"Explain to me again why we are hiding in a carriage outside a park gate at what even the most stalwart of souls would consider an ungodly time of morning." Sarah stifled a yawn and glared at her friend.

     "It's part of the plan," Cordelia said absently and continued to peer out the window at one of the many streets that ended, or perhaps started depending on one's point of view and direction, at the park. "I explained the plan quite thoroughly to you last evening."

     "Apparently I was not paying the proper amount of attention."

     "Probably not, as you were writing yet another letter to that mysterious suitor of yours," Cordelia murmured.

     "He's neither a suitor nor mysterious. Simply an old friend with whom I correspond." Sarah's tone was cool as it always was when talk turned to this particular topic. Her secrecy was most annoying as it was probably the only secret she and Cordelia did not share.

     Sarah Elizabeth Palmer—was a scant year older than Cordelia and the daughter of a distant cousin by marriage of Cordelia's mother. When she was left orphaned and impoverished a dozen or so years ago, Cordelia's family had taken her in. After all, her mother had said, their three oldest daughters were wed and gone and there was a certain emptiness these days in a house so well used to girls. Besides, the sister closest to Cordelia in age was still seven years older than she and wouldn't it be lovely for Cordelia to have someone around who was closer to her own age. But when Sarah had come of age, she had stubbornly insisted on making her own way in the world as she had failed as miserably as Cordelia had to find a suitable husband. No one in the family could bear the thought of Sarah going off to work as a governess, so she had become Cordelia's paid companion. Aside from the fact that Sarah now had her own funds, her position in the family hadn't significantly changed at all.

     Except that in an official sense, Cordelia was her charge. That too was most annoying.

     "I tell you all my secrets," Cordelia said still looking out the carriage window. Where was the blasted man? Cordelia could see the door of the house where her quarry lived and was confident he had not eluded her watch. Even if he had, well, there was always tomorrow.

     "It's not a secret. It's simply personal and private and not the matter at hand," Sarah said firmly. "Now, explain to me again why we are lying in wait like common criminals."

     "Nonsense. Common criminals would scarcely lie in wait in a carriage, especially a carriage as nice as this. No, common criminals would be skulking about behind the bushes."

     "Carriage or bushes, it certainly feels as if we are skulking."

     "Well we're not. We're simply waiting." Cordelia turned from the window, settled back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. "I do so dislike a man who is not prompt."

      Sarah snorted back a laugh. "I daresay such a fault would clearly be grounds for refusal to marry. Mr. Sinclair's inability to be punctual is a serious flaw."

     "Indeed it is." Cordelia huffed. "As is the inability to pay attention to the details of a plan. We are not waiting for Mr. Sinclair we are waiting for a Mr. Lewis."

      Sarah's brows drew together. "Mr. Lewis?"

     "You weren’t listening to me at all, were you? Very well then." Cordelia heaved a long suffering sigh. "Mr. Warren Lewis is Mr. Sinclair's secretary. Every morning without fail, Mr. Lewis takes a daily constitutional through the park. On occasion, he is accompanied by Mr. Sinclair although usually he is quite alone."

      Sarah pressed her lips together. "I gather you have learned this through your usual methods?"

     "You needn't look so disapproving. How else is one to learn anything in this town?" Cordelia couldn't resist a satisfied smile. "It is the simplest matter in the world to give a few shillings to the head footman who then distributes a fraction of his newfound wealth among lesser servants, who in turn make inquiries among their acquaintances and before you know it, you have all the information you need." Cordelia's smile widened. "It was a great benefit to already know the address of the house Mr. Sinclair has leased during his stay in London and I have my mother to thank for that."

     "Did you get a description of the man as well?" Sarah asked wryly.

     "Of course." Cordelia scoffed. "It would be foolish not to. Mr. Lewis is tall, dark-haired and an American." She shrugged. "He should be easy to spot."

     "And once you have spotted him, then what?"

     "Then, his acquaintance needs to be made, in as natural a manner as possible, and conversation attempted in an effort to learn everything possible about Mr. Sinclair." Cordelia shook her head. "When preparing for warfare, one must know all one can about one's enemy."

     "And Mr. Sinclair is the enemy?"

     " I don't know. I don’t know anything about him." Cordelia narrowed her eyes. "But I do intend to find out. I'll not be thrown into a marriage with a man I know nothing about."

