CANDACE CAMP
THEBridal QUEST

MILLS & BOON

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For my sisters:

Mary Elizabeth, Barbara and Sharon.

You’re the best.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

London, 1807

THE FRONT DOOR SLAMMED. Startled, Lady Irene Wyngate, in the library upstairs, turned, and the book she was holding tumbled to the floor.

It was well past midnight, and everyone in the house besides herself was tucked into their beds, sound asleep. Indeed, she had gone to bed an hour ago and had arisen only because sleep had eluded her, so she had decided to slip into the library and find a book to read. There should be no one about—especially no one slamming doors.

As she stood there, listening, the silence of the night was once again broken by a crash, this time followed by an oath. Irene relaxed, grimacing. Though the knowledge gave her no pleasure, at least she now realized who had made the noises downstairs. No doubt her father, Lord Wyngate, was home and stumbling about in his usual drunken state.

Quickly she bent and retrieved her dropped book from the floor; then, picking up her candlestick, she tiptoed out the door. Even though she was only sixteen years old, she was the only one of the household who would stand up to her father’s bullying. Frequently she placed herself between him and her mother or brother, the people on whom he was most likely to take out his anger. However, Irene was not foolish; like everyone else, she did her best to stay out of her father’s way, especially when he came home roaring drunk.

Now she hurried silently along the hallway, hoping that she could make it to the sanctuary of her bedchamber before her father made his way up to the second floor. Downstairs, a voice was raised, angry and deep, and was followed by a response. Irene paused, her brows drawing together, wondering who was talking to her father. There was a loud smack, as of flesh hitting flesh, followed by another crash.

Irene darted to the railing at the top of the stairs and peered over it to the foyer below. Her view was partially obstructed by the lower tier of the sweeping staircase, but she could see her father sprawled on his back, the remnants of a shattered vase scattered around him on the Persian rug. The old-fashioned powdered wig that he insisted upon wearing, despite the fact that it was quite out of fashion, had been knocked askew and now tilted precariously to one side, rather like some small furry animal clinging to his bald head. A line of blood trickled down from his nose.

As Irene stared, astonished into momentary immobility, a man moved into her line of vision, striding rapidly over to Lord Wyngate. The stranger’s back was turned toward her, so she could see only that he was tall and was dressed in the same sort of formal black suit that her father wore, though he eschewed the unfashionable wig and his black hair was hanging loose.

As Irene watched, the stranger reached down and grasped her father by his lapels, yanking him to his feet. Lord Wyngate put both his hands up to the other man’s chest and shoved ineffectually.

“Damned puppy,” Lord Wyngate growled, his voice slurred. “How dare you?”

“I dare a bloody lot more than that!” the other man snapped, drawing back his fist.

Irene did not wait to see the blow land, but whirled around and ran to her father’s study. She raced across the room and jerked open one of the glass-fronted cabinets, then pulled out a case from one of the shelves, laid it on the desk and opened it.

Inside, on red velvet, rested a set of dueling pistols. Her father, she knew, kept them loaded, but she quickly checked, just to make sure, before she ran back out of the room, carrying one in each hand. The sounds of fighting and shouting grew louder as she neared the staircase. She could not see the men; they had moved. But it was clear from the sounds that the fight was still being waged in earnest.

Irene fairly flew down the first set of stairs to the landing. As she turned the corner, she could see them again, grappling at the bottom of the stairs. Just then, the younger man broke free and slammed his fist into Lord Wyngate’s stomach. As her father doubled over, the other man brought his fist up sharply, landing a hit flush on the older man’s chin. Wyngate staggered back and crashed onto the floor.

“Stop it!” Irene shouted. “Stop this at once!”

Neither man paid the slightest attention to her, didn’t even turn to look at her. The stranger pursued her father, reaching out to grab him and pull him up again.

“Stop!” Irene shrieked once more. When she was again ignored, she raised one pistol and fired up into the air. She heard the ping as the ball hit the chandelier above, and a few prisms fell, crashing to the floor.

Both men froze. The stranger straightened and swiveled his head to look up, and her father, too, turned his wavering eyes upon her. Irene scarcely noticed her father’s gaze. Her eyes were riveted to the other man.

He was tall, and his wide shoulders filled out the suit admirably. Clearly his tailor was not required to resort to padding to give the jacket the shape it needed. His hair was black as coal in the light from the wall sconces, and he wore it a trifle longer than was strictly fashionable. His face was all sharp angles and flat planes—handsome, yet hard and unreadable. The only signs of temper lay in the faint color along the line of his cheekbones and the unmistakable glitter of anger in his eyes.

She had seen other men more handsome than he; there was something a little raw and rough about him that was different from the more elegant gentleman she was accustomed to. Yet he affected her far more than any gentleman she had ever met. Looking at him, she felt a strange, visceral tug, a sort of twisting deep in her core, and she found it difficult to pull her eyes away from him.

“Irene?” Lord Wyngate croaked, and struggled to his feet.

“Yes, it is I,” she replied in some irritation, not sure whether she was more annoyed with her father for bringing chaos into their house or with this unknown man for evoking such an odd and unsettling reaction inside her. “Who else would it be?”

“That’s my girl,” Wyngate slurred, wobbling where he stood. “Count on you.”

Irene’s mouth tightened. It galled her to be forced to help her father.

Ever since she could remember, her father had been the major source of misery and discomfort in the lives of everyone around him. The servants, her mother, her brother and she herself had always walked in fear of him. He had a wicked temper, an unquenchable thirst for alcohol and an affinity for trouble. When she was a child, she had known only that he made her mother cry and the servants tremble. She had learned to stay out of his way, especially when he was staggering with drink. In more recent years, she had come to have a better understanding of the many sins in which he indulged—of the gambling and whoring that went hand-in-glove with his imbibing, of his many excesses, both financial and of the flesh. Lord Wyngate was a libertine, but worse than that, he was an often cruel man, one who enjoyed the trepidation that others felt around him.

Irene had been taught, nevertheless, that she should love him, that he deserved her respect simply because he was her parent. It was not a lesson that she had ever truly embraced. She was not, she knew, a good-enough person to forgive him or to love him despite his faults, as her mother seemed able to. Nor was she so given to doing what was expected of one as her brother, Humphrey, so that she would offer him loyalty and respect simply because tradition required it.

Irene was of the opinion that if someone had attacked her father, he had probably deserved it. Still, he was her father, and she could not allow this stranger to kill him.

“Don’t you think it is a trifle late to be brawling in the foyer?” she asked in the coolly commanding tone that she had learned was best in dealing with her father.

Lord Wyngate tugged down his jacket and brushed it off in the heavy-handed and supremely careful way often adopted by those in an inebriated state. He wiped his hand across his face, then looked down in apparent surprise at the blood on his palm.

“Damn—I think you broke my nose, you jumped-up cardsharp!” Lord Wyngate glowered at the other man.

His companion, however, did not so much as spare him a glance. His eyes remained on Irene.

She remembered suddenly how she must look. She had not bothered to throw a dressing gown on over her nightdress when she had decided to search for a book to read. Her feet were bare, and her thick blond hair, released from its pins for the night, tumbled in wildly curling abandon over her shoulders and down her back.

It occurred to her that the wall sconces from the floor above must be casting a light behind her, probably revealing the outline of her body, naked beneath the cotton nightgown. She blushed to the roots of her hair. Why would he not look away? Clearly the man was a mannerless ruffian.

She tilted up her chin and gazed back at him, refusing to let this boor see that she was embarrassed. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she saw her father sneak back step and wrap his hand around a small statue that sat on pedestal against the wall. He raised it, starting toward the other man.

“No!” Irene snapped, swinging the loaded pistol in her left hand toward her father. “Put that down this instant!”

Lord Wyngate cast her a sulky look but set the statue back on its base.

The other man glanced over at Lord Wyngate, his lip curling in contempt. He turned back and sketched a bow toward Irene.

“Thank you, my lady.” His voice was deep and rough, his accent not that of a gentleman.

“I do not care to have any more blood on the Persian rug,” Irene retorted tartly. “’Tis far too difficult to clean.”

Her father leaned against the wall, still sulking, and refused to look at her. To her surprise, however, the other man let out a bark of laughter, and amusement lit his face, briefly warming and softening it. She was barely able to stop herself from smiling back at him.

“’Tis past my understanding that this old goat should have so fair a daughter,” the man said.

Irene grimaced, annoyed at herself as much as him. The man had an enormous amount of gall to grin at her that way. And how could she be tempted to return the ruffian’s smile?

“I think you should leave now,” she told him. “Else I will be forced to call the servants and have you ejected.”

He raised an eyebrow to convey how little her threat moved him, but said only, “Of course. I would not wish to disturb your peace.”

He walked over to Lord Wyngate, who backed up a bit nervously. The man grasped Wyngate’s shirt front in one hand, clenching his fist in it to hold the man still, and leaned in a little.

“If I ever hear of you bothering Dora again, I’ll come back and break every bone in your body. Do you understand?”

Irene’s father flushed with anger, but he nodded.

“And do not come back to my place again. Ever.” The stranger gave her father a long look, then released him and strode toward the front door. Opening it, he turned back and looked up the stairs at Irene.

A faint sardonic smile touched his lips, and he said, “Good night, my lady. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Then, with a bow, he was gone.

Irene relaxed, realizing now that it was over, how tense she had been. Her legs felt weak under her, and she dropped her hand back down to her side.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Nobody,” her father replied, turning toward the stairs. His steps were weaving, and he had to grasp the railing to keep from stumbling. “Filthy lout…thinks he can talk that way to me…I ought to show him.” He looked up at Irene, his expression sly and calculating. “Give me that pistol, girl.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, feeling suddenly weary, “Don’t make me regret keeping him from killing you.”

She turned and started back up the stairs. Just to be safe, she thought, she would take the pistols to her bedroom, where her father could not get at them.

“That’s no way to speak to your father,” Lord Wyngate bellowed after her. “You’ll show me respect.”

Irene whirled back around. “I will show you respect when you deserve some,” she told him tightly.

“You’re a poor excuse for a daughter,” he returned, his eyes narrowing. “And no man’ll marry you, with the airs you put on. What’ll you do then, eh?”

“I’ll rejoice,” Irene replied flatly. “From all I can see, a life without a husband would be quite pleasant. I, sir, will never marry.”

Pleased to see that her words had at least startled him into momentary silence, Irene turned and swept back up the stairs.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1816

IRENE COVERED A SIGH as her sister-in-law continued her description—in detail—of the gown she had purchased yesterday. It was not that Irene disliked talk of fashion; indeed, she was fonder than she cared to admit of conversations regarding styles and colors and accessories. It was listening to Maura converse about clothes that bored Irene to the point of unconsciousness, for anything Maura discussed was ultimately more about Maura and her own taste or perspicacity or beauty than it was about the subject at hand.

Maura was, quite simply, the sun around which all interests and all people circled, at least in her own mind. She was unremittingly self-centered, which Irene would not have minded so much if she had not been thoroughly dull and prosaic, as well.

Irene glanced around the room at the faces of the other women. None of their three visitors, she saw, looked as indifferent or bored as she felt. She wondered if her own expression conveyed as little of her inner reaction. It was difficult to tell, no doubt because all the well-bred ladies had been brought up, as she had, to convey a polite interest in other people’s conversations, no matter how tedious they were.

Irene’s mother, Lady Claire, was one of the women now listening to Maura with a pleasant and interested look on her face. She would, of course, have considered it bad form to have allowed any other expression to mar her features, but Irene knew that more was involved; her mother was frightened to express a dislike for, or even a disinterest in, anything her daughter-in-law had to say. For the past year, ever since Humphrey had married Maura and brought her back here to live with them, Lady Claire had walked on eggshells, knowing that Maura was now the true power in the household, and could make her and her daughter’s life a misery.

