A Gentleman Of Substance

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Copyright

“Why are you here?”

Lucy asked, her pulse speeding to double time.

“Not to claim my marital rights, if that’s what you presume.” Drake swept her a casual glance, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “If our marriage is to serve its purpose, everyone must believe I sired your child. En route to get here, five of the servants saw me, as well as lady Phyllipa—an unexpected bonus. With any luck, tales of my ardent regard for you will spread far and wide.”

“I see. But was it necessary to arrive in quite this state of undress?”

Drake leaned back on the chaise with an air of polite indifference that enraged her. “Merely useful costuming in our charade of a marriage. I did not want to take the chance of anyone mistaking my intentions.” One dark brow cocked expressively. “Why all this virginal prudery, my dear? Surely it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Dear Reader,

‘Tis the season to be jolly, and Harlequin Historicals has four terrific books this month that will warm your heart and put a twinkle in your eye!

If you haven’t yet discovered Deborah Hale, you’re in for a treat with her second book, A Gentleman of Substance. Viscount Drake Strickland is just that—and so much more—in this juicy, three-hankie Regency-era tale. The taciturn viscount offers a marriage of convenience to the local vicar’s daughter, who is pregnant with his deceased brother’s child. Their unexpected yearning for each other eventually proves too strong to be denied!

Western lovers have two great books in store for them this month. In Jake Walker’s Wife by Loree Lough, a good-hearted, caretaking farmer’s daughter finally finds the man to cherish and take care of her—only, he’s running from the law. And in Heart and Home by Cassandra Austin, a young—and engaged—physician starts anew in a small Kansas town and finds himself falling for the beautiful owner of the boardinghouse next door.

And don’t miss our special 3-in-l medieval Christmas collection, One Christmas Night. Bestselling author Ruth Langan begins with a darling Cinderella story in “Highland Christmas,” Jacqueline Navin spins an emotional mistaken-identity tale in “A Wife for Christmas” and Lyn Stone follows with a charming story of Yuletide matchmaking in “Ian’s Gift.”

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Happy Holidays,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Gentleman of Substance

Deborah Hale

DEBORAH HALE

After a decade of tracing her ancestors to their roots in Georgian-era Britain, Golden Heart winner Deborah Hale turned to historical-romance writing as a way to blend her love of the past with her desire to spin a good love story. Deborah lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, between the historic British garrison town of Halifax and the romantic Annapolis Valley of Longfellow’s Evangeline. With four children under ten (including twins), Deborah calls writing her “sanity retention mechanism.” On good days, she likes to think it’s working.

Deborah invites you to her one-of-a-kind web site to catch the flavor of eighteenth-century London, from a cup of the most decadent chocolate to scandalous tidbits of backstage gossip from the Green Room at Drury Lane. To get there, follow her author’s link on the Harlequin web site http://www.romance.net.

To Virginia Brown Taylor, romance author and midwife, who coached me through Lucy’s confinement.

Any anatomical impossibilities are my fault, not hers.

And to Dr. Michael E. Hale, my very own gentleman of substance.and style.

Chapter One

The Lake District, 1812

A clod of rain-soaked earth fell on the coffin, landing with a heavy, wet slap. From her place behind the lichened stone wall of Saint Mawe’s churchyard, Lucy Rushton felt that sound like a physical blow. A tiny whimper escaped her clenched lips, but the damp autumn wind snatched it up and carried it away. They were burying the earthly remains of Captain Jeremy Strickland, mortally wounded in a minor skirmish of Wellington’s peninsular campaign. That “minor skirmish,” Lucy reflected with bitter irony, had cast her into every woman’s worst nightmare.

Unwed and pregnant by a dead lover.

