Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

objection at leaving the shelter of the porch, he seized her arm and set off round the side of the house.

      She shivered when the rain struck them both with full force. When she stumbled over some unseen obstacle, he put his arm round her waist and half carried, half dragged her through what was starting to become something of a storm, under the gated archway that led to the back of the house.

      It was much darker in the enclosed courtyard, so that even he had trouble navigating his way to the servants’ entrance. But at least it was sheltered from the wind that was getting up.

      He rattled the door handle, cursing at finding it locked.

      Not that it would be all that hard to get inside.

      Couldn’t expect Mary to climb in through a window, though. Which meant he’d have to leave her out here while he groped his way along the darkened passages and got a door open for her.

      He shucked off his coat.

      ‘Here,’ he said, tucking it round her shoulders, ‘this should keep the worst of the wet off you while I break in.’

      ‘B-break in?’

      He couldn’t see her face, it was so dark, but he could hear the shock and disapproval in her voice.

      ‘There’s a window, just along here,’ he said, feeling his way along the wall, with Mary following close on his heels. ‘Ah, here it is.’

      He reached into his pocket and found a penknife. ‘Never used to fasten properly,’ he explained, flicking open the knife blade. ‘The footmen used to use it to get in after lock-up, when they’d sneaked off to the Dog and Ferret.’

      ‘That’s...’

      ‘Dreadful, I know.’ He worked the knife blade under the sash. ‘As a boy, I shouldn’t have known anything about it. But nobody paid me much mind in those days.’ The lock sprang free and he heaved the window up. ‘Never thought knowing how to break into my own house would come in so handy,’ he said, getting one leg over the sill. ‘You just wait there,’ he said firmly. He didn’t want her stumbling about in the dark and hurting herself. ‘I’ll come and let you in, in just a jiffy.’

      If it had been dark in the courtyard, it was black as a coalhole in the scullery. And yet he had little trouble finding his way past the sinks and along the wall, round to the kitchen door. This place was deeply embedded in his memory. Even the smell in here flung him back to his boyhood and all the hours he’d spent below stairs in the company of servants, rather than wherever it was he was meant to have been.

      In no time at all he’d laid his hands on a lamp, which was on a shelf just beside the back door, where it had always been kept.

      As he lit it, he pictured Mary, huddled up under the eaves in a futile attempt to find shelter from the wind and rain, and no doubt counting the minutes he was making her wait. And wondering what the hell he’d dragged her into. All of a sudden he got a sudden, vivid memory of the day his stepmother had first come to Mayfield. How she’d stood—not in the rear courtyard, shivering with cold, but in the imposing entrance hall, nervously watching the servants, who’d all lined up to greet her. She’d attempted a timid smile for him and he’d returned it with a scowl, seeing her as an interloper. A woman who had no right to take the place of his mother.

      He couldn’t recall her ever smiling again, not while she’d lived here.

      He paused, the lighted lantern in his hand, recalling how he’d complained to his friends about how a woman changed a man when she got him leg-shackled. But the truth was that it wasn’t just a man who took a huge risk when he got married. When a woman chose the wrong partner, she could be just as miserable. He knew, because he’d seen it with Julia’s mother. She’d blossomed when she’d finally married her childhood sweetheart. Only to shrivel to a husk of her former self when shackled to her third husband. Who’d been a brute.

      It was all very well protecting himself from hurt, but not at Mary’s expense. Theirs might not be a love match, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t do whatever he could to make her happy.

      He set the lamp back on its shelf by the back door before he unbolted it. And when Mary saw him, and came scurrying over, he caught her round the waist, then swept her up off her feet and into his arms.

      ‘Nothing else has gone right so far,’ he said. ‘But at least I can carry my bride over the threshold.’

      To his immense relief, she flung her arms round his neck and burrowed her face into his chest.

      She must be freezing, poor lamb. Else she wouldn’t be clinging to him like this.

      He set her down gently and shut the door. Turned, and took both her hands in his.

      ‘I haven’t made a very good start as a husband, have I,’ he said ruefully. ‘I must have written a dozen letters yesterday. Thought I’d organised it all so brilliantly. But never took into account the possibility the Brownlows might have already made their plans for Christmas. And...’ he squeezed her hands ‘...I fear you are right. There’s nobody here but us. And there’s no telling how long they’ll be away. I dare say you must be really cross with me, but...’

      ‘No!’ She stunned him by placing one hand on his cheek. ‘Not at all. There are far worse things for a man to be, than a bit disorganised.’

      ‘Well, it’s good of you to say so,’ he said gruffly, raising his own hand to cover hers where it rested on his cheek, ‘but you do realise we’ve no option but to rack up here for the night? And that there are no servants, no beds made up for us...’

      She gave him a brave smile. ‘It will seem better once we can get a fire going,’ she said bracingly. Clearly determined to make the best of a bad job. ‘And if the Brownlows normally live here, then there’s bound to be some provisions in the larder. We can manage.’

      ‘Come on, then,’ he said, kissing her hand in gratitude at her forbearance. ‘Let’s raid the kitchen.’

      Pausing only to pick up the lantern, he led Mary along the stone-flagged corridor, his brow knotted in thought. His father had never really appreciated Julia’s mother. He’d treated her as though she ought to have been grateful he’d given her his name and title. He hadn’t seen it as a boy, but his father had treated his dogs and horses better than his own wife.

      The minute he thought of horses, he recalled the hurt look that had flickered across Mary’s face when he’d told her how he’d sent his own horses down by easy stages.

      Lord, he’d started out as badly as his own father had done! Pampering his horses and pitching his wife headlong into hardship.

      ‘You ought by rights to be ripping up at me for making such a botch of things,’ he growled as he opened the door to the kitchen for her.

      She gazed up at him, wide-eyed. Then gave a little sniff and shook her head.

      ‘You were just in a hurry to get things ready for your sister,’ she said. ‘You were concentrating on getting her to a place of safety. It would have been a miracle if, somewhere along the line, your plans hadn’t hit a snag.’

      ‘That’s very generous of you—to take that attitude,’ he said, setting the lantern on the shelf just inside the door, which had always been used for that very purpose.

      ‘Let’s just hope this is the worst snag we hit,’ she said, untying the ribbons of her bonnet and setting it on the massive table that stood in the very centre of the room. Then she walked across to the closed stove and knelt in front of it.

      ‘Good, dry kindling laid ready,’ she said, opening the door and peeking inside. ‘And plenty of logs in the basket.’ She stood up, and scanned the shelf over the fireplace. ‘And here’s the tinderbox, just where any sensible housewife would keep it.’

      Thank goodness she wasn’t one of those useless, helpless females whose sole aim in life was to be decorative. It would be an absolute nightmare to be stuck in this huge,