All’s fair in love and meddling among the members of New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander’s Lady Travelers Society!

Unmarried and dedicated to illustrating the Explorers Club’s artifacts, Dulcie Middleworth is running out of prospects. Spinsterhood’s a tragedy for the daughter of a viscount, but London’s most eligible maiden has a secret: she’s already in love. But to confess an attraction to charming explorer Michael Shepard? Not when the man has no wish to marry and his heart’s desire lies in adventure abroad.

Surely such a predicament calls for a matchmaker of Poppy Fitzhew-Wellmore’s caliber! And calls as well for a romantic rival—the legendary figment of Poppy’s imagination Reginald Everheart—to nudge Michael’s affections in Dulcie’s direction. But what to do when everyone demands to meet the famously infamous suitor who doesn’t really exist?

The Rise and Fall of

Reginald Everheart

Victoria Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

#1 New York Times bestselling author of the Lady Travelers Society series, VICTORIA ALEXANDER was an award-winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was much more fun than real life. Since the publication of her first book in 1995, she’s written more than forty full-length novels that have been translated around the world. Victoria lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with a long-suffering husband she kills off in every book and two bearded collies in a house under constant renovation and never-ending chaos. She laughs a great deal—she has to. Check out her books at www.victoriaalexander.com, and chat with her on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/victoriaalexandersplace.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1868

AT THE TENDER AGE of twenty-three, Miss Dulcie Middleworth, the youngest daughter of Viscount Middleworth, had just been declared a social failure.

Dulcie stared at the nearly blank sheet of laid paper affixed to the board in front of her and tried to concentrate on her preliminary pencil drawing of a fragment of ancient pottery. The barely started work was part of her continuing commission to document in pen and paint the endless collection of the Explorers Club. Her efforts at the moment were pointless really. She simply couldn’t focus on her work. As much as she didn’t care for the most part about her standing in society, it was rather bothersome to be considered a failure. Mother was certainly upset.

Oh, there hadn’t been a notice in the Times or any sort of official announcement in Notes for Ladies, the London ladies’ magazine her mother and sisters devoured for the latest news on society’s approved activities as well as scandalous escapades. The latter were discreetly detailed and rarely mentioned anyone by name, although determining who was the subject of the latest bit of gossip usually took no more effort than an afternoon of calls and a few cups of tea. No, in the world of London society, there were no official announcements as to who had done what, but the end result was the same.

For the first time since Dulcie had come out in society, she had not been invited to Lady Scarsdale’s grand ball, the acknowledged start of the social season ever since Lady Scarsdale’s daughter had been a debutante some twenty or so years ago. Mother had long said the ball was intended to ensure Lady Scarsdale’s daughter a position of some power in society as well as guaranteeing she would not be overlooked. According to Mother the girl was not one of that season’s great beauties but she did have a certain wit and cleverness about her that was not apparent simply by looking at her. By the time the Scarsdale offspring had indeed married well—her fourth season, Mother said—Lady Scarsdale’s ball had become the place to be and be seen for any young woman looking for entry to society and to make a good match. While the new season’s crop of debutantes in its entirety was routinely invited to the ball, those who were in their subsequent seasons were given the prized invitation based on any number of mysterious factors known only to Lady Scarsdale and her cohorts.

This year—Dulcie’s fifth in society—the invitation to Lady Scarsdale’s ball had not been forthcoming. Mother was livid and blamed Father. Her three older sisters were nearly as distraught over the slight and vowed to redouble their efforts to find Dulcie an appropriate match.

It wasn’t as if Dulcie didn’t wish to be married. She did but she wanted to marry for reasons of affection. Dulcie Middleworth wanted love and rather feared she had found it. Pity it appeared to be one-sided.

She casually glanced across the large library in the impressive Bloomsbury mansion that housed the Explorers Club to the only other person currently in the room and tried not to sigh. Not that he would have noticed.

Michael Shepard’s gaze shifted back and forth between the book opened to his left and the notebook in front of him. His dark hair was slightly disheveled as if he had just run his hand through it as, no doubt, he had. His pen flew across the notebook page with a life of its own. Any minute now, he’d stop to push his spectacles—which had an endearing tendency to slide down his perfectly straight nose—back into place. He didn’t look up but she knew his eyes were the deepest shade of gray, like the sky on a stormy day. His shoulders were broad, which bespoke some sort of physical exercise, and he stood a good head taller than she. Not that she had ever been close enough to measure.

Dulcie and Michael—she couldn’t possibly think of him as Mr. Shepard—had each separately occupied one of the six tables in the library on very nearly a daily basis for the last three months and yet had scarcely exchanged more than a handful of polite greetings. Their conversation rarely varied.

“Good day, Mr. Shepard,” she would say when he had arrived before her. “Pleasant day” or “dreadful weather we’re having,” she would add, depending on whether or not the day was pleasant or dreadful.

“Indeed, Miss Middleworth,” he would respond with a polite smile.

Or, if she was in the library when he arrived, he would acknowledge her presence with a courteous, “Good day, Miss Middleworth.”

To which she would inevitably reply, “Good day, Mr. Shepard,” and then comment on the weather when what she really wanted to say was, “Goodness, Michael, don’t you think it’s past time you took me in your arms and kissed me senseless or threw me onto a table and had your way with me?” She would never say such a thing but she did consider what might happen if she did. He would no doubt be horribly shocked, which would at least be something.

