Tangled Reins is Stephanie Laurens’s first ever Regency romance. Written at the start of her career, it has all the inimitable wit and passion for which she has become legendary.

Stephanie Laurens lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Also by Stephanie Laurens

THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

AN UNWILLING CONQUEST

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS

TANGLED REINS

FAIR JUNO

FOUR IN HAND

IMPETUOUS INNOCENT

STEPHANIE

LAURENS

Tangled Reins

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Chapter One

‘Mmmm.’ Dorothea closed her eyes, savouring the taste of sun-warmed wild blackberry. Surely the most delicious of summer’s delights. She surveyed the huge bush. Burgeoning with ripe fruit, it stretched across one side of the small clearing. More than enough to fill tonight’s pie, with plenty left over to make jam. She settled her basket on the ground and set to. Working methodically over the bush, she selected the best berries and dropped them into the basket in a fluid stream. While her hands laboured, her mind went tripping. How childlike her sister still was, for all her sixteen years. It was at her suggestion Dorothea was here, deep in the woods of the neighbouring estate. Cecily craved blackberries for supper. So, brown eyes sparkling, golden ringlets dancing, she had begged her elder sister, about to depart for a ramble to gather herbs, to make a detour to the blackberry bush.

Her elder sister sighed. Would London erase that dazzling spontaneity? More importantly, would their projected trip to the capital free Cecily of this humdrum existence? Six months had passed since their mother, Cynthia, Lady Darent, had succumbed to a chill, leaving her two daughters to the guardianship of their cousin, Herbert, Lord Darent. Five interminable months spent at Darent Hall in Northamptonshire while the lawyers picked over the will had convinced Dorothea that no help and much hindrance could be expected from that quarter. Herbert, not to put too fine a point on it, was an indefatigable bore. And Marjorie, his wife, prim, prosy and hopelessly inelegant in every way, was worse than useless. If their grandmother had not appeared, exactly like the proverbial fairy godmother, goodness only knew what they would have done.

Suddenly unable to move, she paused to gaze, unperturbed, at a bramble hooked about the hem of her dress. Just as well it was her old dimity! Despite Aunt Agnes’s bleats about mourning clothes, she had insisted on her practice of wearing the outmoded green dress for her foraging expeditions. The square-cut neckline and bodice fitted to the waist belonged to another time; the full skirts, without the support of the voluminous petticoats they were intended to cover, clung to her willowy figure. She examined the tiny tears the briar thorns had left in the material.

As she straightened, the warmth of the clearing, hemmed in by undergrowth and trees and lit by the sun slanting through the high branches, struck her anew. On impulse, her hands went to her hair, hanging heavy in a bun on her neck. With the restricting pins removed, it fell in a cascade of rich mahogany brown to her waist. Cooler, she resumed her picking.

At least she was confident of what lay in store for herself in London. No amount of effort from her grandmother would be sufficient to win her a husband! Green flashes ran like emeralds through her huge eyes. Her eyes, of course, were her major, and only, asset. All her other points, innocuous in themselves, were disastrously unfashionable. Her hair was dark, not the favoured blonde; her face pale as alabaster and not peaches and cream like Cecily’s. Her nose was well enough but her mouth was too large and her lips too full. Rosebud lips were the craze. And she was too tall and her figure slim against the prevailing trend to voluptuous curves. To cap it all, she was twenty-two, with a strong streak of independence to boot! Hardly the type of female to attract the attention of the fashionable male. With a deep chuckle she popped another ripe berry between her too full lips.

Her relegation to the ranks of the old maids disturbed her not at all. She had enough to live comfortably for the rest of her days and looked forward to years of country pursuits at the Grange with equanimity. She had received considerable attention from the local gentlemen, yet no man had awoken in her the slightest desire to trade her independent existence for the respectable state of matrimony. While her peers plotted and schemed to get that all-important ring on their finger, she saw no reason to follow their lead. Only love, that strange and compelling emotion that, she freely admitted, had yet to touch her heart would, she suspected, be strong enough to tempt her from her comfortable ways. In truth, she had difficulty envisaging the gentleman whose attraction would prove sufficient to seduce her from her established life. For too long now she had been her own mistress. Free to do as she wished, busy and secure—she was content. Cecily was a different matter.

Bright as a button, Cecily yearned for a more glittering lifestyle. Although so young, she had a burning interest in people, and the horizons of the Grange were far too limited for her satisfaction. Sweet, young and fashionably beautiful, she would surely find some elegant and personable young man to give her all her heart desired. Which was the primary reason they were going to London.

Dorothea had been absently regarding a particularly large berry, almost out of her reach. With a sudden smile she stretched one white hand high to the tempting fruit. Her smile dissolved into stunned surprise as a strong arm slipped around her waist. The fact barely registered before a deft movement delivered her into a crushing embrace. She caught a glimpse of a dark face. The next instant she was being ruthlessly, expertly and very comprehensively kissed.

For one long moment her mind remained blank. Then consciousness flooded back. She was not inexperienced. Lack of response would see her released faster than any action. Prosaic and practical, she willed herself to frigidity.

She had seriously misjudged the threat. Despite perfectly clear instructions, her body refused to comply. Horrified, she felt a sudden warmth rush through her, followed by an almost overwhelming urge to lean into that embrace, clearly poised to become even more passionate if she succumbed. No country admirer had dared kiss her like this! The desire to respond to the demanding lips crushing her own grew second by second, beyond her control. Thoroughly unnerved, she tried to break free. Long fingers slid into her hair, holding her head still, and the arm around her waist tightened ruthlessly. The strength of the body she was now crushed against confirmed her helplessness. From a disjointed jumble of thoughts, rapidly becoming less coherent, emerged the conclusion that her captor was neither gypsy nor vagabond. He was certainly no local! That first fleeting glimpse had left an impression of negligent elegance. As she was drawn inexorably beyond thought, senses reeling, a strange turbulence threatened to engulf her. Then, abruptly, as if a door were slammed shut, the kiss was skilfully brought to an end.

Her mind awhirl, senses scorched, she looked up into a dark-browed face. Hazel eyes, distinctly amused, gazed into her own green orbs. Sheer fury erupted within her. She aimed a stinging slap at the laughing face. It never landed. Although the action was not betrayed by a flicker of an eyelid, her hand was caught in mid-air in a firm grip and gently drawn down to her side.

Her assailant smiled provokingly, thoroughly appreciative of her beautifully outraged countenance. ‘No, I don’t think I will let you hit me. How was I to know you weren’t the blacksmith’s daughter?’

The voice was light and gentle, definitely that of an educated man. Recollecting how she must look in her old green dimity with her hair about her shoulders, she bit her lip, feeling ridiculously young as the betraying flush rose to her cheeks.

‘So,’ continued the soft voice, ‘if not the blacksmith’s daughter, who, then?’

At the gently mocking tone, she raised her chin defiantly. ‘I’m Dorothea Darent. Now will you please release me?’

The arm around her moved not one whit. A slight frown creased her captor’s brow. ‘Ah…Darent. Of the Grange?’

A slight nod was all she could manage. Conversation was a major effort while held so closely against him. Who on earth was he?

‘I’m Hazelmere.’

A blunt statement of fact. For a moment she thought she had not heard aright. But that face, arrogant amusement deeply etched in the lines about the strong mouth, surely belonged to no one else?

She had heard the rumours. Their old friend, Lady Moreton, whose estate encompassed these woods, had died while they were at Darent Hall. Her great-nephew, the Marquis of Hazelmere, had reputedly inherited Moreton Park. The news had set the district abuzz. In a small county backwater the possibility that one of the acknowledged leaders of the ton might be the new owner of a major local estate was, in any circumstances, likely to generate a certain amount of curiosity. When the person in question was the Marquis of Hazelmere the curiosity was frankly rampant.

The rector’s wife had primmed up her mouth in a most disparaging way. ‘My dear! Nothing on earth would induce me to acknowledge such a man! Such a shocking reputation! So notorious!’ When Dorothea had, not unnaturally, asked how this reputation had been gained, Mrs Matthews had suddenly recalled to whom she was speaking and rapidly excused herself on the pretext of passing around the scones. At Mrs Mannerim’s she had heard such charges as gambling, womanising and general licentiousness laid at the Marquis’s door. Although she was inexperienced in wider society, common sense was her forte. As Lord Hazelmere continued to grace the ton presumably the gossip, as usual, was exaggerated. Besides, she could not imagine the eminently respectable Lady Moreton having a licentious great-nephew.

Dragging her mind from contemplation of his mesmeric hazel eyes and long sculpted lips, she rapidly revised her opinion of the Marquis of Hazelmere. Put simply, the man was even more dangerous than his reputation indicated.

Her thoughts had flowed across her face, a clear procession from initial bewilderment, through dawning realisation, to awed and scandalised comprehension. The hazel eyes glinted. To a palate jaded by an unremitting diet of society’s beauties, on whose simpering faces no trace of genuine emotion was ever permitted, the beautiful and expressive countenance was infinitely attractive.

‘Precisely.’ He said it to see if she would blush so delightfully again and was amply rewarded.

Dorothea indignantly transferred her gaze to contemplation of his left shoulder. She was hardly short, but her topmost curls barely reached his chin. Which left his chest, very close, at eye-level. Nothing in her limited experience had taught her how to deal with a situation like this. She had never felt so helpless in her life!

With her attention elsewhere, she missed the deepening curve of the severe lips which had so recently claimed hers. ‘And precisely what is Miss Dorothea Darent doing, trespassing in my woods?’

The proprietorial tone brought her head up again, as he had known it would. ‘Oh! You have inherited the Park from Lady Moreton!’

He nodded, reluctantly releasing her and almost imperceptibly moving aside. The hazel eyes did not leave her face.

Relieved of the distracting intimacy, she paused to gather her wits. In a manner as imperious as she could muster she replied, ‘Lady Moreton always gave her permission for us to gather whatever we wished from her woods. However, now that you own the Park—’

‘You will, of course,’ Hazelmere interposed smoothly, ‘continue to gather whatever you wish, whenever you wish.’ He smiled. ‘I will even undertake not to mistake you for the blacksmith’s daughter next time.’

Dorothea swept him a contemptuous curtsy, green eyes flashing. ‘Thank you, Lord Hazelmere! I’ll be sure to warn Hetty.’

The comment stumped him, as she had intended. She turned to pick up her basket. Still mentally adrift from the after-effects of that kiss, she hastily concluded that in this instance retreat was the better part of valour. She had reckoned without Lord Hazelmere. ‘And who, exactly, is Hetty?’

Arrested in the act of ignominious flight, she gathered together the shreds of her composure to reply acidly, ‘Why, the blacksmith’s daughter, of course!’

Under her fascinated gaze the striking, almost harsh-featured face relaxed, the satirical amusement replaced by genuine delight. Laughing openly, he put out a hand to grasp the basket, preventing her from leaving. ‘I think we’re quits, Miss Darent, so don’t run away. Your basket is only half full and there are plenty of berries left on this bush.’ The hazel eyes were quizzing her, his smile disarming. Sensing her hesitation, he continued, ‘Yes, I know you can’t reach them, but I can. If you’ll just stand there, and hold your basket so, we’ll soon have it full.’

It dawned on Dorothea that her qualifications to deal with the gentleman before her were inadequate. Unwise in the ways of the world, she had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, the rector’s wife would expect her to withdraw immediately; on the other, curiosity urged her to remain. And, even if she did make up her mind to go, it was doubtful whether this masterful creature would allow her to leave. Besides, as he had positioned her here with the basket in her hands and was even now filling it with the choicest berries from the top of the bush, it would hardly be polite to walk away. Thus reasoning, she remained where she was, taking the opportunity to more closely inspect her tormentor.

Her initial impression of quiet elegance owed much, she decided, to the excellent cut of his shooting jacket. Honesty then forced her to acknowledge that broad shoulders set atop a lean and muscular frame significantly contributed to the overall effect of masculine power only superficially cloaked. His black hair was cut short in the prevailing mode and curled gently over his brow. The hazel eyes, so appropriate, she thought, in the Marquis of Hazelmere, were disconcertingly direct. The decidedly patrician nose and firm mouth and chin declared that here was a man used to dominating his world. But she had seen both eyes and mouth soften with humour, making him appear much more approachable. In fact, she decided, his smile would be utterly devastating to young ladies more impressionable than herself. Then, too, there was that subtly attractive aura, which fell into the category of subjects no well-bred lady ever discussed. Remembering his reputation, she could find no trace of dissipation. His actions, however, left little doubt of the existence of the fire that had given rise to the smoke.

