Czytaj książkę: «Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart»
Regency
High-Society
Affairs
A Reputable Rake Diane Gaston
The Heart’s Wager Gayle Wilson
The Venetian’s Mistress Ann Elizabeth Cree
The Gambler’s Heart Gayle Wilson
A Reputable Rake
Diane Gaston
About the Author
As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary house-cats. You can find out about Diane’s books and more at her website: www.dianegaston.com
Chapter One
April 1817
‘Unhand her this instant!’
The woman’s shrill voice carried easily in the evening air, reaching Cyprian Sloane’s ears as he strolled down one of the paths through Hyde Park. He stopped in his tracks and groaned. Why had he not caught a hack on Bond Street instead of yielding to the temptation of a fine spring evening’s walk?
‘Release her.’ Cultured and emphatic, the voice reminded Sloane of a scolding governess. Whoever she was, she was a fool for being in the park at this late hour.
‘Go to the devil!’ a man responded fiercely.
Sloane blew out a breath and pressed his fingers to his temple. No choice but to investigate. Gripping his silver-tipped walking stick, he automatically adopted the cat-like stealth of his former clandestine life.
He edged over to the bushes that hid the speakers from view, using the leaves and branches to obscure his own presence, on the slim chance he could walk on and not become involved. He peered through a gap in the leaves.
A man in an ill-fitting brown coat held the arm of a young, pretty blonde-haired woman who wore the bright red dress of a doxy. Her other arm was clutched by another young woman, the owner of the governess’s voice. She was taller than the doxy, pleasantly slender, and respectably attired in a plain lavender dress. That her bonnet hung by its ribbons on her back and her brown hair had come partly loose of its pins attested to the intensity of her struggle with this ruffian. The man and the ‘governess’ played tug-of-war with the woman in the red dress, while another female—this one could be nothing but a maid, still in her apron and cap—bawled a few feet away.
‘Miss Hart, do not let him take her!’ the maid wailed.
It was like a scene in a bad play, and, God knew, Sloane had seen plenty of bad plays at Drury Lane Theatre this Season. At least this time he could do something to halt the melodrama.
He stepped into view. ‘What goes on here?’
The characters all looked at him in surprise.
The man spoke first. ‘This need not be your concern, sir. You may proceed on your way.’
Sloane’s brows rose. He disliked being told what to do by anyone, but more so by an obvious scoundrel.
The ‘governess’, who was apparently the Miss Hart to whom the maid referred, took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction and pulled hard, causing him to lose his grip on the doxy’s arm. She quickly tugged the red-dressed girl behind her, making a shield with her body. ‘Do not heed him,’ Miss Hart pleaded. ‘Help us. He would take this girl away!’
‘She’s my sister!’ wailed the maid.
‘Bugger you.’ The man lunged at Miss Hart and tried to push her out of the way. She stumbled, falling to her knees, while the red-dressed doxy ran to hide behind her sister.
‘Enough!’ shouted Sloane, moving quickly. He crossed the short distance and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, lifted him in the air and tossed him into the bushes.
Sloane extended his hand to help the woman rise. ‘Are you injured?’
She shook her head as he pulled her to her feet, but her eyes flashed with alarm. ‘Take heed!’
Sloane spun around, swinging his stick as he did so. The man rushed at him, but Sloane’s stick struck him across the abdomen, and he staggered backwards. Putting a hand in his coat, the ruffian pulled out a knife.
The maid screamed.
Crouching, the man waved the knife, its long blade catching the last rays of the sun. ‘You leave her to me, now,’ he growled. ‘I’ll take her and be on my way.’
‘No!’ cried Miss Hart.
Out of the corner of his eye Sloane saw her start forward and held her back with one hand. Not taking his eyes off the knife, he turned his head slightly towards the girl in the red dress. ‘Do you wish to go with him, miss?’
‘I… I…’ she stammered.
‘Oh, say you do not, Lucy,’ her sister cried.
Her words rushed out. ‘I do not wish to go with him.’
The man glared at Sloane, but he too addressed the girl. ‘You will come with me, missy. We had a bargain.’
Sloane let a cynical smile turn up one corner of his mouth. ‘It appears the young lady has changed her mind.’ He twirled his stick, then held it in two hands in front of him.
The man came closer, slashing the air with his knife, circling Sloane, who merely moved to evade him. The man scowled and spat out expletives. His performance was indeed worthy of Drury Lane. Sloane laughed at him.
Miss Hart still hovered too close. Sloane longed to shout at her to stay out of the way, but he did not want to alert the man to her close proximity. The last thing Sloane wanted was for the man to slash his knife at her.