Dulcie had never had the tiniest problem talking, even flirting, with gentlemen before. But there was something about Michael Shepard that turned her from a self-assured young woman into the worst sort of shy, retiring creature. But then most gentlemen were far more eager to talk to her than she was to talk to them whereas Michael barely acknowledged her existence.

He was not substantially older than she, four or five years perhaps, and was acknowledged to be brilliant in matters of history and botany and any number of other disciplines encouraged by the Explorers Club among those promising young men who showed a legitimate interest in exploration and discovery. In spite of his scholarly bent, there was an air of anticipation about Michael. A promise of adventure and excitement just waiting to come to fruition. It permeated the library when he was present and was both intriguing and most intoxicating. Indeed, Michael was set to join an expedition in another month. Which was rather awkward as it did limit the time Dulcie had to earn his affections. If that was what she wished to do.

She already knew a great deal about him. Information was not at all hard to come by in the rarified atmosphere of the Explorers Club. While ladies were not allowed to be members—God forbid one should even think of such a thing—wives of members had banded together years ago to form the Ladies Committee. They were graciously permitted to plan social activities, dinners honoring outstanding members—even if they were not always allowed to attend—as well as assist in the management of the club’s library and extensive collection of artifacts and memorabilia from its supported expeditions. Dulcie had become acquainted with several ladies who were frequently in the library. Many of whom had a great deal of free time as their husbands were off in some barely accessible part of the world, hacking their way through tropical jungles or digging for evidence of ancient civilizations.

The ladies were an interesting lot with the sort of freedom usually allowed widows and an independent spirit that was most admirable. But then they had little choice. Their husbands had decided to explore the unknown and their wives were left behind to make certain home was ready and waiting for those rare moments when they chanced to be in England. It didn’t seem at all fair but it was the way of things. Dulcie had become quite good friends with one of the ladies. Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore was here somewhere today although she did have the oddest tendency to vanish and then reappear at the most unexpected moments. She had taken an interest in Dulcie’s work as she had confided she was something of an artist herself and was most impressed that Dulcie was actually being paid for her labor. She insisted Dulcie call her Poppy as Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore was a bit of a mouthful.

The fact that Dulcie had the opportunity to work at her art at all was thanks to Father. Dulcie was twelve years younger than the sister nearest to her in age and, after three daughters, Father had hoped his last, unexpected child would be male. When yet another daughter had appeared, Father was resigned but determined. His youngest daughter would be the son he never had. He encouraged her to become an excellent horsewoman and a superb shot. While Mother tried to instill in her all those attributes needed to run a household and be an accomplished hostess, Father taught her the details of managing an estate and had passed on his interest in all things ancient and all parts unknown. And indeed, while her sisters were everything her mother could wish for in dutiful daughters, Dulcie was her father’s child. When she wanted to study art after she had completed a level of education above that of her sisters, Mother was appalled. But Father declared even females should be encouraged to pursue higher learning should they be blessed with natural abilities. Dulcie would never forget the shocked look on Mother’s face as Father was not known for his progressive attitudes. Even so, he not only allowed her to attend the South Kensington School of Art but used his influence at the Explorers Club to secure her current position. Father had been a member of the Explorers Club nearly forever even though he had never explored anything beyond a good brandy and a fine cigar.

Perhaps Father was tolerant of her dreams because he had once had far-fetched dreams of his own. While there were a handful of female illustrators making their way in the world, there were even fewer English lords abandoning responsibility for the excitement of following poor Dr. Livingstone into the jungles of Africa. Still, there was nothing Father liked better than inviting those gentlemen who pursued such adventures into his home for a fine meal, excellent brandy and even better conversation. Dinner was often host, as well, to interesting young men who were hoping to follow in the footsteps of Mr. Burton or other explorers, although Father hadn’t started inviting them until after her sisters were married. They were indeed quite exciting and usually somewhat flirtatious, at least when Mother wasn’t glaring at them. Mother did not consider them suitable marriage material. Dulcie knew full well she was somewhere in the middle in terms of appearance with her older sisters but they were, all in all, a pretty lot. Dark hair in varying shades, blue eyes and fetching figures. Although her forthright demeanor and obvious intelligence soon dampened the ardor of most gentlemen visitors. Still, there had been one or two...

That Michael Shepard had not shown even a modicum of interest in her might well be one of the reasons why he was so undeniably appealing. It couldn’t possibly be anything more significant than that. She certainly couldn’t claim to know him although it was shocking how much information Poppy and her friends had about the man. Surely she couldn’t be so shallow as to be swept away by the fact that he had no interest in her. No, if that were the case, she would have been able to say something to him by now because it would not have seemed so frightfully important. And her heart wouldn’t flutter in her chest whenever he was in the room.

Dulcie Middleworth, who had never been afraid of anything in her life, apparently was now.

Making life even more awkward at the moment was the fact that her sisters and mother had increased their efforts to find her a match. It would only get worse thanks to Lady Scarsdale. But they seemed to have high hopes for the latest sacrificial lamb they had thrown at her.

