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by Allison Lane |
| BIRDS OF A FEATHER Signet Regency CHAPTER TWO
Bidding Randolph farewell, Lord Sedgewick Wylie headed for his chambers at Albany. He liked walking, for it allowed him time to think. In society’s eyes, Randolph was his oddest friend, for they seemed to have nothing in common. Randolph was a renowned expert on medieval manuscripts, who cared little for appearance and less for society. Sedge had replaced Brummell as the quintessential dandy, reveling in gossip and the London Season. Few knew he cared for anything beyond manners and the cut of his coats. Green cubs slavishly copied his style, and even the older bucks looked to him for sartorial leadership. Sedge kept his serious interests out of the public eye, for society was suspicious of anyone it could not easily understand. One-word labels were comfortable, imparting the order and structure that made thinking unnecessary. Lady Beatrice was a gossip, feared because she knew everything. Lady Warburton was a hostess, her balls the highlight of any Season. Lord Devereaux was a rake, unprincipled enough that parents kept daughters out of his path. Lord Shelford was a Corinthian, determined to best his own numerous speed records. Lord Sedgewick was a dandy, caring only for clothes and on-dits. He derived considerable amusement from society’s antics, much of it rooted in this willful blindness. Few people acknowledged that Lady Warburton was as obsessed with gossip as Lady Beatrice. No one admitted that Devereaux knew as much about horses as Shelford did. And as for himself, not only did people ignore his intelligence, the pleasure he derived from helping others, and even his love of history and literature, but disclosing these interests would actually reduce his credit. "Stop that!" The voice cut through the usual street sounds, pulling him from his reverie. A woman dashed in front of a carriage, oblivious to its approach. "Look out!" he shouted, sprinting forward. Stupid wench! Didn’t anyone think before acting these days? "Move out of the street!" She had frozen at his first warning and now stiffened, turning his way rather than toward the carriage. He lunged, jerking her to safety and slamming her against his chest hard enough to drive the air from their lungs. Nice body, noted his mind even as his eyes took in her appearance. Well-worn half-boots. A threadbare cloak over a serviceable gown. Spectacles perched on the tip of a pert nose. Plain bonnet hugging her head. Obviously a servant, for she lacked an escort. But her features were refined, so she was probably a governess or companion. "Not at all the thing to walk about in a fog," he drawled once he managed to inhale. His heart pounded from the aftermath of fear. "Tha … dog … boys … I don’t—" He’d overestimated her position. Her voice was cultured, but shock had reduced her to incoherence. Such a woman would make a poor governess. Too bad. Lack-wits had never attracted him. Nor would they now, he decided, setting her firmly aside. The unflattering garments hid a wealth of curves that were stirring interest in his nether regions. "Are you blind or merely stupid?" he snapped to cover his reaction. "What—" "Pay attention! You could have been killed." "D-dog." A finger directed his attention across the street. Two boys shifted their eyes from the departing carriage to the woman who had nearly died. Discerning their sport was easy. Hands pinned a whimpering dog to the ground. Raising his quizzing glass, he adopted his most disapproving frown. "Well, well, if it isn’t Tom Pratchard. Up to no good again?" This son of a Jermyn Street tobacconist had a penchant for mischief. He must speak to Pratchard himself this time. The lad’s mother had done nothing to curb his tendencies. He didn’t recognize Tom’s redheaded companion, though learning the boy’s identity would not be difficult. But that was for later. The moment he stepped off the curb, they fled. He turned his gaze to the dog. "And Maximillian. I might have known you would be here. What have you done now?" Squatting at the animal’s side, he checked him for injuries. Max licked weakly at his gloves. But aside from one shallow cut, he seemed intact. By following him, the woman had successfully traversed the street. She crouched in the gutter, making incoherent noises. Either she was more addled than he’d thought or fright had affected her wits. Max took in her concern, wiggling with pleasure when she scratched his ears. He always groveled to females, treating them to none of the questionable temper he inflicted on males. Thus they all adored him. "Sweet little dog," she crooned, finding her voice under the influence of Max’s charm. "You are having a miserable day, aren’t you. That nasty nurse tried to beat you with her umbrella. And a horse nearly stepped on you. You really must be more careful, you know. If that cat had been less of a coward, it would be dining on you at this very minute. And how did you run afoul of those horrid boys? Wicked monsters! Are you all right?" Max squirmed with pleasure, licking her fingers. "He will be fine," Sedge assured her, adopting a stern tone to hide his relief. She ignored him, prattling as inanely as his aunt and her dotty friends, her focus wholly on the dog, who was now pressed close to her side. She seemed unaware of his own presence, which made his fight to regain control of an unruly body even more irritating. "He will be fine," he repeated sharply, furious at being ignored. "But I can hardly say the same for you. What sort of idiot steps into the street without checking for traffic?" That gained her attention. "I didn’t … that’s not…" She inhaled deeply several times, lowering her gaze to his cravat. "Are you sure he is all right?" "Of course." How dare she question his judgment? The woman was more addled than he’d thought. "He merely escaped Lady Barkley’s garden again. As for you, this is London, not a country village. If you wish to survive, think before you act – or stay at home." "Of all the presumptuous—" "Thus speaks the woman who threw herself in front of a carriage," he scoffed, interrupting. "Hen-witted fool. Are you even aware that I just saved your miserable life?" Giving her no chance to respond, he batted her hand aside and scooped Max into his arms. "Come along, Maximillian. Your taste in friends grows worse each day." Max growled, snapping at his chin. He tightened his grip, glaring at the scruffy animal. "I can carry him," the woman offered. "He seems to like me." "Which proves his lack of intelligence. Why would I trust an animal to someone incapable of crossing a street unescorted?" he stifled an urge to wring her neck. He hardly expected instant adulation, but couldn’t she at least thank him for risking his life? Ignoring her reversion to stammered gibberish, he headed for Barkley House. This was not how he wanted to pass the afternoon. "Don’t turn that innocent look on me," he grumbled at the dog. "Your mistress may fall for that trick, but I know you better. That was a nauseating performance just now. How can you lower yourself to grovel? And to a brainless idiot." Now that he had no female to wheedle, Maximillian squirmed around to lay a paw on Sedge’s chest. "No, I won’t forgive you. It is bad enough that you’ve ruined my walking stick, my coat, and my newest pantaloons. Must you also destroy my waistcoat and shirt? Turrett will weep," he added, naming his valet. "He truly loved this outfit." Maximillian yelped in delight. "Proud of yourself, aren’t you. Stupid dog. This escapade was not one of your brighter ideas. Adventures are all very well in the country, but sneaking about in London will be the death of you. I cannot be forever available to rescue you from these antics." Maximillian hung his head. "As well you should. I must now summon my coach, for I dare not resume my walk. Appearing on the street in so disheveled a state would destroy my reputation." It was true. Even if none of Maximillian’s blood smeared his coat, dusty paw prints would never escape notice. Every eye turned his way whenever he ventured out. "But summoning my carriage will not be the worst penalty I must pay," he continued. A commotion in the square was attracting attention, so if he reached Barkley House unseen, he could avoid any questions. "Your mistress is undoubtedly at home." He cursed, then cursed again when he reached his destination, for his fears proved prescient. His aunt insisted on serving tea, then demanded to know when he planned to wed.
