Improper Acquaintances: A clean and sweet Regency Romance, page 1
Improper Acquaintances
Sheila Walsh
Copyright © 2019 The Estate of Sheila Walsh
This edition first published 2019 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1985
www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover artwork images: © Period Images / mubus7 (Shutterstock)
Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd
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The Golden Songbird
Madalena
The Sergeant Major’s Daughter
A Fine Silk Purse
The Pink Parasol
The Incomparable Miss Brady
The Rose Domino
A Highly Respectable Marriage
The Runaway Bride
Cousins of a Kind
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Preview: An Insubstantial Pageant by Sheila Walsh
Chapter One
The thunderstorm erupted with sudden and quite astonishing ferocity, as summer storms so often do. It caught Charis Winslade still some way short of home, her arms laden with books from the circulating library.
Even as she paused to look about her in hope of finding a roving hack, the fast-darkening sky was rent with jagged light, and a long menacing growl of thunder echoed in response. Then the rain came, lashing slantwise in solid rods of water that soaked her muslin dress in seconds.
The little maidservant staggering in her wake with the remaining parcels uttered a frightened moan.
‘Oh, God help us, we’ll be struck down for sure!’
‘Humbug!’ Charis exclaimed in bracing tones. ‘And if we are, we won’t know a thing about it! Come on ‒ keep close to me ‒ if we run we can be home in no time!’
She rounded a corner and met the full implacable force of the wind and rain which flung itself against her, driving the breath from her body. Head down, she clutched despairingly at her bonnet with her one free hand just as a particularly violent gust plucked it from her ineffectual fingers, dragging it backward to flap crazily around her neck in a tangle of rain-soaked ribbons that threatened at any moment to choke her.
In her preoccupation, she quite failed to notice the figure advancing in her path and so ran full tilt into an unyielding, unmistakably masculine chest. The books slithered irretrievably from her grasp and splashed one by one into the fast-forming river at her feet.
‘Oh, devil take them!’ she gasped in disgust.
‘Unladylike,’ returned a deep voice. ‘But pardonable in the circumstances.’
The voice, resonant with amusement, came from somewhere above her head. Firm, steadying hands encompassed her waist as Charis lifted a face already awash with the little rivulets that came trickling down from a once fashionable fringe of Titian hair now plastered in dark, sodden tendrils across a wide, intelligent brow.
She looked up and blinked away the prismatic brilliance of the raindrops that beaded her lashes, to discover the bluest of blue eyes darkly ringed, regarding her with the liveliest interest from under lazy lids. The gentleman’s smile deepened, his mobile mouth quirking upward at one corner.
Irresistibly, Charis found her own mouth curving in response and for the space of one crazy, heart-stopping moment it was as though the sheeting rain had locked the two of them together in a silent, timeless bubble; her body became pliant ‒ she swayed a little towards him.
Then the lightning forked again, the sulphuric sky reverberated with an angry, crackling roar that made her flinch quite involuntarily, and Meg screamed.
‘Easy, child,’ said the gentleman reassuringly.
It was to Meg that he spoke, but Charis was acutely aware of being drawn closer by the insistent pressure of his hands, of the way their warmth penetrated in the most intimate way the rain-drenched muslin that now clung to her like a second skin. She blinked furiously and found those extraordinary eyes very close above her, a disturbing gleam in their impertinent depths.
‘You are not afraid, I think? Not of the storm at any rate.’
Hot, embarrassed colour suffused her face. In all her two and twenty years she had not been so discomposed by a man.
‘Certainly not!’ she retorted, mortified to find that her voice was stifled and that she was gabbling like an idiot. ‘One must expect storms now and then, so it’s only sensible to get used to them.’
‘Enchanting!’ he murmured appreciatively.
She tried to break free and could not; found his breath soft against her cheek and experienced a moment of sheer panic mingled with some other emotion that she could not or would not define.
‘Sir!’ she protested, only too aware that her heart was hammering against her ribs in a most betraying way. ‘You really … that is, please let me go.’
There was a laughing devil in his eyes, pitiless ‒ questing. ‘And if I choose not to? After all, you did fling yourself at me quite shamelessly.’
‘I didn’t. You must know that it was an accident!’
‘Perhaps. But it would be a pity to waste such a perfect opportunity, don’t you think?’
As the full import of his words registered, she strove to collect her disordered wits ‒ to assert herself, to muster the tattered shreds of her dignity, to demand that he release her. But already it was too late.
His mouth on hers was a gentle, lingering caress, and tasted of rain. It was over before she could struggle, and to her shame she didn’t try.
‘There,’ he said softly. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it? I would even hazard that you quite enjoyed the experience.’