But the ruffian’s attention was riveted on Sloane. The man inched in closer. Sloane twisted the handle of his walking stick, ready for him.
The man swiped his blade again. Coming up behind him, Miss Hart jumped on the man’s back. He flailed at her, trying to shake her off, the blade of his knife coming perilously close to her skin.
Foolish girl! Sloane quickly released the sword hidden inside his walking stick, its deceptively innocent wooden sheath falling to the ground. ‘Leave him to me, woman! Stay out of the way!’
She let go, falling backwards on to the ground and rolling out of range. The man charged Sloane in earnest, but Sloane checked the knife’s blade with the steel of his sword. His opponent was undaunted and his blade flashed to and fro as Sloane’s sword rang loud when it connected with the blade.
The maid screamed, but there was little to fear. This man might grunt and slash, but Sloane had been in fights much worse than this one. This one had even odds, at least.
Miss Hart jumped to her feet again and still she did not move out of range. Her presence merely distracted Sloane and this was not a time for distractions. Sloane parried the man’s blows. Becoming bored, he bided his time until the opportunity came to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand.
Their blades connected once again and the clash of steel rang out like an alarm, loud enough for someone to hear the commotion and to summon the watch. What ill luck that would be. Sloane had no desire to be detained, and even less desire to be discovered brawling in the park. No one would believe the disreputable son of the Earl of Dorton had happened upon this scene by chance. Rumours would fly, and before the rise of the next sun, the ton would have him cast back into the gaming hells and other sordid corners of London’s underworld from where he’d emerged.
He’d be damned if he’d let this ruffian spoil the progress he’d made. After all, he was becoming well nigh respectable. Astounding what a fortune could do.
The ruffian, dripping with sweat, did not seem to perceive the folly of continuing to attack Sloane in every way he could. Sloane had seen all the tricks before. If the man kept this up, it crossed Sloane’s mind that he would be late to dine with Lord and Lady Cowdlin and their very marriageable daughter, Lady Hannah, or that he might dishevel his perfectly tailored coat and snow-white neckcloth.
Sloane abandoned restraint. Snarling at the fellow, he kicked him in the stomach. Deuce. He’d been aiming lower.
‘Go to the devil!’ yelled the man, coming at him again.
Miss Hart charged up behind the man, the wooden sheath of her rescuer’s sword in her hands. The deuced idiot! She’d get herself hurt yet. She swept the stick hard at the ruffian’s feet, so hard it flew out of her hands.
The man tripped and fell forward. With a loud crack, his head struck a rock in the ground. He bounced once, then lay still, legs and arms splayed.
Well done, thought Sloane.
‘Oh, dear! Have I killed him?’ Staring at the prone figure, she picked up the wooden walking stick.
The girl in the red dress gaped open-mouthed and the maid, still hanging on the other girl’s arm, turned her head away.
Sloane strolled over. Pointing his sword at the man’s neck, he nudged the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. The man did not move. Sloane squatted down and felt the neck for a pulse. ‘He’s alive.’ He stood again. ‘But I’ll wager he’ll have the very devil of a headache when he wakes up.’
‘Good.’ She handed Sloane his walking stick and he sheathed the sword.
He raised his eyes from the unconscious figure to look directly into her face. A smudge of dirt on her cheek marred a fair complexion, flushed becomingly pink. Her dark brown hair draped her shoulders like a silken veil. She returned his stare. Her eyes were not blue, but, in the waning light of the evening, he could not tell for certain what colour they might be.
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Miss Hart?’
There was a maturity about her that did not fit her youthful clear eyes and smooth, unlined face. He could not even ascertain her station in life by her attire and certainly not by her manner. She was not much like any other woman he’d ever met.
‘Are you injured, ma’am?’ he asked.
She shook her head and the veil of hair moved like waves on the sea. ‘Nothing to signify.’ She extended her hand. ‘Thank you, sir, for coming to our assistance.’
He accepted the surprisingly firm handshake, giving her an ironic smile. ‘I fear it is I who must thank you. You vanquished the fellow.’ His gaze reluctantly left her to glance at the other two women. ‘May I know what goes on here?’
‘You have rescued this young woman from ruin.’ Miss Hart swept her arm towards where the other two were still clustered.
Back to the melodrama, Sloane thought.
She referred to the young woman in the red dress. ‘He would surely have snatched her away.’
‘He did not snatch me, miss,’ the girl protested. ‘I made a bargain with him.’
