Mesalliance Read online

  THE

  MÉSALLIANCE

  A Georgian Romance

  Stella Riley

  The Mésalliance

  Stella Riley

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Stella Riley

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  Cover Portrait

  Duchess Izabela Czartoryska

  Alexander Roslin 1774

  PROLOGUE

  Northumberland, 1767

  Despite the slowness of a pace dictated by unfamiliar country and the uselessness of his right arm, the solitary rider looked appreciatively across the wild splendour of Redesdale, shimmering beneath a cloudless July haze, and congratulated himself on finally eluding the bailiff.

  For five days the fellow had shadowed his every step, reciting names and rents, acreages and tithes, leases and debts – until escape had become not only desirable but imperative. Not that the bailiff could be blamed; for since nothing was ever likely to make his noble employer forsake the delights of London in favour of his most distant and least favourite estate, it was only sensible to seize on the person of his noble employer’s son and heir. But it was a great pity, thought the heir ruefully, that Mr Forne talked so much.

  Grimacing slightly, he shifted his arm inside its sling in an attempt to ease the nagging discomfort of his shoulder and found, as usual, that it didn’t help a great deal. But the heat of Northumberland was a good deal easier to bear than the heat of London and another week or two should see him fit enough to re-join his regiment. All in all – now that he was finally alone – it was possible to detect a mild stirring of content.

  When he first saw the girl she had been gathering wild flowers and her arms were full of them, a riot of blazing colour against the faded pink of her gown and rendering her even more plain than she undoubtedly was. Flat as a board, angular and thin, she was all eyes and mouth and wildly disordered nut-brown hair. Startled and poised for flight, she regarded him out of dark-fringed cisterns of aquamarine, so that he said quickly, ‘Don’t be frightened. I’m quite harmless – as, no doubt, you can see.’

  She appeared to absorb the glories of his immaculate full-skirted grey coat, and the black sling that supported his arm before saying simply, ‘Yes. Does it hurt?’

  Laughter gleamed in his eyes but he answered truthfully, ‘A little.’ And then, realising that the low, sweet voice was miraculously free of the local dialect, ‘Do you live here?’

  Nodding, she let fall some of the flowers to push back her hair and point across the fell. ‘Over there.’

  He looked but saw nothing and turned back to the wide, considering eyes below him. ‘You’ve dropped your flowers. Allow me to -- ’

  But at his first movement, she took fright again and backed off saying breathlessly, ‘It doesn’t matter. I have to go. Goodbye.’ And ran, graceful as a deer, away across the turf.

  It was then that he noticed that her feet were bare.

  He would almost certainly have forgotten her had he not seen her again the next day, sitting motionless on the far side of a beck. There were no flowers this time but the thin arms were curved round something else. A hare? He had to look twice to be sure and then, smiling, bowed to her from the saddle. She surveyed him solemnly and replied with a tiny inclination of her head. The hare, so far as he could see, did not even twitch.

  He decided to put Mr Forne’s knowledge to the test.

  ‘That’d be old Mr Kendrick’s grand-daughter, my lord. Her mother died when she were not more than two or three months old, poor lass. Aye … I mind it well on account of the young mistress having seemed perfectly hale afore they set off on that visit to London-town – and then to have Mr Tom come home in black not six weeks later? Well, fair shocked us all, it did – and not even a nice funeral to go to, the young lady having been buried with her own kin in the south. Terrible! Then, after that, Mr Tom took to the drink and were killed in a tavern brawl over to Hexham-way only three years later.’

  Mr Forne paused, shaking his head regretfully and, taking advantage of the opportunity to get a word in, his lordship said idly, ‘And the girl is what – about twelve years old?’