Preston Drummond was the youngest son of an earl and a decent enough sort, if more arrogant than either his nature, his prospects or his appearance would justify. He too hoped to explore the world at some point or at least he said he did. Dulcie suspected his membership in the Explorers Club was more for appearances than any true desire for adventure. Dulcie had made it clear to Preston that he could continue to call on her if he so wished but she had no feelings of affection for him save that of friendship. He wasn’t the least bit discouraged, apparently thinking this was her manner of flirtation—how could any woman not want him? It was far easier at the moment to allow Preston’s attentions then to incur Mother’s wrath at her throwing away a perfectly good prospect. Preston had the unwavering support of her mother and all of her sisters with the possible exception of Livy, the youngest of the three, who had always been more inclined toward Dulcie’s way of thinking. He was, as well, one of those rare men who wasn’t completely disapproving of Dulcie’s straightforward manner and obvious intelligence. Or at least so it appeared. Which was a point in his favor but not an overly significant one. She simply had no interest in the man.

No, in spite of their minimal conversation, her hesitance to approach him and his usual lack of awareness as to her very existence, it was Michael who pulled at her heart. She knew from Poppy that, while not titled, his family had a significant fortune as his grandfather had founded Shepard’s department store, an establishment nearly as large and prestigious as Harrods. He had attended Oxford, he spoke three languages fluently and several others passably and he was well versed in ancient Greek, Roman and Coptic texts. Every now and then he would look up from his work to catch her staring at him and she would pretend to be staring into the distance, contemplating whatever it was she was working on and not thinking about the way his lips would feel on hers. Now and again she would look up to find him studying her and she would smile politely in response and immediately look away.

But regardless of their lack of conversation, Dulcie knew the sound of his laughter and the cadence of his speech. She had overheard any number of discussions between Michael and gentlemen who wandered into the library with the express purpose of engaging him in conversation. None of whom ever seemed to realize—or care—that Michael was not alone in the room. Under the strictest definition of the term, one might consider her attention eavesdropping but she made no effort to hide her presence and any idiot could see she was there.

It was fascinating to be privy to these chats even if she was not included. Just as it was impossible to overhear those discussions that were quiet and discreet—she was on the far side of the room after all—it was equally impossible not to listen to the more raucous debates on the most fascinating topics. Was Mr. Calvert really correct in his theories of where the legendary city of Troy might be located? Would Dr. Livingstone ever be found or had he perished in the jungles of Africa? Had all the tombs of the kings and queens of Egypt been discovered or were there still untold historic treasures and riches waiting just under the sands? In even the most amicable of these conversations voices would rise, words would fly and passion would fill the air.

The first time Michael’s gaze had met hers with any significance had been in the midst of a debate on the relative merits of Lake Victoria versus Lake Albert as the source of the Nile. He’d appeared quite startled but hadn’t paused in his discussion and had acted as if his gaze hadn’t meshed with hers for one glorious moment of unique and perfect communication. It then happened again and again. Sometimes she would nod in agreement with something he had just said or frown when she thought he was wrong. His eyes would narrow slightly but he didn’t seem to mind.

Even if they never spoke directly, there was something between them. Something fraught with potential and possibility. Something that might well be quite wonderful.

Obviously Michael’s courage—and there was no question as to the bravery of any man preparing to head into the unknown—did not extend to furthering their connection.

Unfortunately, neither did hers.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BLASTED WOMAN was staring at him again. Michael didn’t need to look up from his notes on the indigenous species of the upper Amazon to know Dulcie was studying him. He had long ago stopped thinking of her as Miss Middleworth. Quite improper but how could he think of her as Miss Middleworth when he could feel her gaze on him as if it were a physical touch. As if she were laying her hand on the side of his cheek. Not that such a thing would ever happen.

As much as he would like to further his acquaintance with the lovely Dulcie Middleworth, it was pointless. He was to join an expedition—his first—into the jungles of South America on a venture to settle the question of the true headwaters of the Amazon in a little over a month. It didn’t seem right, and certainly not fair, to engage any woman’s affections if he intended to go off without knowing with any certainty that he would return. He’d observed firsthand what happened to such women and he had vowed never to marry. Of course, it wasn’t fair either that this particular woman with her blue eyes and her engaging laugh had not only taken up permanent residence in the sanctuary of the Explorers Club library but had invaded his dreams, as well.

He had thought he would discourage any attraction between them by keeping to himself. Aside from a cordial daily greeting and insipid agreement on both their parts as to the state of London’s weather, they scarcely ever spoke. Nonetheless, he was continually acutely aware of her. How could he not be? She was so annoyingly there.

She left the faintest scent behind whenever she walked through the room, something vaguely floral and slightly spicy, like an exotic jungle blossom. When any of the women from the Ladies Committee were present doing whatever it was they did—it seemed suspiciously like puttering, but they did go about it in a determined manner—they routinely chatted with Dulcie or stopped to admire her work. Or shared surprisingly astute observations on the events of the day. Inevitably someone would say something amusing and Dulcie’s laughter would drift through the air and wrap around his heart. He wasn’t sure there was any sound quite so delightful and enchanting as that of Dulcie Middleworth’s laugh.