     "Isn't that why your mother suggested you and Mr. Sinclair correspond?" Sarah said slowly. "So that you may ascertain his character for yourself?"

     "That's especially ridiculous and you well know it." Cordelia waved away Sarah's comment. "I can be anything I wish to be on paper. Witty, clever and altogether fascinating. As can he. Of course . . ."

     "Oh, I don’t like that look." Sarah shook her head. "What are you thinking?"

     "If one can be far better on paper, far more than who one is in truth, one can be substantially less as well."

     "Less?"

     "Disagreeable, unpleasant." Cordelia widened her eyes in an innocent manner. "Not at all the type of woman a man would want to marry."
Sarah groaned. "Dear Lord, you don’t intend to—"

     "I don't intend to do anything until I know more about Mr. Sinclair. It was just a thought. It's entirely possible he is my one true love, the man I have always dreamed about and fate has at last thrown us together." Cordelia leaned forward and peered out the window. "It is every bit as likely that he is not." A tall, dark-haired gentleman was descending the steps in front of the house. "There is Mr. Lewis now. We'll wait until he passes the carriage; we don't want him to see you getting out—"

     "Me?" Sarah bolted upright. "What do you mean me? I thought this was a we sort of thing."

     "Don’t be silly. I can't possibly be involved with this."

     "Why not?" Sarah's voice rose.

     "It would be most improper. What if I were to be found out? Father would—well, I shudder to think of the consequences." Cordelia placed her hand on her friend's and met her gaze. "You, however, can always claim that you were only doing it to save me from myself which is very nearly the truth."

     Sarah stared at her.

     "Come now, Sarah, please." Cordelia adopted her most persuasive tone. "I need your assistance now more than ever before. You are the sister I never had."

     "You have three sisters!"

     "Exactly and you're the one I never had." Cordelia glanced out the window. Mr. Lewis was passing by on the far side of the street. "And my favorite as well."

     "But I have no idea what to do or say or . . ." Sarah sighed and reached for the door. "But I'll do it of course, as you knew I would. On occasions such as this I rather miss being a poor relation instead a paid companion, responsible for keeping you out of mischief. But mind you I don't have the least expectation of success."

     "You'll be grand. I'm confident of it." Cordelia beamed. Why some of Cordelia's best plans in the past had been refined and improved thanks to Sarah's suggestions. Cordelia's smile faltered. Still, while Sarah was clever and resourceful she did have a tendency to be reserved, even hesitant, and always tried to follow the rules of propriety. Beyond that, Sarah really didn’t have the heart for deception.

      What was Cordelia thinking to send her on such a mission? It was like sending a lamb to confront a lion and the height of cowardice on Cordelia's part besides. Cordelia had never considered herself the least bit cowardly.

     Sarah pushed open the door.

     "Wait." Cordelia grimaced. "I have changed my mind. I can't allow you to do this. I am sorry I even asked."

     "Thank goodness you've come to your senses," Sarah said with a sigh of relief. "It was an insane idea in the first place."

     "Perhaps, but brilliant nonetheless. There is a fine line between brilliance and insanity and this was one of my most brilliant I think."

     "Or most insane."

     "We shall see." Cordelia pushed open the door and stepped out of the carriage.

      Sarah's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

     "I'm doing exactly what I had planned for you to do." Cordelia caught sight of Mr. Lewis. The man certainly set a brisk pace. She'd have to hurry.

     "But you said—"

     "I said I couldn't allow you to do it. And I can't. I shall do this myself. However." She flashed her cousin a wicked grin. "I shall tell him I'm you."

      Cordelia closed the carriage door and hurried off before Sarah could say another word. Lord knew Sarah took this whole idea of being responsible for Cordelia entirely too seriously. Regardless of Sarah's desire to provide for herself, the situation really wasn't fair to her. From the moment she had joined their family, she and Cordelia had been the closest of friends. But despite Sarah being slightly older, Cordelia had always been the one to lead and Sarah to follow.

      Mr. Lewis was still ahead of her and Cordelia picked up her pace. And what would happen to Sarah once Cordelia married? Regardless of whether she wed Mr. Sinclair or someone she'd yet to meet, Cordelia was confident she would indeed marry someday. Although she would be the first to admit there might well be wagers to the contrary among more than a few gentlemen in London. Cordelia wasn't entirely sure herself why she had not yet married other than that annoying fact of not having found a man who was, well, right. A man with whom life would be more interesting than the life she now led. While Cordelia had no desire to spend the rest of her days alone, she had no doubt she could if necessary.

      But Sarah needed someone to care of her. Preferably a husband. Cordelia vowed to find a suitable match for her cousin as soon as her own marital status was resolved.

     Mr. Lewis had either slowed his steps or Cordelia had been walking far quicker than she had realized. Without warning she was nearly upon him. He was taller than she had anticipated, with impressively broad shoulders. Although tall and broad shouldered was precisely what she did expect in an American. No doubt he would have a somewhat rugged face as well, as befit the resident of a part of the world still relatively uncivilized and wild. It was time to find out.

     She drew a deep breath. "Mr. Lewis?"

      He kept walking.

      She tried again. "Mr. Lewis? Mr. Warren Lewis?"

      He paused and turned toward her. "I beg your pardon. Are you speaking to me?"

     "Yes, well, yes, I was." She stared up at him. He had the darkest eyes she had ever seen. "You are Mr. Warren Lewis, aren't you? Secretary to Mr. Daniel Sinclair?"

      He studied her for a moment. "And if I am?"

      His gaze skimmed over her in an assessing and altogether impertinent manner. She ignored it. Impertinence was to be expected from an American. "Then I have a matter of great importance to discuss."

     "A matter of great importance?" His brow rose and she noticed a scar directly above his eyebrow. Oddly, it wasn't the least bit disfiguring but rather gave him a rakish and even dangerous air.

     "Great importance," she said firmly.

     "As that is the case—"a slow, wicked grin spread across an undeniably handsome face. Good Lord, the man looked like a pirate! American or not, what kind of gentleman had a pirate in his employ?—"I am at your service."

 

©2007 Victoria Alexander

What A Lady Wants

~Excerpt~
by
Victoria Alexander

February 2007

     Lady Felicity Melville has discovered a young man in her garden in the middle of the night fleeing from the arms of the Lady Pomfrey and the pistol of Lord Pomfrey.

 

     Felicity stared down at him. "Have you no shame? No morals whatsoever?"

     "What do you mean?" he said cautiously.

     "I mean—" She thought for a moment. "I suppose before I make any accusations regarding your morals I should determine if you are or are not a burglar."

     "Fair enough." She could hear the grin in his voice. "I can assure you I am most certainly not a burglar."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Absolutely."

     "Why should I believe you?"

     "Good point. I have no idea." He thought for a moment. "I would think, if I were a burglar, I probably wouldn’t be taking the time to chat with you. Furthermore, if I were a burglar I certainly wouldn’t be plying my trade with the lady of the house present. It’s obviously a sure way to get caught."

     "That would depend on whether you were a good burglar."

     "Oh, I would be a very good burglar. However, I am not."

     She sighed. "No, I don’t suppose you are."

     "You sound disappointed," he said slowly.

     "Not precisely. One should never be disappointed to learn one’s home and family are safe."

     He stepped nearer and stared up at her. He was almost directly beneath the balcony now. She couldn’t make out his features but his voice was surprisingly nice. "And yet you definitely sound disappointed."

     "Well, if you’re not a burglar then you . . . It scarcely matters."

     "I should be happy to rob your house if you wish."

     She scoffed. "Don’t be absurd. I have no desire for you or anyone to rob my house."

     "That is a relief. I haven’t the faintest idea how to properly rob a house and I should hate to be found out." He chuckled. "A man could get shot that way."

     "A distinct possibility." Indeed, there was an antique dueling pistol in the top drawer of her nightstand at this very moment. She had purchased it after a nasty incident in Venice and had kept it beside her bed ever since. It was of sentimental value more than true protection really although a pistol close at hand made her feel a little adventurous. Odd that she hadn’t remembered it before now. Of course, the weight of the spyglass still in her hand was reassuring.

     "Now then, as we have resolved that question I should like—"

     "As we have established that you probably are not a burglar I assume you were," Felicity wrinkled her nose, "dallying with Lady Pomfrey?"

     Silence greeted her question then a resigned sigh drifted upward. "Dallying is as good a word as any."

