Silk And Seduction Bundle 2

Ah. No wonder Lord Callandar had looked so pleased. He had managed to get his troublesome niece off his hands without having to dip into his pockets to induce somebody to marry her.

She sighed. She had long since accepted she was nothing like her mother, who had been so beautiful that she inspired men to the heights of passion. Not, she shuddered, that she wanted to cause men to fight over her. Or kill one another for love of her. But it would be nice to think she might stir just a little bit of admiration in her groom’s breast.

Her aunt, misinterpreting that shudder, was instantly full of sympathy. ‘It is the main duty of a wife to provide her husband with sons. It is a compliment to you, my dear, that out of all the women he might have chosen, Viscount Mildenhall picked you.’

He did not pick her, so much as give in to Rick’s pleading to find a home for poor little Midge, she thought, slumping down into her pillows.

‘Oh, Imogen,’ Lady Callandar sighed tearily, ‘I know you are a very affectionate girl, but you must not look for that sort of love within marriage. Especially not from Viscount Mildenhall. From what I have observed of him since he came into the title, he takes after his mother, the Earl of Corfe’s second wife. She was a cold, proud woman.’ Her aunt grimaced. ‘Though that match was arranged by his parents, so it was hardly surprising they barely spoke to one another once she had presented him with a son. No, what you must hope for is that, in time, you will come to an easy understanding which will lead to a lifelong friendship.’

Perhaps that might be possible. Once he had a chance to get to know her, he would see she was nothing like he had so far imagined! And once he stopped being so suspicious of her…

Lady Callandar reached out and stroked a stray curl from her forehead. ‘Knowing you, the first time he strays you will experience agonizing jealousy. But on no account, my dear, must you create the kind of scene that will make your husband uncomfortable. No matter how many little affairs he may have, what you must remember is that you will always be his wife. His viscountess. It is equally important,’ she ploughed on, in spite of Imogen’s shocked gasp, ‘that you do not indulge your craving for affection until you have presented your husband with an heir. Even your mother, silly creature that she was, managed to wait until she had given birth to a healthy boy.’

‘It was not like that! She did not mean to have an affair with Lord Leybourne. It just happened!’

Lady Callandar pursed her lips. ‘These things never just happen, Imogen.’

Imogen flung herself back against the pillows, a scowl on her face. Her aunt did not understand what it had been like for her mother; that was the trouble.

‘It was madness, Imo,’ Amanda had sighed, though her eyes had been alight with an emotion Imogen had not been able to decipher. ‘We knew what we were doing was wrong, but, oh, we could not deny ourselves just a few snatched hours of happiness out of the wasteland Kit had made of my life.’ She had sighed and plucked at the coverlet with her emaciated, yellowed hand. ‘Not that your father cared one whit,’ she had pouted. ‘He thought it was a huge joke. He mocked William for being able to stomach touching me when I was pregnant. He taunted me with accounts of his current mistress. About her taut stomach and firm breasts. But William defended me.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I remember Kit sitting at my dressing table, mopping at a cut over his eye with one of my handkerchiefs and laughing about the impressive physical prowess of the lover I had taken, and—’ she had shuddered disgustedly ‘—saying he was quite looking forward to discovering whether William had managed to teach me any new tricks. He said that if I had learned to be a little more enterprising, then he might not find it such a chore to resume his marital duties once I had delivered his child. That I might look forward to receiving more of his attention—’ The feverish confession had ended in a fit of coughing, as it so often did.

Imogen tried to shut out the image of her mother’s wasted frame, but she could not silence her words. Not when they chimed so exactly with what her aunt was warning her marrying into the nobility would entail.

