Regency Christmas Proposals Read online

  Gray recalled that Sanders had been the name of his estate manager he had written to the previous week, informing him of his intention of arriving at Steadley Manor today…

  Having deliberately stayed away from Steadley Manor these past two and a half years, Gray had never met the estate manager who had replaced Mr Davies upon the latter’s retirement a year ago. He had, in fact, put all the dealings of the estate, including the hiring of a new estate manager, into the capable hands of Worthington, his lawyer.

  Because Gray had not wanted Steadley Manor, nor the estate, nor any of the other responsibilities—such as Perry’s recently acquired stepdaughter—that had been left in his charge when his brother had died. The only thing Gray had wanted was his brother back safe and well from the Battle of Waterloo. Something that was never going to happen now Perry had been left broken and dead on the battlefield.

  Steadley Manor, the estate, even Perry’s dratted stepdaughter, were all just reminders to Gray that he would never see his beloved brother again. Easier by far, then, to ignore them all and simply continue to live his own life in London.

  Until, that was, Gray had received a letter a fortnight ago, delivered to his London home one morning, from Daniel Wycliffe, the Earl of Stanford. The Earl’s estate was but twenty miles from Steadley Manor, and Daniel had been a childhood friend of Gray’s brother Perry. The fact that the other man had written to Gray at all had been cause for surprise, but the content of the letter had been even more so.

  The Earl had heard rumours, he had written, that all was not well at Steadley Manor. That livestock was being sold and not replaced. The fields were left untended. The estate cottages were falling into a state of disrepair. The Earl had concluded with the statement that it was not for him to say whether or not these rumours were true, only that he felt he should bring them to Gray’s attention.

  Gray had read through the letter several times, and each time he’d done so his annoyance had deepened at the Earl having had the audacity to write to him at all. He had no doubt as to why the other man had chosen to interfere—as a friend of Perry’s the Earl had decided it was high time that Gray saw to his responsibilities at Steadley Manor. It was an interference that Gray had deeply resented.

  So much so that once he had finished his breakfast Gray had sat down and written the other man a terse reply, along the lines that he was perfectly capable of dealing with his own affairs, thank you very much!

  Except…

  The letter from the Earl of Stanford had arrived at a time when Gray, after years of working secretly as an agent of the crown, had been reflecting on what he should do with the rest of that life, recent events having left him feeling strangely restless and dissatisfied. After a further week of contemplation, of finding no answers to that restlessness, Gray had finally come to the conclusion that perhaps he should travel into Bedfordshire to see if his future lay there after all.

  As much as Gray had had no real desire to travel to flat and uninteresting Bedfordshire at this cold and unwelcoming time of year, he’d also known that there was no more perfect a time for him to leave London, now that the majority of the ton had returned to their country estates in anticipation of the Christmas holiday in one week’s time. He would visit his estate in Bedfordshire, Gray had decided, and see if there really was any basis for the rumours the Earl claimed to have heard, before travelling on to Gloucestershire in response to an invitation he had received from Hawk, Duke of Stourbridge, to spend Christmas there with the St Claire family.

  Gray had not realised when he’d made those arrangements quite how serious the problems at Steadley Manor were. Servants not being paid. The departure of almost all those servants, both inside the house and out of it. How his young ward had been living alone here all this time—apart from the company of a woman Gray already considered totally unsuitable as companion to a young and impressionable girl.

  All of them were things, Gray was now only too aware, that he would most certainly have known about—might have prevented from happening—if he had taken the slightest bit of interest in the running of his own estate since his brother died…

  Gray scowled. Damn it all, he’d had other responsibilities—his duties to the crown to fulfil—without having to worry about something that should have been ably taken care of by the two men he had paid so generously to do it in his stead.