     "That’s rather reprehensible of you isn’t it?"

     He paused. "Is it?"

     "Absolutely." She collapsed the spyglass in a measured, methodical manner and searched for the right words. It wasn’t every day she chastised a man for scandalous behavior. "Lady Pomfrey is a married woman. Therefore your actions were indeed reprehensible. Morally that is."

     "Do you think so?"

     She nodded. "I do."

     "I see." He paused for a long moment. "I, however, do not."

     She snorted in disbelief. "You can’t possibly disagree. Your behavior is improper and immoral and—"

     "Ah ha. That’s where you’re wrong."

     "I most certainly am not."

     "Oh but you are." An annoying note of triumph rang in his voice. "You see, I am not married."

     She furrowed her brow in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

     "I am not married which means I have not broken any sort of vow of fidelity or loyalty or whatever else one promises when shackling one’s life forever to a spouse." He shrugged. "My morals therefore are not in question."

     She gasped. "Surely you don’t believe that?"

     "Surely I do. I take my word, and any promises I might make, up to and including marriage vows which I have never taken nor do I have any intention of taking in the foreseeable future, quite seriously. Honoring my word is my responsibility, my solemn duty as it were. However, the actions others take in regard to whatever promises they might make are not my responsibility."

     "Come now. You bear some culpability. Lady Pomfrey couldn’t dally by herself."

     "I wouldn’t wager on—never mind." He choked back a laugh. "Now then if there’s nothing else-"

     "You are a man of questionable morals aren’t you?"

     "I suppose that depends on your point of view. I have no question at all about my morals. And while I would love to continue to debate my behavior and the ethical considerations regarding that behavior, I should take my leave."

     "Indeed you should," she murmured, struck by a vague sense of disappointment. It was ridiculous even if this—or rather he—was the most interesting thing to happen in her life in some time. Or ever.

     "Unless you plan to summon the authorities and have me arrested?"

     "Don’t be absurd. If I had wanted to summon the authorities I would have done so by now." While it was highly improper for a man who had just escaped the justifiable wrath of an irate husband to be under her balcony in the middle of the night, it was probably not worthy of arrest. Apparently though this adventure had come to an end. Pity. She gestured at the far side of the garden. "If you head toward the break in the top of the wall, you’ll find a gate a few feet away. It leads to the mews and the passage to the street."

     "What break?"

     "There." She waved again. "You can see it from here, edged against the night sky. It’s just above the border of tall hedges over there."

     "I can’t see it, it’s dark. And I daresay I wouldn’t be able to see it from down here anyway." He blew a frustrated breath and moved to the trellis. "Damnation, it’s been a hell of a night."

     "Indeed it has." She peered over the side of the balcony. "What are you doing?"

     "I’m climbing up your trellis."

     Felicity ignored the thrill that ran up her spine, whether of fear or excitement she wasn’t entirely certain. Probably a bit of both. "Is that wise?"

     "It is if I’m to see where this blasted gate of yours is and get out of here."

     "Perhaps if you looked a bit harder." She backed away from the balcony struck by the realization that she could indeed be in danger. She gripped the spyglass tighter and clutched it to her chest, its weight a comfort and reassurance. It could indeed serve as a more than adequate weapon and put a nasty dent in a man’s skull. Beyond that, she had no doubt as to her abilities to scream if necessary. "I really don’t think you should come—"

     "If you’re fearing for your virtue, you needn’t." An arm appeared over the balustrade and her breath caught. Dear Lord he was far faster than she’d expected. Although she shouldn’t have been surprised. The man had already climbed down one building, sprinted across a lawn and scaled a wall not to mention whatever other activities he might have engaged in previously, and he hadn’t seemed the least bit out of breath.

     He hauled himself on to the balcony, planted his feet on the floor and straightened. She was right, he was tall. Nearly a head taller than she and she was of above average height. It was far too dark to see his features well but what she could make out was quite nice. Of course in the light of day he could well be hideous although she doubted Lady Pomfrey would ever be involved with an unattractive man. Regardless, his smile would be wicked and no doubt, irresistible. If she knew nothing else about him she knew that.

     "I am far too tired to engage in anything other than sleep which I intend to do the moment I am in my own bed."

     "I wasn’t the least bit worried," she said in a lofty manner.