Even as she worked herself up into a fine fury, a small traitorous voice at the back of her mind clamoured to agree with him and had to be firmly quashed. Green eyes kindling, her cheeks flying flags of colour, she fought strenuously once more to free herself, and was disconcerted when he suddenly released her, setting her away from him quite deliberately though his eyes continued to enjoy the exceedingly revealing spectacle she presented.
‘Sir, you are not a gentleman!’ she cried, the curious sensation of loss she felt serving only to fan her fury.
‘So I have often been told,’ he admitted without shame.
‘Were my brother here, he would call you out for your insolence!’
‘I should think him a poor sort of brother an’ he did not.’ He nodded gravely, though his eyes were still laughing at her. ‘But ‒ not insolence, surely? I feel I must protest the word insolence!’
‘Insolence,’ she reiterated, drawing herself up with dignity. ‘You used me like a …’ she faltered over the word whore, and concluded lamely, ‘like a back-street trollop!’
His mouth quirked. ‘And what would a carefully nurtured young lady know of the way back-street trollops are used?’
It was a ridiculous conversation born of an even more ridiculous situation, she concluded, stifling a sudden and quite improper desire to giggle; to be standing arguing in a state of near saturation ‒ she with her feet squelching in a puddle of water, he with the rain dripping steadily from the curling brim of his hat ‒ must rank as little short of high farce. It was well that the street was deserted.
But Charis had forgotten Meg. She remembered her now with a surge of embarrassment, and could only hope that the terrors of the storm had rendered her maid insensible to all else.
It was a vain hope, for the storm’s violence had been short-lived. The rain was easing, the thunder gradually fading to an apologetic rumble, and already the sky was beginning to roll back the thick, dark banks of cumulus. With it, Meg’s fear also began to subside, and she turned her attention to her mistress and the handsome stranger. Insensible to her own bedraggled state, she watched entranced
‘Must you?’ said the gentleman with every appearance of regret. ‘Just when we were getting to know one another so well, too. Still, if you have quite made up your mind …’
‘I have,’ she said firmly.
‘Then, perhaps we should see if we can salvage your books?’
Charis had forgotten the books. Staring down now in dismay, she saw that their covers were beginning to curl and already some of the pages had been saturated beyond redemption.
Her tormentor, moving with remarkable agility, swooped to rescue one of the least damaged ones, and held it gingerly aloft between finger and thumb.
‘Oh no! Now see what you have done!’ Charis exclaimed, unjustly apportioning blame.
He accepted her censure with meek resignation, merely venturing the opinion that she might justifiably count them all lost, and abandon them to their fate. Charis had more or less reached the same conclusion, but now his complacence made her perverse.
‘Certainly not,’ she declared, stooping and beginning to chivvy them into some kind of order. ‘They are not mine to abandon. I shall return them to the library ‒ when they have dried out, of course.’
‘But, Miss Charis, they’re ruined for sure!’ wailed Meg, uncertain whether or not to put down her own parcels in order to help.
‘Perhaps so, but that is no excuse for … for being too poor-spirited to own to one’s carelessness.’
She knew this for an unbearably smug pronouncement, an opinion confirmed by the gentleman’s quizzical look as he applauded her intention, congratulated Meg upon her good fortune in having a mistress possessed of such high ethical principles, and took the books from her, cradling them with the air of one performing the supreme sacrifice.
‘Pray allow me to find you a hack,’ he said solicitously.
The rain had now all but stopped. ‘Thank you,’ said Charis, ‘but that won’t be necessary. I live only a step from here.’ She held out her hands imperiously for the books, but he clasped them to his chest with equal determination.
‘Then I will carry them for you. No,’ he insisted magnanimously, ‘it is the very least I can do.’
If her appearance was indecent, his was incongruous to say the least ‒ his elegant clothes quite ruined by the deluge, his shoulders hunched a little against the knowledge. For a second it was all she could do not to giggle.
‘Very well.’ Charis turned and began to walk with as much indifference to her state as could be managed in squelching slippers. He fell easily into step beside her and Meg’s hurrying feet brought up the rear. She made no attempt to converse further and he seemed preoccupied. They came presently to a quiet, genteel street ‒ one of the many that clung with impecunious tenacity to the fringes of fashionable London ‒ and after a few steps Charis halted before a pleasant house with a gleaming brass doorknob, and faced about.
She was not accustomed to being dwarfed by a man. Her brother and his friends were mostly of a size, being perhaps one or two inches taller than herself, no more. With a conscious determination not to be overwhelmed by his sheer physical presence, she drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches, prepared as a final gesture to be gracious.