Correctly guessing most of the jumble of thoughts going through her head, Hazelmere surreptitiously watched her face from the corner of his eyes. What a jewel she was! The classically moulded face framed by luxuriant dark hair was arresting in itself. But those eyes! Like enormous twin emeralds, clear and bright, they mirrored her thoughts in a thoroughly beguiling way. Her lips he had already sampled—soft and yielding, deliciously sensual—and he could readily imagine developing a fascination for them. The rest of the package was equally enticing. Nevertheless, if he was to further their acquaintance he would have to go carefully.

Removing the loaded basket from her hands, he retrieved his hunting rifle from the opposite side of the clearing. Correctly interpreting the question clearly written on her uncertain face, he said, ‘I’m now going to escort you home, Miss Darent.’ Inwardly grinning at the mutinous expression that greeted this calm pronouncement, he continued before she could speak. ‘No! Don’t argue. In the social circle to which I belong, no young lady would ever be found out of doors alone.’

The pious tone made Dorothea’s eyes blaze. Lord Hazelmere’s tactics were proving extremely difficult to combat. As she could find no ready answer nor see any way of altering his resolve, she reluctantly fell into step beside him as he started down the path.

‘Incidentally,’ he continued conversationally, pursuing a subject guaranteed to keep her on the defensive, ‘satisfy my curiosity. Just why are you wandering alone in the woods, without the presence of even a nitwit maid?’

She had suspected this question might come, precisely because she had no good answer. The reprehensible creature was undoubtedly teasing her! Swallowing her irritation, she calmly replied, ‘I’m well known in this neighbourhood, and at my age can hardly be considered a young miss in need of constant chaperoning.’ Even to her ears it sounded lame.

The reprehensible creature chuckled. ‘My dear child, you’re not that old! And quite clearly you do need the protection of an attendant.’

As he had just proved the truth of that, she could hardly argue the point. But, her temper flying and caution disappearing with it, her unruly tongue marched ahead unheeding. ‘In future, Lord Hazelmere, whenever I’m tempted to walk your woods I’ll most certainly take an attendant!’

‘Very wise,’ he murmured, voice low.

Unattuned to the nuance of his tone, she did not stop to think before pointing out, in her most reasonable voice, ‘But I really can’t see the necessity. You said you would not mistake me for a village girl next time.’

‘Which merely means,’ he said in tones provocative enough to send a tingling shiver down her spine, ‘that next time I’ll know whose lips I’m kissing.’

‘Oh!’ She gasped and stopped to look up at him, outrage in every line.

Halting beside her, Hazelmere laughed and gently touched her cheek with one long finger, further increasing her ire. ‘I repeat, Miss Darent—you need an attendant. Don’t risk walking in my woods or anywhere else without one. In case the country beaux haven’t told you, you’re by far too lovely to wander alone, despite your advancing years.’

The amused hazel eyes held hers throughout this speech. Dorothea, seeing something behind the laughter which made her feel distinctly odd, could find nothing to say in reply. Irritated, furious and light-headed all at once, she turned abruptly and continued along the path, skirts swishing angrily.

Glancing at the troubled face beside him, Hazelmere’s smile deepened. He sought for a suitably innocuous topic from the tangle of information poured into his ears by his great-aunt before her death. ‘I understand you have recently lost your mother, Miss Darent. I believe my great-aunt told me you were staying with relatives in the north.’

This promising sally fell wide. Dorothea turned her wide green eyes on him and, ignoring the dictum that ladies should not answer a gentleman’s question with another question, asked breathlessly, ‘Did you see her, then, before she died?’

The marked degree of disbelief, for some reason, stung him. ‘Believe it or not, Miss Darent, I frequently visited my great-aunt, of whom I was very fond. However, as I rarely stayed longer than a day, it’s hardly surprising that neither you, nor in all probability the rest of the county, were aware of that fact. I was with her for the three days prior to her death and, as I was her heir, she endeavoured to instruct me in the families of the area.’

This speech, not unnaturally, brought the colour to her cheeks, but instead of turning away in confusion, as he expected, she met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘You see, we were such good friends that I was most unhappy not to have seen her again.’

The hazel eyes held hers for a pregnant second. Then he relented. ‘The end was quite painless. She died in her sleep and, considering the pain she’d been in over the past years, that can only be viewed as a relief.’

She nodded, eyes downcast.

In an attempt to lighten the mood he tried again. ‘Do you and your sister plan to remain at the Grange indefinitely?’

This time he had more success. Her face cleared. ‘Oh, no! We’re to go to our grandmother, Lady Merion, early next year.’

Hermione, Lady Merion, previously the Dowager Lady Darent, had swept through the chilly corridors of Darent Hall like a summer breeze, warm from the glamour of London. And had taken undisputed charge. The sisters, together with Aunt Agnes, the elderly spinster who acted as their nominal chaperon, had been dispatched home to the Grange, buried deep in Hampshire, there to wait out their year of mourning. They were to present themselves to her ladyship in Cavendish Square in February, six months from now. And what was to happen from that point on was, they all had been given to understand, very definitely in her ladyship’s competent hands. Reminiscing, Dorothea grinned. ‘She intends to present us.’ Noticing the sudden lift of the dark brows, she continued defensively, ‘Cecily is considered very beautiful and, I believe, should make a good match.’

‘And yourself?’

Suddenly inexplicably sensitive on this point, she believed she detected a derisive note in the smooth voice. She answered more categorically than she intended. ‘I am hardly ware for the marriage mart. I intend to enjoy my days in London seeing all the sights, and, if truth be known, watching those about me.’

She glanced up and was surprised by the intensity of the hazel gaze fixed unswervingly on her face. Then he smiled in such an enigmatic way that she was unsure whether it was intended for her or was purely introspective. A thought occurred. ‘Do you know Lady Merion?’

The smile deepened. ‘I should think all fashionable London knows Lady Merion. However, in my case, she’s a particularly close friend of my mother’s.’

‘Please, tell me what she’s like?’ It was his turn to be surprised. Seeing it, she rushed on, ‘You see, I’ve not met her since I was a child, except for the one night she spent at Darent Hall earlier this year, when she came to tell us we were to come to London.’

Hazelmere, reflecting that this conversation was undoubtedly the strangest he had ever conducted with a personable young lady, helped her over the stile and into the lane, then fell to considering Lady Merion. ‘Well, your grandmother has always been a leader of fashion, and is well connected with all the old tabbies who matter in London. She’s thick as thieves with Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy. Both are patronesses of Almack’s, to which you must gain entry if you wish to belong to the ton. In your case, that hurdle will not be a problem. Lady Merion is independently wealthy and lives in a mansion on Cavendish Square, left her by her second husband, George, Lord Merion. She married him some years after your grandfather’s death and he died about five years ago, I think. She’s something of a tartar, and a high stickler, so I would advise you not to attempt to wander London unattended! On the other hand, she has an excellent sense of humour and is known as being kind and generous to her friends. She’s in some ways eccentric and rarely leaves London except to visit friends in the country. All in all, I doubt you could find a lady more capable of launching you and your sister successfully into the ton.’

Dorothea pondered this potted biography, finally remarking in a pensive tone, ‘She did seem very fashionable.’

‘She is certainly that,’ he agreed.

They had reached a gate in the high stone wall that had bordered the lane for the last hundred yards. Dorothea stopped and reached for the basket. ‘These are the gardens of the Grange.’

‘Then I’ll leave you here,’ Hazelmere promptly replied. He had escorted her home purely to prolong his time in her company but had no wish to be seen with her. He knew too well the gossip and speculation which would inevitably spring from such a sighting. Expertly capturing her hand, he carried it to his lips, enjoying the spark of anger that flared in the green eyes and the blush that rose in response to his understanding smile. ‘But remember my warning! If you wish to keep in your grandmama’s good graces, don’t go about London unattended. Young ladies who venture the London streets alone won’t remain alone for long. Farewell, Miss Darent.’

Released, Dorothea opened the gate and made good her escape.

She hurried through the garden, for once unconscious of the heady scents rising from the rioting flowers. The long shadows cast by the ancient roof of the Grange fell across the path, heralding the end of the day. She stopped in the garden hall; the coolness of the dim, stone-flagged room brought relief to her burning cheeks. The clattering steps of the housemaid sounded in the passageway. Moving to the door, she called her in.

‘Take these berries to Cook, please, Doris. And after that you can lay out the meadowsweet on the drying racks.’ With a wave of her hand she indicated the wooden frames covered with tightly stretched muslin lying on the bench along one side of the room.

As an afterthought, she added, ‘And please tell my aunt I’ve gone to lie on my bed until dinner. I think I must have a touch of the sun.’ More accurately, a touch of the Marquis of Hazelmere! she thought furiously. Successfully negotiating the passageway and stairs undetected, she closed her bedchamber door and sank on to the window-seat.

Gazing over the now deeply shadowed garden, she struggled to bring some order to a mind still seething. Ridiculous! She had left the Grange a serenely confident twenty-two-year-old, entirely secure in her independent world. Yet here she was, a scant hour later, feeling, she suspected, as Cecily might if the Squire’s son had made eyes at her! It was not as if she had never been kissed before. It shouldn’t make the slightest difference who was doing the kissing. The fact that it had made a great deal of difference exacerbated a temper already tried by a pair of hazel eyes. A pair of all too perceptive hazel eyes. She spent the next ten minutes reading herself a determined lecture on the inadvisability of forming an attachment for a rake.

Fortified, she forced herself to consider the matter in a more reasoning light. Undoubtedly she should feel outraged, ready to decry the Marquis as a licentious scoundrel. Yet, despite her irritation, she was too honest not to admit that her inappropriate attire was partly to blame. Moreover, she suspected that the response of a young lady on finding herself in the arms of the Marquis of Hazelmere should have been quite different from the way she had behaved. In her defence, she felt it should be noted that had she swooned in his arms he would have had little choice but to wait with her until she recovered. Then the situation would have been, if anything, worse. By following this train of thought, she convinced herself there had been nothing particularly reprehensible about the proceedings after Lord Hazelmere had released her. In fact, he had proved a valuable informant on the subject of her grandmother.

What continued to bother her were the events preceding her release from that far too familiar embrace. Her fingers strayed to her lips, which, despite his expertise, were slightly bruised. The memory of his hard body against hers was still a physical sensation. The clock on the landing struck the quarter-hour. She determinedly put her thoughts on the afternoon’s events aside, resolutely consigning the Marquis and all his works to the remotest corner of her mind. Nothing was more certain than that he would forget all about her by tomorrow.

Changing out of her old gown and into the freshly pressed sprigged muslin laid out for the warm evening, she gauged her chances of unwittingly running into him again. Well versed in the ways of the local gentry, she knew it would be all but impossible for him to meet her socially in the country. And, by his own admission, he was not in the habit of remaining over-long at Moreton Park. She told herself she was relieved. To make doubly sure her relief remained undisturbed, she resolved that, in future, she would ensure that her reluctant sister joined her on her rambles.

Picking up a brush, she attacked her long tresses vigorously before winding them up in a simple knot. She glanced quickly at her reflection in the mirror perched on her tallboy. Satisfied she had dealt sufficiently with the potential ramifications of the advent of the Marquis of Hazelmere into her life, she went downstairs to her dinner.

A fortnight later, returning to Hazelmere House, his mansion in Cavendish Square, situated almost directly opposite Merion House, the Marquis found a large pile of letters and invitations awaiting him. Sorting through them, he strolled into his library. Extracting an envelope of a particularly virulent shade of purple from the bundle, he held it at arm’s length to escape the cloying perfume emanating from it and groped for his quizzing glass. Recognising the flowery script of his latest mistress, a dazzling creature abundantly well endowed for her station in life, his black brows drew together. He opened the letter and scanned the few lines within. The black brows rose. A smile of a kind Dorothea Darent would not have recognised twisted the mobile lips. Throwing both letter and envelope into the fire, he turned to his desk.

