Virginia Henley (4 page)

“Oh, how lovely! Thank you, Nick.”

“I’ll pour . . . you talk.”

“Dottie insists on my having a fall Season when Parliament opens. But when we go to London next month, I want to become a writer, not waste my time fending off fortune hunters. I’m only seventeen; far too young to marry. I want to taste life, experience great adventures, know what it’s like to be independent and have freedom, before I’m buried in the country with a husband and children.”

As he looked down into her lovely face, his heart skipped a beat, before his emotions were back under his iron control. “Your grandmother wants only what’s best for you, Alexandra. The Longford wealth is legendary; you’ll never have to worry over money or earn your living, so why can’t you simply marry and write as a hobby?”

“Don’t patronize me! I thought
you
of all people would understand. Writing is my passion, just as your great passion is horses. Your family too is wealthy, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to breed horses.”

“But I am a man,” Nick pointed out patiently.

“And spoken like a bloody man! Is it wrong for a woman to be ambitious?” she cried. “Times are changing, Nicholas. The Georgian way of life is old-fashioned—there is now a Regency! Powdered wigs and
chaperons
will soon be
passé
. Our generation demands less stricture and more freedom, for women as well as men. What could possibly be wrong with that?”

Lord God, she is innocent.
If she thought this generation had less stricture and more freedom than the Georgians, she was woefully mistaken. None were more profligate than Georgian men, and the women were only marginally more moral, with duchesses producing as many by-blows as dukes. Even her own grandmother had led a notorious life. “Alexandra, as much as you insist upon it, you are not yet a woman, and it is wrong for a seventeen-year-old to have the freedom of London,” he said flatly. “It isn’t all Mayfair town houses and Almack’s. Beyond the glitter of St. James’s Street, there are some extremely seedy areas that aren’t safe for innocent girls. And beyond those, there are vast expanses so crime-ridden that life is held very cheaply. There are miles of filthy streets where poverty and disease are the natural order of things. London has an underbelly I never want you exposed to. And it’s not just the poorer sections, Alexandra. Wickedness and evil sometimes run rampant among the
beau monde
.”

Her eyes sparkled with eagerness. “
That’s
what I intend to write about! Every gentleman of fashion has a mistress and every beautiful woman has a lover. You are a part of that world; why do you object to me becoming a part of it?”

“I do
not
have a mistress,” he denied repressively.

Alexandra whooped with laughter and held out her empty glass.

“What’s so bloody funny?” he asked, pouring her only half a glass this time.

“Let me drink to your high morals! You don’t need to go to the expense of a mistress because women fling themselves at you and almost fight one another to share your bed for free.”

As he looked down at her, he felt aeons older and wiser. “Alexandra, you shouldn’t even know about these things, let alone discuss them with the opposite sex. You are incorrigible; I aught to take you across my knee.”

“Do any of your ladybirds like to be spanked?”

“Alexandra!”

“And how do you know so much about the lurid side of London?”

“I am a man,” he repeated. He had no intention of telling her more. His words hadn’t acted as a deterrent; they had only made London, with all its debauchery, seem more fascinating. He eyed her warily. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish like running away and—”

“And taking a lover?” she teased.

“Alexandra!”

“Would you explain why the thought of an unmarried female taking a lover is shocking, while society turns a blind eye and considers it perfectly acceptable for a married woman to do so?”

Nick, realizing she had only an eccentric grandmother to guide her, told her the unvarnished truth. “A lady must be virgin when she marries, so that a man’s first-born and heir is legally legitimate. After that, paternity isn’t quite as important.”

It was Alexandra’s turn to be shocked. “I should have known it was connected to wealth and inheritance. To me, that’s obscene. In my eyes, it is more acceptable for an
unmarried
woman to have a lover, for she is not committing adultery, nor hurting her husband by breaking her sacred marriage vows. In fact, it’s nobody’s business but her own. Someday, it will be an accepted practice, you’ll see,” she declared loftily.

“Not in my lifetime,” Nicholas said flatly.