  ‘Bless you, no, sir. The young lady’s more like sixteen, I reckon – but with only her grandpa and a couple of servants, it’s no wonder she’s grown up half gypsy. Seems hardly right when they say she’s got a whole set of Quality relations on her mother’s side. But there … old Mr Kendrick’s health ain’t what it was and happen he’s glad of the company. Took it hard he did when Mr Tom died …’

  Having already heard more than enough, his lordship allowed his attention to wander. Mr Forne continued to worry the subject for a further twenty minutes. His lordship sighed gently and reflected that it served him right for asking. Plain little Mistress Kendrick might have the indefinable promise of something that had nothing to do with beauty – but since he himself would never see it fulfilled, it really wasn’t worth this amount of suffering.

  After four days of paperwork accompanied by the bailiff’s tireless tongue, his lordship was driven to rise a good two hours earlier than he liked in order to beat a strategic retreat. And when he came upon the Kendrick child at the foot of a tree, one hand upraised and her voice low and coaxing, it somehow failed to surprise him at all.

  Half amused, half interested, he reined in some way behind her and quietly dismounted to approach on foot … and had just enough time to see a squirrel accept the offering in her extended fingers before a twig snapped beneath his foot and the tableau dissolved. In a flash of red, the squirrel scampered back into its shelter of leaves and the girl whipped round to face him.

  Expecting either alarm or justifiable exasperation, he flung up his hand in a gesture of surrender and said, ‘I beg your pardon. I’m an oaf and quite obviously trespassing. Have I undone hours of patient work?’

  The unkempt head tilted consideringly and then the wide mouth curved into a disconcertingly splendid smile. ‘No. He’ll come back – though not today for I’ve nothing else to give him. And I don’t think you are an oaf.’

  ‘That’s generous of you,’ he replied with careful gravity. ‘But if not that – then what?’

  She studied the long, blue-black hair neatly tied at his nape, the dark heavy-lidded eyes and the elegant blue coat with its deep, braided cuffs. Concentration drew a single line between her brows and then she said seriously, ‘It’s difficult because I never met anyone like you before. But I suppose that you are a gentleman … and I think that perhaps you are kind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, distinctly taken-aback.

  ‘For what?’ The guileless eyes were puzzled.

  And because he could not think of an answer and did not, in any case, know why he was conducting a conversation at some ungodly hour of the morning with an untidy child of incredible simplicity, he laughed at the absurdity of it all and wondered what his friends would say if they could see him.

  Still eyeing him as if he were some rare and exotic species, the girl smiled doubtfully and said, ‘You don’t live here.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, amusement still threaded through his lazy tones. ‘And you don’t wear shoes.’

  ‘They’re over there.’ She moved for the first time, an unconsciously fluid gesture of vague disinterest. Then, ‘What
is your name?’

  He smiled and opened his mouth to reply. But instead of supplying his title or even his army rank, he heard himself announcing his given name – which no one that he could recall ever used at all.

  ‘Tracy. I should like you, if you will, to call me Tracy.’

  ~ * * * ~

  EIGHT YEARS LATER

  IN 1775 . . .

  ONE

  ‘Rosalind,’ announced the Marquis of Amberley, pensively, ‘will be distraught. I believe she had counted on serving you up in a garland of strawberry leaves to the Bishop’s niece. Anything below a Viscount, you know, is quite below the lady’s touch – so Rosalind thought that you might go down rather well. Or was it the other way about?’

  His companion lifted one sardonic brow.

  ‘Or was it that, having been married over a year, your eye has begun to wander and Rosalind – wise lady that she is – perceives the need to provide you with a rival?’

  The Marquis regarded him with an air of mild hilarity.

  ‘For the favours of the Bishop’s niece, of course?’

  ‘Of course. Have you something else in mind?’ Dark eyes widening, the lazy voice became the epitome of shocked innocence. ‘Has Rosalind something else in mind?’

  There was a long silence as quizzical grey-green eyes met mocking black ones. Then Amberley said, ‘Ask her. When you explain that you are leaving, for example. She might even tell you.’

  ‘Tell him what?’ enquired a musical voice from behind them. ‘And what is this talk of leaving?’

