Tallie's Knight Read online

  Tallie's Knight

  Unknown

  A Regency

  delight!

  Historical Romance

  UK 2. 99 IRE3. 55 ISBN 0263822982

  MILLS BOON

  Allakes any time special

  9 "780263"822984">

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered..."

  Dazed, Tallie stood there, listening to herself being married to The

  Icicle. And a very bad- tempered Icicle he was too. He was positively

  glaring at her. Of course, he did have reason to be a little cross,

  but it wasn't as if she had meant to hit him on the nose, after all.

  Mind you, she thought dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about

  something--mainly with her. Towards others he invariably remained

  cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of fashion, charming. But not with

  Tallie. It didn't augur at all well for the future.

  Anne Gracie was born in Australia but spent her youth on the move,

  living in Scotland, Malaysia, Greece and different parts of Australia

  before escaping her parents and settling down. Her love of the Regency

  period began at the age of eleven, when she braved the adult library to

  borrow a Georgette Heyer novel, firmly convinced she would, at any

  moment, be ignominiously ejected and sent back to the children's

  library in disgrace. She wasn't. Anne lives in Melbourne, in a small

  wooden house which she will one day renovate.

  Recent titles by the same author:

  GALLANT WAIF

  Anne Gracie

  MILLS BOON

  DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

  If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was

  reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor

  the publisher has received any payment for this book.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the

  imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone

  bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired

  by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents

  are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in

  part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with

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  MILLS & BOON and MILLS & BOON with the Rose Device are registered

  trademarks of the publisher.

  First published in Great Britain 2000 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 JSR

  Anne Gracie 2000 ISBN 0 263 82298 2

  Set in Times Roman 10 on'll pt. 04000491437

  Printed and bound in Spain by Litografia Roses S. A. " Barcelona

  Prologue

  Yorkshire, February 1803

  JVly lord, I. I am sure that Mr. Freddie--' "Mr. Freddie-" Lord

  d'Arenville's disapproving voice interrupted the maidservant. She

  flushed, smoothing her hands nervously down her starched white apron.

  "Er... Reverend Winstanley, I mean, sir. He won't keep you waiting

  long, sir, 'tis just that--' " There is no need to explain," Lord

  d'Arenville coldly informed her.

  "I've no doubt Reverend Winstanley will come as soon as he is able. I

  shall wait." His hard grey gaze came to rest on a nearby water

  colour

  It was a clear dismissal. The maid backed hurriedly out of the

  parlour, turned and almost ran down the corridor.

  Magnus, Lord d'Arenville, glanced around the room, observing its

  inelegant proportions and the worn and shabby furniture. A single poky

  window allowed an inadequate amount of light into the room. He

  strolled over to it, looked out and frowned. The window overlooked the

  graveyard, providing the occupants of the house with a depressing

  prospect of mortality.

  Lord, how unutterably dreary, Magnus thought, seating himself on a

  worn, uncomfortable settee. Did all vicars live this way? He didn't

  think so, but he couldn't be certain, not having lived the sort of life

  that brought him into intimacy with the;

  clergy. Quite the contrary, in fact. And had not his oldest friend,

  Freddie Winstanley, donned the ecclesiastical dog collar, Magnus would

  be languishing in blissful ignorance still. Magnus sighed. Bored,

  stale and unaccountably restless, he'd decided on the spur of the

  moment to drive all the ways up to Yorkshire to visit Freddie, whom

  he'd not seen for years.

  And now, having arrived, he was wondering if he'd done the right thing,

  calling unannounced at the cramped and shabby vicarage.

  A faint giggle interrupted his musings. Magnus frowned and looked

  around. There was no one in sight. The giggle came again. Magnus

  frowned. He did not care to be made fun of.

  "Who is there?" i "Huwwo, man." The voice came, slightly muffled,

  from a slight bulge in the curtains. As he looked, the curtains parted

  and a mischievous little face peeked out at him.

  Magnus blinked. It was a child, a very small child--a female, he

  decided after a moment. He'd never actually met a child this size

  before, and though he was wholly unacquainted with infant fashions it

  seemed to him that the child looked more female than otherwise. It had

  dark curly hair and big brown pansy eyes. And it was certainly looking

  at him in that acquisitive way that so many females had.

  He glanced towards the doorway, hoping someone would come and fetch the

  child back to where it belonged.

  "Huwwo, man," the moppet repeated sternly.

  Magnus raised an eyebrow. Clearly he was expected to answer. How the

  devil did one address children anyway?

  "How do you do?" he said after a moment.

  At that, she smiled, and launched herself towards him in an unsteady

  rush. Horrified, Magnus froze. Contrary to all his expectations she

  crossed the room without coming to grief, landing at his knee.

  Grinning up at him, she clutched his immaculate buckskins in two damp,

  chubby fists. Magnus flinched. His valet would have a fit. The

  child's hands were certain to be grubby. And sticky. Magnus might

  know nothing at all about children, but he was somehow sure about

  that.

  "Up, man." The moppet held up her arms in clear expectation of being

  picked up.

  Magnus frowned down at her, trusting that his hitherto unchallenged

  ability to ri
d himself of unwanted feminine attention would be just as

  effective on this diminutive specimen.

  The moppet frowned back at him.

  Magnus allowed his frown to deepen to a glare.

  The moppet glared back.

  "Up, man," she repeated, thumping a tiny fist on his knee.

  Magnus cast a hunted glance towards the doorway, still quite

  appallingly empty.

  The small sticky fist tugged his arm.

  "Up!" she demanded again.

