THE BRIDE HE ABANDONED

A REGENCY ROMANCE OF SCANDAL AND SECOND CHANCES

DANGEROUS MATCHES

BOOK THREE

BEVERLEY OAKLEY

Copyright © 2024 by Beverley Oakley

All rights reserved.

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CONTENTS

Letter from the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

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About the Author

LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

I’m so delighted to welcome you to Dangerous Matches.

The books in this series are linked by the kinds of love stories I have always most enjoyed writing: romances in which the hearts are willing, but the path is anything but easy. Here you’ll find heroines constrained by circumstance, family, reputation, or secrets from the past, and heroes who must earn love through courage, honesty, and sacrifice.

These are stories of yearning, misunderstanding, danger, and redemption—set against the glitter and restrictions of the Georgian and Regency worlds. Each book stands alone (though Book 3 is the sequel to Book 2), but every one offers a romance tested by scandal and secrecy, and made deeper by what the characters must overcome to reach one another.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I loved writing them.

With warm wishes,

Beverley Oakley

CHAPTER 1

A gentle wind blew through the French doors of the library. It rustled the papers on Tristan’s desk, lifting one that floated through the air before settling on the Aubusson rug between the potted fern and the grate, where a small fire burned on this chilly spring morning.

Adelaide, walking in with their youngest to say goodnight to papa, bent to retrieve it, saying with gentle humour, “Shall I avert my eyes in case it’s State secrets?”

But when she rose and observed the unusual gravity of her husband’s expression, she exclaimed, “Tristan! Tell me what’s happened?”

Turning to the nursemaid, she indicated with a discreet nod that she should take three-year-old Catherine back to the nursery.

Tristan didn’t immediately speak, and Adelaide’s fear grew, for she knew her husband kept nothing from her.

“It’s Charlotte,” he said finally, nodding at the wing back armchair by the bookshelf, suggesting Adelaide might need to sit down if she were to hear any more.

But Adelaide was made of sterner stuff. While Tristan had thought he’d married an invalid, the charade that Adelaide’s own mother had forced her to enter was well in the past.

Not, though, Adelaide’s pain over the child she’d thought had died at birth, only to discover, fourteen years ago, that her mother had deceived her over that, too. Little Charlotte would be seventeen now.

Or so Adelaide believed. For now, Tristan’s expression suggested that the direst of circumstances had befallen her lost child. Charlotte must be dead.

And Adelaide had never met the girl. She had no knowledge of her character; whether she was a lively and engaging child, like her mother had been before she’d thrown in her lot with Charlotte’s father, a charismatic poet—a married man—and had all but ruined her life.

Until she’d been given a second chance when she’d married the kind, honourable politician, her beloved husband, Tristan, Lord Leeson.

“Oh.” She was going to refuse the invitation to sit, but suddenly the shock felt very great, and her knees gave way. She could feel the rising sobs, and her mind began to spin.

But then Tristan was at her side, reaching down to hold her hand as he said, “No, Adelaide, Charlotte is well. I’m sorry I led you to think the worst. It’s just…” He breathed deeply, then added, “She’s eloped. James just told me.”

He held up the brief letter. This was the only communication Adelaide knew Tristan had received from James—Tristan’s best friend and Adelaide’s former lover—in all the fourteen years since James had left England, condemned to being an exile after he’d murdered the man who had blackmailed Adelaide over her scandalous affair with James.

“Eloped? But… if she’s in love—” It was all Adelaide could manage, for she must make what excuses she could for the child she had borne James out of wedlock when she, herself, was not much more than a child herself.

Not excuses, though, in the way her mother—Mrs Henley—had made excuses for Adelaide when she’d pretended to Tristan that Adelaide’s fear of men was based on having been violated while travelling through Europe; not the truth. That she’d eloped with the scandalous poet, James Treloar.

“Even if she is in love, such recklessness is bound to end badly. James is at his wits’ end!” The furrows between Tristan’s brows deepened and Adelaide’s alarm grew in proportion to her anger towards James.

What right had James to be at his wits’ end when his daughter had only done exactly what James had done with Adelaide?

For that matter, what right had James to have secretly kept their child after Adelaide’s mother, Mrs Henley—or rather, the woman she’d believed was her mother—had told Adelaide that baby Charlotte had died at birth?

Adelaide smoothed her Pomona green silk skirts as her difficult past flooded back.

Not only had Charlotte not died at birth, Mrs Henley had allowed James to have the child. Charlotte had been brought up under the pretence that she was the child of passionate poet James, and his cold, unloving, zealous wife, Hortense.

James had only revealed the truth to Adelaide, years later, when Hortense was dead, as leverage to persuade Adelaide to give up her newly discovered life of love and stability with honourable Tristan.