Of course, in Irene’s opinion, having to bow to Maura’s every whim already made life a misery, so it seemed foolish to work so hard to avoid the woman’s ire. Nor did she think that her brother Humphrey was so weak-willed as to turn his mother and sister out of their home if Maura took it into her head to demand that. However, she knew that it was certainly within his power to do so, as well as in Maura’s nature to selfishly demand such a thing. And it was, unfortunately, quite true that she and her mother had been left virtually penniless upon Lord Wyngate’s death and were completely dependent upon her brother’s generosity.

Lord Wyngate had died three years ago in a fall from his horse after a particularly heavy bout of drinking. Irene had been, frankly, somewhat surprised at the grief she had felt. After all the years of battling with the man and despising him, there had, it seemed, been a core of love inside her that even his wicked behavior had been unable to entirely squelch. However, there was no denying that his demise had also evoked a great sense of relief in all those connected to him.

There were no more bill collectors lurking outside their door; that had stopped once Humphrey had sat down with their creditors and worked out a plan to pay his father’s debts in full. Nor were shady characters popping up looking for Lord Wyngate anymore. They had no further need to fear that he would bring some scandal to the family name. And, most of all, his presence no longer hung over the house like some dark cloud, forcing everyone do whatever they could to avoid running into him or doing anything that might set off one of his fits of rage.

It was not until after Lord Wyngate was dead that, upon hearing one of the upstairs maids singing a cheerful song as she polished the furniture, Irene realized just how silent and cold the house had been. Suddenly, despite the black wreath on the front door and the black cloth draped above Lord Wyngate’s portrait, the house was a lighter, brighter place.

Her younger brother, Humphrey, a rather serious, shy young man, had, of course, inherited the title and estate from their father. Aside from the entailed land and the house in London, Lord Wyngate had left little but debts for his heir; for his widow and daughter there had been nothing.

However, Humphrey was a loving son and brother, and he was happy to provide for Irene and Claire. Two years younger than Irene, he had always looked up to and relied upon her. In their childhood, it had been she who had shielded him from their father’s curses and blows.

Humphrey had set about settling his father’s debts and rebuilding the estate, leaving it to his sister to run the household, as she long had done for her mother. Life had moved along smoothly enough as they emerged from the period of mourning into a resumption of social activities. The debts had been largely repaid, and though there was a heavy mortgage on the entailed land that had passed to Humphrey, the money situation had loosened enough to allow for new dresses and the giving and attending of parties.

Irene knew that some found her life pitiable, as she was in her midtwenties and still unmarried, facing life as a spinster, but she did not care. The fact was that she was happy and useful, and she was not one of those women—those she privately characterized as foolish females—who found her life empty if it was not connected to a man’s. Indeed, having witnessed the storms of marriage, she was certain that her life without a husband was far preferable to the one most married women endured.

Then Humphrey had taken a hunting trip to the North of England with a friend. His visit had been extended by first one week, then two, and at the end of the third week, he had returned home, flushed and happy with the news that he was engaged to be married.

Maura Ponsonby, the daughter of a local squire, had caught Humphrey’s eye…and then his lonely heart. She was a jewel, he informed them, and he was the luckiest man alive. They would, he assured them, love Maura just as he did.

When they met Maura, it was easy enough to see why he had fallen in love with her. She was pretty, and she showered Humphrey with attention and affection. However, it did not take them long to see how she also controlled him with her pretty pouting and lively flirtation turning stony and unyielding when she did not get her way.

All smiles and charmingly deferential to Lady Claire before she married Humphrey, she swept into the house after the wedding full of self-importance. As the new Lady Wyngate, she made it quite clear to both Claire and Irene that she was now in charge. Though Irene had intended to turn over the running of Wyngate Hall to Maura, the woman gave her no opportunity to do so, merely informed the housekeeper and butler that she would now be in charge of all decisions regarding the household.

Maura seized every opportunity to show that she was of primary rank in the house, inserting herself into any conversation, informing the butler whom they would or would not receive as callers and when they were at home to such visits, and boldly accepting or declining invitations for Irene and Claire, as well as for herself and her husband.

Lady Claire, as was her way, had submitted meekly to such behavior. Irene, of course, had refused to knuckle under, and the result had been a long series of skirmishes between the two women.

Now Maura, perhaps sensing Irene’s disinterest, broke off in the middle of her description of the bows that adorned the hem of her dress and turned toward Irene, eyes wide, smiling in an arch way that made Irene itch to slap her. “But we are boring poor Irene with our talk of frills and furbelows, aren’t we, dear?” She turned gaily toward the other women, saying, “Irene has little interest in fashion, I fear. Try as I might, I can hardly ever convince her to let me buy her a thing to wear.”

Maura shook her head, a picture of loving despair over Irene’s odd ways, setting her soft dark curls bobbing.

“You are so generous, my dear Lady Wyngate,” murmured Mrs. Littlebridge.

“I am well content with my clothes,” Irene responded coolly.

Lady Claire, as always, quickly stepped into the conversation to avoid the possibility of conflict. “Miss Cantwell, you must tell us about the wedding at Redfields. I am sure we are all eager to hear about it.”

Irene’s mother had chosen the topic well. The marriage of the Viscount Leighton to Constance Woodley a week before had been the highlight of the social year, and an invitation to witness the wedding at Leighton’s family estate had been highly sought after. All those who had managed to attend were assured of being welcomed almost everywhere for their description of the wedding.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Littlebridge agreed. An inveterate social climber, she loved nothing more than gossip and storing up tales that she could repeat to make herself appear more important than she was. “Was the bride radiant?”

“She is pretty in her own way,” Miss Cantwell admitted. “But no family to speak of. One cannot help but feel that the viscount has married down.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Littlebridge nodded sagely. “A bit of a country mouse, I hear.”

“Exactly.” Miss Cantwell gave the other woman a thin smile. “But then, Leighton always has been a bit…well, unconventional.”

Irene, who felt sure that Miss Cantwell’s opinion of the viscount’s oddity sprang more from that very eligible bachelor’s complete disinterest in her own person than from anything else, said, “I quite like Miss Woodley—or I should say now, Lady Leighton. I find her refreshingly unpretentious.”

Maura let out a little brittle laugh. “You would find that admirable, of course, Irene. Not everyone admires a lack of refinement as you do, I fear.”

“I believe Lady Leighton was a good friend of the viscount’s sister, was she not?” Lady Claire said quickly.

“Oh, yes, Lady Haughston took her on as one of her projects,” Mrs. Littlebridge affirmed. “She introduced the girl to her brother, of course.”

“And before that, she completely made the girl over.” Mrs. Cantwell spoke up. “Constance Woodley was an utter dowd before Lady Haughston came along and turned her into a swan.”

“She has a knack for it,” Lady Claire commented. “There was that Bainborough girl last Season, and before that, Miss Everhart. Made excellent marriages, both of them.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Cantwell nodded. “Lady Haughston has a golden touch. Everyone knows that if she takes a girl up, that girl is destined to make a good marriage.”

“Why, Irene,” Maura said playfully. “Perhaps we should ask Lady Haughston to help you find a husband.”

“Thank you, Maura, but I am not looking for one,” Irene replied tartly, looking the other woman in the eyes.

“Not looking for a husband?” Mrs. Littlebridge said lightly, and gave a laugh. “Really, Lady Irene, what young girl is not looking for a husband?”

“I, for one,” Irene replied flatly.

Mrs. Littlebridge’s eyebrows lifted a little in disbelief.

“Such words are fine for pride’s sake,” Maura commented, casting a knowing smile toward their trio of callers. “But you are among friends here, Irene. We all know that any woman’s true aim in life is to marry. Otherwise, what is she to do? Live in another woman’s house all her life?” She paused and turned her gaze to Irene. “Of course, Lord Wyngate and I would like nothing better than to have you as our companion for the rest of our lives. But I am thinking of you and your happiness. You really should talk to Lady Haughston about it. She is a friend of yours, is she not?”

Irene heard the bitterness that underlay her sister-in-law’s sweet tone. It had always been a thorn in Maura’s side that she had come from a provincial family of genteel breeding but unimportant name, that she had not spent her life, as Irene had, among the ton, known to and received by anyone of consequence.

“I know Lady Haughston, of course,” Irene replied. “But we are no more than social acquaintances, really. I would not call Lady Haughston my friend.”

“Ah, but then, there are so few who could be called your friend,” Maura tossed back.

There was a moment of startled silence at that cutting remark, but then Maura adopted an expression of embarrassment and raised her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my, how that must sound! Of course, I did not mean that you have no friends, dear sister. There are a number of them, of course. Are there not, Lady Claire?” She cast an appealing glance at Irene’s mother.

“Yes, of course.” Color stained Claire’s cheeks. “There is Miss Livermore.”

“Of course!” Maura exclaimed, her expression clearly stating her relief that Irene’s mother had managed to come up with an example. “And then the vicar’s wife back at the country house is so fond of you.” She paused, then shrugged, as though abandoning the futile search for friends, and leaned forward, looking at Irene earnestly as she said, “You know that I want only what is best for you, don’t you, dear? All any of us want is for you to be happy. Isn’t that true, Lady Claire?”

“Yes, of course,” Claire agreed, glancing unhappily at her daughter.

“But I am happy, Mother,” Irene lied, then turned back to Maura, continuing in a flat tone, “How could I be anything but happy, after all, living here with you, dear sister?”

Maura ignored her words, going on in the same earnest, helpful way. “I want only to help you, Irene. To improve your life. I am sure you must know that. Unfortunately, not everyone knows you as I do. They see only your demeanor. Your sharp tongue, my dear, keeps people at bay. However much they might want to get to know you better, your, well, your acerbic wit, your bluntness, frightens people away. It is for that reason that you have so few bosom friends, so few suitors. Your manner is most unappealing to men.”

She looked to her friends for confirmation. “A man does not want a wife who will correct him or who will ring a peal over his head if he does something amiss. Is that not true, ladies?”

Irene’s eyes flashed, and she said tightly, “Your information, while no doubt well intentioned, is of little use to me. As I told you, I am not interested in acquiring a husband.”

“Now, now, Lady Irene,” Mrs. Cantwell began, with a condescending smile that grated on Irene’s nerves.

Irene swung toward her, and the light in her eyes made the other woman swallow whatever she had been planning to say. “I do not wish to marry. I refuse to marry. I have no intention of giving any man control over me. I will not meekly become some man’s chattel or let some man with less wit than I have tell me what to think or say or do.”

She stopped, pressing her lips together, regretting that she had let Maura push her into revealing so much of herself.

Across from her, Maura let out a little laugh and cast a wry look at the other women, saying, “A woman does not have to be under a man’s thumb, dear. She simply makes him think that he is in control. She just has to learn how to lead a man into doing exactly what she wishes. The trick, of course, is in making him believe that it was all his idea.”

Their visitors joined Maura in her arch laughter, and Mrs. Littlebridge added, “Indeed, Lady Wyngate, that is the way of the world.”

“I have no interest in such pretense and trickery,” Irene retorted. “I would rather remain a spinster than have to cajole and lie to be able to do what I should have every right to do.”

Maura clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic. “Irene, my dear, we are not saying you should deceive anyone. I am merely talking about making the most of your looks and covering up…certain aspects of your character. You dress much too plainly.” She gestured with disdain toward Irene’s body. “That gown you are wearing, for instance. Why must it be that drab shade of brown? And you have no need to wear such a high neckline. Why not show off your shoulders and arms a little? Even your evening gowns have such an air of severity—it is no wonder men rarely ask you to dance! Is it not enough that you are so tall? Must you stand so arrow straight and hide your shape?”

