Regency Innocents: The Earl's Untouched Bride / Captain Fawley's Innocent Bride. ANNIE BURROWS
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briskly. He had decided to make amends for his overbearing attitude the previous evening by spoiling her a little. And demonstrating that he was prepared to consider her feelings. ‘I appreciate that you may find certain aspects of marrying me more uncomfortable than I had at first assumed.’ If he didn’t want her bolting to Dieppe, he would have to persuade her that marriage to him would be nothing like the picture she had painted of being chained down by Du Mauriac.
‘I shall not forbid you from pursuing your own pleasures.’ He did not want her worrying he would be forever breathing down her neck. ‘Nor shall I expect you to hang on my arm.’ He would not force her to any event that she would rather not attend. He knew that her rather retiring nature might make it hard for her to hold her own with some of the people with whom he routinely crossed swords during the course of his public life. However, he did not want her to feel he saw her shyness as a failing. ‘It is not done for a man to be seen about too much with his wife,’ he explained. And though we must live in the same house, there is no reason we may not live virtually separate lives.’
Her heart fluttered in panic. It sounded as if he meant to deposit her in some house in a foreign country, where she knew nobody, and leave her to fend for herself.
‘D … don’t you want people to think we have a true marriage?’
He felt touched that she could still think of his image, when she must have so many reservations about the new life she was about to embark upon.
‘We must be seen about together occasionally, yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘Just once every se’en night or so should be sufficient.’
She bit her lip. She could hardly complain if he could not face wasting more than one evening a week on her. Hadn’t she rashly declared she would go and live in a cottage and keep hens if he did not wish to be burdened with her company?
‘Do you have a house in the country, my lord?’ she asked. The hens were seeming increasingly attractive.
‘That is far too formal a way to address me now we are to be married,’ he countered, puzzled by her abrupt change of subject. He had done what he could to put her at ease. Now it was time to take things to a more intimate level. ‘You had best call me Walton. Or Charles.’
‘Ch … Charles,’ she stammered, the familiarity of his name catching on her tongue.
‘And may I call you Heloise?’
She nodded, rendered speechless at the warmth of the smile he turned on her for acceding to this small request.
‘I hope you will like Wycke.’
‘Wycke?’
‘Although I have a house in London, where I reside whilst Parliament is in session, Wycke is my principal seat, and it is where …’ Where the heirs are traditionally born, he refrained from finishing. Regarding her upturned, wary little face, he wondered with a pang if there would ever come a time when he would be able to tackle such a delicate subject with her.
Though, legally, he already had an heir.
‘There is one rather serious matter I must broach with you,’ he said firmly. It was no good trying to shield her from everything. There were some things she would just have to accept. ‘I have someone … residing with me in Walton House—that is, my London home.’
Heloise attacked the tender breast of chicken the waiter had set before her with unnecessary savagery. She had wondered just how long it would be before he raised the topic of his mistress. Of course she would not voice any objections to him visiting such a woman. But if he expected her to let his mistress carry on living with him, then he was very much mistaken!
‘Indeed?’ she said frostily.
‘He is not going to be easy to get along with, and on reflection I recommend you had better not try.’
He? Oh, thank goodness—not a mistress.
Then why should she not try to get along with this guest? Heat flared in her cheeks. Of course—she was not good ton, and this person was clearly someone whose opinion he valued.
‘Whatever you say,’ she replied dully, taking a sip of the meursault that had somehow appeared in her glass when she had not been attending.
‘And, while we are on the topic, I must inform you there are several other persons that I do not wish you to associate with.’
‘Really?’ she said bleakly. She was not good enough to mix with his friends. How much more humiliation did he intend to heap on her? ‘Perhaps you had better provide me with a list?’
‘That might be a good idea,’ he replied in an abstracted manner. In marrying him, Heloise would become a target through which his enemies might try to strike at him. It would be unfair to leave her exposed when, with a little forethought, he could protect her. Some people would take great pleasure in making her as uncomfortable as possible simply because she was French. Others would be livid that she had thwarted their matrimonial ambitions towards him. ‘Those you need to be wariest of are certain members of my family.’
She knew it! He was downright ashamed of her! What further proof did she need than to hear him warn her that his own family would be her bitterest enemies?
‘You see, I have severed all connection with certain of them—’
Catching the appalled expression on her face, he pulled up short.
‘Beware, Heloise,’ he mocked. ‘Your husband is a man notorious for being so lacking in familial feeling that even my closest relatives are not safe from my cold, vengeful nature.’
She was so relieved to hear that his forbidding her to mix with these people was not because he was ashamed of her that she could easily dismiss the challenge aimed at her with those bitter words. Whatever had happened in the past was nothing to do with her! It was her future conduct that mattered to him.
‘Of course I would not have anything to do with people who would say such things about you,’ she declared, with a vehemence that shook him.
‘Your loyalty is … touching,’ he said cynically.
‘I will be your wife,’ she pointed out with an expressive shrug, as though matrimonial loyalty went without saying. Her declaration effectively stunned him into silence.
‘Shall we stroll awhile?’ he eventually recovered enough to say, when they had finished their meal.
Heloise nodded. At this hour of the evening, the brightly lit central quadrangle of the Palais Royale would be crowded with Parisians and tourists looking for entertainment of all sorts. From the restaurants in the basements and the shops beneath the colonnade, to the casinos and brothels on the upper floors, there was something in the arcades to cater for all tastes. Strolling amongst the pleasure-seeking crowds would be one way of demonstrating that he was not in the least broken-hearted.
They had barely stepped outside when she heard an angry and all too familiar voice crying, ‘Hey, Heloise—stop!’
Looking across the square, in the direction from which the voice hailed, she saw Du Mauriac bearing down on them like an avenging whirlwind.
To her consternation, rather than retreating into the relative safety of the restaurant, Charles continued to stroll nonchalantly towards the most dangerous man in Paris.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ he snarled, coming to a halt directly in front of them. His black moustache bristled in a face that was mottled red from wine and anger. Heloise tried to detach her hand from Charles’ arm. The waiters would not deign to help, but many of the diners in Very Frères were Englishmen, who would be bound to come to their aid if she could only get to them.
But Charles would not relax his grip.
Eyeing the lean figure of her former suitor with cool disdain, he drawled, ‘My fiancée does not answer to strangers shouting in the street.’
‘Fiancée!’ Ignoring Lord Walton,