Tallie's Knight Read Free Page B

whenever she wished.
    The problem lay with
Tallie. As it always did. With her foolish pretences and silly, childish
make-believe. It was getting out of hand, pretending, day after day, that these
three adorable children were hers. And that their father, a dashing and
romantic if somewhat hazy figure, was away on some splendid adventure, fighting
pirates, perhaps, or exploring some mysterious new land. She had dreamed so often
of how he would arrive home on his coal-black steed, bringing exotic gifts for
her and the children. And when they had put the children to bed he would take
her in his arms and kiss her tenderly and tell her she was his pretty one, his
love, his little darling. No. It had to stop. She was no one’s pretty one, no
one’s darling. The children’s father was bluff, stodgy George, who drank too
much and pinched Tallie’s bottom whenever she was forgetful enough to pass within
reach. He never came near the children except at Christmas, when he would give
them each a shilling or two and pat them on the head. And their mother was
Laetitia, beautiful, selfish, charming Laetitia, ornament of the London ton.
    Tallie Robinson was
nothing —a distant cousin with not a penny to her name; a plain, ordinary girl
with nothing to recommend her; a girl who ought to be grateful to be given a
home in the country and three lovely children to look after.
    There would never be
a dashing knight or handsome prince, she told herself savagely. The best hope
she had was that a kind gentleman farmer might want her. A widower, probably,
with children who needed mothering and who would notice her in church. He would
look at her plain brown hair and her plain brown eyes and her plain, sensible clothes
and decide she would do. He would not mind that her nose was pointy, and marred
by a dozen or so freckles —which no amount of lemon juice or buttermilk would
shift. He would not care that one of her front teeth was slightly crooked, nor
that she used to bite her nails to the quick.
    Tallie looked down at
her hands and smiled with pride at her smooth, elegant nails. That was one
defect, at least, she had conquered since she left school. Her kindly gentleman
farmer would be proud. Drat it —she was doing it again. Weaving fantasies with
the slenderest of threads. Wasting time when there were a thousand and one
things to be done to prepare for Cousin Laetitia’s house party. Tallie hurried downstairs.
     
     
    The Russian Prince
cracked his whip over the arched necks of his beautiful grey horses, urging
them to even greater speed. The curricle swayed dangerously, but the Prince
paid no heed —he was in pursuit of the vile kidnappers. No! Lord d’Arenville
was not a prince, Tallie told herself sternly. She patted her hair into place
and smoothed her hands down her skirts. He was real. And he was here to be with
his intended bride. He was not to appear in any of her silly fantasies.
    But Mrs. Wilmot was
right —he certainly was handsome. Tallie waited for her cousin to call her
forward and introduce her to the guest of honour. He had arrived only minutes
before, clad in a caped driving coat and curly brimmed beaver, sweeping up the
drive in a smart curricle drawn by two exquisitely matched greys. Tallie knew
nothing at all about horses, but even she could tell his equipage and the greys
were something out of the ordinary.
    She’d watched him
alight, springing lightly down from the curricle, tossing the reins to his
groom and stepping forward to inspect his sweating horses before turning to
greet his hosts. And thus, his priorities, Tallie told herself ironically —horses
before people.
    Definitely not a
prince.
    He was terribly
handsome, though. Dark hair, thick and springy, short cropped against a
well-shaped head. A cleanly chiselled face, hard in its austerity, a long,
straight nose, and firm, unsmiling, finely moulded lips. His jaw was also long,
squaring off at the chin in a blunt, uncompromising fashion. He was tall,