Irene could hear the real frustration creeping into Maura’s saccharine tones, and she knew that however much her sister-in-law might enjoy pointing out Irene’s defects under the guise of helpful advice, Maura was also honestly put out by Irene’s lack of suitors. Maura would love to be rid of her altogether, and marriage was the only option open to her, short of murder—which not even Irene would accuse Maura of being capable of. No matter how much Humphrey was under his wife’s thumb, even Maura must know he would not agree to turning his own sister out of the house, and in any case, the woman surely knew that such callous treatment of her husband’s sister would earn her the disapproval of the ton. No, as long as Irene remained unmarried, Maura was saddled with her—a fact that doubtless irritated her almost as much as it did Irene.

“And your hair!” Maura went on relentlessly. “Heaven knows it is a trifle…unruly.” She frowned at Irene’s curling mass of dark golden hair, pulled back ruthlessly into a knot. “But the color is quite nice, really. And your lashes are long and luckily brown, not fair, so that you do not have that hairless look that one sees in some blondes.”

“Why, thank you, Maura,” Irene murmured drily. “Your compliments overwhelm me.”

Maura shrugged. “I am simply saying that you could make yourself look much more attractive if you would just try a little. Why, one would think that you are trying to drive men away rather than attract them.”

“Perhaps I am.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then Miss Cantwell let out a nervous titter. “Lady Irene! One might almost suppose you are serious.”

Irene did not bother to respond to the woman’s remark. Miss Cantwell would never understand, any more than any of the other women present, that Irene truly did not want to marry. Marriage was the goal of every woman’s life, as far as they were concerned. The pursuit of a husband was the focal point of a woman’s coming out—and of every Season thereafter, until she finally managed to snag one.

Marriage-minded mothers mapped out campaigns for their daughters like war-hardened generals. Skirmishes were played out on the fields of ballrooms, opera boxes and open-air carriage rides through Hyde Park, and the weapons of choice were frocks, curls, flirtatious glances over the top of one’s fan and—most lethal of all—gossip. Victory lay in snapping up an eligible bachelor, and few considered the years that lay ahead after the all-important ring was placed upon their finger.

No doubt Miss Cantwell and her mother were in the midst of that vital fray now. They would assume that any protestations Irene made were simply sour grapes for having lost that battle herself, for being a twenty-five-year-old spinster with no prospects other than living with her family for the rest of her life.

Irene sighed. She did not envy Miss Cantwell the marriage she hoped for. But she did wish that she could muster more equanimity to face the future she would have because she would not marry.

Maura leaned forward and laid her hand on Irene’s arm, smiling sweetly. “Now, dear, do not sigh. ’Tis not so bad. We shall find you a husband yet. Perhaps we should pay a visit to Lady Haughston.”

Irene grimaced, irritated that she had given Maura any glimpse of her discontent by sighing. “Don’t be absurd,” she told her crisply. “I told you, I am not seeking a husband. And if I were, I would not ask some silly butterfly like Francesca Haughston to help me.”

She stood up, too annoyed to worry about her bad manners. “Excuse me, ladies. I fear I have something of a headache.”

Then she turned and strode out of the room without waiting for a reply.

A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among Lady Wyngate and her friends, Francesca Haughston sat in the sitting room that was her favorite spot in the house, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the formal drawing room, and decorated in a sunny yellow that seemed to catch every stray ray of sun that flowed in through the west-facing windows. It was a pleasant place, furnished with pieces that, if a trifle shabby, were comfortable and dear to her. It was the room she used most, particularly in the fall and winter, for it was warmer than the other rooms, and it was cheaper to keep a fire here than in the larger drawing room. Of course, the fire was not of importance now, as it was the middle of August, but it was still the room she chose whenever she was alone.

Since the Season was over and many of the ton had returned to their country seats, she had few visitors these days, only her closest friends. As a consequence, the formal withdrawing room was kept closed, and Francesca spent her time here.

She was seated at the small secretary beside the windows, her accounts ledger open before her. She had been poring over the figures, but the pencil now lay in the trough between the pages, and she was gazing out at the small side garden, where the roses were putting up a last colorful show before autumn arrived.

Her problem, as always, was money—rather, a lack of it. Her late husband had been a profligate spender and unwise investor, and when he had died a few years ago, he had left her with little but her fashionable clothes and her jewelry. His estate, of course, had been entailed, passing to his cousin so that she no longer had a home except in London, a house that Andrew himself had purchased and had been able to bequeath to her. She had closed off all of one wing in an effort to economize, and had, with regret, let many of the servants go, keeping only a skeleton staff. She had also greatly curtailed her spending.

Even so, Francesca barely managed to scrape by. The easiest and most obvious way by which she could become wealthy—marrying again—she had rejected out of hand. She would have to be in much worse condition than she had yet fallen into to be willing to embark on that path once more.

There was a noise at the door, and she turned her head. Her personal maid, Maisie, stood there, looking uncertain. Francesca smiled and gestured to her to enter.

“My lady, I did not wish to disturb you, but the butcher’s man is here again, and he has been most insistent. Cook says he refuses to sell her any more meat until she pays her account.”

“Of course. Yes.” Francesca opened the slender drawer of the writing table and took out a coin purse. She pulled a gold coin from it and held it out to the girl. “This should be enough to hold him off.”

Maisie took the coin but continued to stand there, looking worried. “I could take something to sell for you, if you want. Maybe that bracelet.”

Over the years since her husband’s death, in order to survive, Francesca had sold off much of her jewelry and a number of other valuable items. It was Maisie who had taken such things to the jeweler’s or the silversmith. Of all the people in the world, it was Maisie who knew her best and whom she trusted the most. Only a few years older than Francesca, Maisie had been her maid since she married Lord Haughston, and had been with her through every up and down. Maisie alone never suggested to Francesca that she ease her situation by accepting one of her many suitors.

For the past few years, Francesca had ingeniously supported herself by bringing out young girls and helping them find husbands on the marriage mart. Faced with the harsh reality that she was running out of items to sell or pawn and that there was little opportunity for a woman such as herself to earn her way other than to marry or to sell her virtue, she had sat down and assessed her skills. There was one thing at which she was an expert: attracting suitors.

She had, of course, some natural advantages in that area. Her figure was elegantly slender, her hair a guinea gold, and her large eyes were a vivid dark blue. But there had always been a great deal more to Francesca’s success in the social world than her physical attributes. Just as her family’s long and respected lineage could only place her in the upper reaches of society, not make her a leading light of the ton, so, too, could her looks account for only a portion of her appeal.

Francesca had style. She had personality. She knew how to smile to make the dimple flash in her cheek, how to look at a man over her fan in a way that made his pulse speed up, or to gaze up at him in a manner designed to make the hardest heart melt. Quick of wit, she could engage in conversation on almost any topic and bring a smile to almost any lips. She knew how to dress for every occasion, and, moreover, she had an unerring sense of color and cut that rarely steered her wrong. Social occasions were her natural milieu, and she not only gave memorable parties, but she could enliven even the dullest gathering.

All her life she had helped her friends with questions of style and taste, and when she had guided the daughter of one of her late husband’s relatives through the treacherous social waters of a Season and been rewarded by a gift of a large silver epergne from the girl’s grateful parents, she had seen a way to maintain her style of living without really appearing to engage in that object of horror to English aristocrats: gainful employment.

She had pawned the silver epergne she was given, and paid her servants and many of her household bills with it. Then she had proceeded to maneuver herself into the path of mothers with marriageable daughters, especially those whose daughters had not really “taken.” A suggestion here, an offer there, and soon she had a steady stream of young girls whom she helped to turn out and find an eligible husband.

Her most recent project had been the result of a wager with the Duke of Rochford. The duke had promised her a bracelet if she won, against Francesca’s promise to pay a visit with him to his rather terrifying great-aunt Odelia. It had been absurd, and she had entered into it only because Rochford had goaded her. However, to Francesca’s surprise, the whole thing had resulted in Francesca’s own brother falling in love with and marrying Miss Constance Woodley. It had scarcely been what Francesca had envisioned, but it had turned out in the end to be something much better.

The duke had given her the bracelet, as well—a circlet of perfect deep-blue sapphires linked together by sparkling diamonds. The bracelet lay upstairs in the bottom compartment of her jewelry box, next to a set of sapphire earrings, given to her long ago and never sold.

Francesca looked up at her maid, who was watching her shrewdly. Francesca shook her head. “No, I won’t sell it just yet. One must keep something in reserve, after all.”

Maisie said only, “Yes, my lady,” in a noncommittal tone as she tucked the coin into her pocket and turned to leave the room. At the door, the girl paused and cast a last, considering look at her employer before she went out into the hall.

Francesca saw the glance. She knew the maid was curious, but Maisie was not one to pry, and, in any case, Francesca had no answer for her, really. The bracelet, and Rochford, were topics best left alone.

What she really needed to think about was what she was going to do to get by until the next Season began. It was unlikely that she would come upon a mother or father eager to marry a daughter off until next April, when the new social Season would start and there would be debuts at court and a large number of routs, balls and soirees at which parents could show off their nubile young daughters and see what prospective husbands awaited.

There was what was often termed the Little Season, which took place roughly from September to November, during which some of the sophisticates, bored by their sojourn in the country, returned to London to enjoy its entertainments. However, it was not the prime husband-hunting venue that the full Season was; there were far fewer young girls and, indeed, fewer people in general. Francesca knew that it would be unlikely that she could find a prospect to “help” during this time.

And while the payment she had given him would hold the butcher off for a few weeks, there were a number of other creditors who would soon be importuning her, and she hadn’t enough to hold them all off. Perhaps she could come up with a stray silver tray or some such thing to sell; she would have to go up to the attic and dig through all the trunks. Even so, she did not think that one or two small silver pieces would get her through until April.

Of course, she could shut down the house and go to stay at Redfields, where she had grown up. She knew that her brother Dominic and his new wife would welcome her graciously, but she hated to impose upon the newly married pair. They were scarcely back from their honeymoon. It was bad enough that the couple had his parents living in the manor house just down the lane from them. It would be unfair to saddle them with his sister, too.

No, she would spend a month at Redfields at Christmas, no more. She could, she supposed, follow the example of her good friend Sir Lucien, who, on the frequent occasions when he found himself short of funds, always managed to wangle an invitation to this estate or that for a few weeks. Of course, a handsome, entertaining bachelor was a most sought-after guest to round out the numbers of a house party; it always seemed that there were extra women. Besides, she hated having to maneuver someone into inviting her for a visit.

Perhaps it would be better to visit one of her relatives. There was Aunt Lucinda, with her deadly dull daughter, Maribel. They would be happy to have her join them in their Sussex cottage, and after a time there, she could spend a few weeks with Cousin Adelaide, who lived in a large rambling manor house in Norfolk and always welcomed visitors to help her oversee her enormous brood of children.

On the other hand, Francesca decided, it would not hurt to sit down and write to a few friends and mention how deadly dull it was in town now that everyone had left….

She was distracted from her thoughts by the entrance of the parlor maid. “My lady, you have visitors.” She cast an anxious look over her shoulder and turned back to Francesca, saying quickly, “I asked them to let me see if you were at home—”

“Nonsense!” came a booming woman’s voice. “Lady Francesca is always home to me.”

Francesca’s eyes widened. The voice sounded familiar. She rose to her feet, pulled up by a vague but powerful sense of foreboding. That voice…

A tall, stout woman dressed all in purple swept into the room. The style of her clothes was at least ten years out of date. This oddity was no indication of a lack of funds, for it was quite clear that the velvet from which they were sewn was new and expensive, and the hand at work was that of a master. Rather, it was simply proof that Lady Odelia Pencully had ridden roughshod over the desires of some modiste, as she was wont to do over everyone who came into her path.