Miss Hart turned to her, her voice incredulous. ‘You could not have wished to go with such a horrible man.’
The girl rubbed her arms. ‘But I did.’
‘No, it is nonsensical,’ piped up the maid. ‘You have respectable work, Lucy.’
The girl simply lowered her head.
‘Did he give you that horrid dress, Lucy?’ the maid went on. ‘You look like a harlot!’
This, Sloane thought, was probably just what she was… or intended to be.
Lucy merely responded with a mutinous look.
With a glance at Sloane, Miss Hart broke in, ‘We will discuss this later.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘And we will find some other resolution than… than going with that creature. Promise you will have patience.’
The girl glowered at her, but finally nodded.
Sloane cleared his throat. ‘I am delighted that is settled. Now, may I suggest we leave the park before the creature in question rouses? I suspect he will be none too happy when he does.’ Sloane picked up the man’s knife and tossed it into the thick undergrowth. ‘I will escort you ladies safely to your destination, then I must be on my way.’
Miss Hart gave a dignified toss of her head. ‘We must not trouble you further, sir. We have not far to go.’
Sloane frowned. ‘I will escort you all the same. I have no wish to repeat this performance with some other fellow lurking in the bushes. The park is no place for women alone, you know.’
‘Very well.’ As efficient as a governess and clearly the leader of the incongruous group, she gathered the other two like wayward chicks.
Sloane followed the trio back to the path. They made their way quickly out of the park, returning to the quiet Mayfair neighbourhood where he’d been strolling a short time ago.
She turned back to him. ‘There is no need for you to see us further.’
She did not wish him to know her direction. Perhaps he did not look as respectable as he thought. No matter. Something told him he was better off having as little as possible to do with this motley group.
All the same, a faint measure of disappointment teased at him. This ladylike virago, who scrapped as readily as the toughest rookery orphan, intrigued him.
‘I do thank you again for your chivalry.’ She extended her hand once more, and as he grasped it he looked into her eyes, the colour escaping him still.
He hesitated before releasing her hand. ‘Goodnight, Miss Hart.’
‘Goodnight,’ she said softly then turned back to the other two and herded them quickly away.
Morgana Hart hurried her two charges past the sedate town houses on Culross Street, so close to the most fashionable residences of Grosvenor Square.
‘We will discuss what to do in the morning, Lucy,’ she said as they walked at a quick clip. ‘When we reach home you must take a rest.’ In Lucy’s present mood, it made no sense to try to reason with her.
‘You did not have to come after me.’ The girl’s voice was petulant, but she avoided looking at Morgana.
Morgana’s maid stepped in front of her and brought them all to a halt. She leaned right into her sister’s face. ‘What would have happened to you if Miss Hart had not come after you? You ought to be grateful to her. I cannot understand you.’
Lucy folded her arms across the low bodice of her gaudy dress.
Morgana gave them each a push. ‘Let us be on our way.’
She ushered them into the house through the servants’ door. Tears stained Lucy’s cheeks and Morgana wrapped her arm around the girl and brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Why don’t you take some time to get cleaned up? Then, if you like, you can come to my room while your sister helps me dress.’
As Lucy ran up the back stairs, the door from the hall opened. Cripps, the butler, with nose lifted, gazed first at Lucy’s retreating figure, then at Morgana.
Morgana stared back, but spoke to her maid. ‘Amy, please go to my room and set out a dressing gown for me. I shall be there directly.’
Amy gaped at Cripps with frightened eyes. ‘Yes, miss.’ She bobbed a quick curtsy and fled up the stairs after her sister.
Morgana felt a sinking chagrin. When she had hired Cripps and his almost-as-taciturn wife as butler and housekeeper a month ago, she had hoped to thaw some of that chilly reserve of his, but all her friendly smiles and solicitous questions as to the Cripps’ health or their contentment with her employment had been to no avail. The butler kept himself so contained, she’d been unable to take the measure of the man.
He would likely resent her interference in his responsibilities, but she could not risk him playing the strict upper servant and admonishing Lucy. The girl might run again. ‘I have handled this situation, Cripps, entirely to my satisfaction,’ she said in an even voice. ‘You need not be involved.’
‘Very good, miss.’ He bowed.
She tried a smile, hoping it would ease his sombre expression. ‘I suppose I have delayed dinner, haven’t I? Were Grandmama and Miss Moore served?’ Morgana had ordered a light supper to be sent up to the dowager Lady Hart and her companion in Lady Hart’s room.
