Authors: Fenella J Miller
His mouth curved as he
recalled the shapely young woman with abundant russet curls and sparkling green
eyes. His groin tightened as he relived the delightful few moments when he'd
been removing the debris from her person. Perhaps that old fool Dewberry
was
right; now was the time to put his house in order and find himself another
wife.
For the first time in many
years his pulse quickened. He would discover who the young woman was - perhaps
she would do? He frowned. What was he thinking of? The last person he required
as his wife was a spirited girl who would make demands on him that he would be
unable to fulfil. He had his mistress to take care of his bodily needs. What he
wanted was a meek submissive girl, of impeccable pedigree, who would be
prepared to remain in the country and provide him with the necessary heir.
****
Isobel slowed her pace as she approached her home, she had
no wish to explain why she'd felt the need to run like a hoyden across the
fields. She slipped inside, using the side door as usual, and returned to her
apartment without being waylaid by her parents or any of her younger siblings.
Mary, who had been taking care of
her since she left the schoolroom, threw up her hands in horror.
'Lawks a
mussey
!
Whatever next!
You look like a vagabond, my lady. Did you take a tumble?'
'Something like that; an
extremely unpleasant and overbearing gentleman attempted to run me down. It was
a miracle I didn't meet my Maker at his hands.' Laughing at her maid's
expression, Isobel kicked off her clogs and untied the bow holding her cloak in
place. 'But he got his comeuppance. He fell into the ditch twice and quite
ruined his smart clothes.'
Her
abigail
clucked and
tutted
as she removed the soiled
garments, Isobel allowed her mind to wander at the unexpected encounter. Who
could this gentleman be? From his demeanour and appearance she was sure he was
a wealthy man, someone used to giving orders. An unexpected frisson rippled
down her spine and she recalled the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his
legs and the feel of his hands as they travelled up and down her body.
He was a handsome man, but
too autocratic and quick tempered for her taste. He must have a box somewhere
and have come down to shoot; perhaps she might make discreet enquiries from
their own gamekeeper. Evans was bound to know who owned a property of this sort
in the neighbourhood.
'There, my lady, I shall do
what I can to restore your gown. I have sent for hot water, and there's a good
fire in your parlour.'
Isobel pushed her arms into
her robe and smiled at her maid. 'Anything, Mary, as long as it's warm. I
expect you already know why I was summoned to the library earlier?'
'I do, my lady. If you will
forgive me for saying so, I think it's high time you were seen in Society and
found yourself an amenable husband.'
For some inexplicable reason an
image of the dark eyed stranger flashed across her mind. Heavens above! Imagine
what her life would be married to such a one? A gentleman like him would not
suit her at all; he would forever be making demands on her. She hastily turned
away hoping her pink cheeks had not been noticed. She wasn't exactly clear what
took place in the marital bed, but the thought of him touching her naked body
made her pulse race. Pushing such wanton thoughts firmly away, she went to sit
in front of the fire until her washing water arrived and she could put on a
clean gown.
Her father would be waiting
for an answer. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to spend a few
weeks
in the capital with her
favourite relatives. As Mary quite rightly said, at nineteen years of age she
would be one of the older debutantes on view. However, whatever her parents
might think she had no intention of selling herself to the highest bidder. She
knew her duty, but would never agree to marry a man she could not at least feel
affection for.
Chapter Two
Grosvenor Square,
March 1811
Alex riffled through the pile of
invitations on the silver tray in his study. His glance fell on one from Lord
Illingworth,
he was launching his daughter and his niece at
a ball that very night. He flicked over the card and quickly scribbled an
acceptance on the back and ran for a footman to take it around. It was
decidedly bad form to reply so late, but he was certain the cachet of having a
duke at the ball would make up his bad manners.
Spreading
out a fresh piece of paper he sharpened his quill and wrote down what he was
looking for in a bride.
1. Impeccable pedigree.
2. Quiet.
3.
Not bracket faced.
4. Intelligent.
He scratched his head with the
end of his pen lost in thought. The list seemed rather short, was there
something else he should add to it? His mouth curved - of course.
5. Tall
6. Prefers country life.
7. Loves children.
There … that should do it. If he
found a young woman who fulfilled all his criteria he would offer for her
immediately. The sooner he produced the required heir the better,
then
he could continue his rackety lifestyle without having
the family lawyers constantly complaining. He had no intention of living with
his wife once his duty was done, his mistress provided him with everything he
needed apart from a son. A fleeting image of the lovely russet haired girl he'd
encountered in Norfolk flickered into his head. His enquiries had not produced
her name or
whereabouts
,
and he's been obliged to return to Town a few days later on urgent business
matters and had all but forgotten the encounter. He pushed the picture away,
she was safely in Norfolk, and he must find himself a bride.
****
Isobel stood beside her cousin, waiting to
greet the monstrous crush of people invited to their come-out ball. She must
remember to bite her tongue and keep any sharp comments to herself even if
seriously provoked.
Petunia, a diminutive, fair-haired
girl, as pretty as a cherub and with a sweet nature to match, would have no
such difficulty. Isobel felt like an ungainly beanpole at her side and with her
hair piled up in this ridiculous fashion on top of her head it added a further
few inches. Good grief! Even her evening slippers had heels upon them, she
would be staring over the heads of most of the gentlemen present and that would
surely be enough to put them off before they'd even spoken to her.
'Isobel, my
love, please do not scowl so, it is your come out. You are supposed to be
enjoying yourself, not looking as if you are about to have a tooth pulled.'