“Lady Odelia,” Francesca said faintly, stepping forward on leaden feet. “I—What an unexpected pleasure.”

The older woman let out an inelegant snort. “No need to lie, girl. I know you’re scared of me.” Her tone indicated no regret over this fact.

Francesca’s gaze went past Lady Odelia to the man who had followed her down the hall. Tall, with an aristocratic bearing, he was as elegant as he was handsome, from the top of his raven-black hair to the tips of his polished black boots, made by Weston. Not a hair was out of place, and his countenance was politely expressionless, but Francesca could detect the glimmer of devilish amusement in his dark eyes.

“Lord Rochford,” she acknowledged him, her voice cool, with just an overlay of irritation. “How kind of you to bring your aunt to visit me.”

His mouth twitched a little at her words, but his expression remained imperturbable as he executed a politely perfect bow. “Lady Haughston. A pleasure to see you, as always.”

Francesca nodded toward the maid. “Thank you, Emily. If you would bring us some tea…”

The girl left, looking relieved. Lady Odelia strode past Francesca toward the sofa.

As the duke moved forward, Francesca leaned in a little toward him, whispering, “How could you?”

Rochford’s lips curled into a small smile, quickly gone, and he replied in a low voice, “I assure you, I had no choice.”

“Don’t blame Rochford,” Lady Odelia boomed from her seat on the sofa. “I told him I would come to see you with or without him. I suspect he is here more to try to curtail me than anything else.”

“Dear aunt,” the duke responded. “I would never be so audacious as to curtail you in any way.”

The old lady let out another snort. “You’ll note I said ‘try.’” She cast him a roguish glance.

“Of course.” Rochford inclined his head respectfully toward her.

“Well, sit down, girl,” Lady Odelia commanded Francesca, nodding toward a chair. “Don’t keep the boy on his feet.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Francesca quickly dropped into the nearest chair.

The duke took a place beside his great-aunt on the sofa.

Francesca felt about sixteen again, as she always did in the intimidating Lady Pencully’s presence. She had no doubt that Rochford’s great-aunt had immediately seen her dress for what it was—over four years old and resewn into a more contemporary style—and at the same time had noted that the draperies were faded and that one leg of the table against the wall had a large nick in it.

Francesca forced herself to smile at Odelia. “I must admit, I am rather surprised to see you here. I had heard you no longer traveled into London.”

“Don’t, if I can help it. I’ll be frank with you, girl. Never thought I’d come asking you for help. Flighty thing, I always thought you.”

Francesca’s smile grew even stiffer. “I see.”

The duke stirred a little in his seat. “Aunt—”

“Oh, don’t get your feathers ruffled,” the old lady barked. She cast a glance at Rochford. “Don’t mean I don’t like her. Always had a soft spot for the girl. Not sure why.”

Rochford pressed his lips tightly together to suppress a smile and carefully avoided looking at Francesca’s expression.

“Francesca knows that,” Lady Odelia went on, giving her a nod. “Thing is, I do need your help. I’ve come to beg a favor of you.”

“Of course,” Francesca murmured, her mind skittering anxiously over what no-doubt unpleasant task the woman could have in mind for her.

“The reason I am here…well, I’ll just be plain about it. I am here to find a wife for my great-nephew.”

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WAS A MOMENT of stunned silence in the room after the formidable old woman’s announcement. Francesca gaped at the woman, and her eyes slid involuntarily toward Rochford.

“I…um…” she stammered, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks.

“No, not him!” Lady Odelia exclaimed, and let out a crow of laughter. “Been trying for the best part of fifteen years with this one. Even I have given up hope. No, the Lilles line will have to go down through that foolish Bertrand, if it is to continue at all.” She heaved a sigh at this prospect.

“I’m sorry.” Francesca’s cheeks were thoroughly aflame now. “I didn’t—I am not sure I understand.”

“I’m talking about my sister’s grandson.”

“Oh! I see. I’m not—um, I don’t believe I know your sister, my lady.”

“Pansy,” Lady Odelia said, and sighed. It was clear from her expression that Lady Odelia found her sister lacking. “There were four of us—besides the three children that died in childhood, of course. I was the eldest, and then there was my brother, who, of course, grew up to be the duke. He was Rochford’s grandfather. After him was our sister Mary, and finally, the youngest, Pansy. Pansy married Lord Radbourne. Gladius, his name was. Damned silly name. His mother chose it, and a more foolish woman never lived. But that’s neither here nor there. The problem is Pansy’s grandson, Gideon. Lord Cecil’s son.”

“Oh.” Francesca recognized the name. “Lord Radbourne.”

Lady Odelia nodded. “Aye, you understand me now, I warrant. You’ll have heard the gossip.”

“Well…” Francesca demurred.

“No point trying to deny it. It was all over the ton the last few months.”

Francesca nodded. “Of course.”

Lady Odelia was right. Francesca—along with all the ton and, indeed, much of the rest of London—had heard the gossip. Many years ago, when he was only a lad of four, Gideon Bankes, the heir to the Radbourne title and estate, had been kidnapped, along with his mother. Neither the boy nor his mother was ever seen again. Then, years after he had been long-presumed dead, Gideon Bankes had reappeared.

His reappearance, and his inheritance of the title and estate of the Earl of Radbourne, had been the talk of the town for several weeks. Everyone Francesca knew had had an opinion on the matter—what the suddenly reclaimed heir was like, where he had been all these years and whether he was, in actuality, an imposter. There had been more questions than there were facts, for few people had actually met the new earl, and very few of those had offered any gossip.

Francesca looked again at the duke. She had seen him here and there, at various parties, over the past few months, but never had he said a word about the recovery of the lost heir. Indeed, she had not even realized that Rochford was in any way connected to the Bankes family. This fact only served to confirm her opinion that the Duke of Rochford was the most tight-lipped gentleman she knew. It was, she thought with a little flash of irritation, quite typical of the man.

“I am sure that what you have heard is mostly wrong,” Lady Odelia remarked. “I might as well tell you the whole of it.”

“Oh, no, I am sure that is not necessary,” Francesca began, torn between curiosity and the strong desire to get Lady Odelia out of her house.

“Nonsense. You need to hear the truth of it.”

“You may as well let her tell it,” Rochford advised Francesca. “You know it will be easier.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Sinclair,” his great-aunt admonished him.

Francesca noted somewhat sourly that Rochford, of course, did not seem at all in awe of the intimidating woman.

“Now,” Lady Odelia went on, “I am sure you don’t remember it, as you were just a child then yourself, but my nephew Cecil’s wife and son were abducted twenty-seven years ago. Frightful business. They received a letter demanding a ransom—a necklace of rubies and diamonds, dreadfully ugly thing, but worth a fortune, of course. It had been in the family for generations. Legend said it was given to them by a grateful Queen Elizabeth when she came to the throne. Cecil gave them what they asked for, but they did not give him back his wife and child. We all assumed both had been killed. Cecil was grief-stricken, but he held out hope that they would somehow, someday, return. Years went by before he remarried. Of course, when he did, he had to go through legal proceedings to have Selene—that was the first countess—declared dead. She had been missing for almost twenty years by then. But still, he did nothing about the boy. I presume he could not bring himself to admit that his child was dead.”

She shrugged and went on. “But then, a year ago, when Cecil himself died, something had to be done. If Gideon was still alive somewhere, then he would be the heir. However, Cecil’s second wife, Teresa, had given him a son, so if Gideon was dead, then Timothy would be the heir. Before we started legal proceedings, I set Rochford to see if he could turn up anything about Gideon.”

Francesca looked over at the duke. “Then…you are the one who found him?”

Rochford shrugged. “I can scarcely claim credit for it. All I did was hire a Runner to investigate the matter. He found Gideon in London. He was going by the name Gideon Cooper, and he had made something of a fortune for himself. Had no idea who he really was.”

“He didn’t remember anything?” Francesca asked in surprise.

“Apparently not—other than his given name, of course. He was only four when he was taken. He can remember nothing before the time when he was a street urchin in London.”

“But someone must have taken him in, cared for him,” Francesca protested. “Did they know nothing about how they came to have him? Where he came from?”

“Nothing,” Lady Odelia declared with disgust. “He says he never had any parents, that he grew up with a bunch of disreputable children in the stews of the East End. Imagine, the son of an earl, a boy with Lilles and Bankes blood flowing through his veins, living hand to mouth in some hovel, consorting with God-knows-what sort of riffraff!” She shook her head, the purple plumes that curled over her unfashionably high hairstyle bobbing wildly with her movements.

“But how did you know that it was Gideon?” Francesca asked curiously. “If he could not even remember, and there is no one around who raised him…”

“Oh, it was he, all right,” Lady Odelia’s tone suggested that she was less than pleased about the fact. “He had the birthmark—a little raspberry-colored blotch beside his left shoulder blade. Gideon had exactly the same mark from the time he was born. Pansy and I both remembered it. Of course, it looks smaller on an adult, but there is no mistaking it. A bit like a lopsided diamond. And, of course, he has the look of the Bankses. The Lilles jaw and hair, as well.”

“I see,” Francesca said somewhat untruthfully. The truth was that while Lady Odelia’s story was certainly interesting, she did not really understand why the woman had told it to her. She hesitated, then said, “I am sure you are quite happy to have him back after all this time.” She looked from Lady Odelia to the duke, but there was nothing in his carefully schooled face that offered any enlightenment to her. She turned back to the older woman. “I’m not sure…that is…well, why do you need my help—or anyone else’s, for that matter—to find a suitable wife for Lord Radbourne? You know everyone. Indeed, you know them better than I.”

“It is not finding a suitable woman. It is finding someone who is willing,” Lady Pencully replied.

Francesca stared. “But surely, with his title and property…”

“Lord Radbourne has not been out much in society. No doubt it has been remarked upon,” Lady Odelia said, fixing Francesca with her penetrating gaze.

“Well, um…” Francesca tried to think of a suitable reply.

The truth was, gossip had been rampant regarding the newly found earl’s absence from Society’s rounds. Though he had turned up several months ago, he had not appeared at any parties this Season. Rumors had run the gamut from his suffering from some hideous deformity to his being a criminal to his being utterly mad.

“Don’t knit your brow over how to tell me,” Lady Odelia went on brusquely. “Believe me, I have heard all the stories. He isn’t crook-backed or stunted or covered in boils. Nor is he stark-staring mad. But the truth is…well, he is…quite common.”

Lady Odelia uttered the words in a hushed voice, as though admitting the darkest of secrets, and she squared her shoulders as she gazed at Francesca, waiting for her retort.

“Aunt Odelia, aren’t you being a trifle hard on the man?” Rochford remonstrated. “I think Radbourne’s done quite well for himself, particularly given the circumstances.”

“Yes, if you are talking about making money,” Lady Odelia sniffed. “He has done a good deal of that.” Clearly her great-nephew’s financial success had not met with her approval.

“Scarcely the mark of a gentleman,” she went on flatly. “The truth is, his past is, well, unsavory. I am not aware of the particulars—and, frankly, I do not care to be.” She turned her fierce gaze on Rochford again, then swung back to Francesca. “He lived among the worst sort of people, far from the influence of his family and peers. The result is that he is lacking in the qualities that make up a gentleman. His speech and manners are quite unrefined, and his education is woefully short.”

“Gideon is very well-read, Aunt.” Rochford came to the man’s defense again, but his great-aunt waved away his words.

“Pshaw!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “I am not talking about books, Sinclair. I am talking about his education in the things that count—he cannot dance, and he has no idea how to make polite conversation. The man can barely sit a horse.” She paused to let that horror sink in. “He is much too familiar with the servants and the tenants, yet he scarcely says a word to his family or even the local gentry. Fortunately, we have managed to get him to stay at the Hall most of the time, but now he insists on returning to London.”

