Regency Bride: Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?. Michelle Styles

insist, we shall have a flirtation in the garden. My late uncle always said that northern women were bold, but until I met you, I had no idea.’

      ‘Do such remarks cause the ladies in London to swoon at your feet? Up here, you are more likely to get a slapped face.’

      ‘It is one of my more endearing traits. Impossible, but with a modicum of wit,’ he said, giving her a hooded look. ‘But will the lady waltz? Or is she a coward with two left feet?’

      ‘I’ll waltz with you, if only to prove you wrong about my dancing ability,’ Hattie ground out.

      ‘Hand on my shoulder now and we shall begin.’ His tone became rich velvet which slid over her skin. ‘I promise you a dance to remember.’

      ‘Are you a dancing master now? Is there no end to your many talents?’

      ‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, particularly to the ladies.’

      ‘Proprieties will be observed, Sir Christopher.’

      ‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ Kit stopped. The instant his hand had encountered hers, he’d felt an unexpected and searing tug of attraction. For over a year, he hadn’t felt any attraction and suddenly this. Why her? Why this widow with an over-developed sense of propriety and hideous hairstyle? He had made it a policy not to be attracted to respectable women ever since Brighton.

      ‘I’m pleased we hold the same view.’

      ‘What can I ever have done to result in your censure?’ he murmured, slightly adjusting his hand so it fit more snugly on her slender waist. Kit gave an inward smile as they circled the room. Mrs Wilkinson’s lesson was proving more enjoyable than he first considered. He inched his hand lower. She gave him a freezing look and he returned to the proper hold.

      ‘Your reputation preceded you, Sir Christopher.’

      Kit could easily imagine what the village gossips were saying about him and his wicked past. There had been a time when he hadn’t cared or appreciated what life could offer. He had gambled and whored with the best of them. He fought bad men with his bare hands. All that had ended a year ago when his best friend gave up his life for him and he’d become one of the walking dead.

      ‘You have been listening to common tittle-tattle. That should be beneath you,’ he said.

      She tilted her head to one side and gave an unrepentant smile. ‘When someone as notorious as you comes from London, his antecedents are discussed. It is the way of the world. Mr Hook is your protégé. He follows your methods, but fortunately for my niece, I happened along rather than one of the Tyne Valley gossips. Olivia will not suffer the fate of so many of your women.’

      A blaze of anger went through Kit. She’d judged not only him, but also Rupert, on the basis of a few pieces of tittle-tattle. He renewed his determination to ensure that a full and complete flirtation happened. ‘I’m no saint, Mrs Wilkinson, but neither am I a black-hearted villain. I have never ruined a débutante or indeed participated in the ruining of a débutante. Neither have I ever seduced a woman from her children or her husband. It is against my creed.’

      ‘But they said … I’m sure … the stories …’

      ‘Yes, I know the stories, but more importantly I know the truth. Do you? Have you ever been misjudged?’

      She dipped her head, showing her intricately braided hair. Only the smallest curl dared escape. ‘Perhaps I have been over-hasty in my judgement. I will accept your word that you would have said something if I had failed to come into the card room. And I’m wrong to punish you for another’s actions.’

      ‘Apology accepted. Shall we start again and endeavour to enjoy the dance?’

      He pulled her waist closer to his body so that her skirt brushed his legs. Her hand tightened about his. His breath caressed the delicate curve of her shell-like ear. Her shoulder trembled under his fingers. He smiled inwardly. A little romance always brightened everyone’s life. He looked forward to discovering Mrs Wilkinson’s hidden depths.

      ‘Will you give me a chance to prove the gossips wrong?’ Kit asked quietly. ‘Will you dance with me again or, better still, take a turn about the garden where I can plead my case?’

      He waited for her breathless agreement.

      ‘This is where the dance ends,’ she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. She gave a small curtsy. ‘We would hardly wish to cause a scandal. We are only strangers after all.’

      ‘I must become a friend and discover what sort of scandal you have in mind,’ Kit murmured. ‘Be reckless. Further our acquaintance. You intrigue me.’

      ‘One dance will have to satisfy you, Sir Christopher.’ She stepped out of his arms. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

      She strode away, her hips agreeably swaying and her back twitching. Kit frowned. He had nearly begged for her favour. He never begged. His skills were rusty.

      He patted his pocket where he’d placed the gloves. Their little romance was not over until he decided. Mrs Wilkinson had a lesson to learn and she would learn it … thoroughly. ‘Until the next time, Mrs Wilkinson. Sweet dreams.’

      Mrs Wilkinson paused, half-turned, then, appearing to think better of a retort, she resumed her march in double-quick time as if the devil himself was after her.

Chapter Two

      ‘You left Sir Christopher Foxton standing on the dance floor even though the dance hadn’t finished!’ Mrs Reynaud said with a stifled gasp as Hattie reached the end of her highly edited tale the next morning. The sunlit parlour with its dimity lace curtains and artfully arranged ornaments was a world away from last night’s splendours of the ballroom.

      ‘It was the right thing to do.’ Hattie reached for her teacup. There was little point in telling Mrs Reynaud about how her legs had trembled and how close she’d been to agreeing to his outlandish suggestion of a turn about the garden. She knew what he was, why she couldn’t take a chance with him and still the temptation to give in to his charm had been there. Even after all she’d been through with Charles and his unreliability, a part of her had wanted to believe in romance and she refused to allow it to happen.

      ‘Do you know you were the only lady he danced with all night?’

      Hattie set the cup down with an unsteady hand. She could hardly confess to have been aware of Sir Christopher in that fashion. ‘How do you know that on dit?’

      ‘My maid had the news from the butcher’s boy this morning,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Your waltz is the talk of the village. I’ve been in a quiver of anticipation. Thank you for telling me what truly happened, my dear. It makes my mind rest easier.’

      Hattie kept her gaze focused on the way her papillon dog, Moth, was delicately finishing her biscuit, rather than meeting Mrs Reynaud’s interested gaze. The whole point of the story was to enlist Mrs Reynaud’s advice about Livvy’s behaviour and how best to approach the talk she knew she’d have to give, rather than discuss her near-flirtation with the village’s current most notorious resident.

      Why was it that women lost their minds as soon as Sir Christopher’s name was mentioned? Her sister had gone fluttery when Hattie returned from the dance floor, demanding to know how Hattie was acquainted with Sir Christopher. Hattie glossed over the card-room incident and Stephanie appeared satisfied.

      ‘It was a waltz, nothing more,’ Hattie said finally, seeking to close the matter. ‘We had a brief verbal-sparring match. He dislikes being bested, but the game has ended. Honours to me.’

      ‘Do you know how long Sir Christopher will be in the neighbourhood?’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth another biscuit. The little brown-and-white dog tilted her head to one side, waiting, but after Hattie nodded gobbled the biscuit up.

      ‘He