Lucy Ashford - The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

Praise for Lucy Ashford writing as Elizabeth Redfern:

AURIEL RISING

‘Intelligent.’

— New York Times

‘Richly atmospheric … Redfern’s strength is in recreating a morally corrupt world.’

— Publishers Weekly

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES

‘Quite wonderful … It is Redfern’s ability to bring each scene, each character alive that makes this such toothsome reading.’

— USA TODAY

‘Unputdownable … [a] remarkable debut … a glittering tale of London in 1795, full of science, intrigue, war, revolution and obsessive passion.’

— Guardian

He forced himself away. ‘Damn it, Belle, tell me to stop now. For I swear if we carry on much longer I will not be able to do so.’

‘You mean—this is real?’ she breathed. ‘You actually find me desirable?’

What was she talking about? He gave a harsh, incredulous laugh.

‘Adam—we agreed there would be no intimacy!’

There was an edge of panic to her voice that made him freeze. Cupping her face with his hands, he gazed down at her. His blood was pounding, his loins thudding just from her being near, this beautiful woman whose full, tremulous lips he longed to kiss again.

‘Belle,’ he said quietly. ‘You loved your husband very much. I realise that—’

He broke off, feeling her tremble in his arms.

‘But it’s five years since he died,’ he went on, ‘and I want to kiss you, Belle. I want to do more than kiss you—I think you want it, too. And if you don’t want me to take this further, then say so now. Say, Adam, I want you to leave .’

LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

Lucy has written several historical novels, and this is her third for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com

Previous novels from Lucy Ashford:

THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET

THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE

THE CAPTAIN’S COURTESAN

And in M&B:

THE PROBLEM WITH JOSEPHINE

(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages )

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

For this story I’ve moved a little later into the Regency period—1819, when the long Napoleonic wars were fading from most people’s memories and a new world dominated by invention and industry was bringing changes aplenty to Society’s elite.

I wanted to explore how a man of wealth and willpower—Adam Davenant—would cope with the barriers still put up by England’s aristocracy against someone like him. The ton likes to mutter that he’s a jumped-up quarry-owner; it’s just Adam’s luck that he collides with lovely Belle Marchmain, who’s well-born, a widow, and absolutely penniless. Adam offers her an answer to her temporary problems, but soon, thanks to her growing feelings for the ruthless Mr Davenant, she’s faced with more dilemmas than ever!

I really enjoyed exploring the clashes between old money and new, and how the rigid rules of class were having to be broken down rather swiftly in the closing years of this decade. I love the way Adam is prepared to knuckle down and help his quarry workers when needs must, and I love the way the defiant, often outrageous Belle gradually has to admit that she’s actually found the man of her dreams.

Here is their story.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Sawle Down, Somerset—March 1819

It was the kind of spring afternoon that touched these green Somerset hills with magic—or so the locals, whose heads were filled with old folk tales, would say. Adam, a hard-headed businessman, had no time for superstitious nonsense, but he found himself doing exactly what an old quarryman would do. He let his long, lean fingers rest on the great slab of honey-coloured stone that had just been hewn from the ground—then he tapped it, once, twice, thrice.

For luck.

May there be three hundred, three thousand times this wealth in the earth below me .

His big roan Goliath was tethered nearby, unconcerned by the noise of the quarry workers and their equipment as they toiled at the excavations in the heat. Adam turned to the man at his side with just the hint of a smile curving his strong mouth.

‘So it’s going well, Jacob?’ he asked softly.

Old Jacob, in his dusty quarryman’s garb, clearly couldn’t wait to tell him just how well. ‘Like a dream, Master Adam! Me and the lads, we were resigned to this quarry being worked out for good. Some of them never thought to get a job like this again.’ The old quarryman could scarcely conceal his glee. ‘But then you came last month and told us there was fancy folks in London interested in our stone.’

‘More than interested, Jacob. Believe me, builders are clamouring for it.’

‘And so they should be!’ Jacob gestured towards the fresh-hewn blocks and rapped one with his callused knuckles, just as Adam had done. ‘Rings true as porcelain, do you hear, sir? No faults inside her!’

Jacob followed as Adam headed across the uneven ground to speak to a group of bare-chested workers who’d been vigorously plying their pickaxes at the rock face. Clouds of dust rose and clung to their sweating backs, but they put their picks aside and grinned when they saw who was there.

Adam had slung his dark riding coat over one shoulder and moved easily amongst them asking questions, offering words of quiet praise. He was owner of this quarry and much else besides, but the rumour ran that the master had been known to wield a pickaxe himself when the going got tough and had vowed he’d never be too grand to stand shoulder to shoulder with his men.