‘Yes, miss,’ Cripps responded, his tone bland but, Morgana suspected, disapproving. ‘I ordered Cook to keep your dinner warm.’
She made herself keep smiling. ‘That was good of you, Cripps. You may have it sent up to my bedchamber.’
He bowed again and retreated towards the kitchen. Morgana sighed. Perhaps if she’d known more of the man behind Cripps’s austere exterior, she might have sought him out to chase after Lucy instead of going herself.
But then she would not have encountered the magnificent man who came to their aid. She could just see him, dark brows and eyes peering from under the brim of his hat, so at ease with the violence, moving as gracefully as a dancer and as lethally as a charging lion.
Placing a bracing hand against her chest, she stepped into the hall and climbed the staircase to her bedchamber on the upper floor. Amy was there, smoothing out her dressing gown.
Morgana walked to the wash stand and caught sight of herself in the mirror above it. ‘Oh, I look a fright!’ Her hair was completely out of its pins, falling on her shoulders straight as a stick and her face was smudged with dirt. She stifled the urge to laugh. What must Cripps have thought of her?
Or, more significantly, what had the gentleman in the park thought?
She poured water into the basin and took a cloth to scrub her face, then Amy helped her out of her dress.
Why could the excitement of this evening not have occurred during one of the many excruciatingly dull days she’d endured this last month while awaiting her new wardrobe? Tonight was her first chance to experience London’s many entertainments. She was to attend the opera in the company of her aunt, uncle and cousin, having been included in the invitation of the gentleman her cousin planned to snare as a husband. Certainly opera would seem tame after witnessing a man wield a swordstick as if it were an extension of his arm.
Amy worked at the strings of her corset. ‘I do not know what got into Lucy’s head, miss. I am sorry for troubling you with our problems, but what would we have done without you?’
Morgana looked over her shoulder at the girl. ‘The thanks belong to the gentleman who helped us.’ She smiled to herself. ‘If he was a gentleman.’
In the mirror she saw a dreamy look came over the maid’s face. ‘He looked like a pirate to me, miss. A handsome one.’
‘A very handsome one!’ Morgana laughed. ‘What a treat to be rescued by such a man.’
She made light of the incident for Amy’s benefit, but in truth it had deeply affected her. She was appalled by the man trying to take Lucy away and stunned by Lucy’s willingness to follow him. She was also stirred into a cauldron of excitement by the gentleman who had rushed in to help them. He was tall and dark-haired, like any good pirate should be, but in an impeccably tailored coat and fine linen. Like the stick he carried, he looked sleek and expensive on the outside, but, on the inside, hid a violence ready to be unleashed. She could barely catch her breath just thinking about him.
But she was not the sort to waste time mooning over a man, especially one she might never see again. Although perhaps he would attend the opera this night? Her cousin said everyone would be there—
Morgana caught herself again. It was foolishness to get worked up about something that might not happen. Her father had always told her so.
She changed the subject. ‘Do you know anything of why Lucy would try to go off with that man? Did she confide in you?’
Amy shook her head. ‘She’s been a moody one for a long time, but she shares no confidences with me.’
Amy and Lucy Jenkins had come recommended to Morgana by her aunt’s housekeeper, a relative of some sort. Amy proved to be a treasure, aged twenty, a very young but talented lady’s maid. Lucy, on the other hand, two years younger, was another story. More than once Morgana had found her in a room, dust rag in hand, staring into space, looking… tormented.
She gave Amy a look of motherly reassurance she did not entirely feel. ‘We shall discover what troubles Lucy. And then we shall solve it.’
Amy returned a grateful smile, full of a complete confidence Morgana did not share. Although Morgana was a scant three years older than her maid, she’d seen a great deal of the world at her father’s side in his diplomatic posts on the Peninsula and lately in Paris. Affairs of a carnal nature between men and women, however, were still somewhat of a mystery. Could such desires lure Lucy to follow that disreputable man? Morgana had no doubt he would turn her into the sort of girl men purchase for an evening. The vivid memory of one such woman Morgana had spied in Portugal still haunted her, the hopelessness that had shown in her eyes.
Desperation and hunger might drive a woman to such ends, but Lucy had plenty of food and Morgana was a kind employer. Why would she choose to run off?
Morgana washed herself with rose-scented soap she’d brought from France, noting with some alarm bruises on her arms and legs. Luckily her clothes would cover them.
Amy helped her into a dressing gown and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She looked nothing like the person who had engaged in fisticuffs, but more like the baron’s daughter she was.
There was a knock on the door. Amy answered it, taking a tray from the footman and carrying it over to a table.