In vain, Lucy bit down on her lip, praying the pain would wake her from this horrible dream. She’d worshipped the handsome, dashing Jeremy Strickland from a distance for most of her twenty years. Suddenly taking notice of her, the captain had returned Lucy’s regard, wooing her with an urgency peculiar to young men off to war. Overlooking the waterfall at Amber Force, he begged the happiness of her hand in marriage. In a secluded glade on the banks of tranquil Mayeswater, he persuaded her to consummate the union of their hearts. He’d promised to return at the earliest opportunity, to wed her in a splendid ceremony.

Even knowing her condition would eventually expose her to censure and ostracism, Lucy could not bring herself to regret what she’d done. Far worse to stand here and watch them bury her dearest love, having denied him the joy of their communion. Without the memory of his ardent kiss and tender embrace to sustain her.

The meagre clutch of mourners at the graveside bowed their heads as Lucy’s father, the vicar of Saint Mawes, led them in a final prayer. One man towered above the others, a tall severe-looking person whose somber funeral habit was little different from his normal attire. Lucy fixed the formidable Drake Strickland, Viscount Silverthorne, with a baleful glare.

The viscount had selfishly decreed his half brother’s funeral a private affair, closed to all but family. Otherwise, Saint Mawe’s would have overflowed with tenants and villagers, sincerely mourning the gallant, agreeable young officer. Rather than skulking behind the wall, Lucy might have taken her place among the throng, free to vent her grief in public.

As if drawn by the animosity of her gaze, Lord Silverthorne suddenly turned his dark, inscrutable eyes upon Lucy. She met his stare without flinching, channeling all her resentment into an answering glare.

How dare you bar me from him on this of all days? her look challenged Drake Strickland. It is your fault Jeremy enlisted in the army in the first place. Always trying to live up to your impossibly high standards and never succeeding. Always trying to make his own mark. Always trying to emerge from beneath your shadow. If not for you, he would be alive today.

At that moment, Vicar Rushton intoned the benediction. “Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”

Rising tears quenched the passionate rage in Lucy’s eyes. Looking away from the hateful Lord Silverthorne, she pressed her arms protectively over her fiat belly, where Jeremy’s child had just begun to grow within her. This was what her love and her dreams had finally come to-ashes and dust.

The Dowager Marchioness of Cranbrook peered down the length of Silverthorne’s formal dining table. Her wrinkled mouth puckered in distaste. Though she regretted the death of her favorite grandson, her ladyship was not unduly distressed. In seventy-five years she had buried three husbands, five sons and four grandsons. Losing loved ones was an inevitable part of life—no sense railing against events one could not change. Plenty of other circumstances were amenable to her influence. It was upon those the marchioness chose to focus her attention.

“Drake, what is this dish?” Suspiciously, she sifted her spoon through an unfamiliar variety of stew, heavy in cabbage. “It’s barely palatable. And black bread? My servants dine better than this. You must come to London with me, if only to secure the services of a proper cook.”

From the moment of her arrival, the marchioness had lost no opportunity of urging her grandson to come to London in search of a wife. At the head of the table, Viscount Silverthorne rolled his eyes, heaving an impatient sigh that was audible above the tattoo of rain drumming on the windows.

Impudent cub! Her ladyship bridled. Did he think her eyesight and hearing too feeble to mark his insulting behaviour?

“I regret our cuisine is not to your taste, Grandmother,” Drake replied with tight-jawed civility. “We are not accustomed to such exalted company.” He inclined his head to her and to his other guests-his cousin, the Honorable Neville Strickland, and Lady Phyllipa Strickland, widow of yet another cousin.

Acknowledging Drake’s nod with a dyspeptic smile, Phyllipa picked daintily at her meal. A bland, sallow creature, her cloying solicitude set the marchioness’s teeth on edge. Neglecting the food altogether, Neville concentrated on his wine.

“Personally,” Drake continued, “I find Mrs. Maberley’s cooking both toothsome and nourishing. I wouldn’t trade her Lancashire hot pot for all the glazed pheasant and oyster puddings in London. I’m a plain man. I prefer plain clothes, plain food.”