  "No, thank you," said Magnus in his most freezingly polite voice.

  Lord, would no one come and rescue him?

  The big eyes widened and the small rosebud mouth drooped. The lower

  lip trembled, displaying to Magnus's jaundiced eye all the unmistakable

  signs of a female about to burst into noisy, blackmailing tears. They

  certainly started young. No wonder they were so good at it by the time

  they grew up.

  The little face crumpled.

  Oh, Lord, thought Magnus despairingly. There was no help for it--he

  would have to pick her up. Gingerly he reached out, lifting her

  carefully by the waist until she was at eye-level with him. Her little

  feet dangled and she regarded him solemnly.

  She reached out a pair of chubby, dimpled arms.

  "Cudd'w!"

  Again, her demand was unmistakable. Cautiously he brought her closer,

  until suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck in a strong little

  grip that surprised him. In seconds she had herself comfortably

  ensconced on his lap, leaning back against one of his arms, busily

  ruining his neck cloth It had only taken him half an hour to achieve

  its perfection, Magnus told himself wryly.

  She chattered to him nonstop in a confiding flow, a mixture of English

  and incomprehensible gibberish, pausing every now and then to ask what

  sounded like a question. Magnus foune himself replying.

  Lord, if anyone saw him now, he would never live it down. But he had

  no choice--he didn't want to see that little face crumple again.

  Once she stopped in the middle of what seemed an especially involved

  tale and looked up at him, scrutinising his face in a most particular

  fashion. Magnus felt faintly apprehensive,? wondering what she might

  do. She reached up and traced the long, vertical groove in his right

  cheek with a small, soft finger.

  "What's dis?" He didn't know what to say. A wrinkle? A crease? A

  long dimple? No one had ever before had the temerity to refer to it.

  "Er ... it's my cheek."

  She traced the groove once more, thoughtfully, then took his chin in

  one hand, turned his head, and traced the matching line down his other

  cheek. Then carefully, solemnly, she traced both at the same time. She stared at him for a moment, then,

  smiling, returned to her story, reaching up every now and then to trace

  a tiny finger down the crease in his cheek.

  Gradually her steady chatter dwindled and the curly little head began

  to nod. Abruptly she yawned and snuggled herself more firmly into the

  crook of his arms.

  "Nigh-nigh," she murmured, and suddenly he felt the small body relax

  totally against him.

  She was asleep. Sound asleep--right there in his arms.

  For a moment Magnus froze, wondering what to do, then slowly he began

  to breathe again. He knew himself to be a powerful man--both

  physically and in worldly terms--but never in his life had he been

  entrusted with the warm weight of a sleeping child. It was an awesome

  responsibility.

  He sat there frozen for some twenty minutes, until a faint commotion

  sounded in the hall. A pretty young woman glanced in, a harried

  expression on her face. Freddie's wife. Joan. Jane. Or was it

  Jenny?

  Magnus was fairly sure he recognised her from the wedding. She opened

  her mouth to speak, and then saw the small sleeping figure in his

  arms.

  "Oh, thank heavens!" she exclaimed.

  "We've been looking everywhere for her."

  She turned and called to someone in the hallway.

  "Martha, run and tell Mr. Freddie that we've found her."

  She turned back to Magnus.

  "I'm so sorry, Lord d'Arenville. We thought she'd got out into the

  garden and we've all been outside searching.

  Has she been a shocking nuisance? "

  Magnus bethought himself of his ruined neck cloth and his no longer

  immaculate buckskins. His arm had a cramp from being unable to move

  and he had a nasty suspicion that there was a damp spot on his coat

  from where the little moppet had nuzzled his sleeve as she slept.

  "Not at all," he said slowly. "It's been a pleasure."

  And, to his great surprise, Magnus realised he meant it.

  Chapter One

  London, February 1803

  "I want you to help me find a wife, Tish. "

  "Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?" responded Laetitia

  flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her

  self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.

  His chill grey stare bit into her.

  "I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you," said Magnus

  stiffly.

  "A bride? You? I don't believe it, Magnus! You've hardly even talked

  to a respectable female in years--' " Which is why I require your

  assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible."

  "As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in

  a tizzy!" Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with

  faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in

  mock surprise.

  "The impregnable Lord d'Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?" Her

  rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly.

  "May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is

  unexceptional enough--you will have to set up your nursery some time

  soon--but such unseemly haste suggests... There is no... ah ...

  financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?"

  Magnus frowned repressively.

  "Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested--I have

  decided to set up my nursery. I want children."

  "Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn't want a

  string of girls, would you?"

  Magnus didn't reply. A string of girls didn't sound at all bad, he

  thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neck cloths

  while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be

  good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie's sturdy-legged boy, Sam.

  The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind,

  even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his

  journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to

  Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all,

  brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.

  However, far easier to let society believe that d'Arenville required an

  heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in

  his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand

  times. He didn't need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never

  would. He'd learned that lesson very young.

  But the chink r
emained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful

  child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line

  down his cheek.

  It was a pity he'd had to ask Laetitia's assistance. He'd never liked

  her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But

  someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he

  wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring

  a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss

  and bother.

  He returned to the point of issue.

  "You will assist me, Tish?"

  "What exactly did you have in mind? Almack's? Balls, routs and

  morning calls?" She laughed.

  "I must confess, I cannot imagine you doing the pretty, with all the

  fond mamas looking on, but it will be worth it, if only for the

  entertainment."

  He shuddered inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face

  remained impassive and faintly disdainful.

  "No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick."