puzzled frown, Rick got to his feet and strode out of the chapel.

Funny, but when he had decided to marry Miss Hebden, he had thought she was the victor and he was her prize. Yet now it felt as though if Midge would not have him he would be losing something that would have enriched his life immeasurably.

At the chapel door, far from the quarrel quieting down, the voices grew even more agitated. Rick’s reasoning tone mingled with Midge’s cries of protest and her uncle’s bombastic hectoring.

Finally, he could take it no longer.

Midge could not possibly hate him more than he hated himself for the way he had misjudged and maltreated her. If the only way he could make amends was to set her free, then he must do so.

As he stalked down the length of the aisle, the eyes of all the assembled guests followed his progress avidly. He reflected how he had once foolishly thought that marrying her would be the price he would have to pay for his ungentlemanly conduct on Lady Carteret’s terrace. Now he knew better. The price he must pay for alienating Midge would be letting her go.