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Joanna swore under her breath as her rescuer left, carrying the dog. Mortification heated her cheeks. After only a week in town, she had already made a cake of herself. Would she never learn to think before acting? Heedlessness had been her bane for years. When something caught her attention, she forgot all else. Her penchant for walking into trouble was well-known at home, her frequent trances spawning countless jokes. Today’s incident could have cost her dearly. Why hadn’t she stopped to think? Waiting for the carriage to pass would have made no difference, but she hadn’t even noticed it. Thank heaven her anonymous rescuer had come along. She could have been badly hurt – or worse. His scold was well deserved. Even minor injuries could have consigned her to bed, ruining Harriet’s Season and leaving Wicksfield in the lurch. She should have mentioned her problem during that interview, but she had been sure that her concentration would remain on Harriet, who would thus benefit from her single-mindedness. Her cheeks heated. Wicksfield had asked if she could handle the job of chaperoning his daughter, and she had said yes. Despite knowing her history, she had agreed. The bitter truth was that she had wanted to visit London so badly that she had lied by omission. If she had told him, he would have hired someone else. Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She had set the stage for disaster with her lie. What if she fell into an abstraction when she was with Harriet? What if she approved the wrong suitor because she had missed evidence that he had a venal nature? What if she walked into a wall or knocked over a punch bowl, drawing ridicule onto Wicksfield’s family. It wasn’t an idle fear. She had already been guilty of those offenses and more. Her clumsiness attracted as much ridicule as her heedlessness. So far, she had managed well. Except for treading on a dowager’s foot last night… And jostling the butler’s arm so he spilled soup in her lap… And that little problem at the inn last week … but that had been the maid’s fault; people carrying loaded trays should not rush blindly around corners. Are you blind or merely stupid? She was not managing well at all, now that she considered it. Her cheeks heated. Her rescuer was undoubtedly one of the gentlemen Harriet would meet over the next few days. Would this encounter hurt the girl’s chances? Grimacing, she headed home, grateful that everyone she met was hurrying toward the escalating battle in the square. The foolishness of an impoverished chaperon could never compare to such drama, thank God. She was embarrassed enough as it was. Her gentleman had actually been quite chivalrous, she admitted as she passed the house into which he had disappeared. Most men would have ignored her in their rush to watch the fight. In fact, rescuing her had been more than remarkable. She was wearing an ancient cloak over one of her older gowns. He must have known that she was a person of no consequence, yet he had risked his life to drag her out of danger, jerking her with such force that her spectacles had slid down to cling precariously to the tip of her nose. She frowned. The longer she thought about it, the more incongruous his actions appeared. He’d made no pretense of approving her and had actually sneered at her appearance. His own had been very elegant, which made his behavior incomprehensible. None of the gentlemen she had met this past week would deign to touch a filthy, bleeding dog. Especially a scraggly mop of indeterminate breeding. Yet he had not only examined the animal, but had actually picked it up, holding it comfortingly against his coat despite its objections. Even knowing the animal did not explain such disregard for his clothing. So he must be an unusual man. New heat rushed to her face. Her own behavior had been appalling. The stupidity of rushing in front of a carriage was bad enough, but mortification had kept her from acknowledging his presence. Then she had compounded her sins by babbling so incoherently that he could not have understood a word. That was another of her curses: Embarrassment tied both tongue and brain in knots, turning words into a mishmash of incomprehensible gibberish and mortifying truths. She shook her head. At least she had only prattled to the dog this time instead of blurting out something horrid – like admiration for his broad shoulders, powerful arms, and unexpectedly muscular chest. Goose bumps tickled her neck, for he was very well set-up. The encounter had made her too aware of his assets. No padding enhanced that physique, and his strength had astonished her. She was not a frail, petite miss like Harriet. She was as tall as many men, and no one would ever describe her as slender. Yet he had picked her up as though she weighed nothing, crushing her to him from shoulder to thigh, and proving that her head fit perfectly… Forget his assets! She repeated the admonition as she climbed the steps to Wicksfield House. He had dismissed her as the insignificant servant she was. Nothing but pain could come from mooning over his splendid form. Her duty lay with Harriet, who would need all her attention. Distractions would only lead to disaster.
© 1998 Allison Lane
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Signet Regency CHAPTER THREE "Welcome to Seabrook, my lord," said the footman, gesturing toward the stairs. Blake looked, then froze as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. A woman was descending. Black hair. Blue eyes. Way too familiar. He cursed under his breath. Here was that governess again, the one he'd had no luck tracing. Was her charge one of Seabrook's sisters? Perhaps rumor was crediting Catherine with the governess's exploits. "You!" she snapped. Her hair was looser today, curling provocatively around her pale face. "How dare you follow me home!" "I warned you I would discover your employer," he replied, though in truth, no one had recognized his description. "Threatened is closer to the truth, sir. Why don't you hold up a carriage or burn down a stable or two? It would be a less onerous way to amuse yourself." "Rag-mannered baggage. I can't believe you pulled the wool over Seabrook's eyes." "Shall I summon Lord Seabrook, madam?" asked the footman uncertainly. "That won't be necessary, Rob." She inhaled deeply, then gestured toward a drawing room. Blake followed, silent as he hurriedly rearranged his impressions. Madam? The footman's manner proclaimed that this woman was in charge. "Who are you?" he managed once she shut the door. "At last. An intelligent question." The drawing room's faded carpet made her coloring seem even more vibrant. "Mrs. Parrish, Lord Seabrook's sister. I will accept your apologies now, though only a empty-headed nodcock would have behaved so disgracefully. Parading your ignorance in public caused my daughter considerable distress." He winced. "Forgive me, but-" "Nothing here needs your attention. You will understand that I cannot offer refreshments. Perhaps in the future you will think before drawing unwarranted conclusions or intruding into business that does not concern you." She turned toward the door, clearly ready to escort him out. "Not so fast, Mrs. Parrish," he said, crossing arms and ankles as he leaned against the mantel. Their eyes clashed across the width of the room. "I am not the only one prone to unwarranted assumptions. Perhaps you should summon your brother after all. I am here by his invitation." "Damn! You must be-" She blanched. "Blake Townsend, Earl of Rockhurst." He proffered a card. Clearly dazed, she snatched it from his hand, then retreated to the window. "Dear Lord." She stared at the card as if it might bite. "Why did William drag you all the way from Oxfordshire? He has never mentioned you before." "He didn't." Unsure what shocked her now, he decided to leave no room for further misunderstanding. "I was in Exeter on business. When I returned to the White Hart after our last meeting, I ran into Seabrook. I had not seen him since Eton, but he described your problem and asked me to investigate. I did not realize he was discussing you, of course." "Of course. But what was he doing in Exeter?" she murmured, clearly bewildered. Before he could respond, she shook her head. "It matters not. What made him think you could help? I've never met anyone so eager to condemn without examining a single fact." He could feel his face heat. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Parrish. I cannot imagine why I behaved so badly. That was Jasper Rankin with you?" She nodded. "He is adept at pretense, not that his acting excuses you. But no matter. William was mistaken. A man of your credulity cannot help me. Are you always so hasty to judge?" "Never." His head reeled. Had he actually allowed someone to manipulate him into hurling lurid accusations at a lady? He never jumped to conclusions. He never accepted the unsupported word of one man as truth. He never- But you did, reminded his conscience. You were so furious that this intriguing a woman had feet of clay, that you lashed out without thought. He ignored it, unwilling to believe it. "I wronged you. It does not matter that it was an isolated incident. I must atone by exposing Rankin for the liar he is." "Words." She stalked closer in a swirl of skirts. "Promise the moon, why don't you? It is just as attainable." "Hardly." "Do not be so quick to commit yourself. You know nothing of the situation." "I know that rumor makes Jezebel seem pure compared to you. I know that protesting your innocence will accomplish nothing. I know that forcing Rankin to confess is your only hope." "Do you think that would work?" Her tone implied that he was a simpleton as well as gullible. "Jasper is as persuasive as Eden's snake and just as sly. Even he cannot reverse opinion now. Words won't erase the suspicions he cleverly planted. Evidence can prove guilt, but it can never prove innocence. People will believe that I am immoral and that he is conspiring to keep the evidence secret." "Not if he reveals his part in starting the tales." He approved the way pacing swirled her skirt provocatively around long legs and raised color in her cheeks. Admiration pulsed in his chest. She was a warrior. He could picture her leading an army against injustice. Yet her next words snapped the image as despair crept into her voice. "You don't understand. His confession would merely identify him as the anonymous l-lover I've supposedly been meeting. They will think that a spat led him to revile me, but that we have now reconciled and are trying to cover up our affair." "You are the one who is ignorant," he said, but gently. Her stutter as she choked out so innocuous an indiscretion was additional evidence of innocence. "Have you no idea how sordid the tales are? No lovers' spat would result in such revelations." "What can be worse than liaisons with a dozen men?" "Plenty, and I doubt I heard everything yesterday. The tales are clearly meant to destroy. But they can be erased if Rankin admits the truth." She laughed without humor. "You don't know Jasper. Nothing would compel him to do such a thing, but even if you succeeded, it would do no good. No one will believe him guilty of anything beyond high spirits." "Was it high spirits that prompted this campaign against you?" "Of course not. I insulted him. He seeks revenge. That is his way." "Then we have a starting point. All things are possible, Mrs. Parrish. I will redeem your reputation. I owe you that much in atonement for my own insult."
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Signet Regency CHAPTER ONE Lord Grayson bade farewell to his friends and headed for the card room. But he'd not gone three steps before spotting Miss Derrick headed his way. Damnation! The Season's most persistent fortune hunter had already crossed half the room. He ducked behind a screen of palms and hugged the wall, careful not to brush the branches as he scurried toward the exit. He'd traversed half the distance before he realized he was not alone. A young lady was also hiding. Curses exploded through his head. He was neatly trapped. Retracing his steps would draw Miss Derrick's attention, yet he must squeeze past this new threat to escape. But was she a threat? She almost looked like a companion or governess, though she could not yet be twenty. Brown hair coiled untidily atop her head - or perhaps it was falling out of an attempt at curls. A plain white gown encased her slim body, a single ribbon beneath the bodice its only embellishment. The high neckline covered a lack of jewelry. One hand clutched a pad of paper. A journalist? He shook off that notion as she added lines to a picture, the tip of her tongue protruding past her teeth. She couldn't be sketching the ballroom, for she never looked at it. She might have been alone in a field for all the attention she paid her surroundings. Odd. Very odd. Curiosity is dangerous, warned his conscience. Ignoring it, he peeked over her shoulder, then inhaled in surprise. She was a talented artist and a student of natural history. Who else could draw so well from memory? A chaffinch perched in a gnarled apple tree, head cocked perkily to one side. A few lines evoked rough bark, soft feathers, and lustrous fruit. But he could see why she was frowning. The bird's beak was too thick, pushing it slightly off balance. "Try this," he murmured, grabbing the pad. "Oh!" She whirled, one hand to her breast. "I d-didn't know anyone was here." "Not so loud." He rubbed out the beak. Brisk strokes reshaped the appendage, bringing the bird to life. "That's better. Are you from the west country?" She nodded. "How did you know?" "That is the only place you find apples that shape. Those in the east are rounder. You are an accomplished sketch artist." "I-" She blushed. "I was hoping to see some different birds in town, but we have so little time to look about." "If you walk in the park in the mornings, you will see hoopoes and bee eaters. And a magnificent purple heron visits the Serpentine at dawn most days." "I heard a pair of hobbies was spotted near Kensington Palace recently." "Interesting. I've not seen them here before." He smiled, leaning negligently against the wall. "Richmond is better suited for bird watching. Forest. Heath. River. Plenty of space and food." "Perhaps Laura will consider an excursion to Richmond, then," she murmured, half to herself. "You would enjoy it." Gray knew he should leave before someone spotted him - clothes notwithstanding, this girl was clearly quality, and unmarried quality at that. But he couldn't do it. Aside from the certainty that Miss Derrick still lurked, he was enjoying her company. Obviously she didn't recognize him. She was not flirting or swooning or regarding him as Satan. It had been too long since he had talked with a young lady - or relaxed while talking to anyone. His reputation overshadowed every contact. He idly turned pages. A sparrow hawk, a hedgehog, a caricature- "Egad, that is Wigby to the life. We were schoolmates." He chuckled. She had sketched him as a stork. Very appropriate, as the dandy was tall and very lean, with thin legs and a long pointed nose. No amount of padding could cover his defects. The next page depicted Lord Edward Broadburn as a charming pouter pigeon, so overburdened by a thrust-out chest that he teetered on his feet. "Sir- My l-lord-" She stammered to a halt. He knew his manners were outrageous - she was an innocent, for God's sake - but something about her drew him. Her presence behind the palms told him she was shy, though her sketches displayed a wicked sense of humor. Four years ago he would have set her at ease. And maybe he still could. "My apologies," he said softly. "But I must wonder why so talented a lady is hiding in the shadows. London is not filled with ogres." "Of course not. But it takes only one." "An ogre? Are you sure? Did someone spurn your smiles? Surely you need not fear rejection." He turned the page and chuckled again. Griffin hung from a tree, his forked tongue hissing. "You've a delightful eye for character, my dear. He is pure poison, though too few see it. But except for ungentlemanly insults, you should be safe enough. He prefers country innocents of fourteen or so." "I had heard rumors, though no one will confirm them to young ladies. Yet he clearly seeks me out. Though I try to avoid him, he is forever popping up." "Like a weed?" She laughed. "Exactly. Bindweed, most likely. One moment the room is quite congenial, the next it contains Mr. Griffin. One cannot root him out." "So circumvent him. You might befriend Mr. Hempbury. Not only is he fascinated by birds and other natural wonders, but Griffin cannot tolerate the fellow." "Th-thank you," she stammered. When she was nervous she seemed quite young, and very unspoiled. Perhaps she had reason to fear the snake after all. It might be instructive to check on Griffin's current activities. The man inhabited society's fringes. As long as he behaved, he was welcome at large ton gatherings, but even a mild scandal would banish him. Rumors suggested that he frequented a certain house of punishment, though not as a penitent. He was said to have a strong arm with a whip. Gray returned her pad. "Au revoir, my dear artist. It has been a most delightful meeting. I needed a chuckle after a frustrating day. But be careful whom you parody. There are those who lose all humor when they are the subject." Stepping past her, he quickly passed the remaining palms and slipped unnoticed into the card room. But he felt an unexpected tug of regret. She had talent, intelligence, and eyes that saw beneath the surface. Quite different from the usual society miss. Were she a man, they might have become friends.