“He does have business here,” the duke pointed out mildly.

“And what if someone we know sees him conducting his…business?” Lady Odelia gave a theatrical shudder at the thought.

“Aunt Odelia, I think there is little for anyone to remark upon on seeing a man going into a bank or meeting with his clerks,” Rochford protested, his voice edging into irritation. “Come now, you will make Lady Haughston think that he should be locked up in the attic.”

“Would that I could lock him away,” Lady Odelia retorted.

The duke’s dark brows drew together, and he took a breath before answering her. It occurred to Francesca that she might soon have a battle between these two right here in her sitting room.

“But, Lady Odelia,” she intervened hastily, “I am afraid I still do not quite see what I have to do with all this. How can I introduce him to anyone if he has no interest in Society?”

“She wants you to help her arrange the poor chap’s life for him,” Rochford responded in a biting tone.

Francesca’s eyebrows sailed upward, and she said coolly, “I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t be difficult, Sinclair,” Lady Odelia admonished. “There is no need to snap at Francesca just because you are annoyed with me.”

Rochford’s mouth tightened, and he flashed a hot glance at Francesca, but he bowed his head in polite acquiescence and said, “Of course. Forgive me, Lady Haughston. I meant you no disrespect.”

“Do not worry,” Francesca murmured in a silky tone. “I have learned not to put overmuch importance on what you say.”

She was rewarded by a sardonic look from beneath his brows, but the duke said nothing more.

“It isn’t that I dislike the boy,” Lady Odelia went on, ignoring their exchange. “He is my great-nephew, after all, and I hope it never will be said that I denigrated any of my own blood—although God knows, Bertrand has tested my limits often enough. However, Gideon is a Lilles, at least in part, and it is scarcely his fault that he does not know how to act. So I put my mind to it and came up with a solution.” She paused and looked at Francesca, then announced, “Gideon must marry. And you are just the woman we need.”

“Oh.” Was the woman suggesting that she herself marry the man, Francesca wondered with horror.

“We must attach him to a thoroughly respectable, quite proper woman. One of unquestionable breeding and taste. It is to be hoped that she will be able to influence him, direct him into better behavior. Smooth some of his rough edges and cover up his flaws. And if she cannot, well, at least she will insure that his children will be suitably well-bred.”

Lady Odelia paused, then went on didactically. “A proper marriage goes far in overcoming the taint of scandal. If a woman of impeccable lineage is willing to ally herself to him, then everyone else will prove more amenable to overlooking his various…problems.”

“Well,” Francesca began carefully, “As I said, I should think you would have no problem finding a suitable candidate. Surely there are a number of women of good name who would be quite happy to marry a man who has both Bankes and Lilles blood flowing through his veins, as well, no doubt, as that of several other prominent families.”

“Of course there are,” Lady Odelia said impatiently. “I’ve brought at least five girls to Radbourne Hall and made introductions. The problem is, in more than half those instances, they or their families cry off once they’ve met him. And the rest of them, Gideon has rejected. Imagine…girls I personally vetted, and he disapproves of them.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Francesca offered lamely.

“The Bennington girl does have a squint,” Rochford pointed out. “Miss Farnley is a goose, and Lady Helen is dull as ditchwater.”

“Well, what does that matter?” Lady Odelia queried. “He doesn’t have to talk to them.”

Rochford’s mouth quirked up on one side, but he said only, “Yes. Well, I suspect he would have to at some point.”

“I suppose I should have expected it of him,” his great-aunt opined, ignoring his remark. “The Lord only knows what sort of woman he would prefer. That is another reason why it is so imperative that we find a proper wife for him, and soon. When I think of who he might bring home if left to his own devices…” She shook her head. “Of course, we cannot force him to marry anyone,” she continued, looking quite annoyed at the thought. “So we decided to turn to you.”

She looked at Francesca.

“Everyone says you have had such success in this area. Well, look at the way you matched up that Woodley girl with your brother—though I cannot think but that you could have found someone with a bit more funds to her name. Still, she seems a very pleasant girl.”

“You want me to help find a wife for Lord Radbourne?” Francesca exclaimed, flooded with relief that Lady Odelia was not trying to persuade Francesca herself to marry the man.

“Of course, girl. What have we been talking about this past half hour?” Odelia retorted. “Really, Francesca, you must pay more attention.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Francesca replied quickly.

“Though I scarcely see how you can manage to marry him off, when all our best efforts have failed,” Lady Odelia went on. “But Rochford assured me that you were best person for the task,” the older woman added.

“Really?” Francesca glanced with some surprise at Lord Rochford.

“Yes,” he answered, and he leaned forward, his face serious. “I hope that you will be able to find the right person for Gideon. The man has suffered quite enough already in his life. He deserves some happiness.”

His black eyes were intent upon her face. Francesca had wondered how Lady Odelia had trapped Rochford into accompanying her on this errand, but she saw now that the duke was here out of a real concern for Lord Radbourne. Unlike his great-aunt, he seemed to hope that Francesca would come up with a wife for Gideon not to please the family, but to help the man.

“If you could come to Radbourne Hall and meet Gideon, see what he is really like, I think that you could find the right woman for him,” the duke went on.

“I see.” Francesca felt strangely touched. Before this, she would have said that he thought her matchmaking efforts were at best harmless foolishness.

“That is precisely the thing,” Lady Odelia agreed. “You must come to the Hall and meet him. Then you’ll understand. And perhaps you might be able to polish him up a bit before he actually meets any of the girls you choose. Whatever else anyone might say about you, your manners are always impeccable.”

“Why, thank you,” Francesca responded drily. “But I am not sure whether I should do this. Whether I can…”

She looked at Lady Odelia, imposing in her outdated purple satin dress and towering hair. Francesca did not relish the idea of dealing with Lady Odelia on a daily basis. She had little doubt but that the woman would poke her nose into everything that Francesca did, questioning and quibbling at every turn. Moreover, Lord Radbourne did not sound like a very pleasant person to deal with, either. And what if she would have to deal with the duke, as well?

Francesca stole a glance at him. Things never went smoothly with Rochford.

Her instinct was to refuse to do what Lady Odelia asked. But on the other hand, Francesca could not help but think that it would be foolish to do so. After all, had she not just been wondering how she would survive until next spring? This seemed the answer to her problems. Lady Odelia, she knew, would reward her with a handsome gift if she managed to pull off the feat of marrying her great-nephew to an acceptable woman. And if she were living at the Hall, her own expenses would be decreased quite considerably.

Besides, there was the way the duke had asked for her help with finding Gideon a wife. How could she refuse?

“Very well,” she said. “I will do what I can.”

“Excellent!” Lady Odelia nodded her head sharply. “Rochford said we could count on you.”

“He did?” Francesca glanced at the duke in surprise.

“Of course,” he responded with that slow, sardonic smile that rarely failed to irritate her. “I knew you could not resist something so clearly doomed to failure.”

“Now,” Lady Odelia said, “we can get down to details. She must be a biddable girl, of course, who is aware of her responsibilities to her family. It will not do to find one who will get her back up at the slightest suggestion.”

In other words, Francesca thought, someone whom Lady Odelia could bend to her will.

“She must be able to wield a beneficial influence over Gideon.”

Meaning that she must be able to bend her husband to her will, Francesca interpreted.

“And well-educated, though not, of course, a bluestocking.”

“Naturally,” Francesca murmured.

Lady Odelia continued to list the many qualities she sought in a wife for her great-nephew, a large number of which were contradictory, and Francesca smiled and nodded politely, though her mind was busy elsewhere. She was more interested in reviewing the unmarried women of the ton in the hopes of finding a few who would be suitable—and willing—to attach themselves to the new Earl of Radbourne than she was in hearing Lady Odelia’s opinions on the matter. Clearly Lady Odelia had been unable to come up with the right lady, so Francesca saw little point in being guided by her wishes.

Having finally ground to a halt regarding the qualities she felt necessary in the future Countess of Radbourne, Lady Odelia launched into a list of possible candidates. “You might start with Lord Hurley’s daughter. Good name. And a steady sort. Not one to get up in the boughs over every little thing.”

A pained look crossed the duke’s face. “Aunt Odelia,” he remonstrated, “the woman’s horse mad.”

Lady Odelia turned a blank look on him. “Of course. She’s Hurley’s offspring.”

“But Gideon scarcely rides.”

Lady Odelia rolled her eyes. “Well, he scarcely needs a wife who’ll be forever in his pocket, does he? It isn’t as if we are talking about a love match.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?” the duke murmured.

Before Lady Odelia could continue her roster of available girls, the parlor maid once again appeared at the doorway, bobbing a curtsey.

“The Earl of Radbourne, my lady,” she announced.

Even Lady Odelia fell silent at her words. As the three occupants of the room turned to stare, a man strode past the maid into the room.

“Gideon!” Lady Odelia exclaimed, looking astonished.

Francesca studied her visitor with interest. She did not know what she had expected the lost heir to look like, but this man was not it. She supposed that she had assumed he would be rather bumbling and ill at ease, an obvious fish out of water.

This man appeared about as ill at ease as a slab of marble. Though less tall than the lean and elegant duke, Lord Radbourne gave the impression of being a larger man. He was powerfully built, with a wide chest and muscular arms. His solid body was packed into a well-cut but plain black suit and mirror-polished boots, and he gave off an aura of wealth and strength.

Yet despite the expensive clothes and his air of confidence, there was some indefinable quality about him that hinted that he was not a gentleman. It was perhaps his thick black hair, worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and carelessly combed back. Or the hard set of his handsome face, tanner than that of most gentlemen. But no, Francesca thought, the difference lay in his eyes—cold and slightly wary, looking out on the world with the hard readiness that bespoke a life spent on the streets rather than in the lap of luxury.

When he opened his mouth, the impression that he did not belong among the aristocracy was confirmed. His grammar was correct, and only the merest tinge of an East End accent clung to his words, but there was some quality in his speech that would have hinted to any astute listener that he was not “to the manor born.”

“Lady Odelia.” Gideon nodded shortly to his great-aunt; then his gaze swept dispassionately across to the duke. “Rochford.”

“Radbourne,” Rochford replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“No doubt.” Gideon’s voice was dry. He turned next to Francesca, executing a brief but serviceable bow. “My lady.”

Francesca rose, holding out her hand to him. “My lord. Please, join us.”

He nodded to her and walked across the room to take a chair just past where Lady Odelia sat. “Well, Aunt,” he began in a flat voice. “I presume you are once again engaged in arranging my life for me.”

Lady Odelia’s chin went up, and she looked back at Gideon somewhat defiantly. Francesca realized, with some amazement, that the intimidating Lady Pencully was actually a trifle afraid of this man.

“I hope to find an appropriate wife for you,” Lady Odelia replied. “I trust you realize that your position requires it.”

He gave her a long look from his bottle-green eyes, then said, “I am well aware of what my position requires.”

Gideon turned once again to Francesca. His gaze was cool and assessing, and Francesca reflected that his face was as unreadable as Rochford’s, but unlike the politely veiled expression the duke turned to the world, the Earl of Radbourne’s face was like stone.

Now, she thought, he would tell her that he did not require her assistance in finding a wife.

“I know that my grandmother and great-aunt are seeking a bride in an attempt to tame me. To make me more presentable—I cannot imagine that I will ever be ‘acceptable.’”

Odelia made a soft noise of protest, but when his gaze flickered her way, she fell silent.

Gideon turned back to Francesca. “I, of course, realize that it is a necessity that I marry. I am agreeable to it. Doubtless you will be as able to find a spouse for me as my grandmother and Lady Pencully have been. I do not think you could be less successful at it. I will rely on the duke’s assurance that you know what you are doing.”