  Which begged the question: if the money had not been paid into the hands of the household and the estate workers, then whose purse had it ended up in? Only his lawyer, Worthington, and the estate manager Sanders had handled the money before it was suitably dispersed to the men and women employed on the estate. As Gray had seen and spoken to Worthington only days ago—the older man had been delighted that Gray was at last taking some interest in his estate—it would appear that only Sanders, the man to whom Gray had written a week ago to inform him of his intention of arriving at the estate some time today, was no longer here to answer any of Gray’s questions…

  His mouth firmed. ‘You did not feel the same need to absent yourself because of the non-payment of your own wages?’

  ‘I, My Lord?’ The woman blinked up at him innocently, instantly drawing attention to the long length of the dark lashes that surrounded those huge blue eyes.

  Deliberately so?

  Gray could not be sure. Nor did he wish to be! From what he had recently learnt he would have more than enough problems to deal with during the next few days, without having to concern himself with the flirtations of a young woman he did not consider fit to take care of one of his horses, let alone the development of his young ward.

  He nodded tersely. ‘You, ma’am.’

  Amelia looked up at him with a frown. She had to admit that Lord Gideon Grayson, with that stylish dark hair and those enigmatic grey eyes set in a face as masculine and perfect as a sketch she had once seen of one of Michelangelo’s sculptures, was one of the most handsome men she had ever set eyes upon.

  Unfortunately, having now met him, Amelia realised he was also the most arrogantly forceful man she had ever encountered, too!

  She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘I do not understand, My Lord…?’

  He eyed her impatiently. ‘I am asking if you love your work here so much that you have been happy to do it all these months without payment?’

  ‘No, My Lord…’

  Really—was Gray to add stupidity to the list of this woman’s character defects? It would be a pity if that were the case; even a woman as beautiful as she would do better in the world if she possessed at least some intelligence. ‘No, you do not love your work here? Or, no, you have not been happy to do it without receiving payment?’

  She gave a tinklingly dismissive laugh, revealing tiny and perfectly straight white teeth between those plump red lips. ‘No, I do not work here at all, My Lord.’

  ‘You—?’ Gray gave an irritated frown. ‘Explain yourself, if you please!’

  ‘I am Amelia, My Lord—Amelia Ashford,’ she added lightly as Gray continued to stare down at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Your step-niece and ward.’

  Gray was too startled—shocked!—by the revelation to even attempt to hide it, and he openly goggled down at her.

  This beautiful and seductively lovely woman—a woman any man would relish taking to his bed—was the daughter of the genteel but impoverished widow his brother Perry had been married to for only months before her death, soon followed by Perry’s own death at Waterloo?

  Chapter Three

  It could not be!

  There had to be an error of some sort. Amelia Ashford was a child—only seventeen years of age—whereas this young woman was—

  Perry’s stepdaughter had been ‘only seventeen’ two and a half years ago…

  Which would now make her in her twentieth year, not her eighteenth!

  Circumstances beyond Gray’s control had meant that he had never met Perry’s wife Celia, nor her daughter Amelia. Perry had written to Gray at the time of his marriage, of course, ass
uring him of his joy in his wife, and of his delight in becoming stepfather to such a delightful child as Amelia.

  There had not been time for Gray—nor opportunity—to visit the new family at their estate in Bedfordshire before Perry had written to Gray a second time, shortly before he’d had to depart for Waterloo, informing him of his complete devastation at the sudden death of his wife from influenza.

  When the news had reached Gray, only weeks later, of his brother’s own demise during that last bloody battle he had felt absolutely no desire to visit the estate he had just inherited—to be at or see the place where he would be made aware of his brother’s absence the most.

  Instead Gray had put the financial running of the estate into the hands of his lawyer, while concentrating his own energies on his duties in London. His only dealings with Steadley Manor during that time had been the twice-yearly meetings Worthington had insisted upon, so that the lawyer might present Gray with an account of estate business.

  Never in all that time, Gray now realised uncomfortably, had he given even a thought to how Amelia Ashford had dealt with the sudden death of her mother, quickly followed by that of her stepfather. Let alone considered the loneliness of the life she must have led all this time, secluded away in rural Bedfordshire.