     "Then why are you armed?" He nodded at the spyglass in her hands.

     "This?" She shifted the spyglass from one hand to the other. "This is simply an old spyglass that once belonged to a seafaring relative."

     "A spyglass?" He glanced from the instrument in her hands to her telescope. "And I see you have a larger telescope as well."

     "I study the stars. I find them fascinating."

     He laughed. "As fascinating as your neighbors?"

     Heat flashed up her face. "I am an astronomer. Amateur admittedly but an astronomer nonetheless. I do not study my neighbors!"

     "No?"

     "I will admit that once I heard shouting and shots I did wish to see what was happening but I do not make a habit of peeking in other people’s houses."

     He snorted in obvious disbelief and turned away to study the garden wall. At this particular moment she regretted that she hadn’t bashed him with the spyglass and noted that it was not too late to do so. Of course, if she rendered him unconscious he would probably be discovered and her reputation would be shattered as he was obviously a man of disrepute and—

     "You’re foolish not to be worried you know. Speaking to a stranger of questionable morals in the middle of the night and allowing him to enter your bed chamber—"

     "I allowed nothing of the sort." Indignation sounded in her voice. "You took liberties that were not granted to you. You climbed into my garden uninvited and now, again uninvited, you appear in my room and—"

     "Yes, well, that is just the kind of thing a man of questionable morals does." He nodded. "I see the break in the wall now and how to get to it so I shall bid you good night."

     She huffed. "Go on, then."

     "Before I once again take to the trellis I should like to thank you for your assistance."

     She shrugged. "I really didn’t do anything."

     A grin sounded in his voice. "Precisely. And it is most appreciated." Without warning he stepped closer, took her free hand in his and raised it to his lips. "My dear girl, if you were my younger sister I would make certain you were locked up for the better part of the next year to ensure there would be no repetition of tonight’s incident."

     "Would you?" She raised a brow. "If it were my younger sister I would make certain she was armed with something other than a spyglass should there be a repetition of tonight’s incident."

     "Well said." He laughed, released her hand and stepped to the balcony. He swung a leg over the side and reached for the trellis. "Oh, and one more thing. Do try to keep men of questionable morals from climbing into your bed chamber in the future."

A Little Bit Wicked

~Excerpt~
by
Victoria Alexander

January 2007

     He wondered what she would do if he were to pull her into his arms. It would be highly improper. They were indeed very much strangers at the moment.

     "Is it?" she said thoughtfully. "I wonder."

     "What? He couldn’t recall ever having kissed a stranger before. It held a great deal of appeal. Especially in regards to this particular stranger.

     "If it is dependent on me." She pulled her hand from his. "Or on something else. Forces already set in motion."

     He raised a brow. "You mean fate, destiny, the ordination of the stars, something like that?"

     "Actually I was thinking more in terms of desire, need, unadulterated lust." A grin sounded in her voice.

     "Lust?" He nodded slowly, ignoring a moment of surprise at her words. He had flirted with any number of women in his life, often with the explicit goal of eventually sharing their beds, yet he wasn’t certain he had ever met a woman whose nature was quite as direct as Lady Chester’s. It was most intriguing. "Lust can indeed be a powerful influence."

     "And dangerous as well."

     "I would certainly never force my attentions upon you."

     "That is not the danger that concerns me."

     "Or call on you if my presence was not wanted."

     "I never thought—"

     He leaned close and lowered his voice. "Or drag you into you my arms and kiss you until you begged for more unless I was confident you wished to be kissed."

     "A wish prompted, no doubt, by lust." She heaved a heartfelt sigh and trailed her fingers lightly over the lapels of his coat. "As I said, a very dangerous emotion."

     "And yet," he caught her hand, "not especially unwelcome."

     "No, my dear Lord Warton," she reached upward and brushed her lips across his so lightly he wasn’t sure they had touched at all, then stepped away before he could react. "Not at all unwelcome. Besides, it is the element of danger that makes it all so much fun. Don’t you agree?"

     "I do." He resisted the urge to make good on his threat to kiss her. He wanted nothing more than to feel her lips pressed against his and was confident she wanted the same. But there was something altogether too exciting about this game played between them on a darkened terrace in the cold of a winter night to allow it to end too soon. It was a tantalizing first course, an enticing prologue, a promise. And as such far too tasty to rush. "In that case," he chose his words with care, "if indeed you and I choose to fall prey to the demands of lust or fate or whatever else we wish to call it, do I have your permission to call on you? Would you do me the honor of joining me for supper? The day after tomorrow perhaps?"