“You told Gideon we were coming here?” Lady Odelia asked Rochford in some amazement.

“It seemed to me only fair, as it involves him,” Rochford replied calmly.

“Pray proceed, Lady Haughston, in your search for a suitable bride for me,” Lord Radbourne went on. “However, I feel I should point out that the woman in question will have to meet my approval, not Lady Pencully’s.” He paused, then added, “I prefer, you see, not to be saddled with a fool.”

“Of course,” Francesca replied. “I understand.”

“Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave.” He rose to his feet. “There are a number of matters regarding the business my family so disapproves of that require my notice.”

“Of course, my lord. No doubt we will talk again.”

He gave her a short nod, and bade goodbye to his cousin and great-aunt. He strode to the door, then turned and looked back at Francesca. “Lady Haughston…may I suggest one woman whom I would like to consider?”

Francesca caught Lady Odelia’s expression of amazement out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her gaze on Gideon, saying only, “Of course, my lord. Whom would you suggest?”

“Lady Irene Wyngate,” he replied.

CHAPTER THREE

IRENE WATCHED HER mother as she moved gracefully through the steps of a country dance with her cousin Harville. Sir Harville, whose party this was, was one of the few people with whom Lady Claire felt it was appropriate for a widow such as herself to dance. He was also one of the few people who could always bring a smile to her mother’s face.

For those reasons, Irene always looked forward to Lady Spence’s birthday ball. And since Sir Harville, instead of his penny-pinching wife, arranged the ball, the affair was also beautifully decorated and offered a midnight supper that would tempt even the faintest of appetites.

“Such a sweet little dance,” Irene’s sister-in-law said beside her, glancing about the ballroom with an expression that mingled approval with condescension. “Not nearly so grand a ballroom as we have at Wyngate House, but they have done it up very well.”

Irene suppressed a sigh. Maura was the mistress of the insult wrapped in a compliment. However, Irene had promised her mother that she would not quarrel with Maura tonight, so she made no comment.

“Lady Claire is in good looks tonight,” Maura went on. “Don’t you agree, Humphrey dear?”

She turned a sugary smile on her husband, standing on her other side. Humphrey smiled back, pleased at his wife’s comment, “Yes, she does look lovely. So like you to point that out.”

It never ceased to amaze Irene that her brother, so intelligent in so many other ways, never saw through Maura’s pretense of sweetness to the sharp claws beneath.

“No matter what others may say, I think it is wonderful for her to dance.”

Humphrey frowned a little. “Say? What does anyone say?”

“Nothing,” Irene assured him firmly, shooting Maura a daggerlike look.

“Of course not,” Maura agreed smoothly. “Why, there is nothing at all wrong with a woman of her age dancing with her cousin—even if it is such a lively dance. And while one would be quite correct in presuming that some women would do it to call attention to themselves, of course your mother would never do that.”

“No, never.” Humphrey blinked, looking at his wife with some concern. “Do people say that?”

“No,” Irene interrupted flatly. “They do not. There is nothing wrong with Mother’s dancing, even if it were not with her cousin, and no one of any consequence would say so.” She shot a fierce look at Maura as she spoke the last few words.

“Indeed not,” Maura agreed, assuming a prettily determined expression. “And so I shall tell anyone who has the audacity to say so.”

“Yes, quite.” Humphrey smiled down at his wife, though his eyes remained a little troubled. He turned to look at his mother again.

“And I beg you will not say anything to Mother about it,” Irene went on, iron in her voice. “It would be most unkind to make her worry in any way over doing something that she enjoys so much.”

“Oh, indeed.” Maura nodded. “Though one cannot help but wonder whether Lady Claire, with her sensibilities, might not decide that she would prefer to stand up to one of the more sedate tunes.”

“That is true,” Humphrey agreed, casting a fond look at his wife. “You are always so solicitous of Mother.”

“Humphrey!” Irene said sharply. “If you or Maura say anything to destroy Mother’s happiness in taking an innocent dance with her cousin—”

“Irene!” Maura looked shocked. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. “I would never hurt Lady Claire. Why, she is as dear to me as my own mother.”

“Irene, really,” Humphrey said, exasperated. “How could you say something so cruel? You know how Maura feels about Mother.”

“Yes,” Irene replied drily. “I do.”

“Sometimes your tongue is just too sharp. You know how sensitive Maura is.”

“Now, Humphrey, darling,” Maura said before Irene could speak, “I am sure that Irene did not mean to hurt me. She is so much stronger than other women. She does not understand how words can wound a softer nature.”

Irene curled her fingers into a fist by her side, willing herself not to lash back at Maura with cutting words. That would be playing right into her hands. For all her silliness, Maura was amazingly clever at manipulating a situation to her advantage.

As Irene swallowed her words, Maura cast her a maliciously triumphant look, then turned her head away. “Oh, look, Irene, here is Lady Haughston coming toward us. Now might be your chance to talk to her, as we were discussing the other day.”

“Talk about what?” Humphrey asked. “I didn’t realize you and Francesca Haughston were friends.”

“We are not,” Irene began.

“Never mind, dearest,” Maura put in, smiling at her husband. “It was just girl talk.”

“Ah.” He nodded, looking pleased at the thought of his wife and sister sharing girlish confidences. “Then I shall not press you.”

He bowed to Francesca as she reached them. “Lady Haughston. How good to see you.”

“Lord Wyngate. Lady Wyngate. Lady Irene.” Francesca favored them all with a smile. “Such a lovely ball, is it not?”

They spent a few minutes on the usual niceties, discussing the lovely fall weather, the lack of entertainment in London now that the Season was over, and the health and happiness of Lady Haughston’s brother and his new bride.

At a pause in the conversation, Francesca turned toward Irene and said, “I was about to take a stroll about the room. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

Surprised, Irene looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, “Why, yes, of course.”

Francesca smiled and stepped away, and Irene followed her, casting a suspicious glance at Lady Maura as she did so. Had Maura arranged this meeting with Lady Haughston? The surprise on Maura’s face appeared quite genuine, yet…

They strolled toward the opposite wall, where a bank of French doors had been opened to let in the evening air. As they walked, they exchanged the same sort of small nothings that they had been bandying about earlier, and Irene’s curiosity grew with each step. It seemed too odd a coincidence that Francesca Haughston should make an obvious effort to meet her only two days after Maura had been urging Irene to talk to the woman.

Irene had assumed that Maura was simply using Lady Haughston as an excuse to needle her about her spinster state and her many deficiencies of charm and character. But perhaps Maura had been serious. Perhaps Maura was willing to go to any lengths to see Irene marry, given that it would mean that Irene—and perhaps her mother, as well—would leave Maura’s house.

Color flooded Irene’s throat as she thought about the embarrassing possibility that Maura had been talking to Francesca Haughston about Irene’s failure to marry. She could well imagine how Maura would have smiled sweetly as she spoke of how sorry she felt for poor, unwanted Irene.

Irene set her jaw and cast a glance over at her companion. Would Francesca Haughston have any interest in doing Maura a favor? She could not imagine that the two of them were friends. Maura had only been around Lady Haughston a few times, and only in large social settings. And it seemed unlikely that Francesca would have sought out Maura’s friendship. However much Irene regarded Francesca as frivolous, she knew that Francesca was not goose-ish. She was a sophisticated hostess, a light of the ton. Her favor was pursued by many, and she was knowledgeable about the world and about people. Francesca surely would not be fooled by Maura’s manner, nor would she be impressed by the fact that Maura was married to Lord Wyngate.

No, Irene thought it unlikely that Francesca would have been particularly interested in doing Maura a favor. And even though she and Irene moved in the same circle, Francesca was seven or eight years older than Irene, and the two of them had never been what Irene would have termed friends, so Irene did not think that Francesca would have been moved by Maura’s pleas into doing Irene a favor, either. Moreover, Irene could not forget that look of surprise on Maura’s face when Francesca had taken Irene away from them. Surely Maura was not that good at dissembling.

But that left the question of why Francesca had sought her out. Irene was not naive enough to think that it was simply because she was interested in Irene’s company.

“Lady Haughston…” Irene said abruptly, breaking into the amusing little on dit that Francesca was relating.

Francesca looked at her, somewhat surprised, and Irene realized that she had probably been rude again. It was a fault of which she was frequently accused.

“I beg your pardon,” Irene said. “I should not have interrupted you. But you have known me long enough to know that I believe in straight dealing. I cannot help but wonder why you asked me to promenade with you about the room.”

Francesca let out a little sigh. “I am aware of your preference for plain speaking. And while I am in general of the opinion that it is as easy to employ tact as to be blunt, I, too, find truth to be the best course. I asked you to accompany me because a longtime friend of my family asked me for a favor. I was asked to introduce you to someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

“What?” It was Irene’s turn to look astonished. “But who—Why—”

“I can only assume it is because he admires you,” Francesca answered, and smiled in that small catlike way she had, a little secretive and yet at the same time alluring.

Her words so took Irene aback that for a moment her mind was blank. Finally she rallied enough to retort, “Really, Lady Haughston, I am not fresh from the country. Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I see no reason why you should not,” Francesca responded, widening her eyes. “I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice.”

Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, “’Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the ton that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance.”

Francesca’s eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. “A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“I thought you believed truth was the best course,” Irene shot back. “We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew.”

Francesca shrugged. “Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is.”

“What?” Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca’s attention had focused on something over Irene’s shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca’s attention.

It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison. It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.

His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes. His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin. The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.

She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place. Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.

Who was this man?

“Ah, Lord Radbourne,” Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.

“Lady Haughston.” He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.

His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling. There was something different about him that intrigued her. She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.

“Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate,” Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. “Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully’s great-nephew.”

It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was. He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months. Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him. She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member. Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded. A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady. A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.

Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. “How do you do, Lord Radbourne?”

“Lady Wyngate.” He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.

Irene felt a little frisson of excitement run through her hand at the brief touch of Radbourne’s fingers upon hers. It was absurd, of course, she told herself—the merest of touches, nothing more than a polite exchange that had happened on countless occasions. It meant nothing, indicated nothing…yet she could not deny that what she had felt was different from all the other times she had given her hand in greeting.

Irritation welled in her—with this man, with Francesca for manipulating her into meeting him, but most of all with herself for feeling this hitch of excitement and interest. It was most unlike her, and Irene found it decidedly annoying. She was, after all, a woman who always knew what she was about.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the earl looked at Irene and she returned his gaze coldly. She told herself that he was no doubt used to any unmarried woman he met fawning over him. Whatever the rumors about him, he was, after all, an earl and reputedly quite wealthy. She had no idea why he would want to meet her, but she was determined that he see that she had no interest in him.

Francesca cast a glance from Irene to the earl and back, then said, “A lovely ball, isn’t it? I do hope that you are enjoying the party, Lord Radbourne.”

The earl barely spared her a glance. Looking at Irene, he said, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

“I do not care to dance,” Irene responded bluntly. From the corner of her eye, she could see Francesca’s eyebrows vault upward at this bit of rudeness, but she ignored her.

Lord Radbourne, however, did not even flinch at her set down. To Irene’s astonishment, amusement flickered for an instant in his face, as he replied, “That is good, then, as I am not at all proficient at dancing. Why don’t we simply take a stroll and talk?”

His effrontery left Irene speechless. But Francesca, a trace of laughter in her voice, spoke up beside her. “That sounds like an excellent idea. While you two are occupied, I shall pay my regards to our hostess.”

With those words, Francesca turned and hurried away, leaving Irene alone with Lord Radbourne. There was little she could do except take the arm he extended, for she could see that they were the object of several interested gazes. If she gave him the direct cut now and stalked off, ignoring his arm, it would be gossiped about all over Mayfair tomorrow.