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Signet Regency "Why should I go to Seabrook?" demanded Laura Seabrook, stalking furiously from window to fireplace and back. Her stride lengthened until the narrow skirt of her morning gown threatened to split. "William only invited me so he could humiliate me in front of half the county." "You know that's not true," murmured Chloe, stifling a sigh as she changed threads for her needlework. Her employer's petulance was becoming tedious. If only William had consulted her before issuing this invitation. A house party offered too many opportunities for disaster. "Lord Seabrook cares deeply for you. He wants you to share his happiness when he announces his betrothal." "Then he is mad. How can he invite the rag-mannered offspring of a merchant into the family? Father must be turning in his grave to see the title sink so low." "Miss Truitt's manners are faultless." "She is a vulgar nobody!" Laura glared. "While it's true that her father is a grain merchant, she has connections to a dozen great houses." "None of whom recognize her. The nearest must be three generations removed." "Untrue. Lord Ware is Mrs. Truitt's first cousin, and he approves." Laura ignored the correction, as expected. She cared nothing about Martha Truitt's breeding. Nor did she care about William's use or abuse of his title. Her real complaint was that the merchant's daughter had made a love match with a lord while Laura had not managed even an arranged marriage. "William ought to wed a viscount's daughter, or an earl's. He is sadly lacking in consequence, but should at least respect his title." "He doesn't know any earl's daughters and cannot afford a London Season. Besides, he loves Miss Truitt." "Loves her dowry, you mean." "No, I don't, though I'm sure her dowry is welcome." Chloe again changed threads. "And even if the dowry is his primary goal, one cannot fault him. The world has changed since our grandparents' day. Estates no longer support lords in style, so they need other sources of income." Laura ignored her. "William plans to humiliate me. He hates me. Why else did he banish me to this godforsaken place? Keeping me out of sight lets him fawn over Grayson. He prefers wealth to his own flesh and blood!" "That's not true." Chloe set aside her needlework. "Stop imagining trouble, and stop twisting the truth. You told me yourself that you had to beg for months before William would let you leave Seabrook." "Why do I bother talking when you never listen?" Laura wailed, throwing herself fully into the role of innocent victim. "I begged him to let me stay home, calling on family feeling and propriety and even duty. But he refused. He couldn't stand the sight of me, staring at the carpet whenever I came near. It was infuriating to watch him stumble over introductions. He stopped allowing his friends in the house so they wouldn't see me. He even kept my own callers away. Does he think my wits were damaged as well as my face?" "Of course not. Your wits are as fine as ever. People still love you." "You lie!" Laura broke into noisy sobs, interspersed with a long list of slights suffered and insults endured. In her mind, everyone was so jealous of her beauty that they schemed against her. And now that her beauty was marred, they schemed even harder. Chloe let her rant. Laura had always defined herself by her beauty, setting herself so high that she ignored the rules that governed lesser beings, demanding adulation and expecting instant fulfillment of her wishes. Since accident and scandal had cut her off from society, she didn't know how to live. Laura's current diatribe demonstrated her three worst problems - she had never been content with what she had, never saw the world as it was, and always blamed her problems on others. Thus the invitation to Seabrook had ignited a war with herself. Leaving Moorside removed her control of the lighting and angles that could hide or reveal her scars. She also despised any gathering in which she was not the center of attention. Yet she was bored. She had demanded her own establishment, expecting freedom to be a grand adventure. It wasn't. So she passed the long days looking for scapegoats. "Lord Seabrook will send his carriage on Wednesday," Chloe said when Laura's tirade began to wane. "His footmen will see that we come. We have no choice. He owns this cottage, so can turn you off at any time." "How dare you-" The knocker interrupted. "Don't answer it," snapped Laura. "That would be unpardonably rude." Chloe stalked to the hall and opened the door. "Andrew! I mean, C-Captain Seabrook," she stammered as eleven years whirled away in an instant. She was fifteen again, standing in the orchard as her closest friend dismounted beside her. She stifled the painful memory. She'd known he was home, of course. William's monthly letter always contained family news. So Chloe knew that Andrew had been wounded at Waterloo and was recovering at home. She hadn't expected him to call, though. He'd not sent her a word - not even a friendly greeting - on either of his previous trips home to recuperate. It was no surprise. When he'd arrived in the orchard that day, she'd been so upset over his imminent departure that she'd tried to seduce him into staying. It had been a despicable act every bit as dishonorable as Laura at her worst. Thus she'd destroyed the most important bond in her life. In the eleven years since, she'd heard from him exactly once - a brief letter of condolence after her brother Kevin died. And for seven long years she had feared that Kevin had learned about the day in the orchard, blamed Andrew, and tried to avenge her. Was his blood on her hands? Forcing her attention back to the man on the doorstep, she gestured him inside. He didn't look ill, or even injured. Nor did he look much like the boy she'd loved. It was a wonder she'd recognized him. Maturity had broadened his shoulders and deepened his chest. It had also added at least five inches, putting him over six feet. Soldiering had weathered his face and lightened his hair to a golden brown, making his green eyes seem even clearer. Fine lines clustered around their corners. But beyond the physical changes, war had hardened him, banishing the laughing boy who had raced across the hills and wrestled on the moors. Some things remained the same, though. His nearness still stole her breath. Her heart tumbled into a gallop, making her head spin. "Chloe." He grasped her hand between his own. "More beautiful than ever." "Hardly." She forced control over her voice and body. He might ignore her dishonor long enough to call on his sister, but that didn't mean he had forgotten. So she must banish any lingering dreams. Never again would she leave herself vulnerable. "You are recovered, it seems. Have you come to bid farewell to Laura?" He shook his head. "I came to see you." His eyes darkened. "I've bad news, Chloe. Your father died last night." The blood drained from her head. When she reached for the doorjamb, he pulled her against his side. She hardly noticed as she fought free of the shock. "How?" "He fell down the stairs. It was very quick." A quick death was more than he deserved. Anger rushed in, stiffening her knees so she could stand without support. "So he's gone. It's just as well." He gasped. "I'll not pretend we were close. He never forgave my failure to attach a fortune or my refusal to lie about our circumstances. When I tried to earn enough to escape his roof, he locked me in my room and forbade all callers. The only reason he let me accept this post was that Moorside is isolated, so he could pretend I was visiting relatives. But if anyone but William had offered, he would have refused this, too." She clamped her jaw shut to choke off the bitterness. Her father had made her life hell with his false façades and accusations, though living with him made it easier to understand Laura. They had much in common, starting with their stubborn refusal to accept facts. Andrew still knew her too well, for understanding blossomed in his eyes. "Are you all right?" "Of course. It is a shock - even estrangement cannot change that he was my father. But I've not heard from him since Mother's funeral, so his passing will make no difference." Not quite true, she realized as a weight slid from her shoulders. Seeing her in service had dented his pride. If he'd discovered her plans to buy a cottage of her own, his ranting would have burned her ears to ashes. And he might have stopped her. Now that unpleasantness was averted. She was free to live on her own terms. Andrew produced a note from her brother Peter. "The funeral is tomorrow morning. I can drive you to Fields House. I'll wait here while you pack." She opened her mouth to refuse. "Absolutely not!" screamed Laura, bursting into the hall. "You already took this month's half day. You cannot leave again. I won't have it." "Laura!" Andrew's tone struck Laura dumb. The army had turned him formidable. "How can you be so insensitive? Sir Nigel lies dead. William claims you were inconsolable after our father died." "That was different. We were very close. Besides, servants have no feelings." Despite two years of service, Chloe felt the blow. Maybe attending the funeral was a good idea after all. A full day without Laura would be sheer bliss, even if it meant pretending grief.