“But not plain women, I’ll wager,” Neville quipped, twirling his quizzing glass by its string.

The marchioness held her breath, waiting to hear Drake’s reply. Neville was either very drunk or very stupid to be baiting his cousin in such a way. More than once Drake had discharged the young dandy’s mounting debts with no more than an ominous grumble about the sin of profligacy.

“Speaking of women.” Phyllipa broke her meek silence. “Who was that young lady watching us at Jeremy’s funeral this afternoon? She looked positively distraught.”

Drake appeared confounded by the question. “Young lady? Oh, that was just Lucy…Miss Rushton. The vicar’s daughter.”

“Indeed.” Neville grinned broadly. “Does she hang about looking picturesquely mournful for all the burials?”

“If Miss Rushton looked mournful, she has every right. She’s known Jeremy since childhood.” For a moment Drake fell into a pensive silence. Recovering himself, he continued brusquely, “Besides, you know girls that age. They have an exaggerated sense of tragedy-particularly about young men dying gallantly for their country. Too many people nowadays have romantic notions of war.”

“You don’t consider Jeremy’s death a tragedy?” challenged Neville.

“I consider it a waste.” A sharp crack of thunder from the storm punctuated Drake’s pronouncement. “Jeremy had no business gadding off to Spain, as though the army were an amusing diversion. He had responsibilities. To me. To our people.”

“Your people?” Neville chuckled. “My dear fellow, you talk as though your tenants were your subjects.”

Her ladyship had followed the volley of conversation between her grandsons like a match of battledore and shuttlecock, looking from one to the other. Now she stared expectantly at Drake, waiting for a crushing return.

She felt distinctly disappointed when he took a deep breath and replied forbearingly. “It is a question of duty, Neville. If such a concept is not altogether foreign to you. My tenants and employees depend on me. The mines, the mills, the tannery—when they turn a profit, families can feed their children and send them to school. They patronize the local shops and keep money from draining away to Liverpool or Manchester.”

“Fah, Cuz. You sound like a merchant, not a viscount. Gentlemen aren’t meant to grub for guineas in dreary factories and counting houses. That’s what tradesmen are for.”

“You think it vulgar to possess a comfortable fortune, rather than living off the gaming tables or the charity of relatives?” His restrained, quiet tone told the marchioness Drake was growing more vexed by the minute. Neville was twice a fool to mistake his cousin’s cold, contained wrath for weakness.

Neville ignored the warning signs. “Old fellow, you are too modest. A comfortable fortune?” He gestured about the dining room, recently restored to its former glory. “Why, you have one of the vastest fortunes in England. You’re prudent to stay clear of London, though. Prinny might try to touch you for a loan.”

The marchioness glowered in Neville’s direction, but he took no notice. “Of course, it isn’t vulgar to possess a fortune—only to have earned it.” He laughed immoderately at his own jest. No one else joined him. “I can’t think why you went to all the trouble, when you might have married an ugly little heiress with an uncouth tradesman for a father.”

“By all means, feel free to pursue that course yourself, Neville.” Drake’s tone sharpened. “I prefer to build something beneficial and lasting, by my own initiative.”

“I fear I am not temperamentally suited to such earnest labor. I am one of society’s lilies of the field. I sew not. Neither do I spin. Yet King Solomon in all his glory had not so richly embroidered a waistcoat as mine.” Neville sprawled back on his chair, displaying an expanse of that waistcoat.

The marchioness thought it in rather questionable taste for mourning. Still, she was not altogether displeased with Neville. He’d provided her with excellent leverage to use on his cousin.

“There sits the heir to all your hard-won wealth, Drake.” She waved scornfully in Neville’s direction. “How long will take him to run through your fortune? Six months? A year?”

“I expect to live a long, healthy life, Grandmother.” Drake’s words sounded clipped and precise, his voice menacingly soft in volume, like the first rumblings of thunder.

