Heiress in Regency Society: The Defiant Debutante - Helen Dickson

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it, that he was deliberately using his charm to dismantle her determination to stand against him, infuriated her. As soon as she had finished her dessert she stood up.

      ‘Please excuse me,’ she said stiffly, making a display of folding her napkin in order to avoid his eyes. ‘I want to look in on Aunt Patience before I go to bed.’

      ‘Of course,’ Alex replied, rising and slowly walking round the table to stand beside her. ‘Would you like some coffee before you leave? Or perhaps you would like to stay a while longer and play a game of cards—or chess, maybe? Uncle Henry did say you play a pretty mean game.’

      Meeting his gaze, Angelina felt her flesh grow warm. His nearness and the look in his eyes, which had grown darker and was far too bold to allow even a small measure of comfort, washed away any feeling of confidence. The impact of his closeness and potent masculine virility was making her feel altogether too vulnerable.

      ‘No—thank you. Perhaps another night.’

      ‘As you wish.’ Alex’s voice was as soft as silk. There were the uncertainties of innocence about her, telling him that the sudden panic in her eyes was not in the least feigned. He accompanied her to the door, opening it for her. ‘I hope you sleep well. I must warn you that the old timbers creak and groan, so don’t be alarmed if you hear anything untoward during the night. Tomorrow I will ask Mrs Morrisey to show you the house.’

      Angelina felt a sudden quiver run through her as she slipped away from him, a sudden quickening within as if something came to life, something that had been asleep before. She went up the stairs in awed bewilderment, feeling his eyes burning holes into her back as she went.

       Chapter Five

      During her first few days at Arlington, Angelina contrived to keep out of Alex’s way as much as possible. She became a familiar and welcome sight at the stables. From Trimble, the head groom, she learned that horses were Lord Montgomery’s abiding passion. Possessing some prime horseflesh, he was immensely proud of his large stable. He was also an expert horseman, who adored his gun dogs and was passionately interested in every kind of field sport.

      Arlington Hall was a complex maze of rooms and arched passageways leading into each other. A billiard room and a music salon led off from the long gallery, and the smaller rooms had been made into private sitting and dining rooms and libraries, ornate with Italian marble and Venetian glass chandeliers.

      Around mid-morning she invariably found herself in the domestic quarters to partake of a cup of Mrs Hall’s delicious chocolate. Her charm and friendly, open manner had precipitated the admiration and devotion of the entire army of servants.

      Angelina had never seen so much food in her life as the amount that existed in Mrs Hall’s kitchen. ‘Are all the animals eaten at the Hall reared on the estate, Mrs Hall?’

      ‘Why, yes—at least most of them. As you will have noticed, Lord Montgomery likes good, plain food when he’s at Arlington—none of your fancy French cooking smothered with rich sauces and the like, which he says he gets more than enough of when he’s in town. He prefers a roast or a game pie any day of the week.’

      ‘What? Rabbit and partridge?’

      ‘Aye, that’s right—although it’s a while since I made a rabbit pie. I have to wait until the gamekeepers bring me some, you see. The woods round here abound with all kind of game. I dare say it’s the same where you come from.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Although shooting isn’t a pastime as it is here in England. It’s a way of life and often the only means of survival.’ Suddenly Angelina was struck by an idea and her lips stretched in a wide smile. ‘I shall get something to fill your pie, Mrs Hall,’ she said, leaving the kitchen with a jaunty stride.

      Mrs Hall smiled indulgently after her and did not take her seriously, but she would have been astounded if she could have seen Angelina fifteen minutes later, striding towards the woods with her rifle.

      Alex was returning home after visiting Mr Cathcart, one of his tenant farmers, who was concerned about the large band of gypsies encamped on his land and the recent outbreak of serious poaching in the area. Many a rabbit or a pheasant found its way into a family’s pot, but the offence was more serious when deer were killed on a large scale, the ill-gotten gains sold further afield.

      Alex was riding across open country when he heard the report of a gun. Frowning, he reined in his horse sharply and looked in the direction of the woods. Recalling Mr Cathcart’s grievance and determined to get to the bottom of it, he whipped Lancer, his horse, into a burst of speed and set off in the direction of the shot.

      In the process of reloading her rifle in the hope of bagging another rabbit, Angelina paused, distracted by the thundering approach of horse’s hooves. Horse and rider emerged out of the trees and came towards her, and, much in the manner she associated with him, Lord Montgomery swung off his still-prancing, powerful black horse. With long, purposeful strides he swooped down on her like Satan in his entire frightening wrath. Angelina beheld a countenance of such black, terrifying menace that she trembled, fear coiling in the pit of her stomach. Never had she encountered such cold, purposeful rage. He took in the dead rabbit on the ground, and, with a look of cold revulsion, his eyes raked over her, riveting on the rifle in her hands.

      ‘What the devil are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘If you don’t mind, I will take that.’ He held out his hand for the rifle, but Angelina had no intention of parting with her precious possession. Once it had been her only means of protection against hostile predators—both human and animal—when she had made the long trek from Ohio to Boston, and also the means of supplying her and her mother with many a tasty dinner.

      ‘Mind! But of course I mind,’ she retorted, losing control of her temper. Recklessly and without thinking what she was actually doing, taking a step back she levelled it at Alex’s chest.

      Alex’s face darkened even more. ‘Give it to me,’ he said in that infuriatingly same awful voice.

      Undismayed Angelina glared at him without removing her hand on the well-worn grip.

      ‘Angelina, I repeat, give it to me.’

      ‘No, I won’t,’ she said, trying to ignore the fury her defiance ignited in his features.

      ‘You little hell cat,’ he said quietly, watching her closely. Almost gently he warned, ‘Before you consider pulling the trigger, pause to consider if killing me is worth hanging for.’

      Angelina didn’t flinch. ‘I actually think it would be worth it,’ she hissed, but, seeming to realise the absurdity of her action, she slowly lowered the gun.

      ‘I’ll break that rifle over your backside if you so much as raise it again.’

      Highly incensed by his threat, a feral light gleamed in the depths of Angelina’s eyes. She was like a kitten showing its claws to a full-grown panther. ‘You lay one finger on me,’ she ground out in a low husky voice, ‘and I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will.’

      In the face of this dire threat Alex moved towards her and leaned forward deliberately until grey eyes stared into amethyst from little more than a foot apart. His eyes grew hard and flintlike, yet when it came his voice was soft and slow. ‘You dare me?’ Seeing flagging courage and alarm flare in those dark orbs close to his own, reaching out he plucked the rifle from Angelina’s grasp before she knew what he was about. ‘I have never been an abuser of women,’ he said, speaking carefully and distinctly, ‘but if you tempt me enough, I might change my mind. I become very unreasonable when I’m angry.’

      Stepping back, he scrutinised the lightweight rifle, with its fine engraved patch box and ripple-grained stock. He recognized it as a Kentucky flintlock rifle, one of the most popular small firearms of the American frontier. It was also ideal for hunting and, Alex thought with annoyance, for use against marauding Indians and irate lords. ‘Yours, is it?’

      Rather than let him

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