She was as talented as she was lovely. Whenever she left the library for whatever reason, he would find it necessary to stretch his legs or he would require a book on the far side of the room and would inevitably pass by her table where her work would be spread out for all to see. He knew nothing about artistic endeavors but anyone could see her work was good. Very good. With pen and ink and paint she made the bits of ancient pottery or rare Roman coins or artifacts from long dead civilizations come alive.

Keeping his distance from her was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done. He had known it would be difficult from the moment he had first walked into this room three months ago. She had been sitting where she was now but the time of year and time of day had conspired to bathe her in a ray of sunlight, gilding her dark hair and casting a glow around her. As if she were an ethereal being composed entirely of light and beauty. Or a goddess sent to tempt unsuspecting mortals. A man of less practical sensibilities would have thought it a sign of divine intervention and not simply the angle of the sun and the placement of the windows. Michael’s plans for the foreseeable future did not include falling head over heels for anyone, let alone the daughter of a viscount and an influential member of the Explorers Club.

Dulcie Middleworth was not making his resolve any easier.

For one thing, she might well be every bit as attracted to him as he was to her, although he was grateful she had never said or done anything to confirm his suspicions. It was far easier to ignore any foolish feelings he might have if he pretended there was nothing between them. But aside from the fact that she stared at him rather frequently, just as he stared at her, there had been any number of times their gazes had met for longer than a fleeting instant. Understandable really. When he was in the midst of a heated discussion with other club members about a past discovery or some as yet unknown find, he forgot his determination to avoid any connection with her. The first time his gaze had caught hers in the midst of an impassioned debate about something he couldn’t even remember now, he was stunned to note she was not only listening but appeared to be quite interested. But then why wouldn’t she be? After all, her father was an ardent supporter of the club and known for inviting promising younger members, as well as those well-known experienced explorers, to his home for dinner and stimulating conversation. Michael had never been fortunate enough to receive such an invitation and wasn’t entirely sure he would be comfortable accepting as Dulcie would surely be in attendance.

Her obvious intelligence only made her more intriguing. It was his understanding that women were not, as a rule, particularly interested in matters of this sort. The next time he had been engaged in a rousing discussion, he couldn’t help but glance her way, only to find her nodding in agreement with him. His heart—which apparently had a mind of its own—had clenched at her approval. Utter nonsense of course and yet he found himself catching her gaze more and more when he was in the midst of a discourse. On occasion, it was obvious she did not agree with whatever point he had made, and while her disagreement was annoying it was also rather amusing and it was all he could do to ignore the desire to continue the debate with her alone after his companions had gone. But who knew where that might lead? He suspected a talk of an intellectual nature would never suffice.

Aside from the fact that his plans did not include a female, there was the very practical matter of their respective stations in life. Regardless of his family’s impressive wealth, his was a family of merchants and she was the offspring of a viscount. His father and two older brothers ran the small empire his grandfather had built. A union between a daughter of society and a man of ambition would be awkward at best. Michael was a man of principle but he was not blind. He was well aware that position and favor in the Explorers Club was based as much on social standing as abilities. He did not want any attention he might direct toward Dulcie to be construed as trying to curry favor with her father.

The door to the library opened and Preston Drummond strode into the room. Michael’s jaw clenched.

“Shepard.” Drummond nodded as he passed Michael on his way to Dulcie’s table.

Beyond everything else, Dulcie was apparently about to be married. To an idiot no less. Perhaps she was not as intelligent as he thought. Preston Drummond was universally considered an ass and a pretender. It was widely suspected that Drummond’s desire lay more toward the ultimate directorship of the organization rather than any exploration of his own. There was serious money currently in a pool as to whether or not he would ever actually venture beyond the safety of London for the deserts of Asia Minor or anywhere else for that matter. Drummond was one of those men who liked the idea of adventure, if only it wasn’t quite so inconvenient and dangerous. Unfortunately, his father too was a patron of the Explorers Club.

According to rumor, put out by Drummond no doubt, he was looked favorably upon by Viscount Middleworth and was about to ask for Dulcie’s hand in marriage. Drummond had no particular qualms about currying favor with her father. Michael was not one to put credence in unsubstantiated gossip, but on several occasions Drummond had appeared in the library to chat with her or escort her home, apparently at the request of her parents. Which did seem to indicate some sort of understanding between them. Although how any parents could allow a young woman to accompany a man without an appropriate chaperone was beyond him.

“Good day, Dulcie,” Drummond said with his usual smirk. “Might I say how lovely you’re looking today.”

“How very kind of you to say.” Even from across the room Dulcie’s smile seemed no more than polite. “I’m not quite finished yet, so if you don’t mind I would like to get back to it. Was there something you needed?”

Their conversation was low but, in the cavernous room where sound carried surprisingly well, impossible to ignore completely.

“I’ve been invited to join your family for dinner.” Drummond’s smirk widened with satisfaction. “Your mother suggested I stop here and offer you a ride to your house.”

Dulcie sat back in her chair, her smile a shade less polite than before. “Again?”

“She likes me,” Drummond said in an immodest manner.

And why not? A mother eager for a good match for a daughter somewhat past her prime marriageable years would no doubt see Drummond as a prize. The man was of good family and sound fortune. Even if he was a prig.

“Your offer is most gracious, and I do thank you, but as I said my work is not quite done. I would very much like to complete this before I leave for the day. Besides, my carriage is expected in an hour or so. Please be so good as to tell my mother I shall return home then.” She nodded and returned her attention to the paper in front of her.