“What my cousin means, Grandmama, is that he expects me to be worm food when he is enjoying a vigorous old age. Staggering about the countryside. Minding his mills and mines. Wolfing down heaping bowls of boiled cabbage and tripe. And celibate—is that not also part of your regimen, Cuz?”

“For pity’s sake, Neville, stop plaguing the poor man,” snapped Phyllipa.

The marchioness looked at Clarence’s widow with a faint glimmer of interest. She hadn’t thought the vapid creature capable of snapping.

“Drake is our host,” Phyllipa continued primly. “He has just lost his only brother. Besides, your bickering will upset poor dear Grandmama.”

“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed the marchioness, when no pithier oath came readily to mind. “There’s nothing I like better than a good family row. It’s obligatory to quarrel after a funeral. Keeps everyone from dwelling on morbid thoughts of mortality.”

Neville raised his glass to her. “What a philosopher you are, Grandmama.”

“Save your oily tongue, coxcomb! I’ve been flattered by men more skilled in proper subtlety than you’ll ever be.”

His grandmother caught Drake in the ghost of a smile. She had no intention of letting him get complacent. “Your cousin has a point, Drake. No one cheats death forever. What becomes of your fine enterprises when you’re gone? You need sons to inherit your title and carry on your work. Come back to London with me and take your pick from this season’s marriage market.”

“I’d sooner swim in a cesspit.” Drake wrinkled his aquiline nose expressively.

“Exasperating cub!” The marchioness was not used to being flouted. “Were you counting on Jeremy to supply you with heirs? Now you’ll have to do the deed yourself, my boy.”

Drake rose abruptly from his chair. The “boy” cut quite an imposing figure these days, his grandmother grudgingly admitted. Though his long, angular face gave him a gaunt look by times, he had the lean muscularity of his late grandfather. A far cry from the sickly child whose life the family had despaired of.

“Consider this discussion closed, Grandmother. I am not a child you can cane into submission. Now, if you will excuse me, I mean to go for a ride before I retire.”

“Oh, Drake, you can’t be serious!” Phyllipa gestured toward the room’s large windows, each composed of over a hundred small panes. Judging by the force with which the rain thrashed against them, it was being driven by a fierce westerly. “Hear that wind. It’s raining fit to sink Noah’s Ark.”

Already halfway to the door, Drake shrugged his wide shoulders. “Never fear, Phyllipa. I have yet to dissolve in water. Besides, I prefer the impersonal hostility of nature to Grandmother’s cherished family quarrels. Good night, everyone. I trust the lack of company won’t spoil your enjoyment of my port, Neville.”

He closed the door quietly, but firmly, behind him.

Tipping his chair back, Neville hoisted his feet up to rest on the edge of the highly polished mahogany table. “Not in the least, my dear fellow,” he chuckled in reply to his absent cousin. “Not in the least.”

For twopence, the Dowager Marchioness of Cranbrook would have garrotted her grandson with the string of his own monocle.

Drake was well soaked by the time he reached the stables. The chill rain had not cooled his smoldering temper, though.

“Evening yer lordship.” One of the stablemen touched his cap in greeting, surveying his master with obvious puzzlement. “Is there aught I can do for you tonight, milord?”

Compared with Silverthorne’s dining room, the stables looked invitingly tranquil. Drake inhaled the soothing aroma of leather, horses and sweet dry hay.

“I fancy a ride before bed. Saddle up the Spaniard.”

The big black stallion strained eagerly to get out into the storm. Pointing his mount toward an expanse of open countryside, Drake rode into the darkness. Gusts of wind drove the rain into his face, taking his breath away. Rivulets of water ran down his cheeks like tears. Abandoning a lifetime of painstaking civility, he gave himself up to the savagery of the storm. Fury and anguish warred within him, as he allowed himself the luxury of experiencing raw emotion for the first time since receiving word of his young half brother’s death.