So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm. As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them. She could feel Lord Radbourne’s muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.

“Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me,” Irene began in her usual direct way. This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man’s interest in her. It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.

“That is true,” he replied.

She shot him an annoyed look. “I cannot imagine why.”

“Can you not?” He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.

“No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time.”

“You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?” he countered.

Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters.”

“Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance.”

“What?” Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. “What do you mean?”

“We have met before. Do you not remember?”

Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.

“Let me refresh your memory,” he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. “At the time, you tried to shoot me.”

She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “What in the world are you—”

Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father’s dueling pistols into the air.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. Me.” He looked back at her levelly.

“I did not try to shoot you,” Irene told him caustically. “I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead.”

She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.

“Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will,” she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.

A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, “It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you.”

“Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection.”

Radbourne shrugged. “What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think.”

“My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child.”

He looked at her. “You stopped me from hurting him any further, did you not?”

“Yes. I did.” She did not look at him, instead turning her gaze out over the garden. She had no interest in discussing her father or her feelings toward him. “Still, I see little reason why you should wish to meet someone who held a gun on you.”

“I was finished with Lord Wyngate, anyway. I had made my point to him.” He paused, turning his own attention toward the garden. “But you seemed…interesting.”

Irene turned to him. “I fired a shot at you and you found it interesting?”

The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. “It was over my head. Remember?”

She frowned. “I am not sure what you are getting at.”

“You were correct in your first assumption, my lady. Matrimonial concerns are what brought me here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My family is interested in marrying me off to a proper young lady. I am, you see, an embarrassment to them. The facts of my life are, apparently, somehow a scandal, a reflection upon them. And an earl who cannot ride, and whose vowels are not rounded and plummy enough, is a disgrace. As for my business interests…well, they cannot even be spoken of.”

Despite his light tone, his words were biting and his eyes were hard. It seemed clear to Irene that the man had little liking for his newly discovered family—or perhaps it was simply disdain for the nobility in general. She could not help but feel a certain sympathy for him. After all, she had for several years been viewed by many of her peers and even some members of her family with disfavor, if not actual dislike, for her forthright manner and blunt speech.

Radbourne went on, “They have come up with a plan to cover my shortcomings by shackling me to a woman of good family. I think it is their hope that she will guide me into more appropriate behavior—or at least hide some of my inappropriateness.”

“You are a grown man,” Irene pointed out. “They cannot force you to marry.”

He grimaced. “No. Only talk me to death on the matter.”

Irene hid a smile. She knew the power of an incessant harangue all too well.

He shrugged. “But I know that I must marry and produce an heir. If I refuse now, I am only delaying the inevitable. I toyed with the idea of marrying an opera dancer or some such, just to put their noses out of joint. But it would be unfair of me to put someone else in that position. Nor would I want to doom my children to gossip and whispers. I will not make them pariahs among their peers. Therefore, I agree that I need to marry a suitable wife. You are, I understand, not yet married or betrothed, and according to my great-aunt, your family fits the requirements very well. Lady Haughston has apparently agreed to help Lady Pencully in this endeavor, so I suggested to her that you be considered as one of the possibilities.”

Irene gaped at him, so astonished that she was momentarily robbed of the ability to speak. Finally she blurted out, “You are considering marrying me because I once threatened you with a pistol?”

“I thought that you might be less dull than the simpering misses they have presented to me,” he replied, smiling a little.

She stared at him for a moment longer, then drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing. “Are you mad? Your words are insulting in so many ways that I scarce know where to start.”

He stiffened a little, his face settling into hard lines. His voice was silkily dangerous as he said, “The idea of marrying me is an insult to you?”

“Do you expect me to feel flattered because you decided to ‘consider’ me as a ‘possibility’ in your parade of brides? Am I to be honored that you picked me out from the others, like a mare at a sale? Because you deemed me somewhat less boring and unworthy of you than the other unmarried women of the ton?”

His mouth tightened. “It is not the way you make it sound. I am not purchasing a wife. It would be a practical arrangement, something that would be advantageous for you, as well. I assumed that you had passed the age of holding girlish fantasies about love.”

“Believe me, I was never so young as to hold that sort of fantasy,” Irene shot back. Anger vibrated through her, making her oblivious to everything else.

She took a step forward, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and glared up into his face, finding his icy calm more infuriating than any raw display of temper. “Did you think that I was so desperate to marry, so unable to make my way through this world without the guidance of a man, that I would jump at such an opportunity?”

“I thought you would be mature and logical enough to see the advantages for both of us in such an arrangement,” he retorted. “Obviously I was mistaken.”

“Yes. Obviously. You may find me ‘suitable,’ but I can assure you that there is nothing about you that suits me!”

His eyes sparked at her words. It occurred to Irene that perhaps she had gone a step too far in her anger. But she refused to back down and appear intimidated before this fierce man looming over her. Instead she gazed straight back at him, setting her jaw defiantly.

His hand lashed out and wrapped around her wrist, holding her where she stood—though it was not necessary, for Irene would never have revealed weakness by stepping back from him. He looked into her face, his eyes as cold and hard as glass.

“Is there not?” he murmured in a tone all the more dangerous for its softness. “I think, my lady, that you might just find out differently.”

With that he bent his head, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, and fastened his lips to hers.

CHAPTER FOUR

IRENE WENT STILL, shocked into immobility. No man had ever had the audacity to kiss her before. His lips were warm against hers, firm yet soft, and they awakened in her a host of sensations that she had never experienced. She felt at once flushed and cold, and a tremor ran down through her body, bursting in a ball of heat in her abdomen.

His mouth pressed harder against hers, and her lips opened instinctively. His tongue slipped inside, startling her even more and starting up a new thrum of pleasure deep inside her. Radbourne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her more tightly against him, so that she felt the hard line of his body all down the length of her own. She was surrounded by his strength and warmth, her breasts crushed against the hard muscles of his chest. Later she would think to herself that she should have been frightened at how easily he held her still, but in this moment she felt no fear, only the eager rush of excitement, the breathless pleasure of her blood pounding through her veins, the sudden awakening of her entire body.

She felt the hot outrush of his breath against her cheek, heard the rough sound he made low in his throat, and she trembled in his arms, unprepared for the myriad of feelings that poured through her. Something seemed to open deep within her, aching and hot, spreading outward. She squeezed her legs tightly together, amazed at the yearning that was blossoming there.

His hands slid down her back and curved beneath her buttocks. His fingers dug in, lifting her up and into him, so that she felt the hard line of his desire pressing into her flesh, and his mouth shifted on hers, digging deeper, his tongue taking her.

Irene dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him as desire swirled through her, urgent and compelling. Her tongue met his and twined around it, and she felt a shudder shake him. He wrapped his arms around her again, so tightly that it felt as if he wanted to melt into her. Irene wound her arms around his neck, lost in sensation, hungry in a way she had never imagined, eager for something she could not even name.

There was the sound of voices as someone stepped outside onto the terrace, the scrape of a foot upon the stone. As the noises penetrated Irene’s consciousness, Radbourne dropped his arms abruptly and stepped back, sucking in a long breath. His eyes glittered, wide and dark in his face, and the skin seemed stretched across his cheekbones, stark and taut. They stared at one another. Irene’s mind was blank, aware only of the feelings coursing through her body.

For a moment he looked as stunned as she, but then he blinked and half turned away, glancing toward the other end of the terrace, where a couple had emerged and were standing, talking together. The woman’s laughter floated across the night air toward them, and the couple turned, strolling in the opposite direction.

As if the others’ movement had broken her trance, Irene came crashing back to earth. Her body still hummed with the passion that had overtaken her, but her mind was alert again. She realized with horror that she had been wrapped in Radbourne’s arms, kissing him passionately, and that anyone at any moment could have stepped out of the ballroom and seen them. Her reputation would have been ruined, of course, but that was not what most exercised her mind.

What truly horrified her was the fact that she had, for a few moments, completely lost herself in passion. She had not thought about that—not about her good name or what she was risking or, indeed, about anything at all. She had been held entirely in the grip of physical hunger, blind with need, driven solely by desire, like the basest animal.

Irene had always prided herself on her control, on her intellect and reasoning. She had told herself that she was nothing like her father, who had been ruled by primitive urges and basic emotions. She thought before she acted; she wanted a rational life, free from the turmoil of emotions.

Yet here she had been under the control not of her mind, but of her lowest instincts. She had thought of nothing, wanted nothing, but to satisfy her physical craving. Like her father, she had been filled with a primitive hunger, and she had let herself be ruled by it. When Lord Radbourne seized her in his grip and kissed her, she should have pulled away and slapped him. She should have given him the sort of brutal set-down his actions had deserved.

Instead, she had melted in his arms. Flooded with desire, she had kissed him back, had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him. She had given herself up to him like the most feebleminded of maidens, letting him control her. Dominate her.

She was filled with anger and disgust for herself—equal to the anger and disgust she felt for the man who had brought her to this state. She glared at the earl, relieved at the surge of anger within her, as it pushed out the passion that had filled her earlier.

He gazed back at her, and she could see that he, too, had recovered from whatever desire had gripped him. Gone was the fierce gleam in his eyes. His face was devoid of expression, his lips thinned into a straight line.

“It seems I am not so unsuitable after all, am I?” he asked quietly. “At least in one way.”

Rage shot through her, and without thinking, she lashed out, slapping him hard. His head turned aside from the force of her blow, but when he swiveled back to her, the mark of her fingers stood out, white against the tan of his skin, before turning red. He clenched his jaw, and for an instant his eyes sparked with fury, but he said nothing.

“I will not marry anyone,” Irene choked out, close to tears. “But if I did, through some bizarre circumstance, marry, it would certainly never be you!”

She whirled and stalked back to the ballroom, not looking back.

FRANCESCA HAD FOUND a vantage point from which she could keep an eye on the dancers and also watch the two doors leading out onto the terrace. She was removed from most of the other guests and slightly shielded by a potted palm, and therefore she had been able to pass the last fifteen minutes or so without being pulled into conversation with anyone. She had found the spot shortly after Lord Radbourne strolled off with Irene Wyngate.

She had been rather surprised when the earl had managed to maneuver Irene into a stroll about the room, and unless she was very much mistaken, she thought that Radbourne had led Lady Irene out onto the terrace. The earl, she thought, must be a great deal more determined or clever than most men, for Irene rarely allowed a man to persuade her to do anything. Of course, few men were brave enough to try. Her sharp tongue and dislike of flirtation were well-known among the ton. It was something out of the way for a man to even try to woo her.

Of course, Francesca had to admit, the stern expression on the Earl of Radbourne’s face scarcely made him look like a man who was wooing. Perhaps that was the reason Irene had gone along with him. Francesca wondered if it was possible that the earl might succeed where other men had failed.

Her curiosity had been aroused when Radbourne had suggested to her that she include Lady Irene on her list of possible matches. To begin with, she wondered how he even knew her. Until Gideon had been found by Rochford and returned to the bosom of his family, he had not moved in the same circles as Irene, and after he came home, it sounded as though he had more or less been secluded with the family at their country estate. Where and when had he seen Irene?

More than that, she wondered why he was interested in her. Irene was not unattractive. Indeed, in Francesca’s opinion, Irene was one of the most intriguing-looking women in London. Her large eyes were a clear light brown, almost a golden color, and they were nicely accented by long lashes and nicely arched brows of a slightly darker shade than her hair. Her features were clean-cut, if a trifle strong, and her thickly curling dark blond hair gave her a leonine look that was slightly exotic. She was not the typical beauty, perhaps, but she was appealing—or would be if she did not make such an effort to dispel any interest in her looks.