Jacob Mallin kept close to his side, beaming with pride. ‘You promised the lads you’d get this quarry workin’ again, sir, and you’ve kept your word.’

Adam turned to him, the sun glinting on his cropped dark hair and hard cheekbones. ‘I always do,’ he said softly. ‘Tell the men they’ll be handsomely paid for their work. If there’s anything else you need by way of equipment or supplies, just let my manager Shipley know.’

Jacob nodded approvingly. His men would whisper between themselves, He’s a good ‘un, is the master. None works harder than him or treats us better . Yes, Master Adam had his grandfather’s instinct for making money. But he was also a fair man, a man who kept his promises, and the reopening of the old quarry had brought fresh hope to many lives round here.

‘Aye, I’ll tell the lads,’ Jacob promised. ‘Will you be sendin’ the stone up to Bristol, sir, when it’s ready?’

Adam gazed at the rolling green countryside which surrounded them, then turned back with a new light burning in his dark eyes. ‘No. I’m going to build a railway to the Avon canal, and from there this stone—this new stone—can be taken by boat to the Thames and to London itself.’

‘But it’s not your land between here and the Avon canal, Master Adam—leastways, not all of it!’

Adam had moved towards his big roan and was already securing his rolled-up coat to the back of his saddle—far too warm for the garment on a day like this. ‘My grandfather never let a simple obstacle like that hold him up. And neither will I,’ said Adam in a voice edged with steel.

Jacob shook his grizzled head in wonder as he watched him ride off. ‘There’s no stopping him,’ he murmured, eyes shining with delight. ‘No stopping him, that’s for sure.’

Goliath was ready to gallop and Adam let him. There’s nothing like the feel of the land under your horse’s hooves being yours, my lad. Especially when that land but recently belonged to men who’d cross to the other side of the street rather than acknowledge you .

Those were the words of his grandfather, who with his work-roughened hands and west country vowels had laboured night and day to remove the shame of the name the upper classes scornfully gave him—Miner Tom. But they’d all come to Miner Tom’s funeral, oh, yes. All the gentry of Bath and London had hurried eagerly to the lavish ceremony—because they’d realised by then how much the man they’d despised was damned well worth.

Adam’s grandfather had wanted nothing more desperately than for his grandson to be accepted by the society that had spurned him. That wish had come true. But now Adam often thought that he was happiest on days like this, riding Goliath across Somerset’s lush green hills and knowing that the chief wealth of those hills, the fine stone beneath them, was his to be harvested.

They’d said the Sawle Down quarry was finished. It had last been profitable fifty years ago; then the expense of extracting the stone had deterred any prospect of new investment. But Adam had anticipated the surge in demand and hence in price for good building materials; he’d made his calculations and investments and proved the doomsayers wrong.

Now his detractors would say there was no way he could get the valuable stone to the canal, that vital water link to the Thames and London. Well, he would prove them wrong again.

Suddenly a distant movement caught his eye. Another rider was enjoying the afternoon sun—and blatantly trespassing on private land. A woman. Eyes narrowed, Adam urged Goliath into a canter towards her.

He swore aloud when he saw her turn her pretty dappled mare’s head and set off away from him at a reckless pace. A stupid pace, that was taking her towards the edge of another old quarry.

Adam swung Goliath into a broad circle to head her off. The ground here was treacherous. Yes, the grassy slopes of Sawle Down looked inviting, but—disused quarries aside—decades of quarry debris lurked beneath the sheep-cropped turf, waiting to catch the unwary. And indeed it was only a matter of moments before the dappled mare suddenly stumbled and sent its foolish rider crashing to the ground. Adam was there in moments, swinging himself out of the saddle to kneel beside that prone body.

She was clad in a riding habit of crumpled crimson velvet. Her abundant black curls fell in loose array; her little crimson hat, set with ridiculously jaunty red feathers, lay nearby. He saw that her face was a perfect oval, with a tip-tilted nose, a rosebud mouth and thick lashes dark against creamy skin.

The faint scent of lavender drifted up to him. Who was she? What the hell was she doing, riding up here on her own? She was a lady of quality, that was clear. Apart from her fine clothes he registered that her complexion was dewy, her figure lissom. Then Adam realised that her eyes were fluttering open. He noted the tremor of fear that surged through her as she saw him towering over her. Adam was suddenly aware that his boots and breeches—his open-necked shirt, too, quite likely—were covered with dust from the quarry.