     "I fear I am otherwise engaged the day after tomorrow."

     "The day following that then?"

     She shook her head. "I have a previous commitment."

     "Fours days from now then. Or five. Or next week if it suits you better."

     "Is this the persistence you mentioned earlier?"

     He flashed her a grin. "Do you like it?"

     "It is most impressive. Very well then, shall we say five days from now?"

     "Excellent. I shall send a carriage—"

     "Oh, no. You shall join me for supper. At my home."

     "Your home?"

     "On the field of play of any sport is it always best to have the home court advantage."

     He laughed. "And I have always relished a good game. I shall count the days. Now," he offered his arm, "it is entirely too cold for us to linger here any longer. I fear we shall soon loose all feeling in various appendages."

     "Odd, I had not noticed the cold until now."

     "You were no doubt basking in the warmth of my presence," he said, a feigned note of humility in his voice.

     "Yes, I’m certain that was it," she said lightly then paused. "You’re not at all as I expected."

     "Is that good?"

     "I haven’t decided. Besides, if I said yes it would go straight to your head and I fear that would only exacerbate an already serious flaw in your character."

     "We can’t have that." He chuckled. "May I escort you back to the festivities now before we both freeze to death?"

     "Festivities might not be quite as appropriate a word as sentence although bearing up under the offerings of Susanna's—Lady Dinsmore’s—assorted nieces and nephews is a small enough price to pay for the privilege of her friendship. She entertains a great deal and the diverse nature of the company she gathers is always interesting even if the entertainment itself leaves something to be desired. I would never tell her that, of course. However," she shook her head, "I think it’s best if we each returned as we left. Alone that is."

     "Surely you are not afraid of what people might say if we appeared together?"

     She laughed. "I am not the least bit afraid of what people might say. Goodness, I am often disappointed that they do not say nearly enough although admittedly the tales of my exploits are somewhat exaggerated."

     "And that does not bother you?"

     "Not at all." She waved off his question. "If one is going to have a reputation it might as well be as interesting as possible. Besides, I have not completely fallen off the edge of respectability."

     "Ah yes, you are discreet."

     "Indeed, I am. I enjoy my position in society and I should hate to forfeit it with unduly scandalous behavior."

     "Unduly scandalous?" He laughed. "As opposed to simply scandalous? Or ordinarily scandalous? Or merely scandalous?"

     "Precisely. It’s remarkable how forgiving society can be when one has a tidy fortune as long as one is not too outrageous." Her voice carried an almost prim note but he suspected she was holding back a laugh. "I have the wealth left to me by my parents and my husband. I have as well the freedom to do exactly as I please and the intelligence to understand what will be overlooked and what will not." She paused. "I freely confess there are certain boundaries I have never, nor will I ever, cross."

     "Ah-ha! At last. Confession." He chuckled in a conspiratorial manner. "It feels good doesn’t it? The unburdening that is."

     "A great weight has been lifted from my shoulders," she said wryly. "As I was saying, I am not afraid of the talk that will ensue if we are seen in one another’s company but rather the commitment such an appearance would imply."

     "Commitment?"

     She shrugged. "The moment we are linked together by gossip, well, we are linked together. There is an implied commitment of sorts in our appearing together that I am not yet prepared to make."

     "I see," he said even though he wasn’t sure he saw at all. "Then you do not wish to . . . that is to say . . . I had the impression—"

     "I shall look forward to our evening together, my lord," she said brightly in a manner that made him wonder if she would now pat his head as one did to appease an annoying child. "Now, if you will excuse me." Lady Chester turned and started toward the door.

     "One moment if you please," he said quickly.

     She paused and glanced at him over her shoulder.

     "You do understand, I fully intend to seduce you."

     "Do you?" Her laugh was rich with delight and anticipation.

     "Indeed I do. Furthermore I suspect, no, I am confident, that thought does not displease you."

     "Are you certain your confidence is not misplaced?"

     He flashed her a wicked grin. "My confidence is never misplaced."