  Gray studied her from between narrowed lids now, as he attempted to reconcile his previous image of a young girl on the brink of womanhood with the reality of the beautiful and seductive young woman who stood before him, wearing only her nightclothes. A young and tempting woman, who conjured up images of bedchambers and lithe and naked bodies intimately entwined amongst tangled sheets—

  Damn it, Amelia Ashford was under Gray’s protection, and as such she was the last woman on earth that he should find himself having such intimate imaginings about! The last woman he should have held in his arms.

  ‘What is your companion Miss Little about,’ he rasped harshly, ‘that she allows you to run about the house at night dressed only in your nightclothes and brandishing a loaded pistol in order to challenge a man whom you believe to be a thief?’

  Whatever Lord Grayson had been thinking during those last few minutes of silence, they had not been pleasant thoughts, Amelia decided ruefully as she heard the hardness of his tone. ‘I am afraid Dotty Little was amongst the first to leave your household.’

  And although Dotty had been employed to be Amelia’s companion when she’d first come to live at Steadley Manor, she could not say she had been sorry when the fussy little woman had departed in a huff some months ago. It had become very tiresome to constantly be told, ‘No, that is not ladylike, Amelia,’ or, ‘No, a lady does not behave in that way, Amelia,’ or, even worse, ‘No, a lady does not look at a gentleman in that way, Amelia,’ if she should happen to glance admiringly at one of the handsome young men who attended the church services on a Sunday.

  No, in spite of the occasional loneliness Amelia had suffered in the months since Dotty’s departure, it had been pleasant to be free of the constant restraint previously placed upon both her behaviour and thoughts.

  Although she could tell by the thunderous scowl upon Lord Grayson’s brow that the knowledge of Dotty’s departure did not meet the same favour in his eyes.

  ‘When did Miss Little leave?’

  ‘Some weeks ago,’ Amelia dismissed uninterestedly. ‘You must be cold and hungry after your journey, My Lord, allow me to go down to the kitchen and prepare you a light repa—’

  ‘How many weeks ago?’

  ‘I am sure that there will be some of the thick stew and freshly baked bread left over from my own supper—’

  ‘How many weeks ago, Amelia?’

  She looked up at him through the curtain of her long lashes. ‘There really is no need for you to raise your voice, My Lord,’ she reproved softly.

  His young ward was, Gray realised, attempting to be everything that was sweetly innocent. Attempting—because after her earlier behaviour he was not fooled for a moment! Believing her to be other than who she was, Gray might have made a mistake in taking her in his arms, but there had been no doubting Amelia’s warm response!

  ‘Perhaps if you were to answer my question I would not feel the need to do so?’ he came back mildly—and just as insincerely! ‘Perhaps,’ he continued grimly, ‘if you had written to me at the time of Miss Little’s departure the situation here would not have become quite so dire as it is!’

  Her eyes widened indignantly. ‘I trust you do not consider me to blame for the servants having departed?’

  ‘No,’ Gray allowed. ‘Only for choosing not to inform me of it.’ He was fully aware of who was to blame for the state of things at Steadley Manor. As he was also aware of the debt of gratitude he owed to Daniel Wycliffe for bringing those problems to his attention. Gray knew he owed the other man an apology at the earliest opportunity…

  ‘I did not—My Lord, there is blood upon the sleeve of your greatcoat!’ his ward gasped, her hand rising to her mouth in alarm, and a look of fascinated horror in those wide and incredulous blue eyes as she stared at his left arm.

  Gray glanced down uninterestedly at the blood-soaked sleeve. ‘That is what usually happens when one has been shot, Amelia.’

  Cheeks that were already smooth and pale as alabaster became even paler still as all the colour drained from his ward’s beautiful heart-shaped face. ‘I— You— Are you saying that I—that I aimed true…?’ Her breasts rapidly rose and fell as she breathed deeply and erratically.