“Don’t be absurd, Dulcie,” Drummond said firmly. “Surely that nonsense can wait until tomorrow.”

“Nonsense?” Her brow rose.

Michael almost felt sorry for the man. Certainly Dulcie’s employment was unusual, but female artists and illustrators were not unheard of, although it was his understanding that their work was typically more in the fields of botany and horticulture rather than ancient artifacts.

“Perhaps nonsense was the wrong word and this a conversation for another time,” Drummond said smoothly.

Michael stifled a disdainful snort.

“I should hate to arrive without you.” Drummond chuckled. “And your mother would be most annoyed.”

“Yes, I suppose she would.” Dulcie sighed.

“Besides, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” She considered him for a moment then nodded. “Very well.” She stood and gathered her things, putting them on a shelf on the wall behind her. She turned and her gaze caught Michael’s. He immediately shifted his attention back to his notebook.

“Good Day, Mr. Shepard,” she murmured as she passed him on her way to the door. What might well have been a note of resignation sounded in her voice.

“Miss Middleworth.” Michael glanced at her and, without thinking, cast her an encouraging smile.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Admittedly, he rarely offered her anything more than a polite, disinterested sort of smile—part of his ongoing effort to avoid entanglement as well as the odd way his heart thudded when her smile lit her blue eyes. She returned a grateful smile and continued on, Drummond a scant step behind. She certainly didn’t look like a woman about to tie herself to a man for the rest of her life. Perhaps she was already aware of what an utter fool Drummond was. If not, someone should say something to her before she committed herself to the pretentious ass for the rest of her days.

Not that it mattered. Who she married or whether she married at all was none of Michael’s concern. Their fates were not even remotely connected. His was to seek knowledge and adventure in the unknown and follow in the footsteps of his uncle Henry. Hers was to marry well and be a credit to her family.

“Do you ride, Mr. Shepard?”

Michael jerked his attention to the unexpected female voice. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore.” He stood at once. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were here today.”

“I’ve been here for hours, Mr. Shepard. You were entirely too absorbed in your work to notice and I do try not to disturb anyone.” She smiled pleasantly. “I was just about to leave myself.”

“It is growing late,” he said cautiously. “Why did you want to know if I rode?”

“Oh, I was just curious.” She studied him for a moment. “You look like the kind of man who rides.”

“Do I?”

“Indeed.” She nodded. “I was just saying to Miss Middleworth what excellent physical exercise it is. Keeps a person fit and in top form, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Did you know Miss Middleworth rides in the park every morning? I am thinking of joining her some morning but—” she sighed “—I find when one is past one’s prime, with every passing year simply mounting a horse becomes a more awkward endeavor.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore,” he said with a smile. “You don’t look anywhere near past your prime.”

“How terribly gallant of you to say, Mr. Shepard. You shall quite turn my head with such compliments.” The older lady dimpled. “Well, I shall leave you to your work. Good day.” She nodded, turned and swept from the room.

Michael retook his seat, the smile still on his face. Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore nearly always made a point of stopping for a word or two with him. She reminded him very much of his beloved aunt Grace. The older lady was quite kind, even if she struck him as a bit flighty, and she frequently mentioned Dulcie in passing. She also on occasion chatted about her husband, usually the latest news from his dispatches. Malcolm Fitzhew-Wellmore had a stellar reputation among members of the Explorers Club and frequently ventured into the unknown with the newly knighted Sir Charles Blodgett. Lady Blodgett was often in the library with Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and Mrs. Higginbotham, the wife of a military officer. Michael had the impression the three were quite good friends. They certainly seemed to cope well without the presence of their husbands. In that, in Michael’s experience, they were exceptionally rare.

How would Dulcie fare in their place?

He ignored the question. He would soon head toward adventure and she would probably wed Drummond, who would no doubt put an end to her work. Rather a shame given her talent, but that was the way of things. She would no longer be present in the library, indeed, in his world. His heart twisted at the thought of not seeing her every day, bent over her work, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Not hearing her laugh. Not savoring the faintest hint of her scent in the air. Never knowing the feel of her lips on his, save in his dreams late in the night. Although he feared that might well continue.

In spite of the impracticality, pointlessness and sheer absurdity of it, it did appear Dulcie Middleworth had worked her way firmly into his affections.

And even the jungles of the Amazon might not be far enough away to banish her from his heart.

CHAPTER THREE

“I BELIEVE DULCIE MIDDLEWORTH has feelings for Mr. Shepard,” Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—Poppy to her friends—said and played a card. She hadn’t particularly liked whist, or card games of any type really, when she and her dear friends Mrs.—now Lady—Guinevere Blodgett and Mrs. Ophelia Higginbotham had begun playing together some twenty years ago. Nor had she been very good at it. Now, she had moments where she was quite a wicked sort of player, much to Gwen and Effie’s mixed dismay and amusement. “And I am fairly certain Mr. Shepard shares those feelings.”

“I suppose that’s entirely possible.” Gwen studied her cards. “They’re together for hours every day in that library and quite frequently alone.”

“Oh, I don’t think anything untoward has gone on,” Poppy said quickly. “Not any sort of impropriety that is.”