  The quizzical expression changed to something very different as Lord Amberley turned to look across at his wife. Rising, he said, ‘Rock thinks you must, by now, be feeling the need to add spice to our failing relationship. And he’s ready to offer his services.’

  ‘With the result,’ added the Duke of Rockliffe smoothly, ‘that Dominic is throwing me out. He will tell you it is a matter of protecting his honour – but it’s my belief that he is naturally reluctant to see my superior rank and charm cut him out with the Bishop’s daughter.’

  ‘Niece,’ corrected the Marquis helpfully.

  ‘Niece,’ repeated Rockliffe. And smiled.

  The Marchioness of Amberley gave a little rippling laugh and walked unerringly past him to her husband’s side.

  ‘How fortunate it is,’ she remarked, ‘that the two of you have each other. But I often wonder which one is pulling the strings.’

  Amberley smiled down into the beautiful blind eyes and dropped a kiss into her palm. ‘We take it in turns. Should you be standing there?’

  ‘I look tired and frail? Thank you.’ But she smiled and allowed him to hand her to the sofa, settling gracefully into the light circle of his arm.

  Looking at them, his Grace of Rockliffe experienced a more than usually sharp twinge of envy. Never less than beautiful, Rosalind glowed now with the anticipation of meeting her first baby in three months’ time; and Dominic, when he looked at her, did so with an expression that the Duke was discovering himself reluctant to witness. They were complete in each other and he was happy for them; but their joy had a growing ability to make him restless … and the knowledge was disconcerting.

  As if she sensed his withdrawal, Rosalind said, ‘Rock? Are you really leaving us?’

  ‘I am afraid that I must. Nell’s term ends on Friday and so there arises the arduous necessity of removing her from Bath and keeping her safely under my eye until I can place her with either Lucilla or Aunt Augusta.’ He sighed. ‘You should thank God fasting, Dominic, that Eloise did not see fit to provide you with a trio of sisters. They are inevitably either tedious or fatiguing. And, as for my reckless little brother, I expect almost daily to hear of his demise in some hair-raising enterprise or other. However. My immediate problem is not Nicholas but Nell … and I have the lowering feeling that it’s going to be a very trying summer.’

  ‘The last time I saw your Aunt Augusta,’ said the Marquis reflectively, ‘she vowed that nothing would induce her to take responsibility for Nell again.’

  ‘Quite.’ Rockliffe leaned back in apparent gloom. ‘That was a year ago after the dear child let a frog loose in church and bludgeoned the under-footman into taking her to a race meeting. I live in hopes that Augusta may have got over it by now. Indeed, I am praying for it.’

  ‘But there’s always Lucilla,’ Rosalind reminded him. And then, with a choke of laughter, ‘Or is there?’

  The Duke’s gaze transferred itself to Lord Amberley.

  ‘Forget the Bishop’s niece,’ he advised.

  ‘Yes,’ came the regretful reply. ‘I suppose I’d better.’

  He got Rosalind’s elbow in his ribs for that but, before he could complain, she was inviting his Grace to tell them about Lucilla.

  ‘Yes. Do tell us about Lucilla,’ agreed Amberley cordially. ‘And, after that, you can tell us about Nicholas … and Kitty. We already know about Nell and Aunt Augusta.’

  Rosalind frowned. ‘Stop being facetious.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He grinned. ‘I always liked Kitty.’

  ‘If, by that, you mean you preferred her to Lucilla,’ said Rockliffe languidly, ‘I entirely agree with you. But then, I prefer almost everyone to Lucilla. Even Nell – which is saying a good deal.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ objected Rosalind. ‘Nell may be wilful but no one could help liking her.’

  ‘Lucilla can. However, it is true to say that Lucilla doesn’t actually like anyone. She merely approves or disapproves – usually the latter. For those who, like yourself, are fortunate enough to be unacquainted with her, she can be summed up by one simple fact. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever called her Lucy. True, Dominic?’