Alexandra decided to take pity on him. “Of course I won’t run away, at least not until after your birthday. I wouldn’t dream of missing the weekend house party at Hatton Hall. I intend to write about the guests’ foibles and peccadilloes. Please keep your fingers crossed for something scandalous.”

“Hellion.” He reached out to ruffle her hair, suspecting that she was teasing him unmercifully, and he hoped that beneath those bright curls, Alex had a sensible head on her shoulders. “Have another glass of champagne and we’ll go and find Rupert.”

As Nick held open the door of the summerhouse for her, he felt it suddenly wrenched from his hand. His father stood before him in a towering temper. Nicholas smelled the brandy fumes and saw the ugly look of accusation on his face. Swiftly, he ordered Alexandra to leave, and was immensely thankful that for once she obeyed him.

“You filthy lecher! You lured her down here to seduce her! Stay away from Alexandra Sheffield—you know damn well I intend her for Christopher. That’s the big attraction isn’t it, you young swine? You covet everything that is his!”

Suddenly Nicholas was in a blind rage. The injustice of his father’s accusations smote his integrity. He had never allowed his heart to become involved in his feelings for Alexandra, never dared to consider her, let alone covet her. Nick’s jaw clenched and he balled up his fist, fighting the violence that rose up inside him.

Henry Hatton looked pointedly at the empty champagne bottle. “You were trying to get her drunk so you could take her virginity—or am I too late?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

It was too much for Nick. He swung the bottle, hitting his father with a glancing blow to the temple. Lord Hatton dropped like a stone and lay sprawled on the grass, motionless.

A sudden hush fell over the horrified onlookers who had gathered. Finally someone asked, “Is he dead?”

“Dead drunk,” Nick muttered with contempt, then he walked swiftly away from the distasteful scene.

 

The following morning, when Nick Hatton called at Longford Manor to reassure Alexandra that all was well, Dottie Longford raised her lorgnette to examine the handsome devil before her. “Are you the heir or the spare?”

“It’s Nicholas, my lady,” he replied with amused tolerance for her blunt enquiry.

“Mmm, I might have known it wasn’t the heir paying his addresses.” She straightened her black wig. “I’d offer you breakfast, but I dismissed the cook this morning. Servants—can’t abide ’em!” she confided. As Alexandra arrived in the morning room, Dottie prepared to leave. “I’ll be in the kitchen, cooking myself a kipper. Who needs riffraffy servants anyway?”

Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Eccentric as a bandicoot.”

“I prefer a bandicoot to a mad bull. I’m sorry about last night, Alexandra.”

“Why was he so angry with you?”

“I never did find out,” Nicholas lied with a reassuring smile, “and Father doesn’t remember a thing about it this morning. A faulty memory is the sole advantage of drinking too much. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t upset by the incident.”

“I’ve seldom seen Lord Hatton when he wasn’t angry with you. How do you tolerate him, Nick?”

“He’s always worse around our birthdays—it’s the pain of losing our mother,” Nick explained, to excuse his father’s behavior.

“He’ll be sorry when he recognizes himself in my
roman a‘ clef
!”

Nick laughed. “Come early on Saturday, and pack some old riding clothes. You’ll find me in the stables.”

“Where else?” she asked, her fond gaze lingering on the open collar of the linen shirt that displayed so temptingly his strong neck. “I’ll bring my sketchbook too,” she declared, knowing exactly what she wanted to draw.

When Nicholas departed, Dottie came out of the kitchen carrying a frying pan that held a burned kipper. “I adore that boy—ah, if only I were ten years younger, I’d give the gels a run for their money with that Adonis.”

Alexandra almost choked. If Dottie were ten years younger, she’d still be past fifty! Still, she had to admit, Nicholas Hatton certainly made a female long for a lover, no matter her age. She was becoming excited about the upcoming weekend. “I must think of a costume for the masquerade ball.” She had almost decided to disguise herself as a young man, since the guests would be less guarded with what they said in front of a male. “What about you?”

“Oh, I shall go as a nun, of course. It will fool people into thinking I’m celibate.”

This time Alexandra did choke, then had to pretend it was the smell of the burned kipper that made her gasp for air.