‘I do concede,’ her aunt admitted, ‘that there were extenuating circumstances. I remember that the Earl of Leybourne was your mother’s most ardent admirer, until Baron Framlingham came onto the scene. The woman he married was nowhere near so beautiful as your mother, and I suppose, when they were all thrown together by that Home Office business—’

‘Yes!’ Imogen sat up and grasped her aunt’s hand. ‘He told her that although he had tried to be a good husband, the feelings he had for his first love had never completely died. And she said the moment she saw him again, she was filled with regret for the choices she had made, and wished she could somehow wipe away all the years of misery she had suffered with Kit. They went outside into the garden, and she wept all over him, and he tried to comfort her, and…’

‘I suppose she told you one thing led to another,’ said her aunt dryly. ‘But I have to inform you that nobody just falls into an affair. They choose it. For whatever reason. Boredom or revenge, or as in your mother’s case,’ she added wistfully, ‘perhaps for comfort.’ She visibly took herself in hand, before saying bracingly, ‘Imogen I do hope you will take your mother’s fate as a warning. You must not yearn for the unobtainable in your marriage. Strive instead to be content with what you have.’

On these words, her aunt left the room, leaving Imogen sickened at the prospect of enduring the kind of marriage her aunt had just outlined. Where she was expected to turn a blind eye to her husband’s infidelity, as her aunt clearly had to whenever her uncle strayed, and count herself lucky anybody had deigned to marry her in the first place!

She was the very last person in the world who ought to become a viscountess!

Although, realistically, she supposed it was too much to hope that a man as attractive as Viscount Mildenhall would stay faithful to any one woman for very long. Especially one as plain as her. She sank back into her pillows and glared up at the canopy.

And her aunt, who she had always thought of as being the arbiter of etiquette, seemed to think there would be nothing wrong with her having adulterous affairs as some sort of…compensation! So long as she had got the main duty of being a wife over with first.

She sat up, blew out her candle with a vengeance and thumped her pillow before flinging herself back into it.

She supposed at least she was going into her loveless marriage with her eyes open. Whereas her poor mother had believed Kit loved her.

Her aunt seemed to think Viscount Mildenhall would restrict himself to her, until he had got her pregnant, too, whereas her father…

She rolled onto her side, drawing her legs up to her chest. Kit had never had any intention of so much as nodding towards the conventions of marriage. As soon as he had got his hands on the inheritance he had married Amanda to secure, he had gone out and celebrated in the wildest fashion imaginable. He had flaunted a succession of mistresses in public. And then, when Amanda did not immediately fall pregnant, set out to prove that the fault was not his. He had eventually brought home a baby boy that he had fathered on a Gypsy woman, informing Amanda that since she could not give him a son, she would have to see a bastard filling the empty crib in the nursery.

Kit had intended to humiliate her by forcing her to care for his illegitimate son. But he had overlooked the fact that Amanda adored babies. And that by this time, she had given up all hope of ever having any children of her own. He had told her so often she must be barren, that she had come to believe it.

‘Imo,’ she had sighed, her eyes filling up with tears, ‘he was such a beautiful baby. With a shock of dark hair and your father’s smile. I might not have been his real mother, but I felt just as though he was my firstborn. He was not responsible for his parents’ actions. Poor, helpless little mite! It was cruel of Kit to bring him into our home and try to use him as a weapon. I never forgave him for that!’

Kit had been disappointed to see Amanda finding consolation in caring for the boy as if he was her own, and quickly tired of having a squalling brat in the house. So he began to torment her by threatening to send the boy back to his real mother. What had sealed little Stephen’s fate, though, had been Grandpapa Herriard storming into the house and demanding that Kit house his by-blow elsewhere. Amanda had, she told Imogen, gone up to the nursery and held the little boy in her arms, fearing it might be the very last time she held any child she could call her own. But her father’s attempt to browbeat him into ‘doing the right thing’ made Kit dig in his heels. For if there was one thing Kit Hebden relished, it was behaving badly. Having a Gypsy brat openly living in his house, forcing his wife into what everyone interpreted as a humiliating position, suited his warped sense of humour down to the ground. And so Stephen had stayed.

And Society had been duly shocked.

