A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories: A Lady Of Expectations / The Secrets of a Courtesan / How to Woo a Spinster

From acclaimed authors Stephanie Laurens, Nicola Cornick and Kasey Michaels come three enchanting tales to exceed expectations.

A Lady of Expectations

Jack Lester seeks the perfect bride—one who is attractive and kind, but who also loves him in spite of his wealth. Which is why he keeps this trifling detail hidden. But when Sophie Winterton enters his life, believing he must marry into wealth to run his family’s estate, how will he convince her that she is the woman he desires—and that he can be the husband she deserves?

Secrets of a Courtesan

Eve Nightingale thought she had put her past as mistress to the Duke of Welburn behind her. But when the handsome duke strolls into her small village, she finds it hard to keep her secrets concealed…and to keep her heart from stirring for him once again.

How to Woo a Spinster

Governess Maggie Stover is outraged when she is coerced into harboring a pirate in her home, lest her family face eviction. Though she may have a change of heart when she realizes the pirate is in fact the long-lost, and devilishly alluring, Duke of Trevere.

Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens

“All I need is her name on the cover to make me pick up the book.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Laurens’s writing shines.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Superbly sensual…elegantly written…splendidly entertaining.”

—Booklist

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Nicola Cornick

“Her books are fabulous.”

—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn

“A rising star of the Regency arena.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A wonderfully original, sinfully amusing and sexy Regency historical by the always entertaining Cornick.”

—Booklist on The Confessions of a Duchess

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels

“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

“The historical elements…imbue the novel with powerful realism that will keep readers coming back.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Midsummer Night’s Sin

“One of the finest Regency writers does it again… Wit, humor and cleverness combine to create an utterly delicious romance, just the kind readers relish.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Taming of the Rake

A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories

A Lady of Expectations

Stephanie Laurens

The Secrets of a Courtesan

Nicola Cornick

How to Woo a Spinster

Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

A Lady of Expectations

The Secrets of a Courtesan

How to Woo a Spinster

A Lady of Expectations

Stephanie Laurens

Readers can contact Stephanie at slaurens@vicnet.net.au. For information on all of Stephanie’s books, including updates on novels to come, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Contents

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 ONE

“LADY ASFORDBY, OF ASFORDBY GRANGE, requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Jack Lester, of Rawling’s Cottage, and guests, at a ball.”

Ensconced in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in one long-fingered hand, the white card of Lady Asfordby’s invitation in the other, Jack Lester made the pronouncement with ill-disguised gloom.

“She’s the grand dame of these parts, ain’t she?” Lord Percy Almsworthy was the second of the three gentlemen taking their ease in the parlour of Jack’s hunting box. Outside, the wind howled about the eaves and tugged at the shutters. All three had ridden to hounds that day, taking the field with the Quorn. But while both Jack and his brother Harry, presently sprawled on the chaise, were clipping riders, up with the best of them, Percy had long ago taken Brummel’s lead, indefatigable in turning out precise to a pin but rarely venturing beyond the first field. Which explained why he was now idly pacing the room, restless, while the brothers lounged, pleasantly exhausted, with the look about them of men not willing to stir. Pausing by the fireplace, Percy looked down on his host. “Lend a bit of colour to your stay, what? Besides,” he added, turning to amble once more, “You never know—might see a golden head that takes your eye.”

“In this backwater?” Jack snorted. “If I couldn’t find any golden head worth the attention last Season—nor during the Little Season—I don’t give much for my chances here.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Unconsciously elegant, Harry Lester lounged on the chaise, one broad shoulder propped against a cushion, his thick golden locks rakishly dishevelled. His sharply intelligent green eyes wickedly quizzed his elder brother. “You seem remarkably set on this start of yours. As finding a wife has become so important to you, I should think it behoves you to turn every stone. Who knows which one hides a gem?”

Blue eyes met green. Jack grunted and looked down. Absent-mindedly, he studied the gilt-edged card. Firelight glinted over the smooth waves of his dark hair and shadowed his lean cheeks. His brow furrowed.