‘It is good of you to have taken so much trouble,’ she said politely. ‘This is where I live, so I will take the books now.’
‘You don’t think it would be better if I carried them right up to the door?’
His blue eyes were creased against a blinding shaft of sunlight as it pierced the gloom, so that she could not tell whether or not he was quizzing her. The faint movement of a curtain in the house opposite recalled her to her sorry state and how very singular it must appear, and quite suddenly she could not wait to run indoors.
‘Thank you, but no,’ she said hastily. ‘I can manage perfectly well.’
‘I feared you might be of that mind.’ As he surrendered the books, he contrived an exaggerated sigh. ‘Am I to go without even knowing who you are?’
‘I can’t see that it would be of any use for you to know,’ she retorted firmly, evading the issue and turning a little pink.
‘You don’t wish to pursue the acquaintance?’ he said regretfully. ‘Well, it is no more than I deserve. I dare say I was much too coming, though at the time the temptation was irresistible, believe me.’ His sleepy eyelids lifted hopefully. ‘You don’t suppose I might yet redeem myself?’
His idiocy was infectious and she was in grave danger of behaving in a quite improper manner. Her dimple quivered and was sternly suppressed.
‘I think not,’ she said firmly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Such a final word,’ he murmured, still showing a maddening disinclination to leave. ‘I confess I had hoped … after so intriguing a beginning.’
Oh dear, this really would not do. She had made the mistake of looking at him, and an unwilling spurt of laughter escaped her.
‘My dear sir, life is full of little disappointments. You must strive to give your thoughts a higher direction!’
She thought there was an answering echo of a chuckle, low and deep.
‘You leave me little choice, fair divinity. I shall return to my lonely garret room to meditate upon my shortcomings.’
On this note of mock humility he bowed, tipped his hat, and went on his way with easy, loping strides. Charis watched him for a moment and then hurried up the path. Behind her, Meg sighed. ‘Oh, ma’am!’
Charis whirled round, with crimson flags flying in her cheeks. ‘Not a word!’ she charged urgently. ‘Especially to Emily!’
But if Charis had hoped to gain the sanctuary of her room undiscovered and uncensured, her hopes were dashed upon finding her way to the stairs barred by a small, elderly woman who waited like a plump, inquisitive blackbird, hands folded ominously across her rustling bombazine skirts.
‘Well, it’s a fine pair you make, to be sure!’ she said.
Charis met Emily MacGrath’s bright, roving eyes with a defiance betokening guilt.
‘We were caught in the storm, Em.’
‘I can see that, right enough,’ came the pithy reply. ‘Meg, there is hot water on the stove. When you have carried it up to your mistress’s room, you had best attend to yourself. Hurry now, child. We want no chills or inflammations of the lungs.’
The maid set the parcels down on the hall table, and with a swift, speaking glance at Charis, scurried to obey. The door to the kitchen slammed behind her and the sound died away into silence.
Charis waited for the inevitable reprimand. Mrs Emily MacGrath’s somewhat singular position in the Winslade household had from time to time vexed the minds of unsuspecting newcomers to the little house in Newsholme Terrace; too familiar by far to be dismissed as a mere servant, she yet lacked that veneer of gentility which would comfortably consign her to the role of ex-governess or companion, thus giving rise to the dreadful uncertainty as to how one ought to address her or indeed respond to her forthright manners. If the newcomer happened to be one of her brother Tristram’s more pompous acquaintances, Charis was not above deriving a degree of innocent amusement from prolonging their uncertainty for as long as possible.
The simple truth was that Emily MacGrath had brought the twins ‒ for twins she and Tristram were ‒ into the world, more than twenty years ago, and when their mother’s frail hold on life had proved inadequate, their distraught father had begged Mrs MacGrath to remain and care for them. Widowed some years previously and with her own children grown and off her hands, she had been pleased to agree. Long before her charges had outgrown their need of a nurse, she had become an indispensable member of the family. In due time she advanced to fulfil with equal ease the duties of housekeeper and unofficial guardian of their behaviour and morals. And with the untimely death of Mr Winslade just over two years since (‘taken before his time, God rest him!’ as she confided to her bosom-bow, Mrs Arbuthnot ‒ ‘and leaving behind him a parcel of debts fit to make a rich man quail!’), it was in this last capacity that she saw her true vocation.
‘As for yourself, Miss Charis,’ she said now, making her mouth prim, ‘if you’ve come through the streets looking like that, it’s to be hoped that the good Lord took it upon himself to shield you from the lewd stares of the hoi polloi ‒ to say nothing of your giving that Mrs Huyton-Forbes opposite a nasty turn!’