Imogen frowned. Viscount Mildenhall had told her he was no stranger to scandal, on account of his stepmother’s actions, but he had not said he would ever actively court it. On the contrary, he had not even wanted anyone to know what had happened out on Lady Carteret’s terrace. He also said he was willing to take her in hand, to spare Rick’s blushes for her future conduct. If he had an affair—no, when he had an affair, she corrected herself—he was the kind of man who would conduct it with discretion. And if there were any by-blows, he would certainly not bring them home and force her to raise them!

Viscount Mildenhall might be a handsome charmer, but he was not cast in the same mould as her father. In his own fashion, he would probably attempt to be a good sort of husband.

Anyway—she huffed, turning over—if he wasn’t, he would have Rick to answer to!

Imogen woke the next morning, feeling a sense of hope rising unbidden within her. It was the culmination of every girl’s ambition to marry well. And in Society’s eyes, she had succeeded.

Viscount Mildenhall was handsome and wealthy, and his kiss had been so potent she still felt a little thrill every time she thought of it. She had no reason to feel cheated. Persons of her class very rarely found love within marriage. Her aunt may have had hopes at one point, but now she seemed heartily thankful that Lord Callandar scarcely set foot in his own house. She had her own social circle and her own interests which kept her cheerfully occupied.

And very few endured such misery as Kit Hebden had put her mother through, either.

No, it was far better not to marry for that sort of love. For, after the fires of passion had burned out, her mother had warned her, all that was left were the ashes of cold despair.

She flung the covers aside and swung her legs out of the bed. There was no way of knowing what marriage with Viscount Mildenhall would bring her, but today she was going to cling to the hope that perhaps, given time, they might achieve that state of easy companionship she had observed her mother enjoying with Hugh Bredon.

And at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she was repaying all the kindness her aunt had shown her, by entering into a marriage of which she thoroughly approved.

Imogen smiled wryly to her reflection in the mirror as her maid fixed her bonnet in place. It had felt like a crime to hide her gorgeous gown under her coat, but the day was too chilly to drive to the church without one.

As she climbed into the carriage, it struck Imogen that there was another aspect to her wedding day that pleased her. Gathered in St George’s chapel that morning would be representatives of all the families that had been torn apart by the murder of her father. Lords Framlingham, Leybourne and Narborough had once been friends, working together to solve a crime that was taking place in some high office.

Until the night Lord Narborough had found Lord Framlingham bleeding to death in his garden, with Lord Leybourne bending over him, a bloodied dagger in his hand.

Narborough had refused to believe his friend’s protestations of innocence, and had given evidence against him that resulted in him being hanged for treason, as well as murder.

Shattering the bonds of friendship.

Yet today, their children would stand together in St George’s chapel, each, she fervently hoped, demonstrating by their attendance that they were putting past enmities aside. The fact that a Wardale had already married a Carlow had been a good start.

Now she fervently hoped that a Wardale could look a Hebden in the eye in a spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation.

When the carriage drew up outside the chapel, Imogen, determined to look her best for the viscount, waited for the footman to let down the steps and hold out his arm to steady her, rather than jumping down carelessly, scarcely looking where she put her feet, as she usually did. She had no intention of beginning her marriage to a man who set such store by appearances by walking up the aisle with muddy shoes or a dripping flounce from landing in a puddle.

She waited patiently while her maid smoothed down her skirts, adjusted the set of her bonnet and brushed a piece of fluff from the shoulder of her coat, while her uncle distanced himself from the feminine flutter by strolling up and down.

Pansy was just leaning back into the carriage for Imogen’s bouquet, when a man who had been lounging against one of the pillars called out, ‘Imo?’

Imogen looked up with a slight frown on her brow to see who was calling to her. Nobody called her Imo these days. She was either Miss Hebden, or Imogen or Midge. So the voice felt like a dark hand, reaching out to her from her very distant past. A past that she had hoped was going to be laid to rest today. And so her voice, when she replied, ‘Yes?’ quivered with trepidation.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the light, and Imogen gasped.