The footman who answered the summons of the library bell ten minutes later found his master fixing his seal to a letter. Glancing up as the door opened, Hazelmere waved the envelope to cool the wax, then held it out. ‘Deliver this by hand immediately.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

Watching the retreating back of the footman, Hazelmere considered the probable reception of his politely savage missive. Thus ended yet another affaire. Stretching his long legs to the fire, he fell to considering the constantly changing parade of his high-flying mistresses. While providing the ton with a stream of on-dits, he felt that the inevitability of the game was beginning to bore him. After more than ten years on the town, there were few fashionable vices he had not sampled and the pattern of his activities was becoming wearyingly predictable.

Thinking again of the discarded Cerise, he compared her ripe beauty with that of the green-eyed girl whose face had proved disturbingly haunting. His dissatisfaction with his present lot stemmed in large part from that encounter in Moreton Park woods. Entirely his own fault, of course.

Marc St John Ralton Henry, at thirty-one years of age the fifth Marquis of Hazelmere and one of the wealthiest peers of the realm, let his mind wander back to the first time he had heard Miss Darent’s name, during a conversation he had had with his great-aunt the night before she died. A remarkably forthright old lady, she had fixed him with a steely look and embarked on an inquisition as to his marital intentions. This had been prefaced by the remark, ‘I know your mother won’t mention this, so I’m takin’ advantage of the fact that, as I’m dying, you can’t very well tell me to go to the devil!’

Appreciative of the ploy and having admitted he had no present plans in the matter, he had settled down to listen with good grace to the subsequent dissertation, something he would not have done had it been anyone else.

‘Can’t say I blame you for not wanting to marry any of these namby-pamby misses presented every year,’ she’d snorted derisively. ‘Can’t abide such ninny-hammers myself! But why not look to wider fields? There’s plenty of suitable chits who for one reason or another have never made it to London.’

Catching sight of his sceptical face, she had continued, ‘Oh, you needn’t think that just because they’re country misses they couldn’t handle life in the ton. There’s Dorothea Darent, for one. Young, beautiful, well dowered and as well born as yourself. The only reason she hasn’t been presented is that she’s spent the last six years running her widowed mother’s household. Cynthia Darent should be kicked for not bringing her out years ago!’ Here Great-Aunt Etta had paused, musing on the sins of the late Lady Darent. ‘Well, it’s too late for that now, ‘cause she’s dead.’

‘Who? The beautiful Dorothea?’ had asked Hazelmere, all at sea.

‘No, fool! Cynthia! She died a few months ago and the girls have gone to Darent Hall for a while. Pity. I should have liked to see Dorothea again. No namby-pamby miss, that one!’

‘How is it that, despite never having been presented, this paragon is not yet wed? Surely the country gentlemen are not such slowtops?’

Great-Aunt Etta had chuckled. ‘I rather suspect that’s because no gentleman has yet shown her any good reason to marry! Look at it from her point of view. She’s got position enough, wealth enough and her independence to boot. Why get married?’

He had grinned back, responding to the laughter in the old lady’s eyes. ‘I dare say I could make a few suggestions.’

‘Yes, I dare say you could! But that’s neither here nor there, for you’re not likely to meet her. Unless Hermione Merion takes an interest. I’ve written to her, so she may do. There’s Cecily too. The younger sister, and another beauty, though of a different style. She’ll have to be brought out, too. But Cecily would try the patience of a saint. And, as you definitely ain’t one, she won’t do for you. But enough of the Darent sisters. I merely give them as examples.’ And so the conversation had moved on.

The idea that Great-Aunt Etta had, in fact, been trying to make him look at Dorothea Darent as a potential wife had occurred to him shortly after he met that remarkable young lady.

Over the past ten years he had steadfastly refused to seriously consider any of the flighty young females paraded for his approval at Almack’s and the ton parties. This had caused considerable consternation among other family members, notably his two older sisters, Maria and Susan, who were constantly pushing one or other of their favoured aspirants in his way. His stance had been fully supported by his mother and Great-Aunt Etta, both of whom seemed to understand the almost suffocating boredom he felt within minutes of attempting to converse with the latest simpering and apparently witless offerings. He knew his mother longed for him to marry but had reputedly told an acquaintance that unless they changed the prevailing fashion in débutantes she never expected to see it. As for Great-Aunt Etta, she had never said a word to him on the subject until that night.

Given that Great-Aunt Etta had known him every bit as well as his mother, it was perfectly possible that she had intended to draw his attention to Miss Darent. She would never have been so gauche as to approach the matter directly, knowing that the most likely outcome by that route was polite and chilly refusal to have anything to do with the chit. Instead she had introduced her name in a roundabout fashion, merely telling him that the girl was in every way suitable, but leaving him to make his own ground. Very like Great-Aunt Etta! Well, Great-Aunt Etta, he mused with a smile, I’ve met your Dorothea, and in a more effective way than I think even you would have dreamt of!

Chapter Two

A low moan brought Dorothea’s head around sharply to peer through the dim light at her sister, curled in the opposite corner of the carriage. Cecily’s eyes were shut but the line between her fair brows showed clearly that she was far from sleep. She moved her head restlessly on the squabs. The coach lurched into a rut as the horses’ hoofs skidded on the icy road. Dorothea caught the swinging strap to stop herself from being thrown. As the coach ponderously righted itself and resumed its steady progress she saw that Cecily had drawn herself up into a tight ball and wedged herself firmly into the corner, her face turned away.

Dorothea returned her attention to the dreary landscape, glimpsed fitfully through the bare branches of the trees and hedges lining the road. The grey February afternoon was closing in. The patter of drizzle on the coach windows punctuated the stillness within. Then, rising like a castle through the gathering gloom, standing on a crest surrounded by the dark shadows of its windbreaks, loomed the Three Feathers Inn. As it was just over halfway to London from the Grange, situated on the Bath Road, she had chosen it as their overnight stop. If it had been only herself travelling to London she would have made the journey in a single day. But Cecily was a poor traveller. With luck, their slow pace broken by a night’s rest would allow her to arrive in Cavendish Square in a fit state to greet their grandmother.

The only other occupant of the carriage was their middle-aged maid, Betsy, who had tended them from the cradle. She dozed lightly, enveloped in woollen shawls on the seat facing Dorothea. After much consideration, Aunt Agnes had been left behind. There had been nothing specific in Lady Merion’s letter summoning them to London, but the discussions at Darent Hall had clearly been on the unspoken understanding that Aunt Agnes would continue to do her duty and escort her charges to Cavendish Square. However, Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism was legendary, and Dorothea had no wish to saddle herself with the querulous, though much loved old lady, either on the road to London or once they were arrived, supposedly to enjoy themselves. Furthermore, Aunt Agnes’s opinions on men, of whatever station, were dampening in the extreme. Dorothea thought it unlikely that her presence would aid in the push to find Cecily a husband. Nevertheless, her polite note to Lady Merion, informing her of their expected date of arrival, had made no reference whatever to Aunt Agnes.

The coach lumbered on through the steadily thickening mists. It had been overcast all day, but for the most part the rain had held off, much to the relief of their coachman, Lang. The journey to London with the roads only just cleared was always a risky business. Wrapped in his thick frieze coat, he was deeply relieved to turn his team in under the arch of the inn. It was a large establishment, one of the busiest posting houses in the district. The main yard was devoted primarily to travellers changing horses or temporarily halting. The large travelling carriage rumbled through and on under another archway into the coachyard. Ostlers ran to free the steaming horses, and the landlord came forward to assist the sisters into the inn.

Here, however, a problem lay waiting.

While they warmed themselves before the roaring fire in a snug, low-ceilinged parlour Mr Simms apologised profusely. ‘There’s a prize-fight on in the village, miss. We’re booked out. I’ve kept a bedchamber for you, but I’m afraid there’s no hope of a private parlour.’ The rubicund landlord, middle-aged, with daughters of his own, eyed the young ladies anxiously.

Dorothea drew a deep breath. After travelling at a snail’s pace all day she did not really care what was going forward in the neighbourhood, as long as she and Cecily were adequately housed for the night. She automatically appraised the neat and spotlessly clean room. At least there would be no danger of damp sheets or poorly cooked food in this house. There was no point in being overly distressed by the lack of a parlour. Drawing herself to her full height, she nodded to the clearly worried Simms. ‘Very well. I see it can’t be helped. Will you please show us to our bedchamber?’

Mr Simms had correctly guessed the Darent sisters’ station from Dorothea’s letter requesting bedchambers and parlour. While he rarely criticised the ways of his clients, he thought it a crying shame that two such pretty young ladies were travelling escorted only by servants. He led them up to the bedchamber he had had prepared for them. Experience of the goings-on likely to occur within his house before the night was through had led him to house them in the large bedchamber on the north side of the inn. This was the oldest part of the rambling building, isolated from the rest, and reached only by a separate stairway close to his private domain.

Arriving, puffing, on the landing, he threw open a stout door. ‘I’ve put you in this bedchamber here, miss, because it’s out of the way, like. The inn will soon be fair to burstin’ with all the young gentlemen been to see the fight. My missus says to tell ye to stay put in your chamber and lock the door and she’ll see to it that only she and my daughter come up with your meals and suchlike. That road, we’ll all like as not avoid any unpleasantness. I’ll have your bags brought up in a jiffy, miss.’ With these words Simms bowed and retreated, leaving Dorothea, brows flying, and Cecily, pathetically pale, staring at each other in consternation.

‘Oh, my!’ said Betsy, sinking down on one of the chairs by the fire, eyes round with dismay. ‘Maybe we should travel on, Miss Dorothea. I’m sure your grandma wouldn’t like you staying at an inn with all these rowdy, boisterous, ramshackle lads, miss!’

‘I don’t believe there’s any other inn near, Betsy. And after all, as the landlord says, if we keep the door locked and stay in our room, surely we’ll come to no harm?’ Dorothea spoke in her normal calm tones, drawing off her gloves and dropping her travelling cloak over a chair. After her momentary dismay, undoubtedly due to tiredness, she was inclined to dismiss the situation.

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Thea, I would much rather stay here than try to go on,’ said Cecily.

The thin, reedy voice clearly conveyed to Dorothea just how unwell her sister was feeling. She walked briskly to the bed and turned down the coverlet. The sheets were dry and clean. She plumped up the pillows invitingly. ‘And so we shall, my love! Why not curl up on the bed until dinner arrives? I must confess, I’m not convinced that removing from here wouldn’t land us in a worse pickle than the one we’re in at present.’

A tentative knock came at the door. ‘Who is it?’ said Betsy, rising.

‘It’s only me, ma’am. Hannah, the landlord’s daughter.’

Betsy opened the door to reveal a stout damsel with a mobcap perched above a comely face. ‘My mum will have the dinner ready shortly, but she was wanting to know if you needed anything else, ma’am?’ Hannah hefted the sisters’ bags into the room and stood looking enquiringly at Dorothea.

‘Why, yes! We’d like some warm water, and could a truckle-bed be put up in here for our maid? I’d rather she spent the night with us.’

The girl nodded. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes, ma’am.’

Five minutes later Hannah was back with a jug of steaming water and a truckle-bed in bits. While she and Betsy struggled with this contraption Dorothea and Cecily washed the dust of the road from their faces and felt considerably better. Finally conquering the recalcitrant truckle-bed, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and addressed Dorothea. ‘I’ll be back in half’n hour with your dinner, miss. Be you sure to lock the door after me.’

Dorothea murmured her thanks as the bolts slid to behind the helpful Hannah. Cecily, drowsy, curled up on the bed. Betsy sat by the fire, working on some sewing she had brought with her to while away the time.

Now that her immediate needs were satisfied, Dorothea prowled the room, restless and cramped. After a day spent in the carriage, she longed to get just one breath of fresh air before a night spent within the airless cocoon of the bedchamber. Suddenly she remembered Lang. With Cecily as passenger, they would normally leave mid-morning. However, her limited knowledge of prize-fights and their aftermath suggested that an early departure might be preferable. She looked out of the window, but this faced the back of the inn. She could hear no noise or ruckus to suggest that the audience from the fight had arrived.

Quickly she crossed to Betsy’s side. ‘I’m just going down to see Lang. We should make an early start tomorrow to avoid the crush.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘You stay here and watch over Cecily. I’ll only be a moment.’

Before Betsy could protest she picked up her old travelling cloak and whisked herself out of the door. She paused on the landing to fasten the cloak. Sounds of ribald laughter came, muted, from where she supposed the taproom to be. She made her way quietly down the stairs and along the corridor in the opposite direction, eventually reaching the door giving on to the coaching yard. Here she found a mêlée of ostlers and horses. Pausing in the shadows, she scanned the area, trying to locate Lang. He was nowhere to be seen. Remembering that private grooms often helped the ostlers at times like these, she ventured to the archway and peeked into the main stableyard.