She usually wore her hair pulled ruthlessly back and pinned into a severe knot, thereby negating the most beautiful aspect of her looks. Her clothes were likewise severe; though of good cut and material, they were plain to the point of dullness. She allowed nothing to soften her looks—or for that matter, her personality.

“Hiding?” A dry male voice said from behind Francesca, and she turned her head, startled.

She smiled. Sir Lucien Talbot stood there, his handsome face set in its usual wry lines, his eyebrows arched in amused question.

“Or are we spying?” he went on, moving up beside her and peering out across the ballroom. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Francesca replied, smiling back at him.

Sir Lucien was her oldest and dearest friend, and the only one who knew the dire state of her finances. As one whose pockets were frequently to let himself, he had long ago recognized that Francesca was living on the edge of financial disaster. He had even, especially in the early days right after her husband’s death, taken a few of her items to pawn or sell for her, as a lady could scarcely be seen doing such a thing. Though Francesca had never told him that the projects she had taken on over the past few years were chosen for the monetary benefit she received in one form or another, she thought that Sir Lucien at least suspected she was not shepherding difficult girls through the marriage mart that was a London Season simply for the fun of it.

“I am waiting for Irene Wyngate to come back into the ballroom. She went out onto the terrace a few minutes ago with the Earl of Radbourne.”

“Irene Wyngate?” Sir Lucien asked, his eyebrows vaulting up again in a genuine expression of surprise. “You are putting her forward as a candidate for the position of countess?”

Francesca had told Lucien yesterday about Lady Odelia’s scheme to marry off the newfound heir to the earldom, as well as of her own part in the matter. Sir Lucien, as one of the best-known arbiters of good taste and fashion, had on more than one occasion in the past been quite useful to Francesca in putting forward one of her “girls.”

“Lord Radbourne specifically asked me to include her,” Francesca told him now. “I agreed to introduce them tonight. As soon as I did, he whisked her off.”

“Out to the terrace?” her friend asked, his voice assuming a lower, more suggestive tone. “Well, well…I never would have imagined it of the Iron Maiden.”

“Pray, do not use that silly appellation. I cannot imagine why men have to come up with such odious nicknames.”

“My dear girl, because it suits her, and you know it.” He shrugged.

“Well, I hate to think what I am known as,” Francesca went on.

“Why, my love, you are referred to only as ‘The Venus,’ what else?” he replied with a grin.

Francesca chuckled. “Flatterer.”

He was silent for a moment, scanning the room with her. Then he said, “Why do you suppose he singled her out?”

“I don’t know. I wonder how he even knew who she was. I suppose he must have seen her somewhere and been struck by her. She is quite attractive in her own way.”

“She could be stunning if she made a bit of effort,” Sir Lucien agreed. “I suppose he could have enough eye for beauty to see that.” He paused, then went on drily, “Do you suppose his infatuation will outlast a stroll on the terrace with her?”

“I don’t know. That is why I am looking for them. I do hope he does not cry off immediately. The more I thought about the matter, the more I realized that Lady Irene would be an excellent match for him.”

“Indeed?”

Francesca nodded. “Obviously he is for some reason already interested in her. And she would suit Lady Odelia’s requirements. Her lineage is excellent on both her mother’s and her father’s sides.”

“Old Lord Wyngate was something of a rogue,” Sir Lucien objected.

“Yes, but his scandalous behavior has never reflected badly on Lady Irene, or her mother and brother,” Francesca pointed out. “And certainly she has the strength of will to make the man presentable, if any woman can.”

“And the wit to hide the faults she cannot change,” Sir Lucien added.

“Yes. And, most importantly, Irene can hold her own with Lady Odelia. She will not allow the old woman to ride roughshod over her.”

“As we all know she will try to do.”

“Naturally,” Francesca agreed. “And I think, from what I have seen of him, it might require some strength of character to deal with the earl himself, as well.”

“Really?” Sir Lucien turned toward her, intrigued. “I assumed he was, well…” He shrugged.

“Under Lady O’s thumb?”

Sir Lucien nodded.

“I think not. When he came into the room, he seemed…a trifle rough around the edges, I suppose, but not intimidated in the slightest. In fact, when I looked at Lady Odelia, it occurred to me that perhaps she was a little wary of him.”

“Well, well…That would be a first,” Sir Lucien mused.

“I thought as much myself. He seemed to be going along with her plan but not obeying her, if you see what I mean. Oh, wait.” Francesca straightened, reaching up to grasp Sir Lucien’s sleeve. “There she is. Oh, dear. She does not look at all pleased.”

Lucien looked in the direction of her gaze and saw Irene. She had just entered through the open doors onto the terrace, and she was now striding through the crowd of people, her back ramrod straight. She did not glance to either side as she walked. Her jaw was set, her face flushed, and there was a furious light in her eyes. He noticed that people stepped out of her way as she approached.

“I would not say it went well,” he murmured to Francesca.

She sighed. “No, I fear not.”

Francesca glanced aside and saw that the Duke of Rochford was making his way toward her from the direction of the card room. “Now what?” she muttered.

Sir Lucien glanced over at her and then toward the duke. He chuckled. “It could be worse. It could be Lady Pencully.”

Francesca rolled her eyes in her friend’s direction. “Curse your tongue, Lucien. Now she is certain to appear.”

Lucien smothered a laugh and said to the approaching duke, “Rochford. Dear fellow. Pleasure, as always, to see you.”

“Sir Lucien. Lady Haughston.” Rochford stopped beside Francesca, nodding to them both. “I must say, my lady, you do not look at all pleased.”

Francesca gave the man a frosty look. “That depends on whether you brought Lady Pencully with you.”

“No, I did not, I am pleased to say,” Rochford replied. Then he smiled faintly and added, “However, I do believe that I saw her in the card room a moment ago.”

“So that is why you left it,” Francesca retorted sourly.

“But of course,” Rochford admitted without a trace of guilt. “You may think yourself reluctant to see her, but you do not have the misfortune to be tied to her by blood. If you were, you would know just how craven you could be.”

“What nonsense you talk,” Francesca said reprovingly. “You have never been afraid of anything in your life.”

He studied her for a moment, a quizzical look on his features, then said, “If only you knew, my lady.”

Francesca made a face and turned away from his gaze. She was aware of a faint heat rising in her cheeks, and she was not even sure why. Rochford had the most damnable talent for unsettling her.

As her eyes swept across the room, she noticed the Earl of Radbourne entering the ballroom through the other set of doors. He looked, if anything, even more thunderous than Irene had. Francesca sighed inwardly. Obviously that opportunity had been lost for good. Perhaps she should not have introduced them so early. But he would have had to talk to Irene at some point, and it would simply all have unraveled then. Better, she supposed, to have gotten it over quickly instead of wasting her time on the match.

“Your Lord Radbourne seems a trifle fierce,” she commented to Rochford.

“Hardly mine,” Rochford protested mildly. “But I imagine he can be rather…hard. I suspect that is the only way he could survive the streets of London. He grew up in a very different world from the one in which we did, Lady Haughston.”

“Indeed. But ours was dangerous, too, in another way.” Francesca glanced toward him, and Rochford turned to look at her, his eyes sharp.

He made no answer, but Francesca looked quickly away from him, suddenly aware of Sir Lucien’s curious gaze.

The duke shifted, then said in a low voice, “Fair warning, my friends. Lady Pencully is approaching.” He bowed toward them. “I fear I must take my leave of you.”

“Coward,” Francesca whispered.

He merely smiled and strode away. Beside her, Sir Lucien made a move, but Francesca turned and pinned him with a look. With a sigh, he remained where he was and forced a smile onto his face.

“Lady Pencully.” He swept her an elegant bow. “What an unaccustomed pleasure to see you.”

“Don’t try your folderol with me, Talbot,” Lady Odelia said bluntly, though Francesca saw that she could not keep her face from softening a little. “Go sharpen your skills on someone else, why don’t you? I need to talk to Francesca.”

“Of course, my lady.” Sir Lucien cast an amused glance at Francesca as he bowed to them both and strolled away.

“I’ve decided what to do,” Lady Odelia went on without preamble. “We shall have a party at Radbourne Park.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“To search for a mate for the earl,” the older woman said with some asperity, as though Francesca were a bit dim. “That is what we are about, remember?”

“Of course I remember. I just, um, I wasn’t sure why a party—”

“It will be the best way to present him to the girls we pick. I am convinced that we will never find him a spouse in London. It is too elegant, too sophisticated. He is bound to stand out here among men of Talbot’s sort. Too smooth by half, that one, if you ask me, but he’s the sort that women like, you know. Or Rochford. Though, of course, women would fawn on him if he were as rough as an old boot. Only stands to reason, being a duke and all. But that is neither here nor there.”

She looked accusingly at Francesca, as if she had been responsible for her wandering off subject. “The point is, if we separate these women from civilization, they will no doubt find my great-nephew more acceptable.”

“I think there are a number of women who would feel the earl’s title and fortune make him acceptable enough anywhere,” Francesca replied wryly.

“Yes, perhaps, but I am unwilling to take the chance. So I shall get Pansy to arrange a house party. We will work on a guest list. Go over the girls who will do. Then you will come up early to Radbourne Park, so you can work on Gideon himself. Smooth out some of his rough edges, if you can. You know what I mean. I am sure that he will receive suggestions better from you. He seems to resent the hints I give him.”

“Surely not,” Francesca murmured.

Lady Pencully gave her a narrow look. “Don’t think I don’t know when you are being facetious, girl. I am well aware that any man would much rather get instruction from a winning girl like you than from an old lady who doesn’t couch the truth in sweet-sounding phrases.” She gave a short nod, ending the matter. “When will you be at Radbourne Park?”

As always, Lady Odelia’s commands rankled, but Francesca had to admit that the older woman’s idea made sense. And a visit to Radbourne Park for a few weeks would also take care of her problem with maintaining her household for a while.

“I am not sure. A few days, surely, to pack and set things in order,” Francesca told her.

“Well, don’t dawdle, girl. We need to set this thing in motion.”

“Of course, but—” Francesca broke off as she saw Lord Radbourne approaching. “Ah, Lord Radbourne. Good to see you again.”

It was a lie, of course. She did not look forward to talking with him. He looked decidedly put out, and Francesca suspected that he was about to ring a peal over her head for whatever had transpired with Irene Wyngate.

He nodded shortly to Francesca and then to his great-aunt. “Lady Haughston. Lady Pencully.”

“Gideon,” Lady Odelia responded. “Saw you talking to Lady Irene a few minutes ago.” She looked at him hopefully.

His lips tightened. “Lady Irene Wyngate is arrogant, stubborn and a snob. I am certain that she would not do for my wife.”

Even Lady Odelia seemed unable to find a response to that.

Francesca jumped into the silence that followed his statement. “I see. Well, all the more reason to move forward with other plans. Your great-aunt and I were just discussing having a party at Radbourne Park. I hope you will find that agreeable. It seems a good way for you to meet several young women and get to know them, and for them to get to know you. A week or two allows one many more opportunities than attending rounds of balls and such here in the city.”

He nodded. “No doubt. I will leave it in your capable hands. And my aunt’s, of course.”

“Very well.” Francesca relaxed. At least he was not going to make a scene or, apparently, even blame her for whatever Irene had said to him.

“I will take my leave of you, then. I have business to attend to. If you will excuse me?”

“Of course.” Francesca was quite content to see him go, though she could not help but wonder what sort of business he could have that required attending to at this time of night.

Lady Odelia paled a little and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard the earl’s mention of business. He bowed toward them and turned to walk away.

He had taken only a few steps, however, when he abruptly stopped, pivoted on his heel and returned to them. “Lady Haughston,” he said grimly. “When you make up the guest list…” He hesitated, then added shortly, “Invite Lady Irene.”

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