“Mrs Henley does not know?” Adelaide refused to call the woman her mother. A chill ran through her just to think of the lengths to which the wicked creature would go to achieve her spiritual aims. She’d brokered Adelaide’s marriage to Tristan; and she’d organised Charlotte’s kidnapping, all for the money she required to save souls and thereby guarantee Mrs Henley’s soul in the afterlife.

Tristan shook his head. “He makes no mention of her, thank God.”

“Thank God,” Adelaide corroborated, though her fears were still not eased. “Are you sure she did not continue her association with Beatrice?” Beatrice was James’s wife, which made her Charlotte’s stepmother. “I can’t bear the idea that that woman should have any contact with my daughter after what she did to me.”

She shuddered, and Tristan gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“I think our concerns right now are with the man with whom Charlotte has eloped.”

It was true. And, if Tristan’s expression were anything to go by, Charlotte, the beloved child whom Adelaide would never be able to claim as her daughter, was committing the same dreadful mistake that had nearly ruined Adelaide’s life: She was eloping with someone very unsuitable.

“Who is the gentleman?” Adelaide asked.

Tristan breathed in. “Gentleman? Having a title does not mean one is a gentleman.”

Adelaide felt the constriction in her throat tighten and waited for her husband to say his name.

“Lord Gilray.”

“Dear Lord!” Adelaide gasped. “The man at the centre of the scandal with that Scottish heiress?” She hesitated, then asked, “But what if Charlotte truly loves him?”

“If he truly loves her, Gilray would go about this so that a proper marriage contract could be drawn up. Charlotte is an heiress, despite the fact her father has been stripped of his English lands and entitlements. James’s writings have made him a wealthy man, and all that Charlotte has will become Gilray’s the moment they are married.”

Adelaide put her hands to cheeks. “And James has asked you to put a stop to this?”

Once the best of friends, Tristan and James had become estranged after James had tried to persuade Adelaide to run away with him.

“I have had no dealings with James in fourteen years,” Tristan assured her, “however, he is Charlotte’s father. He once saved my life, and he once was my firmest friend. His confidence that I will do what I can to bring Charlotte back is not misplaced.” He kissed the top of Adelaide’s head. “I know you would not want Charlotte to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

“No, I would not want her to commit my mistakes,” Adelaide whispered, gripping Tristan’s hand, her heart racing with fear and dread. “I’ve always wondered what kind of child she was. Now I know. She is impulsive and reckless, just as I was at her age.” She drew back and locked eyes with Tristan. “You’re right! She must be stopped before she ruins her life, but what can you do? Perhaps it is too late!”

“Charlotte was noticed missing from Miss Prism’s Seminary only a few hours ago, and it so happens James is in England, not France. But, of course, he cannot declare himself and risk the noose. And no one else can know.” Tristan straightened, uncurling his hand, and Charlotte saw the note with a strange feeling in her belly as he added, “I am only hours away, which is why James has solicited my help.”

Adelaide tried to be strong, but her mind was spinning. “We must be discreet if you are to leave here in such haste. Perhaps there is another way—”

Her words were cut short by a short, sharp rap upon the door, which opened to reveal the tallest and most elegant of the small group attending Lord and Lady Leeson’s house party, a handsome young man by the name of Jasper Creighton. A young man of whom Adelaide was very fond, though she was also very glad her two daughters were under the age of twelve, for Jasper was an inveterate womaniser.

Yes, he was charming and persuasive and, at twenty-three, just the kind of young man Adelaide might have fallen for had she been a reckless, impulsive seventeen-year-old.

Like Charlotte.

But Mr Creighton was most assuredly not looking for a wife, as he’d explained the evening before when he’d taken his hostess into his confidence and poured out his heart.

Mr Creighton sent them both a genial smile. “Lord Leeson, Lady Leeson, I hope I’m not intruding, but I—” And then his smile faltered as he began again, “Something has happened! Tell me, is there anything I can do to assist?”

CHAPTER 2

It seemed to Charlotte that for her whole life she’d been admonished for being impulsive and thoughtless. Her step mama constantly upbraided her for not being sufficiently thoughtful and nurturing of her two little brothers. In other words, not letting them win at the childhood games they’d shared when Charlotte was still at home, a boisterous ten-year-old thinking she was entertaining an aggressive four-year-old brother, and a sulky three-year-old.

By the time she was twelve, Charlotte was properly segregated from Charlie and Gervaise for now she was no longer a child and the outdoors which she loved so much was more often viewed through the window of the schoolroom as she tried to attend to the lessons her governess considered mind-improving for a future wife to some worthy scion of the aristocracy.