‘My, my! What have we here? A pretty young thing, come to help us celebrate!’

She gasped. The sensation of an arm slipping around her waist made her heart stand still, but instead of hazel eyes lazily regarding her she found herself looking into a vacuous face with cherubic blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. The man holding her had been drinking but he was not altogether drunk.

He dragged her, struggling furiously, around the corner to fetch up within a riotous group of seven semi-drunk gentlemen, intent on a night of carousing, having watched their favourite win the fight. Dorothea realised her mistake too late. The main yard of the inn was full to overflowing. One of the men reached out and flicked her hood back, and the light from the inn’s main door fell full on her face. She tried desperately to pull free, but the young man had a good grip on her arm. She winced as it tightened.

Immediately a drawling voice cut through the clamour. ‘Do let the lady go, Tremlow. She is known to me and I really cannot let you embarrass her further.’

Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

This last sentence, uttered sotto voce, made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.

Hazelmere turned to him. ‘Check they’re all in, will you, Tony? I’ll join you in the parlour in a few minutes.’

Fanshawe nodded and without a word turned back towards the inn. The languid tones had disappeared entirely, replaced by Hazelmere’s normal speech with the consonants somewhat clipped. That single glimpse of his childhood friend’s face had confirmed his suspicion. The Marquis of Hazelmere was in a towering rage.

As he had reached her side Hazelmere had unobtrusively taken Dorothea’s arm, initially holding her beside him. When the group had made their apologies and moved away he drew her back so that she was shielded by his height and the voluminous driving cloak which hung in many tiers of capes from his broad shoulders. Conscious only of a desperate need to quit the scene, she tried to retreat into the coachyard. He turned but did not release her. With the light behind him, his face was unreadable. ‘One moment and I’ll escort you indoors. I’d like a word with you.’

Even to Dorothea, unwise in the ways of the Marquis, the words had an ominous ring. She was furious with herself for falling into this scrape and mortified that, of all men, it should be Hazelmere who had rescued her from it. And in such a way!

He turned back to speak briefly with another tall man who came up. Then, much to her relief, as her legs felt strangely weak, he ushered her into the coachyard.

Once in the comparative privacy of the rapidly clearing inner yard, he stopped and drew her around to face him. She almost gasped as the light from the inn door lit his face. The hazel eyes were hard and reflected the light from the inn; his lips were set in an uncompromising line. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was furious, and equally obvious that she was the object of his wrath. ‘And what, may I ask, were you attempting to accomplish out there?’ The sarcastic tones stung like a whip.

Far from being cowed, Dorothea immediately took umbrage. She flung up her head and her eyes snapped back. ‘I was seeking my coachman, if you must know, to tell him I wish to leave this inn very early tomorrow, to avoid precisely the sort of attention that I was most regrettably unable to avoid tonight!’ She was slightly breathless by the end of this speech, but continued to give the odious Marquis back look for look.

His eyes narrowed. After a slight pause he continued in less harsh tones, ‘It seems very remiss of Simms not to have warned you to keep to your chamber with your door locked.’

She had to swallow before she was able to answer, but she managed to return his hard gaze. ‘He did tell me.’

The expression on his face became even stonier. ‘I can only marvel at your lack of care for your own reputation. I’ve already warned you that your hoydenish ways will not do in wider society.’ He had grasped both her arms just above the elbow in a far from gentle grip. For one appalled moment she thought he was going to shake her. Instead, after a pause heavy with tension, he spoke again, his tone a study in suppressed fury. ‘I can only repeat what I’ve said before: under no circumstances whatever should you venture outside unattended! And add a rider to the effect that if I ever find you alone like that again I will personally ensure that you won’t sit down for a sennight!’

She gasped, green eyes wide in utter disbelief, whereupon he continued, his tone savage, ‘Oh, yes! I’m quite capable of doing so.’

Looking up into the implacable face, the hazel eyes almost black, she realised that the threat was no bluff. But by now she was every bit as angry as he was. By what right did this imperious man order her around and threaten her? Imperious, arrogant and totally insufferable! Normally the most collected of women, she struggled to shackle her anger and direct it specifically towards its source.

But Hazelmere gave her no time to vent her fury. Becoming aware that he was still holding her in full view of the coachyard, thankfully almost deserted, he abruptly turned her towards the inn and, one hand hard at her elbow, swept her indoors. ‘Which chamber has Simms put you in?’

Unable as yet to command her tongue, Dorothea indicated the door at the top of the small stairway.

‘Very wise! That’s probably the safest chamber in the inn tonight. You may not have a peaceful night, but with luck it should be free of unwelcome interruptions.’

Glancing at her furious white face and over-bright eyes, Hazelmere drew her on to the stairs. On the second step she swung around, thinking to give him a piece of her mind while he was on the lower step and not towering over her. But, correctly guessing her intention, he had slipped past her and continued to draw her upwards on to the small landing.

The landlord suddenly appeared in the corridor, heading for the back of the inn.

‘Simms!’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘A glass of your best brandy. At once.’

‘Yes, m’lord!’

Dorothea thought the request extremely odd, but dismissed it as yet another example of his lordship’s vagaries. She was more concerned with giving voice to her frustrations. Turning to face him across the small landing, she was disturbingly aware of his presence so close, and disliked having to look up such a long way to meet his eyes.

‘Lord Hazelmere! I must tell you that I find your manner of addressing me quite unacceptable! I do not at all accept your strictures on my conduct. Indeed, I do not know by what right you make them. Tonight was an unfortunate accident, that’s all. I’m quite capable of looking after myself—’

‘Would you really rather I had left you in the hands of Tremlow and company? You wouldn’t have found it entertaining, I assure you.’ Hazelmere, deciding that she could not be allowed to talk herself into hysterics, broke in smoothly over her diatribe. His words, uttered in a stonily bored tone, acted like a cold douche, effectively stopping her in mid-sentence.

He was again afforded a view of her thoughts as they passed clearly over her face. He watched the realisation that it was, in fact, due to him that she was not at this moment in quite desperate straits finally sink in. He had not thought it possible, but she paled even further. Watching her closely, he saw Simms approaching. He took the proffered glass, dismissing the landlord with a curt nod and the words, ‘I’ll want to speak to you in a few minutes, Simms.’ Turning, he held out the glass to her. ‘Drink it.’

‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

‘There is always a first time.’

When she continued to look rebelliously at him he sighed and explained. ‘Whether you know it or not, you’re exhibiting all the symptoms of shock. You’re white as a sheet and your eyes look like green diamonds. Soon you’ll start to shake, and feel faint and very cold. The brandy will help. So be a good girl and drink it. If you won’t, you know perfectly well I’m quite capable of forcing you to.’

The glittering green eyes widened slightly. There had been no change in his tone and she felt no direct menace, as she had before. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave up the unequal struggle. She took the glass and, shivering slightly, raised it to her lips and sipped. Hazelmere waited patiently until she drained the glass, then removed it from her hands and dropped it into one of his cloak pockets.

As she looked up he remembered her unfinished errand. ‘I take it you’re travelling to London?’

She nodded. His face had softened, the harshly arrogant lines of ten minutes before had receded, leaving the charmingly polite mask she suspected he showed the world. She felt as if he had, in some subtle way, withdrawn from her.

‘What’s the name of your coachman?’

‘Lang. I’d thought to leave at eight.’

‘Very sensible. I’ll see he gets the message. I suggest you enter your chamber, lock the door and don’t open it to anyone other than the landlord’s people.’ The tone was calm, with no hint of any emotion whatever.

‘Yes. Very well.’ She was completely bemused. Her head was whirling—shock, fury, brandy and the Marquis of Hazelmere combining to make her distinctly befuddled. She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple, forcing her mind to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Good! Try to get some sleep. And one more thing: tell Lady Merion I’ll call on her the day after tomorrow.’

She nodded and moved to the door, then turned back. Still angry, she knew she was beholden to him, and pride forbade her to leave without thanking him, however little inclined she was to do so. She drew a deep breath and, head held high, began. ‘My lord, I must thank you for your help in releasing me from those gentlemen.’ Lifting her eyes to his, she found that this bland statement had brought the most devastatingly attractive smile to his face.

Wholly appreciative of the effort the words had cost, he replied, his voice light, ‘Yes, you must, I’m afraid. But never mind. Once you’re in London, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities aplenty to make me sorry for my subsequent odiously overbearing behaviour.’ One dark brow rose at the end of this outrageous speech, the hazel eyes, gently and not unkindly, quizzing her. The answering blaze of green fire made him laugh. Hearing voices below, he reached out a finger to caress her cheek gently, saying more pointedly, ‘Goodnight, Miss Darent!’

Speechless, she whirled away from him and knocked on the door. ‘Betsy, it’s me. Dorothea.’

Hazelmere, lips curving in a smile that, had she seen it, would have reduced Dorothea to a state of quivering uncertainty, drew back into the shadows as the door opened with an alacrity which spoke louder than words of the fears of those inside.

‘Heavens, miss! Come you in quick; you look white as a sheet, you do!’ Dorothea was drawn into the room and the door shut.

Hazelmere waited until he heard the bolts shot home, then made his way, pensively, downstairs. At the back door, he encountered Simms.

‘Simms, I have a problem.’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want to make sure those ladies are not disturbed tonight. You don’t perchance have a large burly cousin lying about, who could take up sentry duty on that stair?’

Simms grinned as he saw the gold sovereign in his lordship’s long fingers. ‘Well, as it happens, m’lord, my oldest boy has the most dreadful toothache. He’s been mooning about in the kitchen all day. I’m sure he could do sentry duty, seeing as you ask.’

‘Excellent.’ The coin changed hands. ‘And Simms?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘I’d like to be sure those ladies get the very best of treatment.’

‘Of course, m’lord. My wife’s about to take their supper up to them now.’

Hazelmere nodded and wandered out to the middle of the coachyard, looking up at the stars, twinkling now that the clouds had cleared. He paused, apparently lost in thought. Jim Hitchin, his groom, stood a few yards away, waiting until his master acknowledged him. He had been Hazelmere’s personal groom ever since the young Lord had required one. Well acquainted with his employer’s foibles, he waited patiently. Hazelmere stretched and turned. ‘Jim?’

‘M’lord?’

‘I want you to find a coachman staying here, name of Lang, coachman to the Misses Darent. Miss Darent wishes to leave at eight tomorrow, to avoid the inevitable action around here. She obviously cannot deliver the message in person.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘And Jim?’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘Tomorrow morning the Darent party is to leave here by eight. If there’s any difficulty in achieving that departure I want you to see I’m summoned. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘Wonderful. Goodnight, Jim.’

Jim departed, not the least averse to an early morning if it led to a clear sight of this Miss Darent. He had witnessed, distantly, the exchange in the coachyard. To his mind, his lordship was not behaving in his usual manner. Losing his temper with young ladies was definitely not his style. Jim was burning to see what the lady who could throw his master off balance looked like.

Hazelmere, fortunately oblivious to the speculations of his underling, strolled back through the main entrance of the inn and paused outside the open taproom door. Noise, like a cloud, rolled out over the threshold to greet him. Through a bluish haze of tobacco smoke he saw the group of young blades from whom he had rescued Dorothea standing at the end of the bar. It took him longer to locate the last of their number, seated at a small table in the corner, deep in conversation with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe. After considering the scene for a moment, he walked on to the private parlour he always had when staying at the Feathers. Entering, he saw Fanshawe, feet up on the table, carefully peeling an apple.

Fanshawe looked up with a grin. ‘Ho! So there you are! I was wondering whether it’d be prudent to come and rescue you.’

A ghost of a smile greeted this sally. ‘I had a few errands to attend to after returning Miss Darent to her room.’ Hazelmere removed his driving cloak, remembering to extract the glass from the pocket before he threw it on a chair. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘And who the hell is this mysterious Miss Darent?’

The Marquis raised his black brows. ‘No mystery. She lives at the Grange, which borders Moreton Park. She and her sister are travelling to London to stay with their grandmother, Lady Merion.’

‘I see. How is it, I ask myself, that I’ve never heard of the girl, much less set eyes on her?’

‘Simple. She’s lived all her life in the country and hasn’t moved in the circles we frequent.’

