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The Liberation Of Miss Finch
Diane Gaston
England, 1829.Eleven years ago, Claude Mableau came to Rappard Hall as a stable worker seeking revenge and fell in love with the noble family's poor relation, Miss Louisa Finch. Now home after making his fortune abroad, he discovers that his youthful infatuation is as strong as ever, as is his body's craving for the beautiful lady.Claude cannot resist her plea to introduce her to the pleasures of lovemaking before her arranged marriage. Yet despite their intense passion, Louisa will always be forbidden to him as a bride.
The Liberation of Miss Finch
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
England, 1829
Eleven years ago, Claude Mableau came to Rappard Hall as a stable worker seeking revenge—and fell in love with the noble family’s poor relation, Miss Louisa Finch. Now home after making his fortune abroad, he discovers that his youthful infatuation is as strong as ever, as is his body’s craving for the beautiful lady. Claude cannot resist her plea to introduce her to the pleasures of lovemaking before her arranged marriage. Yet despite their intense passion, Louisa will always be forbidden to him as a bride….
Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.
—John Keats
Dear Reader,
You met Claude Mableau in each book of my Three Soldiers series. This quote from Keats could have been written for him. Here’s Claude’s quest for his own happy ending. Enjoy!
Diane Gaston
http://dianegaston.com
To my son, Dan, who deserves love and happiness always
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Prologue
Badajoz, Spain, 1812
Twelve-year-old Claude Mableau cowered in the corner of the Spanish courtyard, covering his ears with his hands.
No use. The sounds of the rioting, his mother’s screams, fists pounding on his father’s body, continued to assault him. The siege of Badajoz was lost, and British soldiers swarmed the city, shouting and killing and looting. He’d been frightened when his father appeared at the door of their home, his French uniform torn and stained with blood. They’d fled. No time to pack. No time to think. The entire French army was in flight.
When they reached the courtyard, three British soldiers, wild-eyed and smelling of drink, attacked. His father fought. His mother pushed Claude away and one of the red-coated men seized her. Claude ran and hid.
But he could still see two of the soldiers beating on his father, over and over and over. Suddenly Claude watched his father’s eyes widen in shock. His father fell, hitting the stone pavement so hard Claude heard the thud. The British soldier backed away holding a knife dripping with blood.
Claude covered his mouth with his fist. Was his father dead? Where was his mother? One of the soldiers had forced her to the ground while the others laughed. Claude screwed his eyes shut.
A pistol shot rang out. Two of the red-coated soldiers ran, but the third straddled his mother and pulled up her skirt.
Claude heard his father’s voice in his head. You are not a helpless baby. Be brave.
Claude dashed from his hiding place and jumped on the British soldier’s back. The man was too big. Too strong. He flung Claude away like rubbish.
Other British soldiers came and he was terrified at what would come next. Would they kill his mother? Would they kill him?
Instead these men talked in calm voices. They led Claude and his mother away, away from the body of his father, back to his house, now a shamble of broken furniture and shattered dishes.
Through the fog in Claude’s mind, though, he remembered with clarity one British face, one British name.
Edwin Tranville.
Claude repeated the name over and over so he would never forget it.
Edwin Tranville.
Someday, even if he must travel to the ends of the earth, even if it took a lifetime, he would make Edwin Tranville pay for the death of his father and the attack on his mother.
Someday.
Chapter One
Lancashire, England, 1828
At one time Claude thought Lancashire to be the very ends of the earth. It had seemed so eleven years ago, when he’d tracked Edwin Tranville to Rappard Hall and procured employment as a stable worker there. Claude never intended to return, but time and distance and a great deal of life made returning a matter of some importance.
It was not easy. Lancashire held memories difficult to face. Memories of failure and loss and shame.
His horse crested the hill, dotted with sheep just as he remembered it. Claude gazed into the valley where the stream still meandered through shrubbery and trees, its blue water sparkling in the sun.
More pleasant memories came to mind, of peaceful hours spent at the water’s edge, moments when he’d felt almost happy. What harm to detour for a few moments, refresh the horses where he’d done so before? He left the road and made his way across the field, riding one horse and leading the other.
When he came to a familiar break in the trees, he halted.
She was there! Dancing in the stream like some sprite, barefooted, skirts held up to her knees, scattering the water into glittering crystals.
He shook his head. No. Impossible. Impossible to find her again in this same spot. His unlikely friend, his unspoken infatuation, and in some ways his salvation.
She turned and caught sight of him. A look of wonder filled her face.
He dismounted.
“Claude?” Her voice was tentative, as if she, too, could not believe her eyes.
“Louisa,” he rasped.
She dropped her skirts into the water and closed the distance between them, rushing into his arms. “Claude! I thought I had imagined you! I did not hear your approach. Suddenly you were just there!”
