Helen Dickson - Scandalous Secret, Defiant Bride

Eyes narrowed, with a proud lift to her head, she waded out of the water and moved towards him, seemingly not in the least embarrassed at confronting a complete stranger in her sodden petticoat.

‘I trust you’ve had an edifying look, sir—pretending to be a gentleman, riding about the countryside on a fine horse on the look-out for poor, defenceless girls.’

Max smiled. ‘You? Defenceless? Now you do exaggerate. Something tells me you are afraid of no one.’ Her clenched fists and rose-tinted cheeks, the brilliance of her green eyes, told him so.

The accented voice was courteous enough, which only seemed to exacerbate Christina’s temper. ‘Have you nothing better to do with your time?’

‘I can’t think of anything more pleasurable just now than looking at you,’ he replied easily. ‘I was merely out riding.’

‘Then you must be a stranger, otherwise you would know you are trespassing. This is private land.’

A slow, appreciative smile worked its way across his face as his eyes raked her from head to toe once more and then moved back to her furious eyes. ‘A thousand apologies. I hadn’t realised. But my crime—if that is what it is—was well worth it.’

Helen Dicksonwas born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE EARL AND THE PICKPOCKET

HIS REBEL BRIDE

THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE

WICKED PLEASURES

(part of Christmas By Candlelight )

FORBIDDEN LORD

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

During the quiet of the afternoon heat, when everyone was at rest and nothing moved in Castello Marchesi in the Tuscan hills, the boy crept up the curving staircase and gingerly went towards the nursery. Pushing open the door, holding his breath, he halted on the threshold and peered inside. The light was subdued, the curtains having been partly drawn, one of them fluttering in the gentle breeze from an open window.

Rosa, the nursemaid, was nowhere to be seen, but he knew she wouldn’t mind him being there. Looking directly ahead of him, his eyes came to rest on a cradle with diaphanous curtains.

Tiptoeing across the richly patterned carpet, he peered uncertainly over the side at the tiny bundle lying there—a girl just six weeks old. Inhaling the innocent fragrance of her, studying her face with a smile of wonder, he watched her sleep.

As he looked at her he felt a stabbing pain of joy to his heart and tears sprang to his eyes. Never had anything moved him as this child did, and with infinite gentleness he reached out his hand and touched the tiny fingers curled into a ball on the pillow beside her cheek. They twitched and he smiled, his bright blue eyes alight with tenderness.

‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ he said aloud to the child, and then, more softly. ‘You are the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen.’

The child’s eyes opened a moment—emerald green and sparkling, exquisite they were—unusual, the boy thought, he had been told that all babies’ eyes were blue when they were born. They fluttered closed and he laughed softly. ‘Oh, you little beauty,’ he whispered, his heart aching for his own empty childhood. ‘You see, little one,’ he murmured, lightly brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers, ‘already I disturb your dreams. With eyes as lovely as yours you will set the whole world alight. If only you knew what trouble your arrival has created.’

This was true, for what a terrible time that had been when Lydia, the baby’s mother, had died. Her father, Roberto, unable to cope with the grief of losing his beloved wife, had appeared at Castello Marchesi with the child and faced his mother, the boy’s step-grandmama, and begged her to take the child. From where he sat in a secluded part of the balcony reading his book, he had heard it all.

Looking through the glass doors his gaze had been drawn to his step-grandmama. Tall and thin with a spine ramrod straight, her eyes were alight with the brilliance of a demon as she glared at her son. Although he hadn’t known Lydia well, he was aware that she had been a wilful, spirited young woman—unlike her husband, who was totally subordinate to his formidable mother. As always, it was his step-grand-mama’s voice that prevailed. Roberto had sat cowed, too distraught to put up a defence. That was when he had heard his own father calling his name from the drive below and he’d turned away.

Leaving the child to sleep, he left the nursery, only to return the next day clutching a small fluffy bear as a gift. But things were not right. Rosa was folding a basket of freshly laundered clothes on the table, and he saw that she was quietly weeping. His eyes went to the cradle and slowly he walked towards it and bent to look inside. It was empty.

He straightened slowly and turned, looking at Rosa with a sudden tension on his face. ‘Rosa? Where is she? Where is the baby?’

‘Oh, she’s gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘The English lady and gentleman—you remember, they came yesterday. The lady is the baby’s aunt—Lydia’s sister. They—have taken her to England.’

‘You mean Grandmama has given her away?’ He stood transfixed, unable and unwilling to believe the old lady would do such a cruel thing. ‘But—Roberto will look after her. He is her father.’