     "Still, if I were to confirm your suspicion it would take away any sense of challenge you might feel and it is my suspicion that you are a man who quite likes a challenge. No," she paused to emphasize the word, "mystery."

     "Challenges perhaps but I’ve never been overly fond of mysteries."

     "Then I shall take some of it away for you. Consider it, oh, say, a gift of sorts." She opened the door then looked back at him. "The appropriate word is not if, my lord, but when."

 

  ©2007 Victoria Alexander

 

December 1853

 

     "We are a rather grim group today," Oliver Leighton, the Earl of Norcroft, noted to no one in particular and gazed idly at the usual gathering of his closest friends in the lounge of their favorite club.

     "What's not to be grim about?" Nigel Cavendish, son of Viscount Cavendish, stared at the brandy in his glass. "Life is moving at a remarkably fast clip. Yet another year is drawing to an end. We are all another year older and another step closer to the inevitable doom that lies in wait for us all."

     "I hate arriving in the middle of a conversation." Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley and heir to the Duke of Roxborough sank down in the lone unoccupied chair and grinned at his friends. Today, as always, Helmsley exuded jovial good spirits and an unrelentingly cheerful nature that charmed men and women alike. It could be most annoying. "Yet the expressions on all your faces are as easy to read as the Morning Times. I gather doom is in reference to the prospect of marriage?"

     "What else would make grown men cower in such a fashion?" Gideon Pearsall, Viscount Warton, drawled in the cynical manner he had honed to a fine art.

     "What else indeed," Cavendish muttered.

     Helmsley raised an amused brow.

     "Certainly, we have all accepted that is it our duty to marry and provide an heir to our titles, estates, fortunes, to carry on the family name and so forth but acceptance and eagerness are two entirely different matters. Marriage is a daunting prospect relished by no sane member of the masculine gender." Warton signaled to an ever vigilant waiter for another round of refreshment. "And a prospect none of us will be able to avoid much longer."

     Warton alone among them had not avoided it entirely but that was a subject that by unspoken agreement was not—was never—to be discussed.

     "I don't know that I still wish to avoid marriage," Helmsley said mildly.

     "Of course not." Oliver snorted. "Precisely why we have noted you loping down the aisle at breakneck speed."

     Helmsley accepted a glass from the waiter. "I simply haven't found the right woman yet."

     "The right woman?" Warton rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. "You mean the woman who will set your heart aflame?"

     "Not to mention your loins," Cavendish said.

     "A woman who will challenge your mind," Oliver added with an overly dramatic flourish. "As well as the rest of you."

     Helmsley's amused gaze slid around the circle. "Have I mentioned this before then?"

     "Each and every time the topic turns to potential brides." Warton sighed. "Let us see if we can remember all the requirements for the future Lady Helmsley. There are a fair number if I recall."

     "As well there should be," Helmsley said, his voice firm. "My wife shall one day be the Duchess of Roxborough. Such a position is not easy to fill."

     "Nor is the position of perfect wife," Oliver said.

     "Perfect is relative," Warton said, "the perception of which is highly individual. I, for one, do not find his qualifications culminate in perfection at all."

     Helmsley raised his glass in a toast. "To whatever passes for perfect then."

     "Perfect?" Oliver snorted. "Your idea of perfect is more in tune with what rational men would call difficult."

     Warton heaved a long suffering sigh. "All that spirited nature nonsense."

     "Sounds like a lot of trouble to me," Cavendish said darkly.

     "It does doesn't it?" Helmsley frowned in a good natured manner. "Was I drinking excessively at the time?"

     "Probably." Warton shrugged. "Such discussions on the relations between men and women and what we do and do not desire generally come toward the end of a long evening of excess. Usually after we have thoroughly dissected the sorry state of contemporary politics and preceding the inevitable pondering of the true meaning of existence in the world."

     "That does seem to require excessive drinking," Cavendish murmured.

     "Although we must note, Helmsley's requirements do not vary considerably whether he is inebriated or cold sober. There is something to be said for consistency, I suppose, or perhaps it's simply obstinacy." Oliver studied his friend.