Papa had bought Charlotte a horse, though her stepmother was afraid of horses and thought this an indulgence too far. Especially when Charlotte would use her beloved Majestic as her means of escape. Too many times she’d jump onto his back to avoid the harsh strictures of Madame Lenore, and ride until their large, lovely home in Provence was a speck in the distance and the sun was low in the sky.

Charlotte supposed she must have done this once too often for when she returned from her last truancy, she was ushered into the drawing room where her father, looking sad but resigned, and her stepmother, clearly still full of ire, announced that Charlotte would be sent away for her schooling.

To England.

Immediately, the greatest joy filled her.

An adventure! Charlotte was going on an adventure to the land where her father, and the mother who had died when she was only a few months old, had lived.

Finally, she would be free of the constraints of her French provincial life and the dull lessons she wearily sat through.

Charlotte knew there was some mystery surrounding the reason her parents lived in France when her father, English by birth and a celebrated poet in that country, often received visits from literary giants from all over the world, yet hardly left their small estate.

Charlotte heard he’d been a passionate man in his youth and there were occasions when that same passion erupted, and she could understand the excitement that fizzed through his veins, for she felt it too when she was performing the theatricals that her parents had encouraged her to enjoy when she was younger.

But which seemed so frowned upon when she grew a little older.

Surprised, obviously, by her reaction to the news of her impending banishment, her father sent her a look of disappointment as he gazed across his desk, and asked, “What can England offer that France doesn’t?”

Charlotte had no hesitation in responding. “Master Edward, the fiercest creature in the Prince Regent’s Menagerie.”

“And who—or what—is Master Edward?”

“He’s a lion, presented to His Majesty by the Emperor of Morocco. I have always dreamed of seeing such a fine and majestic creature. Of taming it, even. In fact, one day I plan to marry a man who combines such qualities of handsomeness and bravery.”

“Charlotte,” her father had exclaimed, “you are twelve! And Master Edward is a lion!”

The reality of schooling in England, Charlotte soon discovered, was not an adventure, though she’d been spared the ordeal for a further three years following her parent’s initial threats.

Attending Miss Prism’s Seminary for Young Ladies in Kensington was simply another way to put Charlotte into a straitjacket and ensure that she conform to the very narrow prescription—to Charlotte’s mind—of what a lady should be.

Of course, with such a passionate father, rebellion was in Charlotte’s nature; she could not help that; and she decided that if her stepmother wasn’t around to tell her what she should do, then neither would Miss Prism and her sister.

With their silly ringlets—grey in the case of Miss Prism the elder; her sister’s being a mousey brown—the two Miss Prisms exerted wondrous authority over their sixteen young pupils who ranged in age from thirteen to eighteen.

Both were quick to uphold order by seizing the rod—an innocuous-looking switch that exerted great efficacy when it came to sharp, intense pain, to which Charlotte could attest.

Miss Prism the elder used it to punish insubordination. Her younger sister, whose passion was mathematics, considered it an aid to the speedy resolution to finding the answer to her beloved sums. If Charlotte had learned nothing else during her three years with the redoubtable ladies, it was how to calculate with lightning speed, thus earning a grudging admiration from the junior school mistress, at least.

Charlotte’s tendency towards insubordination was always going to get her into trouble and even though she often bore the physical manifestation of a beating for days after resisting Miss Prism’s attempts to squeeze the life and light out of her, as she put it, she still harboured no second thoughts when it came to the bold, even reckless course of escape that handsome Lord Gilray had unexpectedly offered her.

No, Charlotte would do anything to remove herself from her stifling existence in her Kensington prison. And if it involved a handsome, dashing young lord spouting words of high praise and passion, then all the better.

It had been Charlotte’s school friend, Miss Veronica Carr, who’d introduced Charlotte to her first proper vice: novels. Novel-reading was especially frowned upon, and any books not sanctioned by the two Misses Prism were summarily confiscated. Some of the girls giggled that these ladies took them to read themselves, but Charlotte was fairly sure that Miss Prism and her older sister truly were sainted virgins laying the foundations for a heavenly afterlife which the reading of novels would preclude.

It was also Veronica who introduced Charlotte to a second, deadlier vice, nicely augmented by a foundation of wickedly heart-palpitating romance novels: Veronica’s cousin, the newly minted Lord Gilray.

Now here was a gentleman who made the blood fizz in Charlotte’s veins like the feeling she got when performing to an audience, though she wouldn’t swear with hand on heart that his title was not part of his attraction.

Charlotte’s stepmother had counselled her daughter to make her marital decision based on sound common sense. Many times, Mrs Beatrice Treloar had said that a title was not the marker of a man. Charlotte had sometimes wondered why her father was rarely addressed by his title, Lord Dewhurst, as she felt he should have been. Indeed, it seemed his title caused him some embarrassment, which was odd considering he was a man who revelled in high praise and declared, himself, that he was always aiming for the heavens.