‘Roberto has gone.’ She shook her head, sorrow etched into every line of her face. ‘He said he was not coming back.’ Rosa stopped what she was doing and looked at the boy. His eyes were wide open, his face like a chalk mask. ‘The English couple will be her parents from now on,’ Rosa said gently, wiping away her own tears, for she had become fond of the child and she would miss her.

‘But how can they be? Roberto is still her father.’

‘She will have a new father and a new mother, one who will love her as much as Lydia, which she would not have—’ Rosa bit her lip to stop herself saying more, for Countess Marchesi had laid down a proviso before the couple left. She had insisted that the child be raised knowing who she was and when she was eighteen she would return to Italy and wed her betrothed—this young boy whose heart she had already stirred. Their union would join two of Tuscany’s most successful houses. The boy was at an impressionable age. These things were best left to his family to explain.

‘But this is her home. I thought we would be a family now. Oh, Rosa, this is too cruel.’

Striding out of the nursery, he went to his room and through the French windows out on to the balcony, where the olive groves and the vineyards with rows of ripening grapes spread out before him.

Having told him as gently as she could, Rosa watched him go. She’d never before encountered the pent-up, rigidly controlled grief that the boy displayed, and for the first time she realised his mind was so powerful that it seemed able to completely override all his emotions when he wished. Rosa had cared for him since the moment of his birth—the moment he had taken his first breath and his mother her last.

He was well cared for with everything money could buy, his school in England the very best, but of parental care there was a total lack. His step-grandmother was a cold woman who grudgingly accepted his presence and wore the air of someone doing a duty where he was concerned. His father was kind, in his brisk, ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ manner, but it was Rosa to whom the boy turned for the love and affection he craved, from Rosa, fifty and never married, that he received it.

All manner of things careered through the boy’s mind, not the least of which was his own loss, of the child he felt closer to than any human being. It came to him that if the child had been given away then neither his grandmama nor her father could love her—if they did, then they would not have done it.

A dark anger rose up in him as he dwelt on the child’s image, and with tears running fast down the coldness of his face—the first and the last he would ever shed—he looked up at the sky, a breathtakingly beautiful blue. And in a firm, clear and defiant voice he said, ‘She was mine. That child was mine. One day I will find her. I swear I will.’

Chapter One

1895

It was the sound of her ringing laughter that first drew Maxwell Lloyd to Christina Thornton. Until now only the subdued call of birds, his own quiet breathing and the lazy drone of a browsing bee disturbed the silence of the woodland. Riding slowly along the dim chequered path, he heard more shrieks and laughter, now masculine as well as feminine. He came out of the trees and on to the edge of the small private lake on Sir Henry Thornton’s estate. It basked in the benign warmth of the sun and long tendrils of willow brushed the surface.

On the grass he observed two pairs of men’s boots and stockings neatly tucked into the tops. Beside them were two piles of carefully folded trousers, shirts and tweed jackets. A little further apart what he saw brought a smile to his firm lips and told him much about the owner of the possessions. A small pair of leather shoes and more delicate cream stockings had been discarded with less care on the ground, and a red dress had been thrown untidily over a bush—such fine-quality material would not be worn by a servant.

Halting his horse on the edge of the trees, he surveyed the scene before him with astonishment. The sun was hot and the water looked cool and inviting and, had the lake not been occupied by three young things, he would have taken off his clothes and dove into the silent dark depths himself.

Two boisterous young men were cavorting in the water with a young woman scantily clad in what he assumed must be her petticoat. With carefree, wholesome hearts they were too absorbed in their antics to notice him, so he could look his fill.

But he only had eyes for the young woman. In those first dazzling moments he acted as any hot-blooded male would and all he could do was stare as a thrill of excitement ran through his veins. But Maxwell Lloyd was no ordinary man and he recovered at once.

Of medium height and as slender as a wand, her perfectly rounded breasts rose in two delectable white hemispheres above the lace of her petticoat. Saturated, it clung to her, outlining her body, her hips arched from her small waist, and the perfect shape of her legs. Her breathtaking beauty quickened his soul and stirred his mind with imaginings of what further loveliness lay concealed beneath her flimsy attire. Her hair was an explosion of bright, rich, dark brown curls hanging down her back to her buttocks in a tangled mass. Her face was heart shaped, her mouth like a ripe raspberry.

The two young men, one dark, the other fair, were teasing her mercilessly, splashing her with water and shrieking louder when she tried to back away and fell, dowsing the whole of her in the lake. The fair-haired young man took her hand and hauled her to her feet; not a bit chagrined, with a riotous sense of fun she laughingly threatened them with the same. In mock-terror the two young men immediately dove under the water and, when they emerged, with strong swift strokes began swimming towards the centre of the lake.