He had to marry. He had inwardly acknowledged that fact more than twenty months ago, even before his sister, Lenore, had married the Duke of Eversleigh, leaving the burden of the family squarely on his shoulders.

“Perseverance—that’s what you need.” Percy nodded to no one in particular. “Can’t let another Season go by without making your choice—waste your life away if you’re too finicky.”

“I hate to say it, old son,” Harry said. “But Percy’s right. You can’t seriously go for years looking over the field, turning your nose up at all the offerings.” Taking a sip of his brandy, he eyed his brother over the rim of his glass. His green eyes lit with an unholy gleam. “Not,” he added, his voice soft, “unless you allow your good fortune to become known.”

“Heaven forbid!” Eyes narrowing, Jack turned to Harry. “And just in case you have any ideas along that track, perhaps I should remind you that it’s our good fortune—yours and mine and Gerald’s, too?” Features relaxing, Jack sank back in his chair, a smile erasing the severe line of his lips. “Indeed, the chance of seeing you playing catch-me-who-can with all the enamoured damsels is sorely tempting, brother mine.”

Harry grinned and raised his glass. “Fear not—that thought has already occurred. If the ton stumbles onto our secret, it won’t be through me. And I’ll make a point of dropping a quiet word in our baby brother’s ear, what’s more. Neither you nor I need him queering our pitch.”

“Too true.” Jack shuddered artistically. “The prospect does not bear thinking of.”

Percy was frowning. “I can’t see it. Why not let it out that you’re all as rich as bedammed? God knows, you Lesters have been regarded as nothing more than barely well-to-do for generations. Now that’s changed, why not reap the rewards?” His guileless expression was matched by his next words. “The debs would be yours for the asking—you could take your pick.”

Both Lester men bent looks of transparent sympathy upon their hapless friend.

Bewildered, Percy blinked and patiently waited to be set aright.

Unable to hold a candle to his long-time companions in the matter of manly attributes, he had long since become reconciled to his much slighter figure, his sloping shoulders and spindly shanks. More than reconciled—he had found his vocation as a Pink of the Ton. Dressing to disguise his shortcomings and polishing his address to overcome his innate shyness had led to yet another discovery; his newfound status spared him from the trial of chasing women. Both Jack and Harry thrived on the sport, but Percy’s inclinations were of a less robust nature. He adored the ladies—from a distance. In his estimation, his present style of life was infinitely preferable to the racy existence enjoyed by his companions.

However, as both Jack and Harry were well aware, his present lifestyle left him woefully adrift when it came to matters of strategy in handling the female of the species, particularly those dragons who menaced all rakes—the matrons of the ton.

And, naturally, with his mild manners and retiring ways, he was hardly the sort of gentleman who inhabited the debutantes’ dreams. All the Lester men—Jack, at thirty-six, with his dark good looks and powerful athlete’s physique, and Harry, younger by two years, his lithe figure forever graceful and ineffably elegant—and even twenty-four-year-old Gerald, with his boyish charm—were definitely the stuff of which females’ dreams were made.

“Actually, Percy, old man,” Harry said. “I rather suspect Jack thinks he can have his pick regardless.”

Jack shot a supercilious glance at his sibling. “As a matter of fact, I’ve not previously considered the point.”

Harry’s lips lifted; gracefully, he inclined his head. “I have infinite confidence, oh brother mine, that if and when you find your particular golden head, you won’t need the aid of our disgusting wealth in persuading her to your cause.”

“Yes—but why the secrecy?” Percy demanded.

“Because,” Jack explained, “while the matrons have considered my fortune, as you so succinctly put it, as barely well-to-do, they’ve been content to let me stroll among their gilded flowers, letting me look my fill without undue interference.”

With three profligate sons in the family and an income little more than a competence, it was commonly understood that the scions of Lester Hall would require wealthy brides. However, given the family connections and the fact that Jack, as eldest, would inherit the Hall and principal estates, no one had been surprised when, once he had let it be known he was seriously contemplating matrimony, the invitations had rolled in.