This had been during a time when father and daughter had spent a great deal of time together; the golden phase of her early adolescence, Charlotte now considered it, when her father really had seemed interested in her mind, and proud to show her off to his literary companions, other passionate poets and painters who had showered Charlotte with compliments and begged to paint her.

And, according to her stepmother, who ruined her.

Charlotte had successfully pleaded the case that she would be far less of a trial to her parents and teachers if she were allowed to remain at home on the family estate.

Her stepmother had shown surprising compassion and agreed with papa that if Charlotte were obedient and attended to her studies, she could stay.

Indeed, Charlotte’s behaviour had been beyond reproach. And as a reward for honouring her word for six months, and for diligently teaching her little brothers their sums—at which Charlotte excelled—her father had, as a reward for her fifteenth birthday, taken her to Paris where he was to deliver his first literary offerings in many years.

When Charlotte had found him sweating, shaking, and close to tears as he’d been about to step onto the podium, she had done the only thing she knew was in her power to help him: she had stepped up with a confidence she was far from feeling, and had delivered the passionate words and sentiments she only partly understood.

During those fifteen minutes, she expended so much effort in ensuring her tone and pronunciation matched the fire and passion she’d heard in her papa’s voice when she’d heard him practising on the other side of the closed door of his study, that she’d been unprepared for the enthusiasm of its reception.

The praise had gone on and on, and the realisation that it was as much for her as it was for her papa’s poetic offerings, had ignited a fire in her breast.

A beast, her stepmama called it after Charlotte’s presence had been requested at multiple subsequent readings by ladies and gentlemen, both.

The real disaster which occurred had been far from Charlotte’s fault, yet she had been punished for it.

Charlotte had grown up being praised for her long dark curls, eyes like violets, and a mouth shaped like a rosebud. It had been commonplace for her to be seated on some lady’s lap during the house parties her father whipped up on the spur of the moment—to her stepmama’s ire—when Charlotte had been younger.

Her stepmama had argued that such attention was damaging, even though Charlotte never felt better than when she had her hair stroked and her cheek caressed as some lady, old or young, listened to her father read to his rapt audience. These were the only times Charlotte experienced physical touch, and it made her heart open like a flower. It didn’t matter if the lady were young and pretty, or old and wizened. They were conveying something beautiful in her their hearts that they felt when they beckoned her over as they settled in for an evening of papa’s poems which, for a long time, Charlotte didn’t really attend to. Rather, she liked the mesmeric tone of his voice, and revelled in the attention of whomever she was with.

But while her stepmama had been disapproving of Charlotte being called a little doll, saying it would turn her head, she’d not banned Charlotte from these evenings.

It was a different matter, apparently, when Charlotte was older.

And it hadn’t even been Charlotte’s fault because Charlotte had herself been about to politely extricate herself from the situation. But when her stepmama had found Charlotte seated on old Monsieur Leville’s lap in her papa’s study, she’d flown into one of her rare passions and that’s when Charlotte had been sent to Miss Prism’s Seminary for Young Ladies.

As if Charlotte didn’t know that at fifteen it wasn’t appropriate to be seated on an old man’s lap. But he’d tricked her by putting out his foot as she’d been passing by, so that she’d tripped, and under the pretext of saving her fall, he’d pulled her onto his thighs, right in front of her papa, and right in front of her stepmama who had chosen that moment to walk in and jump to whatever conclusions she had.

Three years later, and Lord Gilray was an entirely different kettle of fish.

Lord Gilray had, for a brief moment, ignited the flame of passion in Charlotte’s heart which she realised was what her father’s poems were often about.

Now she understood why her stepmama felt some of these were scandalous.

Because if they made Charlotte want to do things she knew were wrong, yet was prepared to do them anyway, they were.

But the heart banished reason.

And Lord Gilray’s inducements were very compelling.

Charlotte had first met Lord Gilray in a bookshop in Bond Street when the younger Miss Prism had taken several girls on an improving jaunt, the object being to acquire a copy of Reverend Bolton’s treatise on good behaviour.

The handsome viscount had been perusing the shelves and had literally bumped right into his cousin, Vanessa, whereupon introductions had been made.

And a passion forged between that gentleman and Charlotte.

Or, at least, Charlotte had believed it was a passion of unbreakable strength.

Now, as she stared at the sleeping youth on the bed of the tavern they’d been forced to bespeak half way to Gretna Green, Charlotte wasn’t so sure.

Gilray was snoring loudly, his mouth slack, his breath reeking of the copious amounts of claret he’d consumed as they’d discussed their exciting future.