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CHAPTER ONE Marianne Barnett wandered through the woods that protected her manor from Channel storms. It was a beautiful September afternoon, warm with only a hint of the coming autumn. Autumn had always been her favorite season. Much had changed since she'd lost her family, but not her love of autumn. The vivid colors and biting air exhilarated her. Wading through drifts of fallen leaves was one of her greatest pleasures. If only- Thrusting regrets aside, she concentrated on the forest. With no grounds staff to maintain it, it had run wild. Sheep kept Halworth's lawns under control, but the rest grew as it would. The result was a fairy-tale world not usually seen outside of books. Dead branches littered the ground, half buried in decaying leaves and moss. Shrubs and vines grew thick along paths and clearings - anywhere they could find a little sun. It was a wild place, a private place, unwatched by servants, known only to her and the resident animals. A squirrel bounded onto a tree trunk as she passed, scolding her for interrupting his work. This was his busiest time of year as he rushed to collect food for the winter. A flock of geese circled overhead, flapping and honking in unison as they practiced for the journey that would start in a fortnight. Something moved in the shadows. A fox, perhaps. They had made the park a refuge, for here they were safe. No one entered but her. She sometimes felt like Sleeping Beauty, locked in her castle while brambles engulfed it, blocking any escape. But that would change on her next birthday. In the meantime, books appeased her curiosity about the outside world, knowledge substituting for experience. This year alone she'd climbed Swiss mountains, sailed to China, and explored Etruscan ruins and Greek temples. And if she longed to see through her own eyes instead of through others', she knew better than to question her uncle's decrees. He was her guardian, with absolute control over her person - for another six weeks. That's when her trust would end, placing Halworth and her life in her hands. She traced the lacy pattern of a fern and forced her thoughts to the future. The next six weeks would pass too slowly unless she sent for more books. She needed a new challenge, one that would distract her from her growing dissatisfaction - as her day of freedom approached, confinement increasingly chafed her soul. Solitude now grated, as it had never done in the past, but her uncle's guards would report any attempt to leave the park. She couldn't risk it, for the threat of the asylum was always there. She was so tired of being at the mercy of others. Yet the nightmarish return to England after she'd lost her family had left its mark. Hiding by day. Stumbling through unfamiliar territory by night. Fearing everyone they met - even children might have betrayed them, and men would have done worse. Francine had protected her as best she could, but the maid had been too scared to think. If not for Jacques... Melancholia swept over her. Perhaps Jacques had done her a disservice by bringing her home. The life she'd loved had ended that day, and even her imminent freedom would not restore it. It would not even make it easier to face strangers. Frowning, she halted. She had first met Jacques during that period when strangers had sent her into hysteria, so why had she meekly accepted his help? No hysterics. No screaming nightmares. No kicking and clawing at the first touch of his hand. You knew I would never hurt you, he murmured in her head. We are kindred spirits. "How could I have known that? I thought you were French. You were wearing their uniform." Intuition. You had good instincts in those days - you still would if you trusted yourself. She shook her head free of his voice. Having no one with whom to converse, she had fallen into the habit of talking to people she had once known. Her favorite companion was Hutch, her old governess, but Jacques ran a close second. He was forever urging her to explore new horizons. Now she pondered his suggestion. Her intuition had been right, for Jacques had not hurt her. Another proof that her uncle was wrong. If she had tolerated Jacques... Not just tolerated. She had clung to him as to a rock in a stormy sea. From the moment he had joined them, she had known that they would survive. Jacques was magnificently heroic, remarkably capable, and the most honorable man she had ever met. Without him, she would never have escaped France. Trust yourself, he murmured again. Your old life may be gone, but you can build a better one. "Perhaps." Test it. Go out and meet people. You can be so much more than you think. "Soon, I promise. But you know I can't dismiss the guards until my twenty-fifth birthday. As long as they are here, I cannot leave Halworth." Start by writing letters. You will need a solicitor if you hope to be independent. Now is the time to find one. She frowned, but he was right. Ending the trust would be just the beginning. A solicitor could tell her of any responsibilities or restrictions she hadn't considered. While the Halworth library was extensive, most of the books had been added by her classicist father, so there were no tomes on legal matters. A solicitor could also recommend a good man of business. She would need help with the trust investments. The trees thinned as she approached the one place she had always felt free. Here she could embrace the wind, glory in the view, and envy the birds swooping overhead. But as she lifted her face to the sun, she caught an odd movement out of the corner of her eye. A soldier was chipping the rock twenty feet away. Recognition bloomed. "Jacques! What are you doing here?" As if her thoughts had conjured him from thin air, he stood before her, hatless, his dark hair whipped by the wind. His shoulders seemed broader than she remembered, though his red coat hung loosely, hinting that he'd recently lost weight. Mud caked the gray breeches clinging to powerful thighs, and a long scrape marred one boot. At her shout, he whirled. "Jacques!" she gasped as his feet slipped, spilling him over the side. He grabbed a shrub, but it was too fragile to bear his weight. Screaming, she raced forward, heedless of the danger, terrified that she'd killed him. You can't let him die! shouted Hutch. He is your savior. "Give me your hand," she gasped as his walking stick clattered on the rocks below. Pain, fear, fury, and a strange satisfaction swirled through his gray eyes, but he finally thrust his free hand upward. He was heavier than he looked. But caring for Halworth's gardens had given her unladylike strength. Bracing her feet against a rock, she pulled with all her might. The rock sheared off, sliding toward the edge and taking her feet with it.