  ‘Well, I never did – but then I never called her anything if I could avoid it,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Has she also banned Nell from entering her portals?’

  ‘Not at all. Her Christian Duty would forbid it. She merely contents herself with pointing out that she has the moral welfare of her own children to consider and Nell constitutes a threat to it … being, like myself, Addicted to Frivolous Pastimes and – also like me – Vulgarly Prone to forming Violent Attachments to Unsuitable Persons.’ The Duke paused and, entirely without haste, helped himself to an infinitesimal pinch of snuff. ‘In short, Lucilla believes that it is high time I fulfilled my dynastic obligations by choosing a wife so that I will be in a position to look after Nell myself.’

  ‘And will you?’ asked Rosalind casually.

  ‘Between now and Friday? I doubt, my dear, that even I possess sufficient address.’

  ‘Then you’d better bring Nell to us, hadn’t you?’

  There was a brief silence as Amberley and Rockliffe exchanged collaborative glances. Then, ‘No,’ said the Marquis firmly. ‘It isn’t that I don’t like Nell, but --’

  ‘But you prefer Kitty,’ interposed his wife calmly. ‘We know.’

  ‘ – but she’s about as tranquil as a tidal wave and she’d wear you out inside a day. She’d wear me out inside a day.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ objected Rosalind. ‘I’m perfectly fit. And I like Nell. She makes me laugh.’

  ‘No,’ repeated her husband. His tone was as pleasant as ever but utterly final. ‘After September, we’ll see … but until then I’ll not have you disturbed. And if we allow Rock to get a word in, I think you’ll find that he agrees with me.’

  ‘Completely,’ drawled his Grace. ‘But I thank you for the thought. And the problem, mercifully, is only temporary for I intend to present her this winter. If, that is, I can find anyone courageous enough to chaperone her.’

  ‘Is she old enough?’ asked Amberley. ‘I thought she would spend another year at school.’

  ‘She’ll be eighteen in October – and, even if she were not, I doubt the school would have her back. The only reason they’ve kept her as long as this is because I have the inestimable advantage of a coronet,’ explained Rockliffe caustically. ‘No. It’s a great pity that Kitty chose to mar
ry a diplomat and is therefore scarcely ever in England for she could have saved me a good deal of effort. As it is, I shall simply have to hope to find a gentleman with a sense of humour and a partiality for tidal waves.’

  ‘And what,’ asked Rosalind, ‘if Nell doesn’t like him?’

  ‘Given that his nose has an eye on either side, I expect she will,’ came the careless reply. ‘She’s very susceptible – and, to date, her requirements haven’t been what you could call exacting.’

  She was not deceived. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Now that is a very different matter. Or are we still talking about Nell?’

  ‘You know we are. Though I’ve no objection at all to changing the subject,’ offered Rosalind kindly.

  Having a shrewd idea of what was coming next, Amberley said quickly, ‘But Rock might.’

  ‘In which case he will simply describe his newest snuff-box to me in minute and excruciating detail,’ said Rosalind, smiling in his Grace’s direction. ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘How well you know me.’ The dark eyes gleamed appreciatively. ‘But there is no need. In respect of Nell, I hope to see her married to a man who can make her happy - but would naturally draw the line at her dancing-master or the like. As for myself … you wish to ask if I have ever been in love and the answer is yes. A dozen times, at least – though not, it has to be admitted, very recently.’

  ‘But – ‘

  ‘Rosalind.’ Amberley’s light voice stopped her. ‘Rock is being extremely patient – but any more of this and you’ll earn a snub.’

  ‘I only wanted to --’

  ‘We know.’ The Duke came slowly to his feet and a disquieting smile lit his face. ‘And the answer this time is that none of them were in the least special – or even significantly different from each other. But then, it would be singularly profitless if any of them had been. For a girl so totally unlike her fellows would scarcely make a satisfactory duchess, would she?’