Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Read online

  MARRYING THE MAJOR

  Unsuitable Matches Series

  Who would take the Stratton brothers—a disfigured veteran and a cynical rake?

  Yet even unsuitable matches have their good points. It's a question of digging...

  Deep.

  MARRYING THE MAJOR

  Unsuitable Matches

  by

  JOANNA MAITLAND

  Published in the United Kingdom by Joanna Maitland Independent in 2020

  LibertaBooks.com

  Marrying the Major

  ~Unsuitable Matches Series~

  revised edition

  originally published by Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd in 2002

  by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  Copyright © Joanna Maitland 2002, 2020

  Second revised edition 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-913915-04-9

  The right of Joanna Maitland to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Thank you for purchasing this eBook. Please note that it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you think this book is worth sharing with someone else, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete or return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the rights and hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Requests to publish work from this book should be made to:

  [email protected]

  Cover Design: Joanna Maitland

  Cover Images:

  Adobe Stock/ yuriyzhuravov; pauws99;

  PeriodImages.com/Maria Chronis, VJ Dunraven Productions

  Interior Formatting: Joanna Maitland

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Unsuitable Matches Series

  Dear Reader: from Joanna Maitland

  Joanna Maitland Titles

  Prologue

  1805

  Emma Fitzwilliam settled herself high in the branches of her favourite oak, glancing only a little ruefully at yet another tear in her cotton pinafore. She was not usually so clumsy. She would be well scolded for that when she returned to the house, but her punishment would be much worse if they discovered she still climbed trees. Her old governess was trying vainly to make a lady of her. And Papa—dearest Papa—had lately said one or two things to suggest he was less than totally happy with the way she behaved.

  Dearest Papa. For him, if he asked, she would try to become a lady, but it would be terribly difficult. And terribly boring. Ladies had to walk sedately instead of romping around the estate, they were never allowed out without an escort, they certainly could not go swimming in the lake, or fishing, or climbing trees. And they weren't even supposed to laugh out loud. Emma frowned at that last thought. Gentlemen were allowed to laugh—and frequently did—but ladies were supposed to smile demurely or, at most, give a melodious tinkle to signify amusement. It wasn't fair. Nor would it be fair to make her spend all her time at ladylike pursuits. Emma could play and sing pretty well, and even set a neat stitch, but she could not imagine doing so all the time, with only slow, boring walks for exercise, accompanied by a stony-faced groom. Ugh.

  She wriggled about until she could reach into her pocket for her book and her apple. Then she settled down to read, munching blissfully. This was one of the pleasures of not being a lady. And she would not give it up.

  "Young Lord Hardinge and his friend have called to see Miss Emma, sir," intoned the butler gravely from the study doorway, "but no one is quite sure where she is. Shall I—"

  "Show them both in here, Godfrey," said Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, rising from his deep wing-chair with a welcoming smile already on his cheery features. "No doubt my daughter will appear soon enough. She seems to have some kind of sixth sense about welcome visitors. And unwelcome ones, too." He laughed at his own wit, wondering, nonetheless, how it was that his mischievous daughter was never to be found except when it suited her. For Richard Hardinge, who was like a big brother to her, she probably would appear. She had been trailing him for years, after all, and Richard had never once rejected her, no matter how demanding she had become. Soon, it would all have to stop. Emma was fast maturing into a young lady. And young ladies did not cavort around the estate with male friends, no matter how trustworthy they might be, nor how indulgent her father. No, soon it would be necessary to find a proper female companion for his only daughter, to give her the polish that a young lady required, the polish that her dear mama would have provided if only she had lived.

  Sir Edward sighed slightly at the sad memory but assumed a polite smile when the door opened again to admit his two guests. The young men were remarkably alike, both tall and dark-haired, with open features and merry eyes. They seemed to have been laughing at some shared joke.

  Richard Hardinge bowed politely to his host. "I collect we have lost her again, sir," he said with an ironic shake of the head. "And Hugo was so anxious to make his farewells in due form, too." Richard grinned at Hugo, who seemed to be unmoved by his friend's sly jibe.

  "I suggest you both sit down," said Sir Edward placidly, nodding in the direction of the old-fashioned sofa on the opposite side of the huge fireplace. "She will appear, sooner or later." He turned to Hugo Stratton. "But I'm sorry to learn that you are leaving, my boy. I had understood from Lady Hardinge that you were to remain at Harding for a month or so yet."

  "That was so, sir," said Hugo. "Lady Hardinge was kind enough to invite me to stay for the summer, until my commission came through. The thing is— Well, sir, the fact is that my regiment is ordered to Deal next week—the rumour is that we are preparing for embarkation for north Germany—and unless I join them now, I'll have to wait for months, besides missing the chance of a crack at Boney." His grey eyes were shining with enthusiasm as he spoke. "I really do have to go, you see, sir. I'm leaving for home this afternoon."

