Regency: Innocents & Intrigues: Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches. Helen Dickson

in a village near Calais. We shall speak French at all times. Consequences could be dire if we are heard speaking English. We are both fluent in French, so if we are stopped no one will suspect we are anything other than what we seem. Memorise your assumed surname if you will. You will dress in plain clothes as befits the wife of a cloth merchant of modest means. Good clothes are enough to brand a person, as the mob attribute fine dress to nobles and rich bourgeois.’

      ‘And my maid?’

      ‘Will remain behind.’

      Her delicate brows rose. ‘This is all very unconventional.’

      His eyes sliced to hers. ‘These are not ordinary circumstances.’

      ‘Nevertheless Maria cannot travel alone with you without a maid. Why—it’s quite unthinkable,’ the Countess remarked, her expression one of shock.

      ‘That is how it will be. I am not planning a tea party, Countess. I am trying to execute a plan to get your niece to England with her life intact. On this occasion etiquette and protocol don’t count.’

      ‘When must we leave?’ Maria asked.

      ‘In the morning. We must prepare for the journey at once. It is essential that we have food and warm clothes.’ He turned to the Countess. ‘I must go. Have Miss Monkton brought to the inn at first light. I consider it safer that the servants should know nothing of her departure. For our own safety the driver will know us under our assumed names.’

      After politely taking his leave, he went out, striding along the corridor to the stairs. On hearing the soft patter of running feet and the soft swish of skirts he turned, pausing when he saw Miss Monkton hurrying towards him.

      Chapter Two

      ‘There is something you wish to ask about the journey?’ Charles asked.

      ‘No, not that. It is about Colonel Winston. Why do you dislike him so much?’

      Charles’s face hardened and the perfectly amicable expression in his eyes disappeared. ‘My dislike is neither here nor there. I am not concerned about Colonel Winston. Can you not at least show some gratitude towards the people who are trying to help you?’

      Maria raised her head. ‘Yes, of course I am grateful, and it was ill mannered of me not to show it. I apologise, but please do not abuse Colonel Winston to me.’

      ‘I will not abuse him to you and nor will I offend your ears with matters that are beyond your comprehension, but I strongly urge you not to marry him.’

      Maria’s eyes were suddenly bright with anger. ‘You say this to me. You, a perfect stranger.’ She saw the sudden anger flare in his eyes. Her chin lifted haughtily and she favoured him with a glance of biting contempt. ‘My father was a good judge of character and thought well of him. He would never have agreed to the betrothal if he was not of good character.’

      ‘And you, Miss Monkton? How well do you know your betrothed?’

      ‘I have got to know him through his letters.’

      ‘That is hardly the same.’

      ‘It is good enough for me.’

      Charles sighed, turning away. ‘Who can claim to know what moves a woman’s heart? At all events,’ he went on in a harder voice, looking back at her, ‘your betrothed is not a fit person to wed a decently bred girl, but it is none of my business, of course. I have said my piece. I can do no more just now.’

      He saw the lovely face turn white with anger, and he knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she intended. His own hand shot up and he caught her wrist before she could deal the blow to his cheek. She gasped at the quickness of his reaction and to her fury he unexpectedly laughed.

      ‘I see I have misjudged you. Perhaps you will be a good match for Colonel Winston after all.’ Releasing her wrist, he turned on his heel and proceeded to walk away.

      Maria watched him go, the bright colour flaming up in her cheeks. ‘One more thing, sir,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘I heard what you said to my aunt about me cherishing a romantic and childish attachment for Colonel Winston. How dare you presume to know that?’

      Charles’s jaw tightened, his humour of a moment before gone. So this girl thought she could impose on him with her queenly airs. Furious with himself, more than with her, he took refuge in anger. ‘So much the worse for you,’ he said grimly. ‘I will not mention it again. I will escort you to England and Colonel Winston, but I will not go so far as to wish you joy in your union.’

      Coldly furious, Charles had no intention of exerting himself further in this matter just now. Having seen much service with the army in India and returning to England on the death of his father, when a prominent member of the Whig opposition found him about to travel to France on his mother’s bequest to see how her relatives fared during these troubled times, he had asked him to secretly collect and report information on the events in Paris. Happy to oblige an old friend, Charles had agreed.

      With this and other things on his mind, he’d had little time to think about the problem of Colonel Winston’s bride. Having fulfilled his commitments, travelling miles out of his way to Alsace to collect Miss Monkton, he had done what he thought was right by informing her guardian of certain aspects of Colonel Winston’s character. As far as he was concerned he had discharged this office and his conscience was clear. But he was encouraged, for, despite her youth, Miss Monkton clearly possessed both character and courage, and was quite capable of breaking off the engagement at the last minute if necessary.

      Maria arrived at the inn at first light. She rode her favourite horse, her intention being to leave it at the inn where a groom would collect it later. She was dismounting when she caught sight of the dark forbidding figure striding towards her with the silent sureness of a wolf. This morning he seemed even taller, lean and superbly fit. In fact, if it were not for the arrogant authority stamped in his firm jawline and the cynicism in his cold eyes, Maria would have thought him breathtakingly handsome.

      Looking her up at down and satisfied that she would not attract any untoward attention in her plain black woollen dress, which she had obtained from her maid with another carefully packed with other items necessary for such a long journey in her valise, he said brusquely, ‘Come. It is time.’

      Their departure occasioned no remark. Once in the inn yard, they were caught up in a fierce gust of wind that blew rain into their faces. Maria breathed in deeply with a sudden exhilaration. The wind smacked of freedom, of England and home, and suddenly she discovered a new meaning to her flight.

      Her initial thought when Charles Osbourne had told her of his plans had been undoubtedly to go home, but now as she felt the wind on her face it came to her suddenly that there was a fierce joy in severing all ties with Chateau Feroc and France. Impulsively she threw back her head and laughed, as if she were offering herself up to be carried away by it.

      Her effervescent laughter caused Charles to look at her in fascination and curiosity. ‘I imagined you would be apprehensive about the journey. It will be a hard flight.’

      ‘I don’t care,’ she said, still laughing. ‘I love the wind. And besides, I am happy. I am going home, which is what I have dreamed about for so long.’

      The rigid lines of Charles’s face relaxed. ‘I know. Come—wife.’

      His eyes twinkled somewhat wickedly in the grey morning light. Maria looked at him sharply. ‘Only for the duration of the journey to Calais,’ she quipped, quick to resent his easy dismissal of her grudge against him. And yet despite her attempt to remain cool and detached, her heart beat out an uncontrollable rhythm of excitement.

      ‘I hope you don’t harbour an aversion to being alone with me for such a lengthy period,’ he said, taking her hand to assist her into the coach.

      ‘Why should I?’ Maria enquired quizzically, pausing with her foot on the step to look at him. ‘Unless, of course, you are a rogue at heart.’

      ‘I