Granted, their rollicking adventure had started well, and Charlotte had not had second thoughts as she’d bundled a night rail, change of under things, and her best gown into a drawstring bag before slipping the bolt of the scullery door, not even disturbing the sleeping kitchen maid snoring gently by the kitchen fire.

How could Charlotte think of regrets when Gilray had promised her his heart, all the new gowns and accoutrement she could wish for, and a future filled with unending adventure that included a visit to Master Edward at the Prince Regent’s Menagerie?

But now—

A loud rap on the bedchamber door startled her and Charlotte jumped to her feet, holding on to the back of the chair by the table near the window as she darted a glance at Gilray.

He did not stir.

Charlotte’s stomach was growling, and she supposed if he had at least organised a late supper, she shouldn’t feel too badly disposed towards him, so she said in as clear and firm a voice as she could manage: “Come!”

For the truth was, she was feeling a little tearful, and not at all sure that she was where she should be right now.

Staring out of the window at the expanse of green fields disappearing into the distance, she heard the door open.

“Set it there, please,” she said, indicating the table without looking round. Embarrassment and shame were now superseding her earlier impulsiveness and she was careful not to turn for if it was the tavern keeper’s wife or daughter, she did not wish to be recognised.

Until she was assailed by the very male scent of leather, sandalwood soap and, with a gasp, she spun about and found herself looking up into the face of a very handsome, dark-haired young man whose smile was distinctly assessing as he asked, “Miss Charlotte Treloar, I presume?”

CHAPTER 3

“Who are you?” Charlotte demanded, very conscious of her state of undress for she was only in her night rail. Without Gilray’s help, she was unable to put on her stays or do up the tiny buttons of the travelling gown she’d worn for her escape and which happened to be her only outerwear other than the evening gown she’d selected because Vanessa had helped her refashion it into something that would be worn by a fully fledged debutante, which Charlotte would not be for another year.

And which she now would never be thanks to her hasty decision to run away with Gilray.

“Mr Jasper Creighton at your service…” The young man hesitated, cast a look at the sleeping man on the bed, then finished, “ma’am.”

“Oh!” Charlotte gasped, putting her hand to her breast, as a cold draft reminded her that Gilray’s enthusiastic response to finding themselves alone in a bedchamber together had caused the fabric to tear. “You must have the wrong room, sir!”

“Not if you are Miss Charlotte Treloar.” He cleared her throat, then added, meaningfully, “Or rather, Lady Gilray.”

She wasn’t going to answer that one. “You know Lord Gilray? Pray tell, what are you doing here?” But her voice shook, for her dignity was as shredded as her night rail.

And when Mr Creighton said, “I’d hoped to waylay you before you reached Gretna Green though it appears a special licence has been obtained and that I’m too late, Lady Gilray,” Charlotte put her hands to her face and wailed, “I’m not Lady Gilray. We haven’t married quite yet!” before bursting into tears.

It took a moment for her to gather her wits but then she found she was sitting down and the dregs of the claret that Gilray had tossed down his throat several hours before was being pushed into her hands as Mr Creighton said, “My apologies, Miss Treloar, for brandy would be my fortifier of choice but it appears there’s nothing on hand suitable for a lady in your emotionally fragile situation. Where will I find your burnt feathers?”

“I have never required burnt feathers in my life!” Charlotte responded, standing up so quickly that her chair fell backwards as she faced Mr Creighton, hands on hips, her chin thrust up to face him for he was rather a tall man and his shoulders were at her eye level. “I am a very robust young lady.”

She didn’t like the way he considered her in the silence that followed. In fact, her skin burned as his gaze travelled over her hair, the dark ringlets that Veronica had helped create for her romantic flight across the border now bed-tossed and knotted. Taking a deep breath, she self-consciously brushed back an errant lock that had fallen across her eye then tensed while he frowned at her left breast – discovering in horror that the act of pushing back her shoulders had caused the drawstring neckline to snap, and one breast was now on display.

“How old are you?” he asked baldly before adding, “Obviously too young to know better than to associate with this reprobate. Lord Gilray might have a title but that is all he has. There’s no fortune to back it up—”

“I ran away with him because I loved him, not because of his fortune!” Charlotte defended herself hotly. “And I shall be eighteen in six months, so I am very much old enough to know my own mind.”

Mr Creighton appeared to consider this. “Very well.” He shrugged. “Then I shall leave you to continue your journey to Gretna Green so you might enjoy a lifetime of the delights that it has been your good fortune to experience at the hands of thoughtful, caring Lord Gilray.” He took several steps towards the door, adding over his shoulder, “There are some ladies who would be most envious of you having heard them say he is most selfish in bed and that with him they do not get to experience the pleasure that is the whole reason for bedroom sport. I am so glad you obviously experienced a tender, considerate side to his nature. Good day, Miss Treloar. I hope you enjoy the rest of your life as Lord Gilray’s most esteemed and highly regarded…wife.”