Fanshawe finished his apple and swung his feet down from the table as the door opened to admit Simms, bearing trays loaded with food. ‘At last!’ he cried. ‘I’m famished.’

Simms placed the platters on the table and, checking that all was in order, turned to Hazelmere.

‘Everything’s taken care of, m’lord, as you requested.’

Hazelmere nodded his thanks, and Simms retired. Fanshawe looked up from heaping his plate, but said nothing.

The friends took their meal in companionable silence. They had quite literally grown up together, being born on neighbouring estates within a month of each other, and had shared their schooldays at Eton and, later, Oxford. During their past ten years on the town the bond between the Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe had become almost a byword. Over the years there had been few secrets between them, yet, for reasons he did not care to examine, Hazelmere had omitted to mention his acquaintance with Dorothea Darent to his closest friend.

Once the platters were cleared and they had pushed their chairs back from the table, savouring the special claret brought up from the depths of Simms’s cellar, Fanshawe, dishevelled brown locks falling picturesquely over his brow, returned to the offensive. ‘It’s all too smoky by half.’

Resigned to the inevitable, Hazelmere nevertheless countered with an innocent, ‘What’s too smoky by half?’

‘You and this Miss Darent.’

‘But why?’ The clear hazel eyes, apparently guileless, were opened wide, but the thin lips twitched.

Fanshawe frowned direfully but agreed to play the game. ‘Well, for a start, as she doesn’t move in the circles we frequent, tell me how you met her.’

‘We met only once, informally.’

‘When?’

‘Some time last August, when I was at Moreton Park.’

The brown eyes narrowed. ‘But I visited you at Moreton Park last August, and I distinctly remember you telling me such game was very scarce.’

‘Ah, yes,’ mused Hazelmere, long fingers caressing the stem of the goblet. ‘I do recall saying some such thing.’

‘And I suppose Miss Darent just happened to slip your mind at the time?’

The Marquis smiled provokingly. ‘As you say, Tony.’

‘No, dash it all! You can’t possibly expect me to swallow that. And if I won’t swallow it no one else will either. And, as that fellow Ruscombe’s about somewhere, you’re going to have to come up with a better explanation. Unless,’ he concluded sarcastically, ‘you want all London agog?’

At that the dark brows rose. Hazelmere drew a long breath. ‘Unfortunately you’re quite right.’ He still seemed absorbed in his study of the goblet. Fanshawe, who knew him better than anyone, waited patiently.

Sir Barnaby Ruscombe was a man tolerated by society’s hostesses purely on account of his trade in malicious gossip. There was no chance that he would abstain from telling the story of how Hazelmere had rescued a lady from a prizefight crowd in an inn yard. The fact that Hazelmere was sure to dislike having his name bandied about in such context would ensure its dissemination throughout the ton. Although not in itself of much import, the story would reveal the interesting fact that the Marquis had some previous acquaintance with Miss Darent. And that, as Fanshawe was so eager to point out, would lead to complications.

After some minutes had passed in silence Hazelmere raised his eyes. ‘Confessions of a rake, I’m afraid,’ he said, both voice and features gently self-mocking. Seeing the surprise in Fanshawe’s brown eyes, he continued, ‘This time the truth will definitely not do. The details of my only previous meeting with Miss Darent would keep the scandalmongers in alt for weeks.’

Tony Fanshawe was amazed. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. He knew, none better, that, while Hazelmere’s affaires among the demi-monde might be legion, his behaviour with women of his own class was rigidly correct. Then he thought he saw the light. ‘I take it you mean that when you met her in the country she was unchaperoned?’

The curious smile on Hazelmere’s lips deepened. The hazel eyes held Fanshawe’s for a moment, before dropping to the goblet once more. ‘I am, naturally, devastated to contradict you. You’re right in assuming we were unchaperoned. But what I meant is, if the truth ever became public property Miss Darent would be hopelessly compromised and I, in all honour, would be forced to marry her.’

It was not possible to misinterpret that. ‘Good lord!’ said Fanshawe, thoroughly intrigued. ‘Whatever did you do?’

Hazelmere, sensing the wild speculations running through his mind, hastened to bring him back to earth. ‘Control your satyric imaginings! I kissed her, if you must know.’

‘Oh?’ Fanshawe was positively agog.

Feeling horrendously like a schoolboy describing to his more backward friends the details of his first encounter with a wench, Hazelmere regarded him with amusement tinged with irritation. Correctly interpreting the slightly awed expression in the brown eyes, he nodded. ‘Precisely. Not a peck on the cheek.’

Fanshawe stared at Hazelmere for a full minute before saying, his voice quavering with suppressed incredulity, ‘Do you mean to say you kissed her as you would one of your mistresses?’ Hazelmere’s brows merely rose. ‘No! Dash it all! You can’t go around kissing young ladies as if they were bordello misses!’

‘Perfectly true. The fact, however, remains, that in Miss Darent’s case I did.’

Fanshawe blinked. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why. But he could not quite bring himself to enquire. Instead he asked, ‘How long did she take to come out of her faint?’

‘Oh, she didn’t faint,’ replied Hazelmere, the smile in his eyes pronounced. ‘She tried to slap me.’

Fanshawe was fascinated. ‘I must meet this Miss Darent for myself. She sounds a remarkable young lady.’

‘You can meet her in London shortly. Just remember who met her first.’

And that, thought Tony Fanshawe, is a very revealing comment. He sighed, exasperated. ‘If that’s not just like you, to find all the choicest morsels before anyone else has laid eyes on ’em. I don’t suppose she has a sister?’

‘She does, as it happens. Just turned seventeen and a stunning blonde.’

‘So there’s hope for the rest of us yet.’ Abruptly eschewing their light banter, he returned to the serious side of the affair. ‘How are you going to account for your knowing Miss Darent?’

‘She’s Lady Merion’s granddaughter, remember? I’ll call at Merion House as soon as we get back to town and, figuratively speaking, throw myself on her ladyship’s mercy.’ He paused to sip his wine. ‘It shouldn’t be beyond us to concoct some believable tale.’

‘Provided she’s willing to overlook your behaviour with her granddaughter,’ Fanshawe pointed out.

‘I rather think,’ said Hazelmere, his gaze abstracted, ‘that it’s more likely to be a case of Miss Darent being willing to overlook my behaviour.’

‘You mean, she might try and use it against you?’

The hazel gaze abruptly focused. Then, understanding his reasoning, Hazelmere gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No. What I mean is that, although she was furious with me, I’m not sure she’ll tell Lady Merion the full story.’

Fanshawe mulled this over, then shook his head. ‘Can’t see it, myself. You know what the young ones are like. Paint you in all sorts of romantic shades. The chit will probably have blabbed it all to at least three of her bosom bows before you even get to see Lady Merion!’

The strangely elusive smile that kept appearing on Hazelmere’s face was again in evidence. ‘In this case, I think it unlikely.’

A thought struck Fanshawe. ‘The girl’s not an antidote, is she?’

‘No. Not beautiful, but she’d be strikingly attractive if properly gowned.’

‘You mean, she wasn’t properly gowned when you met her?’

A soft laugh escaped Hazelmere. ‘Not exactly.’

Reluctantly Fanshawe decided not to pursue it. He was consumed by curiosity but slightly scandalised by the revelations thus far. He had never known Hazelmere in this sort of fix, nor in this sort of mood. For the first time in his life he was sure that Marc was hiding something.

Hazelmere volunteered a few more pieces of the puzzle. ‘She’s twenty-two, and sensible and practical. She didn’t faint, nor did she enact me any scenes. If I’d allowed it she would have terminated our interview a great deal sooner. Tonight, instead of falling on my chest and thanking me for deliverance from the hands of Tremlow and company, she very nearly told me to go to the devil. In short, I doubt that Miss Darent is in the least danger of succumbing to the Marquis of Hazelmere’s wicked charms.’

Fanshawe gaped. ‘Oh. I see.’ But he did not see at all.

Unfortunately he had no more time to pursue the matter. A sharp knock on the door heralded the arrival of a group of their friends, come late from the field. More wine was called for and the conversation took a decidedly sporting turn. It was not until much later that Tony Fanshawe recalled his conviction that Marc Henry was concealing something from his childhood friend.

Chapter Three

Early next morning, before the appointed time and without further incident, the Grange party set off from the Three Feathers, watched, appreciatively, by Jim Hitchin.

The day was cool but the thaw had set in. The roads improved as they neared the capital, so the motion of the coach was more even and their progress noticeably more rapid. Dorothea was in a subdued frame of mind. On her return to their chamber the evening before she had been subjected to a barrage of questions from Cecily and Betsy. Her head still swimming, she had let the tide flow over her, knowing from experience that silence would more effectively stop the inquisition than any argument. This time, her normal stratagem had failed. The questions had continued until she lost her temper. ‘Oh, do stop fussing, both of you! If you must know, I had an encounter with an extremely impertinent gentleman on my way back from the coachyard, and I’m quite vexed!’

Cecily, piqued at her subsequent refusal to recount the incident, had only been diverted by the appearance of their meal. In August, in a moment of ill-judged candour, Dorothea had told her sister of her impromptu meeting with Lord Hazelmere in the woods. The memory of the tortuous explanations she had had to fabricate to conceal from Cecily’s avid interest the full tale of that encounter had ensured that this time she easily refrained from blurting out the name of the gentleman involved. In no circumstances could she have endured another such ordeal. Not when she was feeling so unusually exhausted.

She had had little appetite, but to admit this would only have reopened the discussion. So she had forced herself to eat some pigeon pie. After the brandy she had not dared to touch the wine. The meal completed, she had pointedly prepared for bed. Cecily, thankfully without comment, had done likewise.

A light sleeper, Dorothea had found it impossible to even doze until dawn, when the racket in the inn finally abated. She therefore had had ample time to reflect on her second encounter with the Marquis of Hazelmere. His calm assumption of authority irritated her deeply. His arrogant conviction that she would do exactly as he wished irked her beyond measure. The knowledge that, despite this, he possessed a strange attraction for her she resolutely pushed to the furthest corner of her mind. The last thing she felt inclined to do, she had sternly told herself, was to develop a tendre for the odious man! In all probability he would spend the night enjoying the favours of some doxy elsewhere in the inn. For some reason she found this thought absurdly depressing and, thoroughly annoyed with herself, had tried to compose her mind for sleep. Even then, when sleep finally came, it was haunted by a pair of hazel eyes.

Once they were under way, the swaying of the chaise quickly lulled her into slumber. She woke when they paused for lunch at a pretty little inn on the banks of the Thames. Only partially refreshed, she forced herself to consider how she was going to handle the coming interview with her grandmother. How, exactly, was she to broach the subject of Hazelmere and his promised visit? Back in the carriage, she dozed fitfully while her problems revolved like clockwork in her mind. She came fully awake when the wheels hit the cobbled streets. Gazing about, she was astonished by the hustle and bustle of life in the capital. As the carriage moved into the areas inhabited by the wealthier citizens the clamour was left behind, and both sisters were soon engaged in examining and pronouncing sentence on the elegant outfits they saw.

After asking directions, Lang finally drew up outside an imposing mansion on one side of a square in what was clearly one of the more fashionable areas. In the centre was an enclosed garden in which children and nursemaids were taking the late-afternoon air. The sun’s last rays were gilding the bare branches of the cherry trees there as the sisters were assisted from the carriage by the stately butler who had answered Lang’s knock.

Relieved of their cloaks and escorted to the upstairs drawing-room, the sisters made their curtsy to their fashionable grandmother. Lady Merion surged towards them, enveloping them in a mist of gauzes and perfume. Her blonde wig was perfectly set above a face still graced by traces of the pale beauty she had once been. Sharp blue eyes watched her world, set above a long straight nose and a mouth only too ready to laugh at what she saw.

‘My dears! I’m so glad to see you safely arrived! Now sit down and let me give you some tea. My chef, Henri, has sent up these delicacies to tempt you after your journey.’

Drawing them to sit around the fire, already burning brightly, Lady Merion noted that neither sister was looking her best. ‘Tonight we’ll have a very quiet time. You must both retire immediately after dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ve an appointment with Celestine, the most fashionable modiste in London. You must have recovered from your journey by then.’