Her dear aunt's kindly reminder
caused Isobel to relax. 'I beg your pardon, Aunt Laura, you are right to chide
me. It's just that I feel over large and I was wishing I were a foot and a half
shorter tonight.'
Petunia stretched up to kiss
her cheek. 'You are the most beautiful woman here, like a goddess, so tall and
elegant. With your lovely red-gold curls and huge green eyes I'm certain you
shall be the talk of the town'
'You are dear to
say so, cousin, and I love you for it. However I can't tell you how unpleasant
it is to be staring at the top of a gentleman's head all night.'
Her companions were
still laughing when the first guests were announced. Uncle Benjamin, who had
been absent from the line, hurried to join them, brushing cigar ash from his
person as he did so. He'd been blowing a cloud in the billiard room, and no
doubt downing a steadying brandy or two.
He beamed at
her. 'My dears, I shall be the proudest man in London tonight. I expect to be
beating off your many suitors with a stick before the evening is finished.' He
winked at her as he took his place beside his wife. He knew how she felt and
appreciated, as no other person did, what a sacrifice she was making in order
to save her family from disaster.
'I think you are
a trifle premature, Uncle. However there are a prodigious amount of people
invited, it would be churlish of me not to find
someone
to make me an
offer when there is so much choice.' His laughter made several heads turn in
their direction. 'I am deeply grateful for the opportunity you have given me,
my lord. Tonight I shall make an effort to simper and flutter my eyelids in
exactly the way Pet has shown me.'
She loved her
relatives; if she was honest she preferred them to her own family. Whatever the
outcome of this venture she was determined to enjoy her stay in Town, attend
all the soirees and at homes with good grace, but when everyone else was still
abed in the morning she would ride in the park and visit the sights. Her lips
curved at the thought of her trip to
Hatchards
that
morning when she had been able to purchase several promising novels.
Her smile froze as a tall gentleman
dressed entirely in black caught her attention. Her knees almost buckled. It
was the one gentleman she didn't want to meet. Her enquiries had assured her
Lord Bentley did not attend balls or parties, was a dissolute aristocrat, more
interested in gaming and drinking than finding a wife. There was a sudden
flurry of movement and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him through. He
was staring directly at her.
Had he
recognized her as the young lady who had tipped him into a ditch? That strange
heat flickered through her, her cheeks
coloured
and
her chest tightened. She couldn't look away, was held by the gaze of his
blue-black eyes and the arrogant thrust of his chin. This time he was smiling
and she could not help responding. The master of ceremonies announced his name
with due aplomb.
‘His grace, The Duke of Rochester, Lord Bentley.’
She dipped
in a deep curtsy wondering if he knew who she was. Presumably his invitation card
would have stated her name, and as her cousin was the image of Aunt Laura it
must be immediately obvious that she was Lady Isobel Drummond and not Miss
Petunia Illingworth. She straightened, raising her head to discover him
watching her. His smile made her toes curl.
‘Lady
Isobel, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will
honour
me with a dance or two.’ This was not a question,
but a bald statement of fact.
Almost too late
she found her tongue. ‘Thank you, your
grace,
it is I
who shall be
honoured
.’ He nodded and was gone.
Someone touched her hand and she looked down to see her cousin staring at her
round eyed. ‘Do you realize who
that
was?’
Isobel smiled.
‘He was announced, he’s The Duke of Rochester.’
‘No, silly, he’s
the most eligible parti in the world and he has singled
you
out.
Whatever happens next, your season will be successful.’
Now was not the
time to tell Pet she had already made his acquaintance. She shivered. Was he
planning some sort of revenge for her mistreatment? Would he lead her out and
then abandon her on the dance floor, make her a laughing stock? Could one man
have the power to do that? Her cousin was prone to
exaggerate,
no doubt this was another of those instances.
‘I think he was an
objectionable man, so top lofty I cannot imagine how he does not fall over his
own feet. He did not stay to greet any of you; even a duke should have good
manners.’
Aunt Laura looked scandalized and
Petunia giggled. Her uncle winked and the moment of excitement was over. Having
jumped the queue in his superior fashion, Rochester strolled off into the
ballroom. As the
remainder of the guests were
introduced Isobel curtsied and smiled until her face ached.
An hour later she was finally free
to join the throng milling about the place. Whoever arrived at her side first,
if she liked them, then she would dance. Then, when she became bored with the
evening, she could absent herself without giving offence to anyone.
Petunia was to
lead the first
set,
no doubt some gentleman would
invite her also. To her astonishment Rochester appeared neatly cutting out a
small queue of hopefuls.
‘I believe
this is my dance, Lady Isobel.’
She was tempted
to refuse, to say she was promised to another, but something in his eyes made
her accept and she curtsied and stepped forward. Just the touch of his hand
sent tremors rushing round her body.
‘I believe that
I owe you an apology, my lady.’
Her eyes flew
up. His expression was suitably solemn, but his eyes twinkled. ‘It is I that
must apologize …’
His smile made
her lose her feet and she stumbled, he steadied her. ‘I should have called on
you, but was recalled on business matters. Without your intervention things
might have been far worse.’
Her gurgle of
laughter attracted the attention of the other couples in the set. ‘Shall we
agree to forget the incident, your grace?’
He nodded.
‘As you wish.
May I say that I almost didn’t recognize you
this evening?’
With wide eyes
she replied.
‘And I you, your grace.
Mud is an
excellent disguise, is it not?’