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Spring 1818 Emily Hughes wiggled into the carriage seat beside a mountain of packages. This third shopping expedition in as many days had been exhausting, but she'd finally amassed the essentials for her Season. Excitement surged through her veins, making it hard to sit still. She'd waited seemingly forever for this moment. Four years to finish growing up. Six more interminable years because of her father's financial reverses and her mother's endless illnesses, which always worsened in the spring. Then heavy rains had postponed their departure until the roads were dry enough to let Lady Hughes travel in comfort, so the Season was already underway. But she was in London at last. Only one last wait remained - Jacob had stayed late at Oakhaven, overseeing the spring planting, but he would return next week. Thoughts of the man she loved increased her excitement. He was tall enough to stand out in any crowd. Sunlight turned his eyes bluer than a summer sky. His silky hair seemed at odds with the rugged planes of his face, but touching it drove her fingers wild. She couldn't wait to again caress those powerful shoulders and mold his chiseled lips with her own. It had been ten years since she'd last seen him. Ten years since he'd crushed her against his hard body, ravishing her mouth. Ten years since her heart had been her own. She'd tried to reclaim it - after all, he'd insulted her brutally before abandoning the orchard that day. Yet she'd failed. She might have been barely fourteen, but his kiss had propelled her from the schoolroom into the world of adult passion. His rejection couldn't erase that, especially since she knew how much he'd wanted her. He'd figured prominently in her dreams ever since. A week had passed before her anger had cooled enough to admit that he'd been right to leave. Fourteen was too young for marriage. She'd needed to grow up before they could be together. Now the time had finally arrived. The carriage bounced, feeding her excitement. She was the most fortunate of girls, for the Season held no terrors, no uncertainty, nothing to threaten her success. A fixed future had made it easy to be gracious when her father admitted that he could not afford even a small ball. Jacob would give her a ball the moment they were wed. She knew how it would be, had dreamed of it over and over, the image growing clearer with each postponement of the moment. He would spot her as she entered her first ballroom. Brushing past the other guests as if they didn't exist, he would rush to her side, sweep her into a waltz, then propose on the spot. She would wear the pale yellow Venetian gauze with its broad blond flounce edged in roses and pearls. Even her dull brown hair and muddy brown eyes seemed brighter when she wore yellow. The fan she'd bought this morning would be perfect - yellow silk painted with a pastoral scene. Her grandmother's pearls. And the yellow slippers with- "We're here," said Huggins from beneath a pile of parcels. "Of course." She pulled herself together. Not once in ten years had she revealed her love, and she wasn't about to slip now. She looked forward to everyone's surprise at her instant success almost as much as to her next meeting with Jacob. So she chattered gaily about the day's shopping even as her mind remained on him. Jacob, whose dark hair was usually a little too long for fashion, whose laugh could send shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with cold, whose reputation- She wouldn't think of that. All young men sowed wild oats. He was one of her brother's best friends and had often visited Cherry Hill during his school days. As had Charles, for that matter. Now that the three lived in town, she had to glean information about Jacob from Richard - which meant listening to interminable tales of Charles, too. But singling Jacob out might raise questions that would reveal that kiss. Even ten years later, the incident could cause him trouble. Richard would be appalled, and her father- Their footman lowered the steps and helped her down. Richard wasn't her only source of news, of course. Jacob's aunt, widow of the ninth earl, lived at Hawthorne Park. Emily called often - unremarkable, for she called on all her neighbors. And she had no trouble hiding her interest in Jacob. Lady Hawthorne doted on him, sharing his letters with everyone. Now her secrecy was nearly at an end. In another week he would claim her, letting her shout her love to the world. The next time she saw Hawthorne Park, it would be as Jacob's countess. Leaving Huggins to deal with her packages, she skipped up the steps and into the hall … and bounced off a gentleman unaccountably standing inside the door. "Oomph!" she grunted as his hand shot out to catch her. "Steady, Miss Hughes. You must temper your exuberance. This isn't a racetrack." Jacob. Emily backed into the wall, her head shaking in disbelief. This was all wrong. He wasn't due until next week. She was wearing a faded walking dress two years old. Her bonnet- Forcing air into her lungs, she curtsied, then managed, "My lord. How pleasant to see you again." "And you." But his tone dismissed her as negligible. She cringed. How could she meet the love of her life when she looked like a hoyden who'd been dragged through a hedge? Without another word, he turned back to Richard. "Convey my appreciation to your father. He has my eternal gratitude. I'd no place else to turn." "It's nothing," said Richard. "Even Mama seems pleased." "About what?" Emily forgot her embarrassment, touching Jacob's arm so he had to look at her. "Ask your mother, Tadpole. I'm pressed for time." His use of the despised childhood nickname threatening her with tears. "White's tonight?" he added to Richard. "Charles will join us for dinner." Jacob nodded, then left without another word. "What was that all about?" Only fierce effort kept Emily's voice steady. Her hand burned where she'd touched him. But Richard was as dismissive as Jacob. "Just a small favor, Em. Mama will explain." He headed for the study, leaving her to climb the stairs to the drawing room alone. Something was up that neither