Charlotte watched, frozen, as he let himself out. Turning towards the bed, she summoned her most tender feelings for darling Gilray, who had fired her up with such words of passion and excitement before they’d embarked on their elopement.

“Gilray!” she whispered, needing him to wake so that he might bolster her decision to throw in her lot with him.

But his only response was a slurred, “Ready for another round, my love?” as he rolled onto his side, emitting a loud fart as his eyes fluttered open and his arms went out towards her.

With a gasp, Charlotte ran to the door, throwing it open and calling down the corridor, “Mr Creighton! Mr Creighton! Come back, if you please! I need to speak with you!”

Not that Charlotte had the faintest idea what she needed to say. But she could hardly run through the inn parading herself in public like the scarlet woman Mr Creighton no doubt thought her—and whom the whole world would think her once word got out as to what she’d done.

He’d reached the stairs, but he turned with an enquiring look and asked, “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Charlotte looked about her, ducking back into the room as a fashionably dressed woman wearing an extravagantly trimmed bonnet passed by on the arm of a soberly dressed gentleman.

Her heart beat even more fiercely as she heard Gilray stir and suddenly she was desperate for Mr Creighton to return, and just as fearful of being recognised.

But would Mr Creighton return?

“I… I just need you to come back, sir. Please!”

Relief flooded her when she heard him retrace his footsteps in a leisurely fashion, for she’d closed the door all but a crack. The fashionably dressed lady had raised her nose in the air as if Charlotte were beyond the pale for simply putting her head out in her nightgown. She hoped the woman hadn’t recognised her.

And she wished she’d not woken Gilray, who now drawled, “Charlotte, darling, my throat’s parched. Fetch me something to drink, will you? And then I have another delightful surprise for you!” just as Mr Creighton pushed open the door and strode in.

“Gad’s teeth! Who are you and what are you doing in my bedchamber?” Gilray demanded, bolting upright then quickly covering his nakedness. To Charlotte’s embarrassment, she observed for the first time in daylight evidence of what had made the fumblings under the covers so uncomfortable. Was that what he’d used to spear her before writhing around and then collapsing, leaving her both in pain, yet strangely yearning for she knew not what?

Her cheeks burned as she turned to look out of the window, hoping Gilray would miraculously be fully dressed by the time she faced him again.

If only she could.

When she’d set out on this adventure, she’d felt so grown up and adventurous, but now she felt like a … child. A child who’d bitten off more than she could chew.

She also realised now that she had not been apprised of what Mr Creighton was doing here?

And then she felt the most ghastly shame and horror. Had her father sent him? Her beloved father, who had himself shown no care for public opinion? Who forever frustrated her stepmother with his arrogant disdain and yet who showed such concern that Charlotte be moulded into something that the world could live with.

That he could live with.

Or, Charlotte supposed, that her stepmother could live with.

“Actually, I’m here to elicit Miss Treloar’s wishes regarding her future.”

Gilray’s eyes bulged. “Miss Treloar’s future? Why, I thought that was obvious.” He settled back against the pillows and looked smug as he indicated the room and then Charlotte’s state of undress. “Miss Treloar will be my wife before tomorrow night. Don’t think there’s a damn thing you can do about it either, since I’d say it was screamingly obvious the chit’s ruined. No one’ll have her except me, now.”

Charlotte gasped. Why was she forever doing this yet unable to state her proper outrage? Ruined? She wanted to cry, though, for it was true.

Mr Creighton shrugged. “Yes, I was on my way out since Miss Treloar concurred with these sentiments a few minutes ago. I called on her while you were sleeping and had just been dismissed before she called me back. I’m not the kind of gentleman to pressure a lady against her wishes.”

This tickled Gilray’s ire. “Are you suggesting that I pressured Miss Treloar to run away with me against her wishes? By Gad, she was gagging for it. All those stolen rendezvous and kisses inflamed her passions until there was nothing for it but to head north. Make an honest woman of her so we can do all those wonderful things we’ve been doing all night, only this time with the church’s blessing. And that of our families, of course. Anyway, you’ve not said who you are.”

Charlotte could see Gilray’s bluster stemmed from the fact he was still a little drunk. With his hair sticking up in odd places, and his lips stained purple from claret, he didn’t look anything like the handsome young buck who’d so excited her. And when he let out a cry of outrage at Mr Creighton’s next question, his sour breath made her take a step backwards.