     One wouldn't note his stubborn nature simply to look at him. Jonathon Effington was an attractive sort, his good looks accentuated by his confident friendly air. Add to that his title, his prospects and his family wealth and one could only wonder why he hadn't yet found the bride who would perfectly fill his expectations. Certainly there was no lack of eager candidates vying for the position of the future Duchess of Roxborough. But Helmsley had long ago made it clear he did not wish for the type of submissive, well behaved, proper bride English society was so adept at producing. He claimed such a wife would bore him to tears and Oliver wasn't sure he wasn't right. Still, Cavendish was right as well: such a wife would be a great deal of trouble.

     "As foolish as it sounds to the rest of us, Helmsley has declared he does not wish for a wife who is overly docile or blindly obedient." Oliver raised his glass to his friend. "God have mercy on him."

     "God had better," Warton said, "a woman of that nature certainly wouldn't."

     "I wouldn't mind blind obedience myself." Cavendish paused for a moment as if debating the merits of obedience, blind or otherwise. "A woman who would do precisely as I wished, when I wished without asking annoying questions. I should think that would be an excellent quality in a wife. "Yes I quite like that." A frown creased his brow. "Still, I should be willing to sacrifice a certain amount of obedience for the sake of appearance. She should definitely be pretty. I would not like an ugly wife. And she should be of good family, of course, with a respectable dowry."

     "None of which is of true importance when one is deciding upon a woman to spend the rest of one's life with," Helmsley noted in an annoyingly lofty manner then grinned. "Admittedly pretty and the rest of it is preferable."

     "One does have to bed her after all." Warton sipped his brandy in a thoughtful manner. "Although an enormous fortune would certainly make a less than attractive face and figure more palatable."

     Helmsley raised a brow. "I would not have thought it possible but you are more cynical than unusual tonight."

     "'Tis the undue influence of the season. All this good will toward men, urchins singing in the streets, high spirits run amuck." Warton shuddered. "It quite goes against my nature."

     It was a lie and every man present, including Warton himself, knew it but he did so love playing the role of jaded cynic. And who would tell him otherwise? It was part of an unspoken agreement among the long time friends not to shatter anyone's illusions about himself unless it was of the utmost necessity to do so.

     To all appearances, they were an odd group to have formed such a bond. While they shared a similarity of position and age, they were as disparate as if they were from different civilizations. Warton with his dark handsome features and brooding nature was given to cynicism in direct contract to Cavendish's boyish good looks and penchant for getting into scrapes. Helmsley was the true optimist among them and liked little better than a good joke or a good wager or a good investment. As for Oliver himself, well, he wasn't entirely sure how he described himself save that he thought in some odd way, he shared some of the characteristics of each of the others for good and ill.

     The men had attended school together but had not truly become friends until recent years when they found themselves frequenting the same clubs and same social events. Oliver's friendship with Helmsley had begun when he had enthusiastically and futilely, pursued the hand of Helmsley's youngest sister. How all four of them had drifted into friendship as fast and firm as this had become was still a matter of some debate. And there were moments when nothing but honesty between them would serve. Certainly there had been any number of occasions through the years when the group had been forced to make one of its members—usually Cavendish—face unpleasant facts about himself for his own good. Generally in situations that had involved the fairer sex, the potential for extreme embarrassment and an excess of alcohol.

     Oliver wondered if, in the spirit of the season which did seem to call for a fair amount of honesty, this wasn't one of those moments.

     "You, Jonathon Effington, Lord Helmsley, heir to the Duke of Roxborough," Oliver aimed an accusing finger, "are a nice man."

     "Women like you," Cavendish added.

     "Yes, I know. It works out rather well to my way of thinking." Helmsley grinned. "What's wrong with being nice?"

     "For one thing, it makes every other man look bad in comparison. Beyond that," Warton's eyes narrowed, "it drives the rest of us mad."

     Helmsley laughed. "Don't be absurd."

     Oliver leaned closer. "Do you realize when you end a liaison with a woman or a flirtation with a young lady they never seem to hate you?"

     "Well, of course not. Why would . . ." Jonathon paused, "what exactly do you mean?"

     Oliver lowered his voice in a meaningful manner. "Have you ever infuriated a woman to the point where she flung a vase at your head?"

     "Or slapped you across the face?" Warton asked. "Hard?"

     "Or thrown your clothes into the fire so that you were forced to make your way to your discretely waiting carriage clad in nothing more than a flimsy woman's dressing gown?" Cavendish said.

     At once all