“Naturally,” Harry suavely put in. “With all Jack’s years of…worldly experience, no one expects him to fall victim to any simple snares and, given the lack of a Lester fortune, there’s insufficient incentive for the dragons to waste effort mounting any of their more convoluted schemes.”

“So I’ve been free to view the field.” Jack took back the conversational reins. “However, should any whiff of our changed circumstances begin circulating through the ton, my life of unfettered ease will be over. The harpies will descend with a vengeance.”

“Nothing they like better than the fall of a rake,” Harry confided to Percy. “Brings out their best efforts—never more hellishly inventive than when they’ve a rich rake with a declared interest in matrimony firmly in their sights. They relish the prospect of the hunter being the hunted.”

Jack threw him a quelling glance. “Sufficient to say that my life will no longer be at all comfortable. I won’t be able to set foot outside my door without guarding against the unimaginable. Debs at every turn, hanging on a fellow’s arm, forever batting their silly lashes. It’s easy to put one off women for life.”

Harry shut his eyes and shuddered.

The light of understanding dawned on Percy’s cherubic countenance. “Oh,” he said. Then, “In that case, you’d better accept Lady Asfordby’s invitation.”

Jack waved a languid hand. “I’ve all the Season to go yet. No need to get in a pother.”

“Ah, yes. But will you? Have all the Season, I mean?” When both Jack and Harry looked lost, Percy explained, “This fortune of yours was made on ’Change, wasn’t it?”

Jack nodded. “Lenore took the advice of one of the pater’s acquaintances and staked a fleet of merchantmen to the Indies. The company was formed through the usual channels and is listed in London.”

“Precisely!” Percy came to a flourishing halt by the fireplace. “So any number of men with an interest at the Exchange know the company was wildly successful. And lots of them must know that the Lesters were one of the major backers. That sort of thing’s not secret, y’know. M’father, for one, would be sure to know.”

Jack and Harry exchanged looks of dawning dismay.

“There’s no way to silence all those who know,” Percy continued. “So you’ve only got until one of those men happens to mention to his wife that the Lesters’ fortunes have changed and the whole world will know.”

A groan escaped Harry.

“No—wait.” Jack straightened. “It’s not that simple, thank God.” The last was said with all due reverence. “Lenore organized it, but naturally she could hardly act for herself in the matter. She used our broker, old Charters, a terribly stuffy old soul. He has never approved of females being involved in business—the old man had to lean on him to accept instructions from Lenore years ago. Charters only agreed on the understanding of secrecy all round—he didn’t want it known that he took orders from a woman. Which probably means he won’t admit it was us he was working for, as it’s fairly well known Lenore was in charge of our finances. If Charters doesn’t talk, there’s no reason to imagine our windfall will become common knowledge overnight.”

Percy frowned and pursed his lips. “Not overnight, maybe. But dashed if I think it’ll be all that long. These things filter through the cracks in the mortar, so my old man says.”

A sober silence descended on the room as the occupants weighed the situation.

“Percy’s right.” Harry’s expression was grim.

Glumly resigned, Jack held up Lady Asfordby’s invitation. “In more ways than one. I’ll send round to Lady Asfordby to expect us.”

“Not me.” Harry shook his head decisively.

Jack’s brows rose. “You’ll get caught in the storm, too.”

Stubbornly, Harry shook his head again. He drained his glass and placed it on a nearby table. “I haven’t let it be known I’m in the market for a wife, for the simple reason that I’m not.” He stood, stretching his long, lean frame. Then he grinned. “Besides, I like living dangerously.”

Jack returned the grin with a smile.

“Anyway, I’m promised at Belvoir tomorrow. Gerald’s there— I’ll tip him the wink over our desire for silence on the subject of our communal fortune. So you can proffer my regrets to her ladyship with a clear conscience.” Harry’s grin broadened. “Don’t forget to do so, incidentally. You might recall she was an old friend of our late lamented aunt and can be a positive dragon—she’ll doubtless be in town for the Season, and I’d rather not find myself facing her fire.”