  Sir Edward nodded sagely. He had seen enough of Hugo Stratton these past few weeks to recognise the makings of a good officer in him, in spite of his youth. "I understand your haste, my boy. I was much the same at your age. In the circumstances, it's
good of you to make the time to call on Emma. You must have a host of more important things on your mind."

  Hugo was still young enough to be able to blush. He stammered a little. "After all your kind hospitality, sir, it is the least I could do."

  "Think nothing of it," said Sir Edward, "nothing at all." He rose and paced to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to gaze out on the deserted terrace and the sweeping lawns beyond. "Drat the girl," he said quietly to himself, "where on earth is she?" He turned back to his guests, smiling apologetically. "I can understand that time is pressing for you, so I will not attempt to detain you. Since Emma has not condescended to put in an appearance, she will have to make do with second-hand farewells. I will tell her you called, and why. Perhaps now she'll learn not to disappear quite so often."

  Hugo and Richard had risen politely with their host. Hugo took a step forward. "I still have half an hour, sir. May we not go and look for Miss Fitzwilliam? She's bound to be in the garden somewhere. And Richard probably knows where to look. He should, after running tame round your estate for so many years." This time, it was Hugo's turn to grin at his friend's discomfiture.

  Sir Edward smiled indulgently at them. "Very well, if you wish. But do not, on any account, allow that little minx's pranks to delay you beyond your time."

  The two young men were already making their way into the garden. Watching them, Sir Edward gave a weary shake of his head, "Heaven help me. Whatever shall I do with such a hoyden?"

  Emma was so deeply immersed in the fantastic adventures of the heroine of her novel that it took several minutes before the voices penetrated her concentration. Goodness, they were standing almost directly beneath her. She offered a quick prayer that they would not look up and sat as if frozen.

  "Well, she's clearly not here," said one voice with a thread of irritation in it.

  Emma immediately recognised Richard's voice. And the annoyance. They had been fast friends almost since she was in leading strings but, of late, he was a little less indulgent than before. Her father said that Richard was now too grown-up to bother with a grubby little hoyden, that once he finished university he would have no time at all for Emma. But Richard wouldn't do that, would he?

  Emma opened her mouth to call down to Richard, but thought better of it. Someone else was with him.

  "When she doesn't want to be found," said the second voice, "she seems to disappear into thin air. I'd have expected you to go straight to her hiding place, Richard. After all the time you've spent on this estate, you should know every nook and cranny."

  Emma smiled slightly at the second voice. It was Richard's friend Hugo Stratton, and he sounded more amused than annoyed. Hugo was not like Richard—except a little in looks, perhaps. Hugo did not treat Emma like a grubby little sister, to be teased and provoked. Hugo treated her almost like a lady.

  Almost, she repeated to herself. For Hugo Stratton had a wicked sense of humour. He was quite capable of behaving like a perfect gentleman while secretly laughing at everyone around him. Only the decided glint in his eye betrayed his unholy glee. And Emma had quickly learned to look for that, before anything else.

  But now, from her vantage point, all she could make out was the top of his head.

  The tree shook suddenly, as if some giant had leaned heavily against it. It was only the wind, but Emma clutched at her book, loose in her lap, to prevent it from falling. She was too late to retrieve the apple core, though, which rolled down through the branches. Mercifully, it stopped, caught on a tiny twig a few feet below Emma's perch.

  "I thought I did know all Emma's hiding-places," said Richard's voice thoughtfully, "but clearly not. The little brat has obviously been keeping something from me. And if we don't find her soon, she won't have a chance to see you before you go. And then she'll be fizzing mad."

  "Why should she be?" Hugo sounded puzzled. "She hardly knows me."

  "With Emma, that's not the point. She may be only thirteen, but she believes she has a divine right to know everything about everyone round here. And to put in her two penn'orth. If you leave without saying goodbye, she'll ring a peal over me for ignoring her."

  "But she's only a child—"

  "Only sometimes, Hugo. Sometimes, she sounds exactly like a society lady. It's uncanny. Especially since she still looks like a child, all dirt and scratches and tangles."

  "Maybe she's growing up," said Hugo quietly.

  "Now, that would be a pity," replied Richard. "We've had such fun together. She's a great sport, you know. Never complains about cuts and bruises, or getting wet and muddy when we go fishing. I can't imagine her as a young lady, all prim and proper and simpering. And clean!" He laughed aloud at that.