  Gray’s mouth twisted ruefully as Amelia reached out blindly to rest a steadying hand upon the banister. ‘You did not shoot me through the heart, as you threatened to do, but I do believe I have received a flesh wound upon my left arm that may need some attention. I trust you are not about to swoon, Amelia?’ He frowned darkly as he noticed the way his ward had begun to sway on her slippered feet.

  Amelia was very much afraid she was about to do exactly that!

  Except…

  The look of impatient disgust she detected on Lord Grayson’s rakishly handsome face as he scowled down at her was enough to bring her back to her full senses.

  For Amelia to pinch herself at the realisation that Lord Gideon Grayson was actually here, at Steadley Manor, at last.

  Wonderful as her sense of freedom had been after Dotty’s departure, Amelia had recently begun to grow a little tired of languishing alone here in Bedfordshire. Now that Lord Grayson was here she certainly did not intend behaving like a complete ninny by fainting at his feet. Bad enough, surely, that after all the years of waiting for this moment she had actually shot Lord Grayson within minutes of first meeting him!

  ‘Certainly not, My Lord,’ Amelia assured him briskly. ‘I was merely overcome for a moment, that is all. We will go to my bedchamber—’

  ‘For what purpose, might I ask?’ He lowered dark and reproving brows.

  She gave him a frowning glance. ‘Only because there is a fire alight in there to warm you and to ensure that you do not suffer from shock as well as loss of blood.’

  The only shock that Gray was suffering was in finding that this seductive young woman—and she was most certainly a woman, and not a child!—was his ward. A woman he had held in his arms only minutes ago. Intimately.

  ‘The water remaining in the jug following my own ablutions should still be tepid, at least.’ She ignored Gray’s scowl as she moved to his side and placed his uninjured arm across her shoulders before picking up the candle to light their way.

  Amelia Ashford was definitely a plucky little thing, Gray acknowledged with reluctance. Not that it had ever been in any doubt, after the way she had faced him down with a pistol earlier—and actually succeeded in pinking his arm, too!

  Gray had been vaguely aware, following the retort of the pistol, of a little discomfort in his left arm, but as it had only been slight—like the stinging of an angry bee—he had as quickly dismissed it. It was, however, starting to hurt like the very devil now that he had been reminded of it!

  Damn it,
if any of Gray’s male acquaintances in the ton—heaven forbid any of his friends amongst the St Claire family!—ever learnt that he had been shot and wounded by his delicate slip of a ward, he would never live it down. Would find himself the butt of their jokes for years to come.

  He attempted to extract his arm from about those slender shoulders. ‘I assure you it is only a flesh wound, Amelia—’

  ‘A flesh wound that needs to be bathed and bandaged.’ She continued to doggedly guide his progress along the shadowy hallway.

  ‘I am perfectly capable of walking unaided,’ Gray snapped in his irritation with the idea that Amelia seemed to have acquired that he in any way needed her questionable assistance.

  Damn it, he was only eight and twenty—in the prime of his life—not some decrepit old man incapable of walking simply because he had received a graze upon his arm from a pistol shot. Besides, he had received and as quickly recovered from wounds that had been much more serious than this one…

  ‘I am sure that you are, Lord Grayson,’ that honeyed voice soothed patronisingly. ‘I am merely endeavouring, as you do not know the way, to guide you to my bedchamber.’

  Good God, after holding her in his arms earlier, the last thing Gray wanted was to go to this young woman’s bedchamber! The marriage between her mother and Gray’s brother might have been of short duration, and the couple now both passed away, but Amelia had still been Perry’s stepdaughter. And, with no other relatives alive to care for her after her mother and stepfather had died, Gray had become—still was—her guardian.

  A guardian who was only too aware of her beauty and her powers of seduction!

  And Gray was only too aware now, as he attempted to distance himself, of the soft delicacy of her flesh beneath his arm and hand, the warmth of her body pressed so close alongside his own…!

  ‘This really will not do, Amelia—’