With a nod to Percy, Harry made for the door, dropping a hand on Jack’s shoulder in passing. “I should inspect Prince’s fetlock—see if that poultice has done any good. I’ll be off early tomorrow, so I’ll wish you good hunting.” With a commiserating grin, he left.

As the door closed behind his brother, Jack’s gaze returned to Lady Asfordby’s invitation. With a sigh, he put it in his pocket, then took a long sip of his brandy.

“So, are we going?” Percy asked around a yawn.

Grimly, Jack nodded. “We’re going.”

While Percy went up to bed and the house settled to slumber around him, Jack remained in his chair by the fire, blue eyes intent on the flames. He was still there when, an hour later, Harry re-entered the room.

“What? Still here?”

Jack sipped his brandy. “As you see.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then crossed to the sideboard. “Musing on the delights of matrimony?”

Head back, Jack let his eyes track his brother’s movements. “On the inevitability of matrimony, if you really want to know.”

Sinking onto the chaise, Harry lifted a brow. “Doesn’t have to be you, you know.”

Jack’s eyes opened wide. “Is that an offer—the ultimate sacrifice?”

Harry grinned. “I was thinking of Gerald.”

“Ah.” Jack let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “I have to admit I’ve thought of him, too. But it won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll never marry in time for the pater.”

Harry grimaced but made no answer. Like Jack, he was aware of their sire’s wish to see his line continue unbroken, as it had for generations past. It was the one last nagging worry clouding a mind otherwise prepared for death.

“But it’s not only that,” Jack admitted, his gaze distant. “If I’m to manage the Hall as it should be managed, I’ll need a chatelaine—someone to take on the role Lenore filled. Not the business side, but all the rest of it. All the duties of a well-bred wife.” His lips twisted wryly. “Since Lenore left, I’ve learned to appreciate her talents as never before. But the reins are in my hands now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get my team running in good order.”

Harry grinned. “Your fervour has raised a good few brows. I don’t think anyone expected such a transformation—profligate rakehell to responsible landowner in a matter of months.”

Jack grunted. “You’d have changed, too, if the responsibility had fallen to you. But there’s no question about it, I need a wife. One like Lenore.”

“There aren’t many like Lenore.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jack let his disgruntlement show. “I’m seriously wondering if what I seek exists—a gentlewoman with charm and grace, efficient and firm enough to manage the reins.”

“Blond, well-endowed and of sunny disposition?”

Jack shot his brother an irritated glance. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt, given the rest of her duties.”

Harry chuckled. “No likely prospects in sight?”

“Nary a one.” Jack’s disgust was back. “After a year of looking, I can truthfully inform you that not one candidate made me look twice. They’re all so alike—young, sweet and innocent—and quite helpless. I need a woman with backbone and all I can find are clinging vines.”

Silence filled the room as they both considered his words.

“Sure Lenore can’t help?” Harry eventually asked.

Jack shook his head. “Eversleigh, damn his hide, was emphatic. His duchess will not be gracing the ton’s ballrooms this Season. Instead,” Jack continued, his eyes gently twinkling, “she’ll be at home at Eversleigh, tending to her firstborn and his father, while increasing under Jason’s watchful eye. Meanwhile, to use his words, the ton can go hang.”

Harry laughed. “So she’s really indisposed? I thought that business about morning sickness was an excuse Jason drummed up to whisk her out of the crowd.”

Grimacing, Jack shook his head. “All too true, I fear. Which means that, having ploughed through last Season without her aid, while she was busy presenting Eversleigh with his heir, and frittered away the Little Season, too, I’m doomed to struggle on alone through the shoals of the upcoming Season, with a storm lowering on the horizon and no safe harbour in sight.”

“A grim prospect,” Harry acknowledged.