man wanted to discuss - how often had they hidden secrets in just this way? Their capacity for ignoring questions had long infuriated her. It was one reason Jacob's openness that summer had been so precious. But what could he be hiding now? Needing time to regain her composure - and not wanting her mother to spot the sheen in her eyes - she passed the drawing room and continued up to her bedroom. "Stupid girl!" she cursed her reflection as she removed her bonnet. "Scrape the stars out of your eyes." Footsteps in the hall snapped her mouth shut, but the oaths continued to bounce through her head. Jacob had been less than dazzled to see her. She wanted to blame her appearance, but he'd seen her looking worse - like the day he'd fished her from the lake after a tree branch cracked, dumping her in. It had been the most frightening experience of her life - yet also exhilarating. He'd dragged her ashore, then held her until the shaking stopped, all the while murmuring soothing nonsense into her ears. His warmth had driven away her chills, replacing them with heat as sparks rampaged along her nerves. The next afternoon had been that devastating kiss… Idiot! He could hardly sweep you into his arms in front of an audience. "True." He couldn't know that she still loved him - one of his charges had been that she was too young to know her mind. With Richard standing in the hall - to say nothing of the servants - he could only treat her as Richard's baby sister. They must talk privately before pledging their love in public. Perhaps his abrupt departure covered his struggle to remain aloof. A weight lifted from her chest, restoring her excitement. Everything would be all right. She could wait. Hadn't she waited ten years already? Hadn't she expected a week more? As Huggins pushed open the door, Emily smiled brightly, smoothed her skirts, and headed downstairs. The drawing room hadn't been refurbished since her grandmother's tenure, but the staff kept the French furnishings impeccably clean. The red silk wallcoverings had long since faded to rose, but they still added warmth to the space. A new Grecian sofa covered the worn spot in the carpet and gave Lady Hughes a place to lie during the day. "There you are, dear," she said as Emily entered. Her waxen cheeks were nearly transparent, confirming how difficult she'd found their recent journey. On days like this, Emily felt selfish for expecting a Season. Even stretching the two-day journey into four hadn't kept it from draining Lady Hughes's meager store of energy. "You look tired, Mama," she said, pressing her hand before taking the nearest seat so Lady Hughes needn't raise her voice. "A little, but I've wonderful news for you. Lord Hawthorne has asked us to take in his ward. It is a marvelous honor, and she will provide company for you." "Why would she be in town?" asked Emily, frowning. "It would make more sense to send her and her governess to Hawthorne Park." "Miss Nichols is past needing a governess. She is coming out, just as you are. The earl and Richard can chaperon you together, allowing me to rest. And I'm sure you will enjoy having a friend beside you at balls. I often wished there was someone with whom to share confidences during my own come-out. So many incidents require a stoic response in public when one would so much prefer to laugh." Emily stared, the words buzzing loudly in her ears. Share her come-out with a stranger? Six postponements, only to be saddled with a green girl? And Jacob's ward to boot. Where the devil had he acquired a ward? Lady Hawthorne had said nothing of it, though they'd last spoken only a week ago. She wanted to scream. But it wasn't possible. Her mother would fall into a swoon at the first sign of unpleasantness. Triggering one of her spells would postpone this come-out yet again. "Who is Miss Nichols?" Emily asked with credible calm. "His ward," said Lady Hughes crossly. "I told you." "But who is her family? I know nothing of any Nichols." She knew Jacob's family tree as well as her own. There wasn't a Nichols on it. "As to that, he didn't say, though he mentioned India." "Captain Nichols was a close friend of Jacob's father," said Richard, joining them. "His daughter Harriet is now nineteen. Her mother died last autumn, naming Hawthorne as her guardian. There is no other family. She will arrive from Bombay any day now, and he can hardly house her himself." "True." Such an arrangement was too scandalous to contemplate. But she was reeling. Of all the times she and Jacob had talked, he had never once mentioned his life in India. Even in childhood, when he'd been back only a short time, he'd turned aside any questions. It was as if the first ten years of his life didn't exist. She didn't recall his actual return, of course - she'd been in the nursery at the time - and though he'd met Richard shortly afterward, they'd not become close until Jacob started school the following year. Only then had he started spending more time at Cherry Hill than at Hawthorne Park. Richard had once remarked that the death of Jacob's parents had cast shadows over the park that Jacob couldn't forget. Emily understood. She meant to erase those shadows once they were wed. Her success would boost his love even further and- "This is a wonderful opportunity for all of us," repeated Lady Hughes. "Her housing allowance will let us expand your wardrobe, increasing your chances of drawing attention. Perhaps we can even afford a rout - I know we'd talked of holding one, but I didn't know how we could manage. Everything is so much more dear than I recalled. Your father was complaining only this morning-" "You needn't fret about our finances," said Richard, patting her hand. "That is not your affair. If you want a rout, we will hold one, but do not schedule anything until you discover how wearying it would be. For now, have you finished the list of friends we must notify of your arrival?" "Yes, but-" Emily swallowed a snort. Lady Hughes would never manage a rout, which would keep her in a receiving line for hours. Nor did she know the first thing about expenses, having lost interest in the world twenty years ago after suffering a debili |