“Mr Jasper Creighton is my name, and it’s really no one’s business as to who sent me other than that I’m here in the service of a friend who has asked me to ascertain Miss Treloar’s real feelings on the idea of eloping with you. Sometimes a night of discovery is enough to make a lady realise she really doesn’t want to go down that path if it’s to condemn her to a lifetime of the same.”

“How dare you?” Gilray cried, thrusting out his arm to seize Charlotte and swing her onto his lap where he clasped her protectively—or suffocatingly— against him. “Miss Treloar will soon have everything her heart desires once she’s wearing a wedding band, and this thing is legal.”

“What about a roof over her head?”

Charlotte darted a look at Gilray. They hadn’t talked about this, as she’d simply assumed his stately home in Hampshire would be her new abode. Where else would they go? She’d be Lady Gilray and manage a household of servants on a much grander scale than her stepmother, for all that her father’s Provencal estate was sizeable.

“I have adequate lodgings in town. We’ll live there until the pater slips off this mortal coil. It won’t be long, I assure you, the way he rides to hounds like the devil is at his heels.”

Charlotte frowned. Then asked boldly, “Why can’t we live at Gilray Hall?”

“Because, my dear, my pater is not going to approve of my following my heart.”

She stiffened. “Why not?”

“Well, you are not the ideal choice of a wife for his son, who has just inherited a title. Are you, my love?”

Charlotte frowned. “Why not?” she asked again, feeling indignant. “Why would he not approve?”

The two men exchanged looks and for the first time, Charlotte was aware of a palpable sense of confusion. How dare Gilray even hint she wasn’t a suitable match? Charlotte was the daughter of Lord Dewhurst, not only a peer but a famous poet who, while he’d scandalised society with his poems—particularly the infamous Maid of Milan—had grown fabulously rich on the proceeds. Charlotte had never grown tired of hearing the story from Rachel, the nursemaid who’d clearly harboured romantical ideas about her very special papa.

But now she was aware of a frisson of shared understanding that passed between the two men before they were adversaries again, as Mr Creighton said, “That is no reason to take advantage of an innocent.”

“I’m going to marry her, so what does that matter?” Gilray now sounded bored as he fiddled with the empty claret glass he’d found amidst the tangled bed sheets. “Tomorrow Miss Treloar will be my blushing bride and nothing papa says or does will change the fact that she will be my eternally devoted wife and the mother of my child. My heir.” He grinned. “For all I know, she may already be carrying my heir.” He glanced at Charlotte’s mid region, then quirked an eyebrow, adding, “And if not yet, then soon. We’ve certainly had a great deal of fun trying, haven’t we, my love? Now get out of here, Mr Creighton, for you are too late to make Miss Treloar an offer she’d consider taking. We’ve risked everything for love and as soon as you leave us, I can do what a gentleman in such circumstances does and—”

“You’re no gentleman.”

Charlotte, still reeling from a Gilray’s words was shocked by the raw disgust she saw in Mr Creighton’s eye as he glared at Gilray and growled, “No gentleman would behave as you have, you blackguard. If I were the girl’s brother, I’d call you out this minute. But I’m not, so I’m simply going to put the case to Miss Treloar and offer her two choices: stay with you for a lifetime of… sub optimal bedroom sport. Or come with me so I can return you, Miss Treloar, to Miss Prism’s Academy before too much time has elapsed. Excuses have been made that will cover these few hours, but there’s little more that can be done if we tarry.”

“She is not going with you!” Gilray exploded, hurling himself to his feet, fully naked, as he glared at Mr Creighton. “Are you, Charlotte?” His voice roughened as he saw her indecision.

“Miss Treloar?” Mr Creighton cocked his head and offered her his hand. “I can convey you to another chamber where you can prepare yourself for a day on the road. Travelling with me.”

Charlotte studied his handsome face a moment. It was a very appealing face. His brow was high and noble, like his very straight nose; not crooked, like Gilray’s. And his jaw was firm while his mouth looked soft and extremely kissable. Not flabby, like Gilray’s.

And he was not pressuring her. He’d come to rescue her.

Suddenly, he seemed her saviour.

Charlotte nodded, offering Gilray a sad smile as she took a step towards Mr Creighton. “I feel quite all right, so I’m sure I’m not carrying your heir, Gilray,” she said, putting her hands to her belly. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go with this gentleman, after all.”

“Gad’s teeth! What is this?” Gilray raked his fingers through his hair. “Are you mad? Why, Charlotte, what you did with me just now can’t be undone. You’re compromised. And even if you weren’t, I don’ t know who else would take you in view of your father’s black cloud hanging over you.”

Charlotte, who’d taken a few steps towards Mr Creighton, stopped. “What are you saying about my father? You’re speaking of Lord Dewhurst, if you didn’t know.”