“The young people today have no imagination. They are a wishy-washy, namby-pamby lot! Don’t ye know that fancy-dress balls were devised as a delicious excuse to wear inadequate, indecent garments? When I was younger, I wore the most scandalous costumes; one so daring it earned me the nickname Godiva.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “I wonder where that long, silvery-blond wig got to? Probably in a trunk in the attic. You could rummage about up there for a costume, Alexandra.”

“I think I just might . . . after I’ve cooked you another kipper.”

“Thank you, darling. You are an angel.”

Later that morning, Alexandra carried an array of costumes to her bedchamber, while Dottie clutched an old ear-trumpet as if it were a priceless, lost treasure. “Pox take it, I shall have one of the most entertaining weekends of my life with this contraption!”

Alexandra eyed Dottie warily. “As a poking device?”

“No darling, as a
provoking
device! I shall pretend that I’ve suddenly been struck deaf. The party won’t be boring, after all!”

 

 

On Friday, July 21, the day before his birthday, Christopher Hatton was pleased when a large wooden box was delivered, marked JOSEPH HEYLIN, CORNHILL, LONDON. Heylin was the maker of the finest holster pistols in England and Christopher guessed his birthday gift had arrived. Kit had a fine gun collection and was eager to add to it. He had dropped numerous hints to his father about the pair of sterling silver-mounted officer’s holster pistols he’d seen in Heylin’s workshop in Cornhill, and apparently the seeds he’d planted had borne fruit.

It wasn’t until after dinner that Lord Hatton stood up from the table and announced, “Well, Christopher, if you’d like your birthday present, you’d better come out to the stables.”

For a moment Kit wondered why the stables, then it dawned on him that he was most likely getting a new pair of leather saddle holsters to go with the pistols. Kit winked at his twin as they followed their father out to the stables. “I love surprises.”

And surprise was what Christopher got when his father presented him with the savage black Thoroughbred stallion. An unpleasant surprise. A bolt of fear akin to lightning shot through him as he stood rooted to the spot, reliving his tenth birthday. Until then, the twins had been mounted on ponies they’d had since they were three and which represented no threat. Then Hatton decided that at ten years old, his heir was ready for a spirited black hunter.

The animal had terrified Kit, and he wished with all his heart that the docile gray filly presented to Nicholas could be his instead. He remembered how he had avoided going close to the hunter for two days, until his father had demanded to see him ride. He had crept up upon the great beast with a saddle over one arm and a riding whip clutched in his sweating palm.

The hunter didn’t make his move until Kit was well into the stall, then suddenly he bared vicious teeth and lunged for him. Kit lashed out wildly with the whip, but this only put the black in a frenzy. He reared up with flailing hooves, ready to trample the boy who was lashing out at him.

That was the day his twin, Nicholas, saved his life.

“Don’t whip him!” Nick cried, snatching up a pitchfork and gently backing the animal into a corner of the stall. “Quick, run!” Nick cried, but Kit was paralyzed with fear. As the hunter again reared and screamed, Nick dropped the pitchfork, darted in, grabbed his brother, and rolled with him from beneath the flailing iron-clad hooves. That was the day Christopher Hatton decided his twin loved him far more than his father did.

But saving him was only half the story. Nick had donned Kit’s clothes and ridden the black hunter under their father’s critical eye. Later, Nick explained that the horse too had been driven by fear, and only kindness and a firm hand could win him over. It had taken a whole year before Christopher could ride the hunter without being drenched in perspiration, and another year before he could ride him with the nonchalant, hell-for-leather horsemanship that came naturally to Nicholas.

Kit again felt the familiar trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, and the miasma of horse-lant, straw, and leather rose up to nauseate him, but he had learned never to show weakness before his father. “He has magnificent lines; how does the name Renegade strike you?” Kit drawled.

Henry Hatton smiled with satisfaction and turned to Nicholas. “There’s a fine pair of guns up at the house for you, my boy. If you apply yourself and practice, you may someday achieve Christopher’s skill at marksmanship.”

The minute their father was out of earshot, Kit cursed, “Christ Almighty, why is he so fucking obtuse?”