He’d held her only twice before, once to comfort her, once upon their parting. After all, a French stable worker was not permitted to embrace an aristocratic English lady. In truth, he should not be touching Miss Louisa Finch now, but in the moment, he did not care.
Her scent was as intoxicating as he remembered, and his body reacted as it had before, as if his senses only came alive by holding her. He never wanted to release her.
She pulled out of the embrace, but kept her hands on his arms, gazing at him at arm’s length. “You look wonderful, Claude. Taller…and…and…more manly.”
It pleased him perhaps too much that she noticed he was no longer a youth of eighteen. “I suppose I have changed after all this time.”
She also had changed, although her brown eyes were still as warm as a cup of coffee on a cold morning. Her face was leaner, her chin and cheekbones more prominent, more refined, as if a master sculptor had envisioned a way to make his creation even more beautiful.
Their gazes held and his yearning grew, a yearning he’d never dared to admit, even to himself.
“What are you doing here, Claude?” she finally asked, breaking the spell between them.
“A visit to my mother,” he managed, through a throat thick with emotion.
He had not seen his mother these same ten years, not since she married a British soldier, the man whose life had been so entwined with theirs.
Louisa blinked. “Yes, of course, I assumed you came to see your mother, but I meant, why did you come here, to this place?”
“I thought of you,” he said simply. “I remembered our rides and I remembered this stream.”
Her gaze caught his again and held.
The horses snorted, bringing him back to reality. He led them to the water’s edge to drink, and turned back to her. “I could afford to delay my arrival a trifle.”
He appreciated the delay, in fact, uncertain of his welcome at his mother’s house.
Louisa followed him to the stream and ran her hand down one of the horse’s necks. “They are beautiful, these horses. Are they yours?”
He swelled with pride at her words. “Yes.”
A love of horses had bonded him with her all those years ago. Made them kindred spirits.
“Where is Pomona?” He looked around for the horse she’d loved since childhood.
Her smile fled. “Dead these last three years.”
He reached out and touched her arm. “I am sorry for it.”
Pomona had been her link to her childhood in Newmarket, before her parents died and she was sent to Rappard Hall to live as a poor relation. “Where is the horse you rode here, then?”
“I walked.” She smiled, as if determined not to be sad. “Come. Might we sit here like we used to? Do you have a little time to tell me where you have been and what you have been doing? The last I spoke with your mother, you were in America. Is that why your accent is different? Are you speaking like an American now instead of a Frenchman?”
There was nothing he wanted more than to sit with her. “I cannot say about my accent, but I did lately live in America in a place called Tennessee.”
They sat on the bank and Claude talked at length about his travels on the Continent and his life in Tennessee, a place with much interest in horse racing. He told her about working on a prosperous horse farm and how he had learned a great deal about training and breeding racehorses. He did not tell her of other experiences in Tennessee, however.
She gestured to the two steeds now nibbling on grass. “Are these lovely creatures American racehorses?”
He shook his head. “They do not have the speed. My…my employer was disappointed in them, but they have stamina. I think they are excellent riding horses.” They were, in fact, the fruits of his labor of which he was most proud. “They will be my gift to my mother and Mr. Deane.”
His attempt at atonement, as well.
“Will be?” Louisa straightened. “Oh, my gracious! You have not been to your mother’s house yet?” She stood. “I must not detain you any longer.”
Louisa hurried over to Claude’s horses and he followed, not so eager to complete his journey.
She petted the horses as she waited for him to catch up. “Your mother will be so happy to see you.”
“I expect so.”
His mother would welcome him, he was certain, but what of her husband? Would Captain Deane forgive him? Claude had tried his best to keep his mother from marrying the British officer, and he had never made any secret of his resentment of the man. Not that Deane had ever been anything but good to Claude, indeed, saving his life at Waterloo and again that last night at Rappard Hall.
In those days Claude had been consumed with hatred, despising all things British.
Except Louisa.
He joined her at the horses. “Would you allow me to escort you back?”
“Yes!” Her face flushed with pleasure.
He lifted her onto his horse’s back, savouring the feel of her in his hands and remembering touching her in the same way eleven years ago. He gathered the reins to the other horse, which carried his meager belongings, and mounted behind her.
“What is this lovely chestnut’s name?” she asked him, leaning forward to stroke the horse’s mane.
“Gallatin. And the dun is Clover. I named them after American racetracks.” Those racetracks had provided him enough funds to leave Tennessee and forge a new life, wherever that might be.
With Louisa perched in front of him, his nostrils filled with her scent. It took him back to the days when they first rode together, when it was forbidden for him, a mere stable worker, to touch her. He remembered the feel of her against his body the two times they defied that rule.