“Lord Dewhurst no longer exists, my darling girl.” Gilray had never sounded so condescending. He lounged over the back of the chair, the bedsheet wound about his waist, his eyes bloodshot. “Has your papa not told you? Surely you understand that is the reason my pater will be less than delighted with my choice, and why I am sacrificing so much for love; sacrificing so much to make you my wife.”

Amidst her swirling thoughts, Charlotte was conscious of Mr Creighton stepping forward as if he might physically stop the evil words spilling out of Gilray’s mouth, but Gilray was not to be stopped. “Your father lost his title when he murdered Gilchrist. A fellow poet. Corruption of the blood it’s called when a peer of the realm forfeits his title and lands to the crown. Haven’t you wondered why he’s never been back to the land of his birth? Corruption of the blood—and perhaps your blood, too, only I’m prepared to take a chance on that.” His nostrils quivered. “I don’t know who else would?”

CHAPTER 4

The carriage rocked gently as it conveyed Charlotte and her rescuer over the rutted roads towards London. Beech forests, oak trees and swathes of emerald fields passed by, sending Charlotte who’d had little sleep, into a reverie until Mr Creighton’s amused voice roused her.

“You’ll hurt your neck if you don’t turn it occasionally. Come now, Miss Treloar. It’s not the end of the world. Though, it would have been if you’d not seen sense and come with me, but the fact is you did and now all can be set to rights.”

“I was already seeing sense and would have made my own way back…only not to Miss Prism’s Academy,” Charlotte muttered.

“Back where? Back to France? You could hardly have travelled alone, my sweeting.”

“I’m not your sweeting and I could easily have taken a disguise!” Charlotte was tired of his condescending tone. As if she were an errant schoolgirl when she could have been a married woman by now if she’d chosen that path.

She had no regrets that Gilray was not going to be her husband, and she’d initially felt very grateful that Mr Creighton had arrived on the scene. But now he was goading her and there was nothing Charlotte liked less than being reminded that she’d behaved foolishly.

“Where would you have procured this disguise?”

Charlotte jerked up her chin. “I’d have swapped my travelling gown with the stinking rags of a beggar. Then I could have gone where I wanted without a second glance from anyone!” Charlotte flashed back.

Mr Creighton traced the top of the elegantly carved stick he carried. “Bravo. So, you really are quite resourceful. I had simply thought you easily led. But the idea is… ingenious, in fact. Next time you abscond from Miss Prism’s Academy and my services are sought to stymie another elopement, I shall keep a vigilant eye out for all the beggars who might not be who they appear.”

“There will not be a next time, Mr Creighton.” Charlotte sent him a saccharine smile. “I know when I am bested and now I shall resume my role of a dutiful daughter until…” She was going to say until I wed, but Gilray’s words returned to haunt her and she finished with as much dignity as she could, “until someone is prepared to take me as their wife. Clearly, I am not as fine a prospect as I had thought.”

“Come now, Miss Treloar, it’s not as bad as all that.” Mr Creighton sounded kind for the first time. “A beauty such as you will always have your pick of the crop. You chose a rotten apple who drove in the knife when he realised he was about to lose you—”

“But you concurred, Mr Creighton. You shared an understanding when Gilray said how much his father would disapprove of me. I did not know that my father—” She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop the trembling and the plaintive tone. She’d behaved like a child enough for one night. She wasn’t going to shore up his impression of her as some over indulged cry baby.

“Your father is a revered poet, and one only has to read his poems to know that a passionate man such as he will defend to the death the woman he loves.”

He said it looking out of the window as if he didn’t know that his words were like lightning bolts in Charlotte’s brain. “Crime passionnel,” she whispered, adopting the French term for a crime that was clearly so much more serious in England than in France. Indeed, there were many differences between the French, amongst whom she’d grown up until she’d been sent to school to learn English ways. “So, my father killed this man in a duel to protect my stepmother’s honour?” She tried to imagine it, but couldn’t. Her stepmother was so emotionless and self-contained, unless she was berating Charlotte. Surely she’d never had a passionate moment in her life?

Mr Creighton’s look intensified. “Oh, my dear Miss Treloar, I have spoken out of turn. You mean you know nothing about what happened?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No one tells me anything. My stepmother has always said my curiosity would get me into trouble.” She fiddled with her pale green gloves. “And she was right. I only wanted a bit of fun and adventure, so when Lord Gilray made a plan to elope when I met him in the shadows of the Academy, I didn’t give too much thought to what would happen after I ran away with him.” She sighed. “It all seemed so much more exciting when the brandy was making my head swim. I’m not used to brandy, and he knew that, so I suppose he did take advantage. It wasn’t all my doing.”