Morgana pulled at a chair. ‘See to your own dinner, Amy. And try to induce Lucy to eat something, too.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Amy curtsied. ‘I’ll be up directly to help you dress for the theatre.’
After taking just a few bites of her meal, Morgana pushed the tray aside. She was restless after the incident in the park, and thoughts of their rescuer all too easily filled her mind. She fancied she remembered each move he made, each expression on his face. It had been a strong face, long and lean, with piercing eyes, a Roman nose and what she could only think of as sensual lips.
She rose from her chair a bit too quickly, knocking against the table, clattering her dishes. She caught the wine glass just in time before it spilled. Releasing a relieved breath, she slipped out of her room and walked more carefully down the hall to visit her grandmother’s sitting room.
‘Hello, Grandmama,’ she said as she entered the room. Her grandmother Hart, a tiny woman who seemed not much more than paper-thin skin hung loosely over frail bones, sat smiling in her winged-back chair.
Her grandmother’s eyes lit up upon seeing her. ‘Why, hello, dear.’
Morgana was not fooled. The dowager Lady Hart greeted everyone who entered the room in the same manner, even the footman who came in to tend the fire. Morgana leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek.
Her grandmother’s companion, the faithful Miss Moore, well into her sixties, handed a cup of tea to Lady Hart. Lady Hart stared at it a moment before smiling up at Morgana again. ‘Would you like a cup, my dear?’
‘That would be very nice.’ Morgana sat in a nearby chair. The cup of tea trembled in Lady Hart’s hand, still poised in the air. Morgana held her breath, not daring to speak until her grandmother remembered to take a very slow, shaky sip and to put the cup on the table next to her.
‘Did you have a nice day, Grandmama?’ Morgana nodded her thanks to Miss Moore, who had handed her a cup of tea.
‘Oh, I had a lovely day, my dear.’
Morgana smiled. Her grandmother always had lovely days.
Morgana would not dream of telling her grandmother about the incident with Lucy, nor about the gentleman who came to their rescue. Not that it mattered. Her grandmother would not remember a word of the conversation the moment Morgana left the room. She did chat about attending the theatre that evening. Her grandmother smiled and said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘How lovely’ in all the right places.
It was good that Morgana’s father and his new wife had gone straight to his new post in Naples rather than travel with Morgana to England. Her father knew nothing of his mother’s failing memory, or of her increasing frailty. Morgana would withhold that information from him until he’d had more time to enjoy his newly wedded bliss, absent of family concerns.
In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad.
Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber.
Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’
Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’
She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head.
‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation.
Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head.
Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’
As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm.
Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’
With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt.
Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel.
This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’
Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes.
Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’
The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’
Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe.
With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went.
Cripps stood in the hall.
‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’
‘No sound of it yet, miss,’ he replied.
‘I am determined not to keep my uncle waiting.’ She again tried her friendly smile on him.
‘Very good, miss.’ He remained as stiff-backed as ever.
Morgana kept her smile in place, but it hid her disappointment. It would be so much easier if she knew she had Cripps’s loyalty as well as his excellent service. She did so want them all to rub well together. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room.’
Expression as bland as ever, he preceded her across the hall and opened the drawing-room door.
She walked to the window with its view of the street. No sooner had she done so than her uncle’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror above the mantel, fussing a bit with the neckline of her dress, but, remembering that her uncle had been suffering from gout, she hurried to the hall.
‘I will meet them at the carriage,’ she told Cripps, fancying he looked disapproving of a lady going out the door unescorted.
‘I am ready,’ she called, as Cripps closed the door behind her.
A tall gentleman stood next to the carriage in the process of assisting her uncle to disembark. Seeing her, her uncle paused. ‘Come then,’ he replied and disappeared back into his seat.
The tall gentleman turned towards her. Morgana stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh!’
Standing before her, next to her uncle’s carriage, dressed in elegant evening attire, was the gentleman from the park.
He, too, froze, but his look of surprise was replaced by a lazy smile that seemed to take for ever to settle on his face. Just as slowly he tipped his hat and came to her side.
‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Hart.’ His dark grey eyes kindled with amusement.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply, pulling her shawl snug around her shoulders and accepting his arm.
‘It is a fine night, is it not?’ His voice was as smooth and low as a viola. They were only a few steps from the carriage. ‘A fine night for a walk in the park.’
‘Oh, say nothing of that, sir. I beg you,’ Morgana countered in a fierce whisper.
‘My lips, dear Miss Hart—’ the lips he referred to turned up at the corners ‘—are sealed.’
