Authors: Loretta Chase
In truth, the house and grounds of the Hartleigh estate were so vast that Maria could be lost for weeks before anyone noticed. And as it turned out, only Burgess, the earl's terrifying butler, who for thirty years had ruled his household with a rod of iron, was at all disturbed by the new resident. For from the first, when Maria had looked up at his immense height and stern demeanor with that faint indulgent smile—a smile one would give a great overgrown puppy, or a very small boy, as one patted him
fondly on the head—the butler had been frightened of her. He lived in terror, that one day this slender, lackadaisical, unpredictable woman
would
pat him on his head, and all his authority would crumble into dust. But for all that, he was fond of the lady, and very sharp with any staff member who so much as hinted a question of Mrs. Latham's mental faculties.
Still, she was at it again. He had announced the visitor, and she acted as though he were saying it only to tease her. As she looked up at him, Burgess had the unaccountable sensation that he had done something
naughty.
Nonetheless, his face was emotionless as he repeated, patiently, "Lord Deverell, madam. I have explained that you are not at home today, but—"
"Confound it, Maria, I've been up and down the whole blasted island looking for you, and this fellow has the effrontery to tell me you're not at home." A tall, fair-haired, quite handsome gentleman in his late forties pushed past the protective butler.
"Why, Harry," said Maria.
"Don't 'Harry' me, you unfaithful female. Where's Isabella?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't know," the female replied, sinking gracefully back onto her cushions. "Somewhere about. Perhaps Burgess can tell you."
"His Countess of Hartleigh," announced Burgess, with awful dignity, "is in the garden with Miss Lucy. Shall I inform her ladyship that Lord Deverell has arrived?"
"Whatever," said Maria with a sigh.
Unperturbed by Burgess's dignified disapproval, the viscount plunked himself down, uninvited, in a nearby chair. As soon as the butler had departed, he said, "You might show a little interest, Maria. You haven't seen me in twenty-seven years."
"Well, of course I haven't, Harry. One doesn't
expect
to see a dead person. Unless one has a morbid turn of
mind. Which I have not." And Miss Latham fell to examining the diamonds on her fingers.
"Well, I'm not dead anymore," the viscount remarked, tapping his foot impatiently.
"No, you're not" was the unhelpful reply.
"In fact, I never was."
Another sigh. "How was I to know?"
Moments ticked by as the star-crossed lovers meditated. Then:
"Maria?"
"Yes."
"I missed you horribly."
"Well, I hope so, Harry," replied the lady. She considered for a minute, then raised herself to a sitting position and let her glance travel from the tips of his polished boots to his tanned face and his fair hair, so sun-bleached that it was impossible to be certain where the gold left off and the silver began. "I have missed you rather horribly myself." And for no apparent reason at all, she laughed.
The viscount sprang from his seat to take his long-lost bride in his arms.
"Why, Harry," she murmured as his lips met hers.
"Mama!" Isabella cried as she entered the room, to find her mother in the embrace of a stranger. It was quite the most shocking thing she'd ever seen; although her mother appeared to be participating most enthusiastically, and the stranger was, it must be confessed, a very handsome fellow.
Languidly, Maria drew away from Lord Deverell. "Ah, there you are, my love. What an unconscionable time you've been returning. Say hello to your papa, my dear."
Lord Hartleigh gently assisted his rather bulky wife into a comfortable chair on the terrace. Although he had, at the beginning, shown a rather alarming tendency to over protectiveness, Isabella—with some help from her mother—managed to reassure the anxious father-to-be. He was at length convinced that it was not in his wife's best interest to be confined to her bed for nine months. After ascertaining that the walk from the garden had not caused her any irrevocable damage, he told her that she had a letter from his cousin.
"From Basil. Oh, thank heaven. I was so worried."
"I don't see why. Between his talent for gathering gossip and Henry Latham's talent for making money with it, he promises to do quite well for himself. Better than he deserves," the earl muttered, irritated anew as he remembered the trouble his cousin had caused him.
"Now, darling, he did write a very penitent letter before he left—"
"Maudlin, rather," the earl grumbled. But his wife reached for his cravat and pulled his head down so that she could plant a kiss on his forehead, and he remembered to be grateful to Basil for unintentionally thwarting those early plans to marry the fair Honoria. "Well then, let us see what he has to say."
“‘My darling Isabella,'" the countess read aloud.
“Not a promising start, the insinuating wretch.”
“‘You will perhaps be pleased to hear that I have not contracted any of the five hundred and eighty different varieties of foul disease that flourish in this abominable climate. That is because I am dying of a broken heart and haven't the strength to contract them.’”
"Broken heart, my foot."
“’Nonetheless, even in my weakened state I have managed to be of some use to your uncle, who confesses himself astonished at the amount of helpful gossip I am able to relay to him. He informs me that my debt to him is now paid, and that whatever else I accomplish from now on is shared profit, my share being available to me for whatever wanton purposes I wish to pursue.
"'Unfortunately, between the heat and the unending din of this vile city, I haven't the energy even to imagine any wanton purposes, nor would I have the strength to pursue such, could I imagine them. Therefore I am making a gift to your firstborn, care of your uncle, so that he or she might have at least one kind memory of the villainous Uncle Basil.
"'Your uncle now talks of Greece, and suggests we might find something to our advantage there. No climate can be as vile as this one, and in the hopes that I might be set upon by marauding Turks, I have commenced packing my few miserable belongings, preparatory to leaving in the next week.
"'Pray give my regards to my fortunate cousin, and you might pat Lucy on the head for me—if she'll stand for it. And if you can find it in your heart to forgive me...well, pray for me, Isabella—for I did love you as well as I could.
"'Ever your affectionate and
humble
servant, B.'"
"'Loved you as well as he could.' Well enough to spend your money and ruin your life—"
"He was desperate," Isabella reminded gently.
"And I was such a fool that without his interference, I wouldn't have realised how desperately in love with you I was."
"Was?" Isabella asked, tugging on his neckcloth again.
"Am. Will be. Always," Lord Hartleigh replied as he dropped to one knee to gaze lovingly into the intelligent blue eyes of his countess. "From the very first day I saw you and you scolded me."
His wife gave a low chuckle of satisfaction, and pulled him closer for a kiss.
“Poor Basil,” the earl murmured a few minutes later. “I wonder what will become of him?”
“Something dramatic, no doubt,” was the whispered reply. The letter slipped from her lap to the floor of the terrace, was picked up by a breeze, and slowly fluttered, forgotten, to the garden.
Scandal Wears Satin
Silk is for Seduction
Royal Weddings Anthology
Last Night’s Scandal
Don’t Tempt Me
Your Scandalous Ways
Not Quite a Lady
Lord Perfect
Mr. Impossible
Miss Wonderful
The Last Hellion
The Mad Earl’s Bride
Lord of Scoundrels
The Lion’s Daughter
The English Witch
The Sandalwood Princess
Knaves’ Wager
Viscount Vagabond
The Devil’s Delilah
The Royal Bridesmaids Anthology
After a heroic attempt to be an English major forever, Loretta Chase stoically accepted her degree but kept on reading and writing. As well as working in academe, she had an enlightening if brief life in retail and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she succumbed to the charm of a producer, who lured her into writing novels -- and marrying him. The union has resulted in what seems like an awful lot of books and quite a few awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Rita. Heralded as “…the long awaited successor to Georgette Heyer” by Library Journal, Loretta Chase’s historical romance novels have been published all over the world.
To learn more, please visit
www.LorettaChase.com
.