they reached the same point they had in Lady Merion’s drawing-room. Hazelmere, still in control despite his raging desire, mentally cursed. He should not have let it go this far. There was no way he would even consider taking her here. Her first time she should remember with joy, not distaste. But he had already left her in this state once before. He couldn’t do that again.
He raised his head to look at her. Her eyes were huge and glittering, deepest emerald under heavy lids. She moved, unconsciously seductive, pressing her body against him. With a ragged sigh he turned them around so her back was against the trunk of the oak. He bent his head and his lips burned a trail to the hollow of her throat. Expertly his long fingers undid the column of tiny buttons closing her bodice and loosened the laces beneath. As his hand gently cupped her naked breast she moaned softly. His lips found hers again, letting their passions ride. There were other ways she could be satisfied. And he knew them all.
Much later, when she was wrapped once more in her cloak and resting comfortably in his arms, he felt her draw a deep breath and sigh happily. He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Does that mean you’ve agreed to marry me?’
Dorothea smiled dreamily. Without looking up, she asked, ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Not really. If you don’t consent now I’ll take you to Hazelmere, lock you in my apartments and keep you there until I get you with child. Then you won’t have any choice at all.’
At that she looked up, laughing. ‘Would you?’
The hazel eyes glinted. ‘Without hesitation.’
She smiled, a slow, infinitely smug smile. She felt the arms around her tighten. ‘In that case, I’d better agree.’
He nodded. ‘Very wise.’ His eyes searched her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge her state of mind. Then he sighed. ‘I suspect I should take advantage of your contented state to tell you that the notice of our betrothal will appear in today’s
For a moment the implication did not register. Then she asked, ‘How on earth…?’
‘I asked Ferdie to put it in. It’s wiser to keep the tabbies happy wherever possible.’ His arm around her, he started to move towards the steps.
Feigning anger, Dorothea stopped dead. ‘So
The arm around her tightened again, drawing her to him once more. ‘Don’t start that again. I’m marrying you, you disbelieving woman, because I love you!’ He kissed her soundly, then pulled her on to the steps. ‘Besides which,’ he continued conversationally, ‘if I don’t have you soon, I’m going to go out of my mind.’
Amused, he watched his love blush delightfully.
‘The house is over the next rise. Knowing my mother, the entire household has probably been waiting for hours.’
Dorothea was eager to catch her first glimpse of Hazelmere, and as the curricle topped the rise she looked down on the huge sandstone mansion, honey-coloured in the sun, sprawling across the opposite side of the valley. Descending the gentle slope and crossing the bridge over the stream from the lake, the curricle swept through the gates in the low stone wall separating the formal gardens from the rest of the park. Hazelmere held the greys to a trot as they followed the winding drive through acres and acres of perfectly tended gardens and lawns, past shrubberies and fountains, until the curricle reached the broad sweep of the gravel court before the main entrance.
Jim Hitchin came running to take the reins, grinning with relief at seeing the horses in one piece. He had never doubted his master would return all right and tight with the lady beside him, so had wasted no thoughts on them.
Hazelmere jumped down and lifted Dorothea down. At the first sound of wheels on the gravel, Lady Hazelmere, who had been waiting in the morning-room since five o’clock, had come to the door to welcome them. She was agog to learn just why her usually correct son had seen fit to drive through the night, apparently alone with Miss Darent in an open curricle. One look at his face warned her not to ask.
Correctly surmising that they had been up all night, she immediately whisked Dorothea upstairs to the large chamber she had had prepared. It was only then that Dorothea removed her cloak, and as she moved towards the window the light fell full on her. Lady Hazelmere rapidly revised her assessment of her son’s behaviour and, turning, shooed out her maid, who had come in to help. Instead she helped the sleepy girl to bed, lending her one of her own nightgowns and forbearing to ask any questions, even as to the whereabouts of her missing clothing. The tell- tale signs of her son’s lovemaking, showing clearly on the perfect skin, would fade by the time she awoke. No need to further embarrass the child, or to expose her to the censorious mind of her sharp-eyed maid. Her own maid, Hazelmere had informed her, along with his valet, would arrive from London later.
Leaving Dorothea already halfway asleep, Lady Hazelmere went downstairs in search of her son. Hazelmere, aware of his mother’s curiosity, knew that if she once caught him she would not let him go until she had all the story. He had therefore refused point-blank to pay any attention whatever to Liddiard and had repaired with all possible speed to his apartments before she could materialise and waylay him.
Baulked of all prey, her ladyship spent the rest of the morning in comfortable speculation on what her son and the lovely Dorothea had been up to.
Hazelmere woke to the rattle of curtains. Sunlight streamed into the large apartment. He closed his eyes again. He had left orders to be woken at one. He supposed it was one.
Then memory returned and the events of the early morning swam into focus. The severe lips curved in a smile of pure happiness. A discreet cough interrupted his recollections. He reluctantly opened his eyes and located Murgatroyd, standing by the bed, disapproval in every line.
‘I wondered, my lord, what you wished me to do with these?’ From finger and thumb hung suspended a garment, which, after a few moments of total bewilderment, Hazelmere recognised. ‘I found them in the pocket of your driving cloak, m’lord.’ Never, in all the years he had been valeting, had Murgatroyd had to deal with such an occurrence. He was badly discomposed.
Raising his eyes to the face of his henchman, now devoid of all expression, Hazelmere sternly repressed the urge to laugh. As soon as he could command his voice he said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I suppose you had better return them to their owner.’
Something very like shock infused the countenance of his imperturbable valet. ‘My lord?’ Incredulity hung in the air.
‘Miss Darent,’ supplied Hazelmere, sorely tried.
Murgatroyd assimilated this information, his face wooden. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and had almost reached the door before Hazelmere spoke again.
‘Incidentally, Murgatroyd, Miss Darent and I are to be married in a few weeks, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to such happenings.’
‘Indeed, my lord?’ Murgatroyd’s breast seethed with a whole range of emotions. He had never before valeted to a married gentleman, preferring the regularities of bachelor households. It was the reason he had left his last position. But he had been very comfortable in Hazelmere’s employ. And Miss Darent, soon to be her ladyship, was a very lovely woman. And the Marquis was…well, Hazelmere. The rigid features relaxed into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m sure I wish you both very happy, my lord.’
Hazelmere smiled his acknowledgement and dropped back on to his pillows as Murgatroyd left in search of Trimmer.
The next five days passed in a rush of activity. Hazelmere had decreed they were to be married at St George’s in Hanover Square in just over two weeks. There was a wealth of detail to be discussed and decisions made. A constant stream of couriers passed between London and Hazelmere, carrying orders and information. On that first afternoon Tony Fanshawe and Cecily dropped by on their way back to London. On hearing the news, Cecily was ecstatic; Betsy promptly burst into tears.
From Lady Merion came the news that the whole town was a-buzz with the tale of their trip to Hazelmere Water and, far from there being any undesirable comment, everyone was describing it as the romance of the Season. As Dorothea refolded her grandmother’s letter Hazelmere smiled wickedly across the breakfast table. ‘Just as well they’ll never know what really happened at Hazelmere Water.’
Dorothea gasped, then, outraged by the knowing look on his face, threw a roll at him. Ducking, he protested, ‘I thought only Cecily threw things!’