“The parties involved usually don’t announce their improper activities.” Effie played a card. “People tend to be discreet when having a liaison in a library.”

“I doubt there’s anything even approaching a liaison. Why, they scarcely even talk. At least not to each other.” Poppy thought for a moment. “It’s extremely odd given they have been in that room nearly every day since he began frequenting the library some months ago but they do look at one another all the time.”

“Well, if they look at one another there must be something going on.” Gwen played her card with a flourish, grinned and took the trick. “Three more tricks and I win this hand.”

Poppy ignored her. “I know you think I’m being silly but I’m quite observant when it comes to this sort of thing.” She set her jaw firmly. “And I know what I’ve seen.”

“You did say they look at each other,” Effie murmured, her attention more on the cards Gwen was dealing than on Poppy’s comments, as if she could somehow influence them by mere force of thought alone.

“It’s not merely looking. That would indeed be silly.” Poppy drew her brows together. There was nothing more frustrating than trying to explain, even to her dearest friends, how something that had started as nothing more than a feeling had—through ardent observation and a very keen eye—become a conviction. “I first noticed when I would stop to chat with her and admire her work—she’s very good you know. I do think she could become quite successful. And there are a fair number of lady illustrators these days—”

“All painting overly sweet pictures of children or flowers,” Effie pointed out.

“There’s nothing wrong with children or flowers.” Gwen leveled Effie a chastising look. Effie did tend to be rather curt when she played cards. Gwen nodded at Poppy. “Do go on, dear. You were telling us about why you think Miss Middleworth has feelings for Mr. Shepard.”

“Although I daresay I wouldn’t blame her.” Effie chuckled. “Nor would I mind spending my days alone in a library with him.”

Gwen grinned. “He is quite dashing, isn’t he?”

“And entirely too young for any of us even if we weren’t already married.” Goodness, it could be difficult at times to keep her friends attending to the matter at hand. Poppy wasn’t the only one who tended to digress. She tried again. “As I was saying, quite often, when she and I are chatting about her work or art in general or any number of things, if I chance to look in his direction, I catch him gazing at her as if she were the moon and the stars.”

“I heard Miss Middleworth is soon to be engaged to Mr. Drummond,” Effie said absently, her attention back on her cards.

“Mr. Drummond probably thinks so judging by the manner in which he smirks at her.” Poppy paused. “But she has no intention of marrying him.”

“Wise of her,” Gwen murmured and set down a card.

“Dulcie is too busy gazing longingly at Mr. Shepard to give Mr. Drummond a second thought. Beyond that there’s, well, an odd sort of tension in the air when they’re together. Like the taut string on a violin that could snap at any moment.”

Effie looked up from her hand. “Goodness, Poppy, if they both have feelings for one another, what on earth is the problem?”

“The problem is neither of them have made their feelings known. Dulcie is a spirited young woman yet the thought of approaching Mr. Shepard seems to sap her courage.” Poppy shook her head. “And I suspect he thinks an entanglement would be difficult as he is soon to join a new expedition.”

“The one to the Amazon?” Gwen asked.

Poppy nodded and played a card, biting back a smile. Depending on the next card played, she might well win this hand. “I believe so.”

“I’m not sure I would encourage anything between them,” Effie muttered.

“Why not?”

“Oh, for goodness sakes.” Effie smacked down her card and glared at Poppy. “Would you really want any young woman to enter into the life we’ve had?”

Gwen stared. “I don’t see why not.”

Poppy quietly collected the trick and tried not to look smug. Three more tricks and Gwen would win? Not bloody likely.

“Because we have spent most of our married years with our husbands off risking their lives in the most dangerous places on earth in the name of military duty or scientific advancement. Why, we are worse than widows. We have husbands—they simply aren’t in evidence.” Effie huffed. “I, for one, am quite tired of it.”

It wasn’t the first time Effie had expressed dismay at the state of their existence. All three ladies were married to men of daring and adventure who were far more likely to be found in some remote area of the world than in London. Gwen’s husband, Sir Charles, was currently leading an expedition in the jungles of Africa. Poppy wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of it was other than Sir Charles did hope to locate the missing Dr. Livingstone, although most people assumed he was dead as he had not been heard from for several years. Poppy’s dear Malcolm was somewhere in Turkey on a quest to find the lost city of Troy. Effie’s husband was a military man. Colonel William Higginbotham was even now part of a mission to rescue British citizens and government officials in Abyssinia. From what they’d read in the papers and the infrequent letters Effie received, it did seem that he was safe and all had gone well.

Poppy dealt the cards. It was pointless to argue with Effie when she was in this mood and one really couldn’t blame her if on occasion the state of their existence annoyed her. Of the three friends, Effie’s husband was usually the one in the most obvious danger—the lot of a military man of course. Still, one couldn’t discount the threat of malaria or other tropical diseases, accidental injury in some uncivilized and probably uncharted location, native uprising or any number of other possibilities that could claim the life of any explorer. Poppy would never disparage Effie’s fears for her husband aloud but Poppy did think of the three friends, Effie’s lot was a tiny bit better than Poppy or Gwen’s. At least if something happened to the Colonel, Effie would be informed of his demise. Sir Charles and Malcolm could bid their wives farewell one day and head off into the unknown never to be heard from again. Not knowing what fate had befallen the man you loved was surely a unique kind of hell on earth.

