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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.”