Jack grunted, his mind engrossed once more with marriage. For years, the very word had made him shudder. Now, with the ordeal before him, having spent hours contemplating the state, he was no longer so dismissive, so uninterested. It was his sister’s marriage that had altered his view. Hardly the conventional image, for while Jason had married Lenore for a host of eminently conventional reasons, the depth of their love was apparent to all. The fond light that glowed in Jason’s grey eyes whenever he looked at his wife had assured Jack that all was well with his sister—even more than Lenore’s transparent joy. Any notion that his brother-in-law, ex-rake, for years the bane of the dragons, was anything other than besotted with his wife was simply not sustainable in the face of his rampant protectiveness.

Grimacing at the dying fire, Jack reached for the poker. He was not at all sure he wanted to be held in thrall as Jason, apparently without a qualm, was, yet he was very sure he wanted what his brother-in-law had found. A woman who loved him. And whom he loved in return.

Harry sighed, then stood and stretched. “Time to go up. You’d best come, too—no sense in not looking your best for Lady Asfordby’s young ladies.”

With a look of pained resignation, Jack rose. As they crossed to the sideboard to set down their glasses, he shook his head. “I’m tempted to foist the whole business back in Lady Luck’s lap. She handed us this fortune—it’s only fair she provide the solution to the problem she’s created.”

“Ah, but Lady Luck is a fickle female.” Harry turned as he opened the door. “Are you sure you want to gamble the rest of your life on her whim?”

Jack’s expression was grim. “I’m already gambling with the rest of my life. This damned business is no different from the turn of a card or the toss of a die.”

“Except that if you don’t like the stake, you can decline to wager.”

“True, but finding the right stake is my problem.”

As they emerged into the dark hall and took possession of the candles left waiting, Jack continued, “My one, particular golden head—it’s the least Lady Luck can do, to find her and send her my way.”

Harry shot him an amused glance. “Tempting Fate, brother mine?”

“Challenging Fate,” Jack replied.

* * *

WITH A SATISFYING SWIRL of her silk skirts, Sophia Winterton completed the last turn of the Roger de Coverley and sank gracefully into a smiling curtsy. About her, the ballroom of Asfordby Grange was full to the seams with a rainbow-hued throng. Perfume wafted on the errant breezes admitted through the main doors propped wide in the middle of the long room. Candlelight flickered, sheening over artful curls and glittering in the jewels displayed by the dowagers lining the wall.

“A positive pleasure, my dear Miss Winterton.” Puffing slightly, Mr. Bantcombe bowed over her hand. “A most invigorating measure.”

Rising, Sophie smiled. “Indeed, sir.” A quick glance around located her young cousin, Clarissa, ingenuously thanking a youthful swain some yards away. With soft blue eyes and alabaster skin, her pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, Clarissa was a hauntingly lovely vision. Just now, all but quivering with excitement, she forcibly reminded Sophie of a highly strung filly being paraded for the very first time.

With an inward smile, Sophie gave her hand and her attention to Mr. Bantcombe. “Lady Asfordby’s balls may not be as large as the assemblies in Melton, but to my mind, they’re infinitely superior.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Mr. Bantcombe was still short of breath. “Her ladyship is of first consequence hereabouts—and she always takes great pains to exclude the hoi polloi. None of the park-saunterers and half-pay officers who follow the pack will be here tonight.”

Sophie squelched a wayward thought to the effect that she would not really mind one or two half-pay officers, just to lend colour to the ranks of the gentlemen she had come to know suffocatingly well over the last six months. She pinned a bright smile to her lips. “Shall we return to my aunt, sir?”

She had joined her aunt and uncle’s Leicestershire household last September, after waving her father, Sir Humphrey Winterton, eminent paleontologist, a fond farewell. Departing on an expedition of unknown duration, to Syria, so she believed, her father had entrusted her to the care of her late mother’s only sister, Lucilla Webb, an arrangement that met with Sophie’s unqualified approval. The large and happy household inhabiting Webb Park, a huge rambling mansion some miles from Asfordby Grange, was a far cry from the quiet, studious existence she had endured at the side of her grieving and taciturn sire ever since her mother’s death four years ago.