“We do have each other.” Gwen picked up her cards.

“Thank God.” Effie blew a frustrated breath then mustered a reluctant smile. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“There is much to be said for family.” Poppy nodded and played a card.

Effie and Gwen were indeed her family. While they were originally connected only by circumstance, they were now bound together as tightly as if by blood. They had met some twenty years ago at a meeting of the Ladies Committee of the Explorers Club and had found they had absolutely nothing in common save the lack of a husband within sight. Still—and not one of them today could say exactly how it had happened—from mere acquaintances they had become friends and now were as close as sisters. None of them had much in the way of family and none had been blessed with children. At this point, in their mid to late fifties, they had shared much of their lives together through good times and bad, tears and laughter. They counted on each other for companionship and comfort and support. And would until they day they breathed their last.

“Let me ask you this, Effie.” Gwen set her cards on the table and folded her hands on top of them. “When you met William, all those years ago, and someone older and wiser had warned against marrying him as you would probably spend much of your life with him off somewhere in the service of Her Majesty, would you have listened?”

Effie stared at her cards. “William has always looked exceptionally dashing in his uniform.”

“Excellent answer,” Poppy murmured.

Gwen ignored her. “Would you have given up the handsome officer on the advice of another wife of a military man?”

Effie frowned. “I don’t think that question is at all fair. I fell in love with William very nearly the first moment we met.” She paused. “I did, however, give due consideration to his life and the future we might have together.”

“And you married him anyway,” Gwen said pointedly.

“How could I do otherwise?” Effie shrugged. “The man laid claim to my heart.”

“And even now, after all these years spent more alone than with him, you would marry him again. As I would marry Charles, and Poppy would marry Malcolm.”

“Yes, I suppose I would.” Effie heaved a resigned sigh. “Blast it all, of course I would.”

“My point exactly,” Poppy said firmly. “Dulcie and Mr. Shepard were meant for each other. We just need to make them see what is so obvious to anyone who looks at them.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean we?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.” Poppy chose her words with care. “But I thought the three of us together might come up with something. We can be quite clever when we join forces.”

Effie groaned.

“Your claim that they belong together is based on nothing more than an odd lack of conversation, the fact that they occasionally gaze at each other, something in the air and your own assessment of the situation,” Gwen said in that mildly patronizing way she employed when she thought Poppy’s ideas absurd. “I really don’t think—”

“See for yourself.” Poppy’s gaze shifted from one friend to the other. “Come to the library tomorrow. If you don’t see what I see, then I shall drop this matter altogether.”

“Will Mrs. Lithgow be there?” Effie asked.

Mrs. Lithgow was the head of the Ladies Committee, on her third husband, superior, sanctimonious and one of those people who thinks she knows everything. While she was not universally loved, she did manage to accomplish quite a lot that no one else wanted to do, so she was tolerated. In moderation.

Poppy grimaced. “I do hope not.”

“And if we see what you see?” Caution sounded in Effie’s voice.

“When you see what I see—” Poppy beamed “—you will help me come up with a brilliant way to make the two of them accept their, well, fate.”

Effie and Gwen traded glances.

“Oh, that does sound like fun,” Effie said drily. “Not to mention a great deal of effort.”

“Goodness, Effie, you know as well as I—” Poppy played her card and collected the trick “—love is always worth the effort.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“DO TELL US more about your plans, Mr. Drummond,” Mother said, gazing at Preston as if he was the answer to her prayers. Which no doubt he was. “I’m certain we would all find them most fascinating.”

In truth, no one at the table except Mother seemed to find anything Preston said even remotely fascinating, even if her three older daughters—Cora, Rose and Livy—had adopted rapt expressions of interest. Although it did seem there was a fine line between rapt and glazed. Good. Dulcie would need all the support she could gather once she told Preston, and then Mother, she would prefer he not call on her again.

“Are you certain, Lady Middleworth?” Preston said in a mildly flirtatious, teasing manner. The sort of manner one might employ if trying to convince a woman you were the right man for her daughter. “I should hate to be a bore.”

Judging by the impassive expression Father usually adopted when he was bored and the total concentration on the food in front of them by her three brothers-in-law, that possibility was no longer in question.

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Drummond.” Mother waved off his objection. “I can’t imagine anything more interesting than your plans for the future.” Mother shot a pointed look at Dulcie. “Don’t you agree, dear?”

Any number of answers flashed through Dulcie’s head, none of which even remotely approximated what her mother expected to hear. Nonetheless, Dulcie affixed her brightest smile. “I do indeed, Mother.”

Still, there must have been something in her tone. Mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, Father choked and Rose’s husband coughed, although it sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh, earning him a stern look from his wife.

“As you wish then.” Preston smiled at her in a satisfied and rather possessive manner, as if he were already her husband. Regardless of what Mother or her sisters thought, even if it meant Dulcie would never wed, she had to put an end to this.

Dinner did seem to drag on endlessly but at last came to a merciful close. The ladies stood to take their leave and allow the gentlemen to their brandy.

“Dulcie.” Preston cleared his throat. “Might I have a word with you? Privately?”

Mother beamed. Father looked resigned.

