Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches. Helen Dickson
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in many lives being lost.’
‘Then he must have had good reason,’ the Countess replied, her tone falling just a little short of sounding flippant.
‘He was found in a brothel, drunk out of his mind, the following day.’
‘I see. I would appreciate it if you did not tell my niece of Colonel Winston’s … unsavoury habits—although personally I wouldn’t worry about it. You do see that, don’t you?’
Charles did see, and he was sickened by it. He saw that the Countess had no fondness for her niece and that she was willing to send the girl into the lion’s den without a qualm and impatient to do so, with no concern for her future protection. That she could do this was nothing short of despicable and had Charles quietly seething with anger.
‘Then you must forgive me, Countess, if I say that you are being extremely naïve. I have given you the facts and you choose to ignore them. I can do no more. But by doing nothing to prevent the marriage of a young girl to a man of his sort, it will not be long before she is broken in mind, body and spirit.’
The Countess looked a little taken aback at the harshness of his tone and his blunt speaking and she stiffened indignantly. ‘You exaggerate, sir. I know my niece,’ she told him frostily. ‘If you are worried about what she will do when she reaches Gravely, you need have no worries on that score. She is a sensible girl. Level-headed like her mother. When she reaches England she will see for herself and make up her own mind as to whether or not she will marry Colonel Winston—and she will. I have every confidence that Colonel Winston will lose no time in making her his wife.’
Charles, who had turned his head towards the door when he thought he heard a sound, spun round and looked at her again, thoroughly repelled by her attitude. ‘It is precisely on that account,’ he said fiercely, his eyes flashing, ‘that I hoped you would accompany her. I know very little about Miss Monkton, but from what you have told me she appears to have cherished a romantic and childish attachment for the man. In your care you could protect and support her when she discovers, as she will, the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston.’
The Countess returned his gaze with a coldly smiling blandness that told its own story. ‘I think you should meet my niece. She will tell you herself how much she wants to return to England. It is six years since her father died. Six years since she left Gravely.’
‘Over six years since she saw Colonel Winston.’
‘That too, but as I said, in the end she will make up her own mind.’
‘As I always do, Aunt,’ a voice rang out from across the room.
The Countess and Charles looked towards the door to see a young woman standing there.
Charles rose to his feet, recognising her as the young woman he had met in the village the previous day distributing food to the children. Closing the door softly behind her, she moved towards him; he was struck by her proud, easy carriage, her clear skin and the striking colour of her blue-black hair, drawn from her face into a neat chignon. She was stately, immensely dignified, her face quite expressionless, but underneath he sensed that she had overheard some of his conversation with the Countess and that she was quietly seething.
‘Sir Charles, this is Maria, Colonel Winston’s future wife. Maria, meet Sir Charles Osbourne. He is to escort you to England.’
When Maria stood in front of him, Charles bowed his head and murmured a few words of conventional greeting. But when he raised his head a sudden feeling of unease caused him to look at her with a start, his scalp prickling. She was studying him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded. His eyes met the steady jade-tinted gaze, and for one discomforting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.
It was not until she began to talk that he realised the depth of her charm. Her voice was low, beautifully modulated, and her French was a joy to hear. Everything about her fascinated him, drew him to her, and he felt a stirring of interest as he looked into the glowing green eyes, the passionate face of the young woman before him.
Maria found herself gazing into the eyes of the man she had seen in the village the day before. Her lips tightened ominously. ‘You! So you are the man Colonel Winston has sent to take me to England?’
‘He did not send me, Miss Monkton. He approached me and asked me if I would escort you when he heard I was coming to France.’
The light blue eyes rested on her tight face and she thought irately that he was aware of her dislike and amused by it. ‘I see. I do not know what you meant when you said to my aunt that when I reach England I will discover the impossibility of marrying Colonel Winston and nor do I care to—and he will not force me into marriage. No one could do that, sir.’
‘He—is much changed since you last saw him. You must be prepared for that.’
She smiled. ‘As I am changed. That is only to be expected after six years. It is quite normal.’
‘I do not speak lightly, Miss Monkton.’
Maria heard him with growing annoyance. There was much she wanted to say to him, but not with her aunt’s eyes watching her every move and her ears missing nothing of what was said. She disliked his easy manner and the steady gaze of his light blue eyes, but his last words awoke an echo in her mind, of her own doubts about marrying Henry. When his letter had arrived informing them to expect Sir Charles Osbourne who was to escort her back to England, she had experienced a joy like she had never known—joy because she was going home to Gravely, a joy that had little to do with her becoming reunited with Henry.
Of late there was a doubt inside her mind concerning her betrothed, like a small persistent maggot nibbling away. Perhaps it was that she had got older, had read more into his letters, which had become shorter as time went on. The writing was scrawled as if hurriedly written—as if he found writing to her more of a duty than a pleasure. Whatever it was, the spell had begun to lose some of the lustre of its first potent charm.
But she would not expose her doubts to this arrogant Englishman and she thrust them into the background of her mind.
‘You do not like Colonel Winston, do you, sir?’
‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘I don’t.’
‘These are troubled times. I am sure you have more important things to do than assist a complete stranger across France.’
‘I do have important matters that occupy me.’
‘Then if you dislike him, why did you agree?’
‘One of the reasons is because my father and your own were friends. They were in India together.’
‘Oh—I see!’ she faltered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘How could you?’
‘And the other reasons?’
He smiled. ‘There were several—which I shall tell you about on the journey. When I became aware that you were to return to England and the difficulties you may encounter, I was happy to offer my services. My father would have expected nothing less of me than to help the daughter of an old and dear friend.’
‘Then I am grateful to you, sir. I will be pleased to avail myself of your protection and assistance on the journey. How are we to travel?’
‘By coach.’
‘Which Chateau Feroc will provide,’ the Countess offered.
‘Thank you, but I must decline your offer. It must be an ordinary equipage, nothing too grand, you understand. I will acquire the coach and two post horses. There must be nothing in your baggage to give you away,’ he told Maria with a note of authority. ‘All your fine clothes and any jewels you might have must be left behind.’
‘I have no jewels, sir. Everything I have of value—jewels my mother left me—is in England in