For fifteen years he had striven with might and main to resurrect Silverthorne from the ashes of his late father’s ruin. To what end? For Neville to mortgage it to the hilt and gamble it all away? For Phyllipa’s nasty little Reginald, to do who knew what? Whatever else his grandmother might be, Drake admitted she was no fool. He had been relying on Jeremy to provide him with an heir. Now, if he hoped to salvage his life’s work for the future, he would have to perform that odious chore for himself.

He’d gone to London once before, in a flush of youthful naiveté, and there been so abominably used as to sour him on the idea of matrimony ever since. Why could Jeremy not have taken a wife before rushing off to fight Napoleon’s armies? What had possessed him to take up a commission in the first place? Heedless. Imprudent. Unreliable.

Suddenly, Drake pulled his mount up short and headed back home. He’d let his self-control slip quite enough for one night. He had no intention of handing everything to Neville on a silver platter by catching his death of ague. Before he returned to a warm bed and a scalding cup of Mrs. Maberley’s cambric tea, however, Drake had one stop to make.

A faint light flickered in the old stone sanctuary of Saint Mawe’s. Drake tethered his horse by the eastern wall, sheltered from the wind. It was foolish of him to come here, he supposed. However, since he’d already indulged in an orgy of foolishness by riding out on so wild a night, he might as well purge it from his system. Something compelled him to kneel by Jeremy’s grave and ask, Brother, why did you desert me?

Cautiously, Drake picked his way through the old graveyard, following a winding route around the haphazardly arranged tombstones. So loud was the wind and so fiercely was he concentrating to avoid a fall, that he scarcely heard the sound of weeping until he was almost on top of the source. His leg brushed against a small figure huddled beside Jeremy’s grave.

What was a child doing loose in a graveyard, on such a night? If Drake had a weakness, it was for the lost and the helpless, anyone in need of his aid. Abandoning his plan to commune with his brother’s ghost, he hoisted the little stray into his arms and carefully wended his way back to the church. Finding the vestry door unlocked, he pushed it open with his shoulder. Only when he had settled into a pew and relinquished his burden, did he recognize Lucy Rushton.

“What the…? Miss Rushton, what are you doing here?”

Though admittedly not the most perceptive of men, where women were concerned, Drake could tell the girl was fighting to master turbulent emotions. Distractedly, she pushed the rain-soaked hair out of her eyes. The wetness made it look quite brown. Ordinarily, it curled in delicate tendrils around her face, a warm shade of dark honey.

“Forgive me, your lordship.” Her words sounded muffled, as though by a head cold, but the tone was icily formal. “I know you endow my father’s living, but I had no idea you counted the graveyard as your personal property. Excuse me for trespassing.”

For some reason, her haughty reply made Drake want to smile with admiration. She looked so forlorn-drenched and dripping, eyes and nose ruddy from crying, face pale and pinched. Yet there was a spark in Lucy Rushton that no amount of rain or misfortune could quench.

“You know very well I don’t own the graveyard.” Fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief, he handed it to her in a conciliatory gesture. After all, he had no more quarrel with her than she could reasonably have with him. “Even if I did, you’d be welcome to come and go as you pleased.”

Many a time, on rides about his estate, he’d come upon Lucy Rushton sitting under a tree or perched on a stile. An open book spread over her uptucked knees and a plump apple half-eaten in one hand. Engrossed in her reading or her daydreams, she seldom noticed him. Yet, from those brief encounters, he’d absorbed a measure of her contentment, going on his way in a strangely lightened mood.

Lucy scrubbed at her eyes, which only succeeded in making them redder. “Would I be welcome? I wasn’t welcome this afternoon when you buried Captain Strickland.”

She made a thorough job of blowing her nose. Loud and wet, it sounded intentionally rude.

“Not welcome?” Drake looked at her in frank astonishment. “What nonsense, I…”

“It was very badly done, barring everyone but family. Who were those people, anyway? That ridiculous creature with the garish waistcoat and quizzing glass. He didn’t appear the least bit grieved. I’d swear he was gloating.”