As soon as they had eaten the delicious pastries and drunk their tea, Lady Merion rang the bell. It was answered by Witchett, a tall, angular woman with sparse grey hair whose peculiar talent in life lay in being able to turn out her elderly mistress in the most suitable of the currently fashionable styles. She was burning with curiosity to view the latest challenges to her skill. A quick glance at the Misses Darent told her that Mellow, the butler, had not exaggerated. In spite of their tiredness, their potential was apparent. The younger, properly dressed, would be a hit. And Miss Darent had that certain something that Witchett, a veteran campaigner, instantly recognised. The sisters were therefore favoured with a thin smile.

‘Ah, there you are, Witchett. Please conduct Miss Darent and Miss Cecily to their rooms. I suggest, my dears, that you rest before dinner. Witchett will see your things are unpacked, and she’ll take charge of your dressing until we can find suitable maids. Off with you, now.’ She dismissed them with a wave of one heavily beringed white hand.

They followed Witchett to two pretty bedchambers, obviously newly refurbished, Dorothea’s in a soft pastel green and Cecily’s in a delicate blue. Everything was already unpacked, and Witchett helped them undress. ‘I’ll return to assist you to dress for dinner, Miss Darent.’

Dorothea sank thankfully into the soft feather bed and immediately fell asleep.

Lady Merion had instructed her chef that a light and simple meal was all they required that evening. Consequently there were only three courses, each of some half a dozen dishes. Luckily both Dorothea and Cecily had recovered their appetites and were able to do justice to their first experience of the culinary delights of London.

Their grandmother was pleasantly surprised to find them considerably restored. Throughout dinner she monopolised the conversation. ‘First and by far the most important task is to have you both suitably gowned. For that, Celestine’s is first on our list. She’s the best known of Bruton Street’s modistes for good reason.’

Lady Merion had paid a visit to Celestine as soon as she had decided to launch her granddaughters into the ton. She had made it clear that she required that lady’s best efforts. Celestine had built her highly successful business through shrewd assessment of her clients’ abilities to display her creations in ton circles. Lady Merion’s granddaughters would be paraded at all the most exclusive venues. Having extracted a description of the young ladies, she had graciously agreed to do all possible to ensure their success.

‘Celestine’s talents are truly stupendous. After that, we’ll have to get your hair seen to, and I’ve organised a dancing master as well. I don’t expect you know the waltz?’ She paused to help herself to some buttered crab. ‘Once you’re presentable, our first outing will be a drive in the Park. We’ll go about three, which at this time of year is the right time to meet people. I’ll introduce you to a number of the leaders of the ton, and hopefully we can find some of the younger generation for you to make friends with. In particular, I hope we’ll meet Lady Jersey. Her nickname is “Silence”, because she chatters all the time. Don’t be put out if what she says seems rather odd. Princess Esterhazy should also be there. Both these ladies are patronesses of Almack’s. You need vouchers from them to attend. If you’re not admitted to Almack’s you may as well give up the Season and go home.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d no idea it was that important.’

‘Well, it is,’ answered her grandmother with absolute conviction. She continued in this style, pouring forth an abundance of information. Dorothea and Cecily listened avidly. Possessing a fair degree of common sense, they needed no urging to learn all they could of the mores and practices of the fashionable from their experienced grandmama before their first venture into the critical world of the ton.

At nine o’clock, seeing Cecily stifle a yawn, her ladyship brought her lecture to an end. ‘It’s time both of you were in bed. Ring for Witchett, Dorothea. She’ll help you change. Go along, now. You’ve had enough for one day.’

As the door shut behind the sleepy girls Lady Merion settled herself more comfortably in the corner of her elegant sofa. She was going to enjoy this Season. Lately, her accustomed routine of fashionable pleasures had been sadly lacking in excitement.

She had not spent over sixty years at the hub of aristocratic life without learning to gauge the qualities of those around her. Every bit as shrewd as she was fashionable, she had been agreeably impressed by her rustic granddaughters when she had met them, for the first time in many years, at Darent Hall. On the basis of one afternoon’s reacquaintance she had decided it would be highly diverting to unleash them on the ton. While she had little doubt she would become sincerely fond of them, her main purpose had been purely selfish. Now, having re-examined their fresh faces and charmingly assured manners, she wryly wondered whether she would be able to cope.

Thinking again of the girls, she frowned. Dorothea had seemed strangely preoccupied. Hopefully she had not conceived a tendre for some country gentleman. Still, even if she had, the delights of a London Season would soon distract her from her sleepy country past.

Her cogitations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dorothea, clad in a delicate pink wrapper with her dark hair swirling over her shoulders, put her head around the door. Seeing her grandmother, she entered.

The fair brows over the sharp blue eyes rose to improbable heights. ‘Why, child, what’s the matter?’

‘Grandmama, there’s something I must tell you.’

Ah-ha! thought her ladyship. Now I’m going to find out what’s bothering her. She motioned Dorothea to sit next to her.

Sinking gracefully down, Dorothea fixed her eyes on the fire and calmly let fall her bombshell. ‘Well, for a start I have to tell you that the Marquis of Hazelmere will call on you tomorrow.’

‘Good gracious!’ The exclamation was forced from Lady Merion as she jerked bolt upright, her fascinated blue gaze riveted on her grandchild. ‘My dear, how on earth did you meet a man of Hazelmere’s stamp? I didn’t know your mother was acquainted with the Henrys.’

Hermione was conscious of a dreadful sinking feeling at the mere mention of Hazelmere’s name. Drat the boy! He’d been the bane of many a hopeful mother’s life, proving so fascinating to their impressionable daughters that there was no doing anything with the silly chits. As he had proved impervious to the charms of all but certain delectable members of the demi-monde, careful mothers were wont to advise their daughters that, in spite of his undoubted eligibility, Lord Hazelmere did not feature on their lists of likely suitors. Dorothea’s words had started all sorts of hares racing in her mind, but why Hazelmere would want an interview with herself was more than she could imagine. She settled herself so that she had an uninterrupted view of her granddaughter’s face. ‘Start at the beginning, child, or I’ll never understand.’

Conscious of the steady scrutiny, Dorothea nodded and carefully began. ‘Well, the first time I met Lord Hazelmere was while I was berrying in Moreton Park woods last August. He had recently inherited the estate from his greataunt, Lady Moreton.’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ said her ladyship. ‘I knew Etta Moreton quite well. In fact, she wrote to me after your mother’s death, urging me to take a hand in your lives.’

‘Did she?’ That was news to Dorothea.

‘Mmm. But what happened when you met Hazelmere? I presume he made himself charming, as usual?’

Dorothea reminded herself that she had no idea how charming Hazelmere might be expected to be. She stuck to her edited story. ‘He introduced himself. Then, because I was unattended, he insisted on walking me home.’

Lady Merion, reading into her granddaughter’s careful tones rather more than Dorothea would have wished, leapt to a conclusion. ‘My dear, you needn’t be shy about telling me he made love to you shamelessly. He does it all the time. That devil can be utterly undeniable when the mood takes him.’

Her gaze wildly incredulous, Dorothea saw the crevasse yawning at her feet only just in time. Lady Merion had used the term ‘made love’ in the sense in which it was used in her heyday, to denote suggestive flirtation. Swallowing the words she had so nearly uttered, she forced her voice to calmness. ‘Charming? Actually, I found him rather arrogant.’

Her ladyship blinked at this cold assessment of one of society’s lions.

Dorothea hurried on. ‘I met Lord Hazelmere again at the inn last night.’

Lady Merion would have described herself as being inured to the ways of those around her. It was consequently with some surprise that she realised that her granddaughter, having been in the house for only a few hours, had managed to seriously shake her calm. She repeated weakly, ‘The Marquis was at the inn last night?’

‘Yes. And so were a large number of other gentlemen, because there’d been a prize-fight on near by.’

Lady Merion closed her eyes, asking herself what next this outrageous child would reveal. She received Dorothea’s carefully censored version of events at the inn in silence. She was, in fact, more than a little puzzled. While Hazelmere had acted most properly in rescuing Dorothea, his subsequent actions were much harder to understand. She could not see why he had been so angry. Highly unlike him to lose his temper at all, let alone with a chit he hardly knew.

Aware that Dorothea was waiting for her verdict, she put the puzzle of Hazelmere’s behaviour aside. ‘Well, my dear, I cannot see anything in your conduct which should cause you undue concern. I would not wish you to go about anywhere unattended, that’s true. But I know your life at the Grange lacked the formality it might have had. The happenings at the inn were highly regrettable, but you could not have known how it would be and thankfully Hazelmere was there to rescue you.’ She paused, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Do you have any idea why he wishes to see me tomorrow?’

Dorothea had given that particular question a great deal of thought. ‘I wonder whether it was because of the other gentlemen in the stableyard. He knew them, and they now know he has met me previously. I assume we’ll have to agree on some acceptable tale to account for that?’

Lady Merion considered this, then nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a likely explanation.’ Hazelmere would be well aware of the possible consequences of that public acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and it was quite in character that he should seek to minimise any damage. Whatever else he might be, Hazelmere would always behave as he ought.

Relieved of the nagging worry that she had committed some heinous social sin, Dorothea enjoyed a blissful night’s sleep. Cecily, too, slept the sleep of the innocent and was fully recovered from their travelling. Arriving in Bruton Street, they were met by the great Celestine herself. One look sufficed to tell that sharp-witted modiste that in the Misses Darent she had models equal to her talents. Five minutes in their company convinced her that, with their charmingly open manners and that unconscious air of the truly well bred, they were destined to be among the foremost hits of the Season.

The last thing needed to make her throw all her most prized designs at the Darent feet was provided when, on their arrival, Lady Merion took her aside. ‘My granddaughters’ affairs are moving apace, madame. Miss Darent has made the acquaintance of one of the unmarried peers. I can’t, of course, reveal his name, but he is most eligible. Lord H is definitely behaving with very much less than his usual sang-froid. I have every hope to see her creditably established before the Season ends.’

No mean player of society's games, Lady Merion was confident of the response her indiscretion would elicit. At the very least, Hazelmere’s intrusion into her granddaughter’s life should be put to good use. She had no illusions about her elder granddaughter. Cecily would take very well; she was virtually the epitome of the current craze for blonde beauties. Dorothea was striking, but would, she was sure, pale into insignificance in her ssister’s companyister’scompany. And, on top of that, she was far too much in command of herself to appeal to any gentleman’s chivalrous instincts. Although a brilliant match was wishful thinking, a good match was still well within her reach. Particularly with Celestine’s help.

On the matter of style, Celestine, a superbly gowned dark-haired woman of indeterminate age, made her pronouncements with a slight French accent. ‘Miss Cecily is so young and so fair that she must be dressed à la jeune fille! For Miss Darent, however, I would recommend a more sophisticated style. With your permission, my lady?’ She glanced speculatively at Lady Merion.

‘We are entirely in your hands, madame,’ responded her ladyship.

Celestine nodded. If that was so, she would seize this opportunity with both hands. Dressing the simpering daughters of the ton rarely gave her scope for her genius. To be presented with a client of the quality of Miss Darent was a God-given chance to display her true skill. Good bonestructure, perfect poise, regal deportment, striking and unusual colouring, a truly elegant figure and an arrestingly classical face—what more could a first-class modiste desire in her client? When she had finished with her Dorothea Darent would stand out in any crowd and, thank the lord, had the confidence to carry it off. Her black eyes sparkled. ‘Bon! Miss Darent’s colouring is sufficiently unusual. Also her deportment…so much more—how should I say?—elegant, poised. We will use daring colours and severe styling to make best use of what God has created.’

The next two hours were spent in a haze of gauzes and silks, muslins and cambrics as the relative merits of the various designs, materials and finishes were discussed and measurements taken.

After giving an order for a staggering number of gowns, some to be delivered later that evening for their first promenade in the park the next day, Lady Merion triumphantly led her granddaughters back to their carriage.

Returning to their rooms after a light luncheon, the girls found that in their absence Witchett had been shopping too. Opening their drawers, they found them fully stocked with underwear liberally edged with lace, stockings of the finest silk, ribbons of every hue, together with gloves, reticules, scarves, fans—in short, everything else they could possibly need. Witchett, coming up to see if they needed any assistance, found them exclaiming over their finds.

Seeing her at her bedchamber door, Dorothea beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Witchett! I’m sure we would have forgotten all these things until we were about to go out!’

Witchett found herself, uncharacteristically, returning the smile. ‘Well, miss, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to think about.’ Really, it was very hard not to fall under the spell of these happy young things. ‘Now, Miss Cecily! I see you’ve crushed that pretty dress of yours terribly. You’ll have to be more careful with your new London gowns. Betsy can press it while you rest. She’s waiting in your chamber to help you undress.’