His intentions were obvious. Damnation. Dulcie thought she had forestalled a proposal tonight by deflecting any hint of the subject during their ride home. Preston must have spoken to Father while she was changing for dinner. Well, it couldn’t be helped and it was probably for the best simply to get it over with.

“Of course, Preston.” She cast him a brilliant smile. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor?”

“Excellent.” He smiled with complete and utter confidence. One might almost feel sorry for him.

A few minutes later, Dulcie perched on the edge of the sofa in the main parlor, hands folded demurely in her lap, a pleasant smile on her lips although she suspected this was going to be anything but pleasant. Preston stood by the mantel, the very picture of unquestioned self-assurance. One would think a man about to propose marriage would be at least a little nervous.

“Dulcie, I—” Preston began.

“Preston.” She held out her hand to stop him. It wasn’t at all fair to let him go on. “I really would prefer—”

“I think we should marry,” Preston said in a firm tone.

She stared at him. “Is that a proposal?”

He frowned. “Yes, of course it is.”

“It sounded more like a declaration.” As if there were no need to actually ask. As if he simply assumed the answer. Preston was making this so much easier for her than she had expected.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” He chuckled. “Well, Dulcie, what do you say?”

“I say if you wish me to marry you, the proper thing to do would be to actually ask rather than assume.”

“Very well then.” He sighed in the manner one does when dealing with a petulant child. “Dulcie, would you do me the very great honor—”

“No.”

“No?” His brows drew together. “What do you mean no? I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

“I thought I would save you any embarrassment you might feel at being turned down by saying no before you actually asked the question.”

He stared at her in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, Preston.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes toward the ceiling. “It’s really quite simple. You wish to marry me but I do not wish to marry you.”

“Come now.” He scoffed. “Of course you do. I am eminently eligible. My family is well respected, my fortune is more than adequate and any number of women find me most attractive. I am considered quite a catch.”

“And indeed you are. Why, anyone can see that. However—” she shrugged “—you are not the catch for me.”

“Why on earth not?” His frown deepened with indignation. “We are quite suitably matched. Your mother likes me.”

Not a point in his favor.

“And your father has given me his permission.”

She would have to have a word with Father about that.

“I should think you’d be grateful.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Grateful?”

“Without question. While you’re quite pretty, you do have a shocking tendency to say whatever is on your mind without regard to how it might sound.” He shook his head. “I know your mother finds it distressing, as do I. However, I am certain, once you are wed to a husband who will not tolerate such nonsense, you can overcome that particular flaw in your character. In addition, you have an unbecoming bent toward independence. Proper ladies paint only for their own edification and not for commercial purposes. I cannot believe your father allows such a thing. I would not.”

Was Preston really this much of an idiot? Did he truly not realize he was not helping his case?

“Aside from everything else, there is the matter of your age.”

Apparently not. “My age?”

“You have past your twenty-third year and are no longer in the first blush of youth.” He shook his head in a chastising manner. “Potential matches at your age are few and far between. Coupled with your other flaws, I might very well be your last opportunity.”

She widened your eyes in feigned dismay. “Do you really think so?”

He shrugged.

“Goodness, Preston, with all my flaws, I don’t understand why you are willing to marry me.”

“I think you have a great deal of potential, Dulcie,” he said firmly. “Indeed I believe with a bit of effort on your part you will make an excellent wife.”

“How kind of you to think so.” It was all she could do to keep her expression serene given she wasn’t sure if she wished to slap his face or laugh in it.

“Besides, your family is socially prominent and your father is an influential voice at the Explorers Club. It would be most beneficial for my future to be related to him.”

“In terms of support for an expedition you mean?” Although she would wager all of Father’s fortune that Preston would never venture far from civilization.

Preston paused. “Or whatever else might arise.”

“I see.”

“Furthermore, I am under a great deal of pressure from my family to wed.” Preston’s brow furrowed. “My father believes it will be of benefit to my nature. Settle me down as it were.”

“Really?” She arched a brow. “I can’t imagine anyone more settled than you.”

“My sentiments exactly.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But Father does hold the financial purse strings and he wants me to marry. And I can think of no one I would rather marry than you.”

“In spite of my flaws?”

He cast her a condescending smile. “We shall take care of those soon enough. So, what’s it to be, Dulcie? Will you marry me?”

“No, Preston, I’m afraid not.”

“This is becoming bothersome.” He heaved an annoyed sigh. “Did you wish for something more romantic? I could kneel if you want.”

“Please, do us both the great favor of not kneeling.” She studied him. “Obviously, you are not in love with me.”

“I am quite fond of you,” he said staunchly. “But I am a practical man and marriage is a practical matter.”

“Not to me.”

“You need this marriage every bit as much as I do.” He paused in a meaningful manner. “I hesitate to mention this.”

“Oh no, Preston, please continue.”

“It is becoming common knowledge that you did not receive an invitation to Lady Scarsdale’s ball. You know as well as I that that omission signals to society that you are no longer considered as marriageable as you once were.”

“And less than a month ago I was quite marriageable,” she murmured.

He ignored her. “I am willing to overlook that significant social condemnation. Most men won’t. This marriage will be of benefit to us both.”

“And yet my answer is still no.”

“If you are trying to be coy—”

“I am trying to be honest.”

“I warn you, Dulcie, I have asked three times already. I will not ask again.”

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