Bound By One Scandalous Night. Diane Gaston
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Summerfield of the 28th Regiment of Foot wound his way through townspeople of all shapes and sizes and well-dressed gentlemen and ladies still waiting for carriages to bring them back from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Everywhere men were shouting, women wailing, children crying. Soldiers in uniforms of all colours rushed to and fro. British and Hanoverians in red, Belgian and Dutch in dark blue, British light cavalry in light blue, Rifles in dark green, Highlanders in plaid kilts. The array of colours mimicked a carnival, but the mood was tense, a tinderbox that with one spark could turn to riot.
Edmund forced himself to remain calm. He shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other and wished his head were clearer. He’d spent the evening in a tavern, drinking and playing cards with fellow officers too low in rank and importance to be invited to the Duchess’s ball. The bugle’s repeated call, still resounding through the tension-filled air, had sobered him greatly.
He pushed his way to the curb of the rue du Marais. Horses, wagons, carriages, men and women dashing on foot, blocked his way. Through the kaleidoscope of colour he spied a vision in white across the street, an angel amidst the tumult. While he watched, a man in labourer’s clothing grabbed her around the waist. She beat on the man’s arms with her fists and kicked his legs, but this man, rough and wild-eyed, dragged her with him.
Edmund bounded into the busy street, heedless of the traffic, narrowly missing being run down. He made it to the other side and chased after the man abducting the woman. Her shimmering white gown made it easy not to lose sight of her. The man ducked into an alley between two buildings. Edmund reached the space a moment after.
‘Let me go!’ the woman cried. Her blonde hair, a mass of curls, came free of its bindings and fell around her shoulders.
The man pinned her against the wall and took the fabric of her dress in his fist.
‘Vous l’aimerez, chérie,’ the man growled.
‘No!’ cried Edmund. He pushed his bag like a battering ram at the man’s head.
The man staggered and loosened his grip.
Edmund dropped his bag and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the cobbles. ‘Be off with you! Allez! Vite!’
The man scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the dark recesses of the alley.
Edmund turned to the woman. ‘Did he hurt you? Vous a-t-il blessé?’
She looked up and the light from a street lamp illuminated her face.
He knew her!
‘Miss Glenville!’
She was Amelie Glenville. Her brother, Marc Glenville, was married to his half-sister Tess.
Her eyes, wide with shock, looked past him.
‘Miss Glenville?’ He touched her chin and made her look at him. ‘Do you remember me? I am Tess’s brother, Edmund. We met at your parents’ breakfast two days ago.’
Her face crumbled. ‘Edmund!’ She fell into his arms. The beautiful Amelie Glenville fell into his arms. Who would believe this?
When Amelie entered the room that morning, for one heady moment he’d been caught in the spell of her unspoiled beauty. Fair of face. Skin as smooth as cream. Cheeks tinged with pink. Eyes as azure as the sea. Hair, a mass of golden curls, sparkling in the light as if spun from gold. Lips lush and ripe for kissing. Innocent. Alluring.
And smiling at him during their introduction.
The next moment, though, he had been introduced to her fiancé, a most correct young man, a Scots Greys cavalry captain and son of an earl. Reality set in and Edmund had instantly dropped her from his mind. Even if he wanted to court some young woman—which he did not—a viscount’s daughter like Amelie Glenville would never do for a bastard like him.
And here she was embracing him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her. ‘Why are you alone?’ She’d obviously been to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Her white gown must have been lovely before it had been so roughly handled.
She drew away and tried to sort out her clothing. ‘Captain Fowler left me here.’
The fiancé? ‘Left you? Why?’
She huffed. ‘We had words.’
‘He left you because of a quarrel?’ No gentleman, under any circumstance, would desert a lady on a city street in the middle of the night, especially not on a night like this. ‘What about?’
‘It does not matter,’ she snapped.
She sounded more angry than alarmed, at least. That was fortunate. Did she even realise what had almost happened to her?
‘And I have no idea how to walk back to the hotel,’ she continued in a peeved tone. ‘Could you direct me?’
Good heavens! The man had abandoned her without her knowing the way back? ‘I think I had better escort you.’
She rubbed her arms.
He shrugged out of his coat. ‘Here, put this around you.’
‘Might we go back now?’ Her voice wobbled a bit. ‘It is the Hotel de Flandre.’
She’d be better off staying angry. ‘I remember what hotel it was.’
He picked up his bag and offered her his arm, which she readily accepted and held with an anxious grip.
They stepped from the relative quiet of the alley back into the cacophony of the street.
‘Hold on tight,’ he cautioned, and she squeezed his arm as people bumped against them, the soldiers hurrying to battle, the others to somewhere safe.
What on earth had possessed Fowler to abandon her on such a night? This was not an afternoon stroll through Mayfair. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and the soldiers on these streets would soon be facing battle; the townspeople, possible occupation by the French. She’d already discovered what could happen to a beautiful, unescorted woman when emotions were so high.
She was lovely enough to tempt any man. Even him.
But he must not turn his thoughts in that direction.
‘Do you not have to go to your regiment?’ she asked as a company of Belgian cavalry rode by, the horses’ hooves drumming on the stones of the street.
He did need to reach his regiment as soon as possible, but why stress her with that knowledge? ‘I am more in fear of what my sister and your brother would do to me if I left you alone on the street. My sister would draw and quarter me. Your brother would probably do worse.’
‘Why would they ever know, unless you told them?’ she retorted peevishly. ‘I have no intention of speaking a word of this night to anyone.’
So much for trying to use levity to counteract this nightmarish episode.
‘Then blame my conscience,’ he said. ‘I would think very ill of myself if I abandoned you.’
‘Unlike some gentlemen,’ she muttered.
‘There will be plenty of time for me to reach the battle.’ He hoped. ‘I doubt Napoleon will disturb his sleep.’
Fine words, but who knew how close Napoleon was to Brussels? Edmund had heard varying accounts. One thing was certain, though. Men would fight soon. And die.
He concentrated on getting her through the crowd without further mishap. The streets cleared a bit when they reached the Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula. It rose majestically into the night sky, its yellow stone glowing against the black sky. Men would be stopping at that Gothic church for a few prayers before battle, Edmund would wager. It could not hurt to pray a little.
Pray not to die.
Edmund shook his head. Don’t think such thoughts, he told himself, but he’d seen too many battles on the Peninsula,