  Emma did not pause to wonder why Hugo was leaving, for she was almost overcome by righteous anger at Richard's words. She was not always a grubby urchin as he seemed to believe and—

  And then her eyes became riveted on the apple core. The tree was moving again, almost as if it were responding to Richard's laughter. The apple core had become half-dislodged and it was starting to slip.

  She held her breath. For a long moment, there was silence.

  "I wish I were going with you, Hugo," said Richard, sounding suddenly very serious. "But with m'father the way he is…"

  "I know." Hugo sounded sympathetic. "But even if Lord Hardinge were not ailing, you wouldn't be permitted to go, you know. There are times when I'm really glad I'm only a younger son. And this is one of them. My mother's brother has told me what great fun he had when he first joined the regiment. The older officers played all sorts of tricks on him of course—it's a bit like school, in that sense—but he had such adventures."

  "Yes, I know. You told me, remember?" Richard was more than a little envious of his friend's good fortune. Emma could hear it in his voice. As an only son, he would never be allowed to join the army.

  "Where on earth can she be?" said Richard with a sudden burst of fury. "You go and look in the orchard, Hugo. I'll search down by the river, but that's it. If we don't find her in the next ten minutes, we'll have to go. You can't afford to be late." He thumped the tree in exasperation. "Blast the brat. Why can she never behave?"

  The apple core jumped a fraction, hung suspended in mid-air for what seemed like seconds, and then disappeared down through the leaves.

  Emma swallowed a gasp. Then, with a tiny shrug of her shoulders, she leaned towards the gap in the branches. She might as well give in gracefully. They were bound to find her now.

  But Richard had gone, striding angrily across the lawn in the direction of the river.

  Down below her, a sudden shout of laughter was quickly stifled. Hugo's voice, rippling with amusement, said quite clearly, "Now, that is strange. My education must have been sadly at fault. I'd have sworn that this was an oak tree, but it's obviously an apple. Unless this is an oak-apple. Yes, that must be it. And the teeth-marks must have been made by a squirrel, I suppose. Very large squirrels they have on this estate. Next time, I'll bring my gun."

  Emma could have sworn she saw a flash of white teeth through the leaves. The next moment, Hugo was sprinting across the grass to the orchard, without once looking back.

  She stuffed her book into her pocket and began to climb down, automatically finding the well-known footholds. Little brat, was she? Never clean? Well, she would show Richard Hardinge.

  She raced across the lawn to the side door, raging inwardly all the while. With Nurse's help, she would be clean and ladylike in a trice. Well, ten minutes, at most. She would appear as a prim, proper—and demure—young lady. She'd show him. Them.

  No. That wasn't fair. Hugo Stratton had not called her a grimy brat. Hugo had known perfectly well where she was, but he had laughed. And flashed that wonderful smile.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1816

  Emma Fitzwilliam slowed her chestnut mare to a relatively sedate trot as she came in sight of the lodge gates. It was bad enough that she had ridden out without her groom. No need to make mat
ters worse by galloping into the Harding estate like a mannerless hoyden.

  She patted her blonde hair into place. Time to assume the role of the perfect lady, the role that she had long since learnt to don as easily as a pair of fine silk stockings.

  Emma was longing to see Richard and his wife again. It was only a few months since the Earl and Countess Hardinge had left England for the Continent but, to Emma, it seemed like years. Surprisingly, given that Richard had been her childhood friend, it was his wife Jessamyne, usually called Jamie, that Emma had really missed. The two women had become as close as sisters since Jamie's marriage. Letters had been exchanged, naturally, but that always meant delay; communications with France remained, at best, uncertain, even though the war had been over for nearly a year and Napoleon was now safely installed on St Helena.

  There was nothing like a long, comfortable coze. And that was precisely why Emma had come.

  She urged her mare to slightly greater speed.

  As she rounded the corner of the house, Emma saw a little group of figures sitting on the lawn under the ancestral oak. She started towards them, but then paused, for Jamie was not there. Two men were sitting on a rug with a very small child, much hampered by his petticoats. Goodness, how Dickon had grown. Emma barely recognised her little godson.

  Dickon's anxious nursemaid was hovering as close as she dared, watching lest the clumsy males should mishandle her charge. Not much chance of that in Richard's case, Emma thought, for he doted on Dickon and spent much more time with his little son than most fathers did. The other gentleman, however, seemed not to have noticed the child. He was half turned away, apparently gazing into the middle distance.

  Emma screwed up her eyes against the glare to get a good view of the second man. She did not know him, she was sure, though she could see little more than his profile. He was dark, like Richard, but his lined face looked older and much more serious. Rather austere, in fact, in Emma's opinion. She hoped, secretly, that she would not have to meet him. It would spoil the happiness of her day to meet a man who preached at her.