‘Oh, but I don’t want to rest!’

The querulous tone alerted Dorothea. Cecily could wilt rapidly when over-tired, and it was only the day before that they had been travelling. Catching Witchett’s eye to enjoin her silence, Dorothea, examining a lace collar by the window, calmly said, ‘If you don’t wish to rest then no one shall make you. Of course, we’ll have to pay attention this evening while Grandmama teaches us about society’s ways, but as long as you’re sure you’ll be awake I see no point in resting. It’s such a beautiful day that I think I’ll take a stroll in the park in the square. Why don’t you come with me?’

Witchett held herself aloof.

The expression on Cecily’s face turned thoughtful. On consideration, she was not so sure she could sustain another evening of dos and don’ts without fortification. ‘Oh, maybe Witchett’s right and I should rest. I always find it so difficult to remember things when I’m tired. Enjoy your walk!’ With an airy wave she drifted across the corridor.

Dorothea remained at the window, looking at the cherry trees swelling into bud and the children playing on the lawns underneath. ‘Witchett, I’m not perfectly sure, but is it acceptable for me to walk in that park?’

‘Yes, miss. Provided you have an attendant.’

‘Who would be an appropriate attendant should I wish to go for a walk now?’

‘I’ll accompany you, miss, as is right and proper. If you’ll wait for me in the hall I’ll just get my coat and join you there.’

Witchett was as prompt as her word and within five minutes Dorothea was strolling under the cherry trees, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on her face. Her pelisse kept out the cold breeze as she wended her way around the paths past beds of bright daffodils and early crocus. A child’s ball suddenly landed at her feet. Stooping to pick it up, she looked around for the owner. A fair lad about six years old stood uncertainly on the lawn on the other side of the daffodil bed. Smiling, she walked around to him, holding out the ball.

‘Say thank you, Peter,’ came a voice from a seat under one of the trees. Dorothea saw a nursemaid rocking a baby in her arms, smiling and nodding at her.

She turned back to find the child bowing from the waist, saying, ‘Thank you, miss,’ in a small gruff voice.

Impulsively she asked, ‘Would you like me to play catch with you for a while? I’ve just come out to enjoy the sunshine, so why don’t we enjoy it together?’

The wide smile that greeted this was answer enough, and, after glancing at his nursemaid to see she approved, young Peter settled down to a game of catch with his newfound acquaintance.

So the Marquis of Hazelmere, strolling around Cavendish Square on his way to Merion House, found the object of his thoughts playing ball in the square. Leaning on the railings surrounding the park, he watched as Dorothea taught Peter to throw. She was facing away from him, some distance away. Suddenly a particularly wild throw of Peter’s, greeted with hoots of laughter from the players, sent the ball rolling across the lawn to land in a nearby flower-bed. Dorothea followed. As she bent to pick the ball up Hazelmere couldn’t resist asking, ‘Alone and unattended again, Miss Darent?’

She whirled to face him, an ‘Oh!’ of surprise dying on her lips. For one wild moment his threat to beat her if he found her unattended again took possession of her mind. The appreciative gleam in his eyes left her in little doubt that he had accurately guessed as much. As her equilibrium returned she mustered what dignity she could to reply, ‘Why, no, Lord Hazelmere! I’m now too experienced in society’s ways to make that mistake, I assure you.’

One black brow rose. Hazelmere, unused to having young ladies cross swords with him, noticed Witchett materialising at Dorothea’s elbow. ‘I’m about to call on Lady Merion,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps, Miss Darent, you should also be present.’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.’

Unable to see her face as she bent down to take leave of the boy, Hazelmere could not be certain whether the comment had been artless or uttered on purpose to deflate his pretensions. Very little of Miss Darent’s conversation was artless. Well, that was a pleasant game for two to play, and there were few more skilled in it than he. He continued his stroll along the railings to the gate, where he stood, negligently at ease, and openly watched her as she came towards him.

To herself Dorothea made a firm resolution. Henceforth she was not going to let the odious Marquis get the better of her! She was a calm, cool, mature woman—even Celestine had commented on her poise. Why on earth she fell apart whenever Hazelmere was about was more than she could comprehend. She was heartily sick of the betraying flush that rose so readily in response to his taunts. Every second comment he made was designed purely to throw her into confusion and allow him to manage matters as he willed. Well, thought the determined Miss Darent, very conscious of that hazel gaze as she approached the street, that might work on the London misses but I’m not going to let him stage-manage me! With the sunniest of smiles, she met him at the gate.

If Hazelmere entertained any suspicions of this evident change of heart he kept them to himself. His experienced eye registered the countrified pelisse and the tangle of her hair, wind-blown and escaping from its pins. He wondered why such a combination should appear so attractive. In silence they crossed the street and were bowed into Merion House by Mellow. ‘Lady Merion is expecting you, my lord.’

Surrendering her pelisse to Witchett, Dorothea caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Arrested by the picture of her hair in such turmoil, she wondered whether she should keep her grandmother waiting while she set it to rights. She raised her glance to find herself looking into the Marquis’s hazel eyes, reflected in the mirror. He smiled in complete comprehension. ‘Yes, I would if I were you. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ll join us in a few moments.’

Realising she could not continually pull caps with him, particularly when he was being helpful, she confined herself to a curt nod before whisking herself up the stairs, Witchett trailing behind.

Hazelmere paused for a moment to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve before nodding to Mellow. ‘You may announce me now.’

For this interview Lady Merion had arrayed herself in a gown she knew made her look particularly formidable. Instinct born of experience warned her that there was more to the encounters between the Marquis and her granddaughter than she had been told. She was unsure that Dorothea herself knew the full sum. On the other hand, Hazelmere would certainly be aware of every nuance. She was determined to extract a much more detailed explanation from him before she called Dorothea to attend them. As he strolled elegantly across the room to bow over her hand she fixed him with a basilisk stare which in years past had produced confessions from the most hardened of reprobates.

Hazelmere smiled lazily down at her.

With a jolt she realised that there was a large difference between demanding the reason for a cricket ball landing in her drawing-room from a ten-year-old boy and demanding an accounting of his behaviour from a thirty-one-year-old peer, who, aside from being a leader of the ton, was also one of the most dangerously handsome men in the kingdom. And, she fumed, noting the amused understanding in the hazel eyes, the jackanapes knows it!

Baulked, she motioned him to a seat and reluctantly gave her attention to the next item on her agenda. She waited until he was seated, admiring the way his immaculate morning coat sat across his shoulders. His long muscular thighs were encased in skin-tight buff knee-breeches, and his Hessians shone like the proverbial mirror. She might be old, but she still noticed such things. ‘I understand I must thank you for rescuing my granddaughter, Dorothea, from an unfortunate incident at that inn the other evening.’

One well-manicured hand waved dismissively. ‘Having recognised your granddaughter, even someone with a conscience as faulty as mine could hardly have left her there.’ The gently mocking tone and the laughter in his face robbed this speech of any impropriety.

Accustomed to the subtleties of social conversation, Lady Merion thawed visibly. ‘Very well! But why this meeting?’

‘Unfortunately the crowd from which I extricated Miss Darent contained at least one member of the ton who cannot be trusted to forget the incident.’

‘Dorothea mentioned Tremlow.’

‘Oh, yes. Tremlow was there, and Botherwood and Lords Michaels and Downie. But they are relatively harmless, and, unless I’m much mistaken, would probably not recall the incident unless their memories were jogged, and perhaps not even then. I’m more concerned with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe.’

‘Ugh! That repulsive man! He always dabbles in the most malicious scandalmongering.’ She paused, then eyed the Marquis speculatively. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about him?’

‘Alas, no. Anyone else, quite probably. But not Ruscombe. Scandal is his trade. Still, given that we can invent a plausible tale to account for my having previously met Miss Darent, I can’t see there’s any risk of serious damage to her reputation.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ agreed Lady Merion. ‘But it would be wise to have her here, I think. Ring that bell, if you will.’

‘No need,’ replied Hazelmere, ‘I met her in the park on my way here. She went upstairs to tidy her hair before joining us.’

As if in answer to the comment, Dorothea entered. Languidly rising, Hazelmere acknowledged her curtsy by taking her hand and, after bowing over it, raised it to his lips, his eyes roaming appreciatively over her.

Lady Merion stiffened. Kissing a lady’s hand was not the current practice. What on earth was going on?

Dorothea accepted the salute without a flicker of surprise. Seating herself in a chair on the other side of her grandmother, opposite Hazelmere, she turned an enquiring face to her ladyship.

‘We were just discussing, my dear, what story to adopt to account for Lord Hazelmere recognising you at the inn.’

‘Maybe Miss Darent has a suggestion?’ put in his lordship, hazel eyes gently quizzing Dorothea.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ she replied smoothly. ‘It would be safest, I imagine, to stick to occurrences no one else could dispute?’ Her delicately arched brows rose as she gazed with unmarred calm into Hazelmere’s eyes.

His expressive lips twitched. ‘That might be wise,’ he murmured.

Dorothea regally inclined her head. ‘For instance, what if, on one of your visits to Lady Moreton, she’d been well enough to be taken for a ride in your curricle—not far, just around the surrounding lanes? I’m sure she would have liked to have done that if she’d been able.’

‘You’re quite right. My great-aunt did bemoan not being well enough for just such an outing as you propose.’

‘Good! Only the outing did occur, and of course you didn’t take your groom with you, did you?’

Hazelmere, entering into the spirit of the conversation, promptly replied, ‘I feel sure I’d given Jim permission to relax in the kitchens that day.’

Dorothea nodded approvingly. ‘Driving down the lane, you met my mother, Cynthia Darent, and myself, returning from paying a visit to…oh, Waverley Park, of course.’

‘Your coachman?’

‘I was driving the gig. And what could be more natural than that Lady Moreton and my mother should stop to chat? They were old friends, after all. And Lady Moreton presented you to Mama and me. After talking for a few minutes, we went our separate ways.’

‘When, exactly, did this meeting occur?’ he asked.

‘Well, it would have had to be the summer before last, when both Lady Moreton and Mama were alive.’

‘My congratulations, Miss Darent. We now have a most acceptable tale which accounts for our meeting and the only two witnesses who could say us nay are dead. Very neat.’

‘Yes, but wait one moment!’ interpolated Lady Merion. ‘Why didn’t your mother tell her other friends about this meeting? Surely such a novel encounter would have made an impression in the neighbourhood?’

‘But, Grandmama, you know how scatterbrained Mama was. It would be quite possible for her to have forgotten all about it by the time we’d reached home, particularly if something else occurred to distract her on the way.’

Reminded of her daughter-in-law’s vagueness, Lady Merion grudgingly agreed this was so. ‘Well, then, why did you yourself not tell any of your friends about it?’

Dorothea opened her large green eyes to their fullest extent and, addressing her grandmother, asked, ‘But why would I have done so? I’ve never been in the habit of discussing inconsequential occurrences with anyone.’

Lady Merion held her breath. She could not resist glancing at Hazelmere to see how he was taking being classed as ‘inconsequential’. He appeared to be his usual urbane self, but she thought she caught a glint from those hazel eyes, presently fixed on Dorothea’s face. Be careful, my girl! she mentally adjured her granddaughter.

‘What a wonderfully useful trait, Miss Darent,’ responded Hazelmere, deciding for the moment to ignore provocation. ‘So now we have a believable and totally unexceptionable story to account for our previous meeting. Provided we stick to that, I foresee no difficulty in ignoring the inevitable tales of what happened at the Three Feathers.’ He rose and with effortless grace bent over Lady Merion’s hand. ‘I gather you’ll be attending all the ton crushes this Season?’

‘Oh, yes,’ responded her ladyship, reverting to her normal social manner. ‘We’ll be out around town just as soon as Celestine can clothe these children respectably.’

He crossed to Dorothea’s side and she stood for him to take his leave. Again he raised her hand to his lips. Smiling down at her in a way she found oddly disconcerting, his hazel eyes trapping her own, he said, ‘Then I will hope to further my acquaintance with you, Miss Darent. I do hope you’ll not find me too inconsequential to remember?’ The gently mocking tone was back.

Dorothea returned the provocative hazel glance without apparent concern, and, wide-eyed, remarked, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think I’d forget you now, my lord.’