It was the first time she had seen a Gypsy up this close. But there was no mistaking his origins, with the flamboyance of his clothing, his long, black hair and the swarthy complexion set off by the gold hoop in one ear.

He came a step closer.

‘For you,’ he said, holding out a small packet tied up with string. The silver bangle he wore round his wrist glinted like a knife blade in the sunlight. ‘A reminder.’

Though the gift and his words made him appear to be a well-wisher, something about his stance and the tone of his voice were vaguely menacing.

But even though her instinct was to draw back, she thought it would be unwise to offend a Gypsy, especially on her wedding day. The woman who had borne Stephen had tracked Amanda down after Kit died, and cursed her for robbing her of her son, swearing she would never see a son of her own reach adulthood. Amanda had only just had a miscarriage and then she promptly lost little Thomas to a fever. After that, Amanda had been convinced that if she had any more sons, they would die, too. The Gypsy woman’s curse had haunted her for the rest of her life.

So Imogen steeled herself to reach out her hand and accept the man’s gift.

But just before she could do so, her uncle, who had finally noticed what was going on, let out a bellow of rage.

‘Get away from my niece, you filthy cur!’ His walking cane made a swishing noise as he lashed out at the Gypsy’s extended arm.

But the Gypsy’s reactions were swift. The cane clattered down upon the flags without striking his arm.

Her uncle then rounded on her, growling, ‘Who have you been tattling to, you stupid girl? The one thing, above all else, you should have kept quiet about…and now somebody is using it to make trouble.’

Imogen gazed at her uncle in stupefaction. Then turned her bewildered gaze on the stranger, who was regarding her uncle with a smile of what looked like grim satisfaction. Her heart began to pound in her chest. It was the most incredible coincidence that a Gypsy should turn up at her wedding, with a gift and an admonition to remember, after she had spent so much time the night before, lying in bed, thinking about her illegitimate Gypsy half brother.

She saw what her uncle meant. The man who stood before them, a mocking smile on his face, was a visible reminder of her family’s deepest, darkest shame.

‘Go on!’ Her uncle blustered, waving his stick ineffectually at the Gypsy, who dodged each blow with ease. ‘Be off with you!’

‘Nothing to say, Imo?’ The man rounded on her, his eyes burning with blatant hostility. ‘Don’t you want me to leave?’

Imogen’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was so shocked, she did not know what to say. It seemed incredibly cruel of someone to have sent a Gypsy to her wedding, to remind everyone that she had once had a half brother with Romany blood in his veins.

Her uncle seized her by the arm and began to drag her across the portico, towards the door of the chapel.

‘Come away,’ he huffed. His face was red and shiny from unaccustomed exertion and thwarted rage. ‘The impudent fellow won’t dare to follow us in there!’

‘You may have forgotten me, Imo,’ the Gypsy snarled as her uncle dragged her away. ‘But I, Stephen, have never forgotten you!’

From somewhere she managed to find the strength to tear herself from her uncle’s grasp, and turn back. Surely, hardly anybody alive today could know the name of her Gypsy half brother.

‘How could you know his name was Stephen?’ she grated. ‘Are you from his tribe? Is that how you know about me?’

The man who claimed to be Stephen smiled in a way that was totally without mirth. And she felt a jolt of recognition. She had seen that very smile in the mirror, not an hour since! It was the way she always smiled, when she recognized some absurdity. A shock of dark hair…she seemed to hear her mother saying ‘…and his father’s smile…’

Everyone said how very like her father she was, too! She took another step towards him, her eyes searching his features, her breathing ragged. His lips were the same shape as hers. He had the same slant to his eyebrows, the same prominent cheekbones.

‘Stephen?’ she whispered, stretching her hands out towards him. ‘Can it really be you?’

‘Don’t be so foolish, niece!’ her uncle snapped. ‘This is just some miscreant, out to make trouble for you. Come away, girl, before it is too late.’

