Regency Bride. Michelle Styles

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      ‘Will you give me a chance to prove the gossips wrong?’ Kit asked quietly. ‘Will you dance with me again or, better still, take a turn about the garden where I can plead my case?’

      He waited for her breathless agreement.

      ‘This is where the dance ends,’ she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. She gave a small curtsy. ‘We would hardly wish to cause a scandal. We are only strangers after all.’

      ‘I must become a friend and discover what sort of scandal you have in mind,’ Kit murmured. ‘Be reckless. Further our acquaintance. You intrigue me.’

      ‘One dance will have to satisfy you, Sir Christopher.’ She stepped out of his arms. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

      She strode away, her hips agreeably swaying and her back twitching. Kit frowned. He had nearly begged for her favour. He never begged. His skills were rusty.

      He patted his pocket where he’d placed the gloves. Their little romance was not over until he decided. Mrs Wilkinson had a lesson to learn and she would learn it … thoroughly. ‘Until the next time, Mrs Wilkinson. Sweet dreams.’

      Mrs Wilkinson paused, half-turned, then, appearing to think better of a retort, she resumed her march in double-quick time as if the devil himself was after her.

Chapter Two

      ‘You left Sir Christopher Foxton standing on the dance floor even though the dance hadn’t finished!’ Mrs Reynaud said with a stifled gasp as Hattie reached the end of her highly edited tale the next morning. The sunlit parlour with its dimity lace curtains and artfully arranged ornaments was a world away from last night’s splendours of the ballroom.

      ‘It was the right thing to do.’ Hattie reached for her teacup. There was little point in telling Mrs Reynaud about how her legs had trembled and how close she’d been to agreeing to his outlandish suggestion of a turn about the garden. She knew what he was, why she couldn’t take a chance with him and still the temptation to give in to his charm had been there. Even after all she’d been through with Charles and his unreliability, a part of her had wanted to believe in romance and she refused to allow it to happen.

      ‘Do you know you were the only lady he danced with all night?’

      Hattie set the cup down with an unsteady hand. She could hardly confess to have been aware of Sir Christopher in that fashion. ‘How do you know that on dit?’

      ‘My maid had the news from the butcher’s boy this morning,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Your waltz is the talk of the village. I’ve been in a quiver of anticipation. Thank you for telling me what truly happened, my dear. It makes my mind rest easier.’

      Hattie kept her gaze focused on the way her papillon dog, Moth, was delicately finishing her biscuit, rather than meeting Mrs Reynaud’s interested gaze. The whole point of the story was to enlist Mrs Reynaud’s advice about Livvy’s behaviour and how best to approach the talk she knew she’d have to give, rather than discuss her near-flirtation with the village’s current most notorious resident.

      Why was it that women lost their minds as soon as Sir Christopher’s name was mentioned? Her sister had gone fluttery when Hattie returned from the dance floor, demanding to know how Hattie was acquainted with Sir Christopher. Hattie glossed over the card-room incident and Stephanie appeared satisfied.

      ‘It was a waltz, nothing more,’ Hattie said finally, seeking to close the matter. ‘We had a brief verbal-sparring match. He dislikes being bested, but the game has ended. Honours to me.’

      ‘Do you know how long Sir Christopher will be in the neighbourhood?’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth another biscuit. The little brown-and-white dog tilted her head to one side, waiting, but after Hattie nodded gobbled the biscuit up.

      ‘He failed to confide his intentions.’ Hattie stroked Moth’s silky ears. Moth had come into her life just after Charles’s death and for many months was the only bright spot. ‘It has taken him over a year to visit his inheritance. Our paths won’t cross again.’

      ‘Predicting the future is always fraught with danger, my dear.’ Mrs Reynaud brushed the crumbs into a pile for Moth. ‘It does my heart good to hear news of him after such a long time, even if it’s only for a short while.’

      ‘Are you acquainted with him, then?’ Hattie stared at the woman.

      ‘I knew the family years ago. His late uncle arranged for me to have the lease on this house.’

      ‘Perhaps he will call on you once he realises you are here.’

      The colour faded from Mrs Reynaud’s face, making the pockmarks stand out even more. ‘My dear, I … I have changed a great deal since we last encountered each other.’

      Instantly Hattie regretted her words. Over the last two years since Mrs Reynaud had taken up residency in the tiny cottage, she’d become accustomed to Mrs Reynaud’s ruined features. ‘An old friend never looks at faces. They are pleased to renew the friendship.’

      ‘I doubt that he will remember me, whatever the state of his manners,’ Mrs Reynaud said, raising a handkerchief to her face. ‘Pray do not bother him with an old woman’s remembrance of a past acquaintance. I was wrong to mention it. Ever so wrong.’

      ‘Very well, I won’t insist.’ Hattie buried her face in Moth’s fur. What was she doing, clutching at straws, searching for a way to encounter Sir Christopher again? Had her experience with Charles taught her nothing? A few minutes waltzing with a confirmed rake and she behaved worse than Livvy. ‘It is a moot point as our paths are unlikely to cross.’

      ‘Are you that ignorant of men? He forced a forfeit and waltzed with you and only you.’

      ‘He did that for … for his own purposes,’ Hattie explained. ‘They say his mistresses are the most beautiful women London can offer. Why would he be interested in someone like me and my few charms?’

      ‘You underestimate yourself, my dear, and that borders on foolishness.’ Mrs Reynaud held out her hand. ‘I merely wanted to point out that having done your duty to your fallen hero and mourned him properly, you can start to live again. But if your heart is for ever buried with your husband and you are one of the walking dead, then so be it. A pity with you being so young.’

      Hattie swirled the remains of her coffee. Living again. She thanked God that Mrs Reynaud didn’t know what her husband was truly like. The extent of his perfidy and hypocrisy had only emerged after his death.

      Before then she had considered that she had a blissful marriage with someone utterly reliable and steadfast. She’d had no idea about his other family or the debts he’d run up. Thankfully, the woman in question had been discreet and she’d managed to scrape together the required amount. But no one else knew. She had her pride.

      Sometimes she felt as if she was still living a lie, but she couldn’t confess the full horror. Not now, not ever. It remained her problem and she didn’t want false sympathy.

      She opted for a bland, ‘I hardly know what to say.’

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