He only just succeeded in controlling his face but his eyes clearly registered the hit. He paused, looking down into her brilliant green eyes, his own brimful of laughter. Forever a sportsman, he could hardly complain, as he had set himself up for that one. Still, he had not expected her to have the courage to fling that back in his face, and with such ease. With one last enigmatic glance, he turned and, bowing again to the sorely afflicted Lady Merion, bid both ladies a good day and left.

As the door shut behind him Lady Merion turned a gaze equally made up of disbelief and conjecture on her granddaughter. However, ‘Ring for tea, child,’ was all she said.

Chapter Four

For the Darent sisters, the Season began in earnest the next day. The morning commenced with a visit from Lady Merion’s hairdresser. The pert Frenchman no sooner clapped eyes on the girls than his loquacious soul knew no bounds. Celestine had insisted on being present, much to everyone’s surprise. It transpired that she had decided to take complete control of the Misses Darents’ appearance. Lady Merion was astonished at her unusual condescension and then even more surprised by the transformation wrought in her elder granddaughter. Wearing the first of Celestine’s creations, delivered expressly for their promenade in the Park later that day, with her lovely dark hair lightly cropped and arranged in a variation of the fashionable Sappho, Dorothea had emerged much as the ugly duckling transformed into a veritable swan. The result, as Celestine confided in a whispered aside to her ladyship, could not be adequately described as beautiful—that was an epithet reserved more correctly for the youthful Cecily. She was attractive, stunning, and trailing a definite aura of sensuality, and the impact of the new Dorothea was unerringly directed at the more mature male. Lady Merion, with Hazelmere in mind, blinked and rapidly realigned her expectations.

The sisters were next introduced to their dancing master, hired for an hour every morning for a week, to ensure that they would not put a foot wrong in the more conventional dances, as well as to introduce them to the waltz. Both girls were naturally graceful, and country balls had made them familiar with all the current measures, save the waltz.

In the afternoon they set out in Lady Merion’s barouche to see and be seen at the Park. The spectacle of the ton taking the air, meeting old acquaintances and making new ones, held both girls enthralled. Lady Merion, her eyes resting for the umpteenth time on the delightful spectacle on the carriage seat opposite, felt happier and more buoyed by expectation than she had in years.

They had barely commenced their first circuit when a tall and angular lady, dressed in the height of fashion and seated in a landau drawn up to the side of the carriageway, waved to Lady Merion, who immediately instructed her coachman to pull up.

‘Sally, how delightful! Is Maria back yet?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lady Merion continued, ‘You must let me present my granddaughters. Dorothea, Cecily, this is Lady Jersey.’

After exchanging greetings with the girls, Sally Jersey fixed her ladyship with a penetrating stare. ‘Hermione, you’re going to cause a riot with these children. You must let me send you vouchers for Almack’s at once! My dear, I had a dreadful premonition that the Season was going to be so dull, but with two such beauties around I can see there’ll be fireworks!’

Both Dorothea and Cecily blushed.

Lady Merion remained chatting to Lady Jersey for some minutes, exchanging information on who had or had not returned to the capital. It became apparent to the two girls that they were attracting considerable attention, from the ogling stares of the soldiers and young bucks, which Lady Merion had instructed them to ignore, to the far more disconcerting stares of other mamas passing by in their carriages with their hopeful young daughters. Under the soporific effect of the drone of their grandmother’s conversation, Cecily let her gaze wander to a group of elegant gentlemen chatting to two pretty young ladies on the nearby lawn. Dorothea, similarly abstracted, was abruptly brought back to earth by Lady Jersey. ‘I hear, my dear, that you are already acquainted with Lord Hazelmere?’

Aware that to show the slightest hesitation would be fatal, Dorothea used her large eyes to great effect, lucently conveying an attitude of complete nonchalance. ‘Yes. As luck would have it, I met him again recently. He was kind enough to assist me at an inn on our way to London.’

Her ladyship’s prominent eyes did not waver. ‘So you had met him before?’

Dorothea’s composure held firm. Her brows rose slightly, as if the answer to that question should really be quite obvious. ‘His great-aunt, Lady Moreton, introduced him to my mother and myself some time ago. She was a neighbour of ours in Hampshire.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Lady Jersey was clearly disappointed in this undeniably mundane explanation of Dorothea’s acquaintance with one of society’s more rakish bachelors. She returned her attention to Lady Merion.

After a further five minutes of acidly social intercourse the coachman was told to move on. As Lady Jersey fell behind, Lady Merion drew a deep breath and bestowed a look of definite approval on her elder granddaughter. ‘Very well done, my dear. Now we just have to keep it up.’

What she meant by that became rapidly apparent as they engaged in conversation after conversation with dowagers and matrons and occasionally with mothers with unmarried daughters. Without fail, the incident at the inn would somehow find its way into the arena, in one version or another. After her success with Lady Jersey, undoubtedly society’s most formidable inquisitor, Lady Merion let Dorothea deal with all these enquiries, only stepping in when some of the younger ladies seemed anxious to lead the description into areas too particular for her ladyship’s sense of propriety. Cecily, absorbed in the Park and its patrons and too young for the matrons to waste much time over, largely ignored these conversations.

Almost an hour later they stopped to talk to the Princess Esterhazy. After the introductions were performed, the sweet-faced and distinctly plump Princess smiled sleepily at the girls. ‘I saw you talking with Sally before, so I’m sure she must have promised you vouchers?’

Lady Merion nodded. ‘She feels my girls will liven up proceedings.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, I should think,’ agreed Princess Ester-hazy.

At this point two elegant young gentlemen detached themselves from a group that had been eyeing the beautiful young things in the Merion carriage and approached. ‘Your servant, Lady Merion,’ said the first, raising his hat and sweeping a graceful bow, copied by his companion.

Lady Merion, turning to see who had addressed her, promptly exclaimed, ‘Oh, Ferdie! Is your mother in town yet?’

Assured that Mrs Acheson-Smythe would be in the capital by the end of the week, Lady Merion introduced her granddaughters to the elegant pair.

Dorothea and Cecily looked down upon two stylishly correct gentlemen, both clearly of the first stare. Neither was tall or broad-shouldered, yet both contrived to give the impression of being well turned out, a perfect fit for whatever niche they occupied in the ton. Mr Acheson Smythe was slim and fair, his pale face characterised by a pair of frank and guileless blue eyes. Mr Dermont, of similar build, was less confident than his friend, letting the knowledgeable Mr Acheson-Smythe lead the conversation. Knowing that Ferdie Acheson-Smythe could be trusted to keep the line, her ladyship returned to her gossip with the Princess.

Seeing the girls’ attention claimed by the young men, Princess Esterhazy took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. ‘But tell me, Hermione. What is the truth of this story that Hazelmere rescued one of these two from a prizefight crowd at some inn?’

By this time Lady Merion had the answer by rote. ‘Such a lucky thing he was passing, my dear. Dorothea had gone down to find her coachman, not realising that the gentlemen had already arrived.’

‘I had not realised your granddaughters were acquainted with Hazelmere.’

‘Most fortunately, Dorothea had been introduced to him by his great-aunt, Lady Moreton. You must remember, she died last year, and Hazelmere was her heir. The Grange borders Moreton Park, and Cynthia, my daughter-in-law, and Etta Moreton were close friends. Dorothea! Where was it you first met Hazelmere?’

Dorothea, who had been trying to follow two conversations at once, turned to hear her grandmother’s question repeated. She answered easily, ‘Oh, out driving one day. He was taking Lady Moreton for a ride in his curricle.’ She turned back to Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, as if the details of how she had met the Marquis could not be of any possible consequence to anyone.

Her lack of consciousness convinced Princess Esterhazy that the story was the truth. In her opinion, no young lady who had met Hazelmere in any ineligible way could possibly look as unconcerned as Dorothea Darent.

On their return to Merion House shortly afterwards, Lady Merion led the way upstairs to her private drawing-room. Throwing her elegant hat on a chair, she subsided in a cloud of stylish velvets and breathed a heartfelt sigh. ‘Well! We did very well, my dears. That was an excellent start to your Season.’ She settled into her chaise-longue and, supplied with tea by Dorothea, consented to answer their questions.

‘Ferdie Acheson-Smythe?’ she said in answer to one of these. ‘Ferdie is the only son of the Hertfordshire Acheson-Smythes. Of very good family, first cousin to Hazelmere. Ferdie will have to marry some day, I dare say, but by and large he’s not the marrying kind. However, he is an acknowledged authority on all matters of etiquette, so if Ferdie drops you a hint on anything to do with your behaviour or dress you’d be well advised to take heed! He’s also completely trustworthy; he’ll never go beyond the line of what is pleasing. Ferdie is an unexceptionable companion for a young lady, and a very useful cavalier. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be seen with him.’

‘And Mr Dermont?’ asked Cecily.

‘Anyone Ferdie introduces to you as a friend will be much the same style, though Ferdie himself is unquestionably at the head of that class.’

Lady Merion had accepted an invitation to a small party that evening, and both her granddaughters accompanied her. Entirely satisfied with their appearance, she was pleased to see that they mixed easily with the other young people present, although Dorothea, with her stunning appearance and air of calm self-possession, was deferred to as senior to the débutantes and in something of a different category. This was true enough. In a larger gathering, with more mature gentlemen, such as Hazelmere, to claim her attention, her elder granddaughter would not lack for entertaining partners.

Watching Dorothea, she grinned, their words of that afternoon recurring in her head. Cecily had been resting when the rest of Celestine’s creations had been delivered; she and Dorothea had been alone in her parlour.

‘This is exquisite!’ Dorothea had exclaimed, holding up a blue sarcenet ballgown of Cecily’s.

‘Your own are every bit as alluring,’ she had returned.

Dorothea had laughed, turning her attention to yet another of Cecily’s gowns. ‘But it’s Cecily who needs the husband, not I.’

The comment had stunned her to silence. Then, in one revealing instant, she had seen Dorothea through Dorothea’s eyes. Despite her common sense and self-confidence, having lived in relative seclusion until now, her granddaughter had little idea how she appeared to others in the fashionable world. To men. Particularly to men like Hazelmere. It was hardly innocence, rather a lack of awareness. After all, she had never been exposed to such gentlemen before. Intrigued, she had folded her hands in her lap and calmly stated, ‘My dear, if you have visions of becoming an ape-leader, I fear you’ll be disappointed.’

The green eyes had lifted to hers in genuine surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am? I know I’m too old for the marriage mart and I hardly have the requisite looks for an acknowledged beauty. But I don’t repine, I assure you.’

She had snorted her disbelief. ‘You’re two and twenty, girl—hardly at your last prayers! And if you think to be left on the shelf, well! All I can say is, you’ve another think coming.’

But her stubborn granddaughter had only smiled.

Now, as she saw the small but growing knot of young men around her elder granddaughter, a grin of unholy amusement lit her faded blue eyes. How long would it take for Dorothea to wake up and realise that she was likely to be pursued, if anything, with even more dedication than the vivacious Cecily?

The next morning brought the first of the invitations to the larger gatherings. Initially these arrived in a trickle, but by the end of the week, as Lady Merion’s granddaughters became more widely known, the gilt-edged cards left at Merion House assumed the proportions of a flood. As Dorothea and Cecily were only too glad to share the limelight with their less well-endowed sisters, even the most jealous mother saw little reason to exclude them from her guest lists. Moreover, if the Darent sisters were to attend some rival party then half the eligible males would likely be there too.

Lady Merion insisted that they attend as many of the smaller parties held in these first weeks as possible. She was too experienced to discount the considerable advantage social confidence could give. So Dorothea and Cecily obediently promenaded every afternoon and were to be found at a soirée or party or musical evening every night, polishing their social skills and attracting no little interest. Within a short time, both had collected a circle of ardent admirers. While this was no more than her ladyship had expected, the band around Dorothea gave her endless amusement. In general not much older than Dorothea herself, these lovesick swains were continually vying one with the other for their goddess’s attention, striking Byronesque poses at every turn. It was really too funny for words. Still, thought the very experienced Lady Merion, it was serving its turn. Dorothea was being bored witless, all her social ingenuity being required to keep her temper with her artless lovers. A very good thing indeed if her wilful granddaughter could be brought to an appreciative, not to say receptive, frame of mind before being exposed to the infinitely more subtle persuasions of Hazelmere and his set. Luckily these highly eligible but far more dangerous gentlemen were rarely if ever sighted at the preliminary gatherings.

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