But she could not tear her eyes from the Gypsy’s face.

‘Are you really my brother?’ she demanded.

The Gypsy held her gaze boldly, proudly, unashamedly.

And then he nodded.

‘Uncle,’ she declared, whirling round to face him, ‘I have not raised one single protest about any arrangement you and my aunt have made regarding this day. In fact, I have had no say in any of it! But I will stand firm in this matter. If he really is my brother, then I want him at my wedding!’

Snatches of Imogen’s protests echoed all the way to the front of the church, where Viscount Mildenhall was standing waiting for her.

‘…not raised one single protest…arrangement you and my aunt…will stand firm…’

The guests were turning in their seats, peering over the tops of the box pews, curious to see what all the commotion was about.

Something like a cold fist clutched hard inside the viscount’s chest. Miss Hebden had told him she did not want to marry him, but he had not believed her. He had trampled on all her objections, then approached her uncle, having uttered dire warnings of what the consequences would be if she refused him.

Yet Rick had told him his sister was straight as a die. That she would always be honest.

Right from the first, she had said she was not interested in him. That very first night, when she had thrown her drink over him…

There had been a group of girls standing behind her, laughing behind their fans as she had tried to apologize for what she claimed was an accident.

He had not believed her then. He had bracketed her with all the other females who had attempted such encounters to gain his attention. Especially once he had learned she was Miss Hebden, daughter of a notorious rake and a shameless adulteress.

He cast his mind back to the stories Rick had told of her growing up and how difficult she was finding it to behave with the decorum expected of young ladies in Society. And replayed the scene in his mind with her as Midge, Rick’s tomboyish little sister, chatting away to her companions, waving her hands about exuberantly…with her back to the door.

She had not, he realized with cold certainty, known he was there at all.

Though her so-called friends had.

They had set her up!

His head snapped round to where the Misses Veryan were sitting, craning their necks to see what was going on in the porch. Their faces were alight with the same malice they had exhibited that night.

And as for the terrace outside Lady Carteret’s ballroom…He almost groaned aloud. She had strenuously insisted she had only gone out onto that terrace for some fresh air. Now he fully understood why she had bitten him and punched him in the face. His behaviour had been unforgivable!

But she had looked so alluring in that silver gown, that wistful expression on her face…he almost doubled over as hurt pierced him through. She had claimed she had been thinking of some other man. If that was the truth, as he now accepted all her other protestations were the truth, then Midge’s affections were engaged elsewhere! She had never intentionally pursued him, let alone wanted to marry him. That notion had sprung entirely from his own vanity.

The girl who had written all those loving letters to Rick had such a giving nature, she was bound to yield to her family’s wishes. Yes, he could see it all now. She had tried valiantly to give up all hope of this other man, but he had seen the night he had dined in their home what it was costing her. Her sense of family duty had got her as far as the church door. But the thought of actually tying the knot with a man she had not hesitated to call a vile worm was just too much.

‘Rick,’ he grated, feeling as though something inside him was dying. ‘Go and find out what she wants. And make sure she gets it.’

With a puzzled frown, Rick got to his feet and strode out of the chapel.

Funny, but when he had decided to marry Miss Hebden, he had thought she was the victor and he was her prize. Yet now it felt as though if Midge would not have him he would be losing something that would have enriched his life immeasurably.

At the chapel door, far from the quarrel quieting down, the voices grew even more agitated. Rick’s reasoning tone mingled with Midge’s cries of protest and her uncle’s bombastic hectoring.

Finally, he could take it no longer.

Midge could not possibly hate him more than he hated himself for the way he had misjudged and maltreated her. If the only way he could make amends was to set her free, then he must do so.

As he stalked down the length of the aisle, the eyes of all the assembled guests followed his progress avidly. He reflected how he had once foolishly thought that marrying her would be the price he would have to pay for his ungentlemanly conduct on Lady Carteret’s terrace. Now he knew better. The price he must pay for alienating Midge would be letting her go.