Sophia must have a sound reason for treating him with indifference.

Ben couldn’t prevent a wry smile from curling his lips as he considered his present unenviable situation. He was a Sharnbrook, with proud aristocratic blood flowing through his veins, and he’d be damned if he would tolerate being ignored by the young woman who was destined to become his duchess!

The instant she glimpsed that tall figure looming alongside, Sophia could feel the tension in her steadily mounting. How could she now begin to treat this man like a servant when she had never done so before? Impossible to tell him to remember his station in life when she herself was finding it increasingly difficult not to think of him as an equal!

A Noble Man
Anne Ashley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ANNE ASHLEY

was born and educated in Leicester. She lived for a time in Scotland, but now resides in the West Country with two cats, her two sons and a husband who has a wonderful and very necessary sense of humor. When not pounding away at the keys on her computer she likes to relax in her garden, which she has opened to the public on more than one occasion in aid of the village church funds.

THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, by Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

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 One

March 1812

The Earl of Yardley glared in frustrated silence at his daughter’s lustrous blue-black curls. Anyone might be forgiven for supposing that Lady Sophia’s bent head and clasped hands expressed contrition, but he was not fooled for a moment. Oh, most definitely not! Unless he much mistook the matter, his daughter’s striking green eyes were twinkling while she was doing her level best to conceal that wickedly provocative smile of hers.

“So, you flatly refuse even to consider this latest proposal,” he reiterated, still somehow managing to keep a tight rein on his temper. Any other young woman would have been overjoyed to receive four offers for her hand since her arrival in town a mere two weeks ago. His Sophia, however, was a law unto herself!

Swinging round on his heels, he went across the room to stare sightlessly out of the library window. “At least may I be permitted to know why you have taken Lord Vale in such dislike?”

“Oh, I do not dislike him, Papa,” his most undutiful offspring hurriedly assured him. “The truth of the matter is I haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion.”

“In that case, what can be your objection other than a need to know him a little better?”

Sophia, with a suspicion of wicked amusement still lingering in her eyes after learning of this latest offer for her hand, raised her head at last. “Well, apart from the fact that he will never see forty again, he is the only gentleman of my acquaintance who could sit in a carriage and stare out of both windows at one and the same time.”

A noise sounding suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle reached her ears, and she looked across the room at her father’s surprisingly straight back and silver-grey hair. For a gentleman who had celebrated his seventy-first birthday just a few short weeks before, he was still in fine physical condition. “Papa, you don’t seriously expect me to consider this offer from Lord Vale, do you?”

He didn’t, but he had no intention of admitting to it. “You seem to forget that I was several years older than Lord Vale is now when I proposed to your mother.”

“True, but you were such a distinguished-looking gentleman…still are, for that matter. Besides which, you haven’t a turn in your left eye.”

“Don’t try those wheedling ways with me, my girl!” his lordship snapped, striving not to let his favourite child twist him round her little finger, which, sadly, she so often did. “Very well, I can understand your reluctance in not wishing to consider Vale’s offer, but what about the one from young Farley?”

Sophia’s finely arched brows rose. “Are you by any chance acquainted with the Honourable Cedric Farley? I don’t think you possibly can be, sir…He’s a moonling!”

Once again his lordship was forced to exercise the firmest control in order to conceal his amusement. His daughter was nothing if not brutally candid. “And what were your objections to both Pelham and Neubert, may I ask?”

“A pair of tailor’s dummies!”

“God in heaven!” His lordship clapped a hand over his eyes. “Where in the world do you learn such expressions?”

The exaggerated raising of one brow was a clear indication that she considered the question totally unnecessary. “From the male members of this household, who else?”

Not best pleased at suddenly finding himself at a disadvantage, the Earl went striding back across to his desk. “I’ll have a word with that brother of yours when next I see him. He must learn to put a guard on his tongue when you’re about.”

“I’m reliably informed that Marcus should be arriving any time now, and intends to stay in town for a week or two. I must say though, Papa, I think you’re being grossly unfair to take him to task,” she pointed out in her absent half-brother’s defence, “especially as you yourself use the most appalling cant when in my presence.”

He was about to refute this, but then thought better of it and, instead, scooped up and waved the letters he had received during the past two weeks from those four hapless suitors. “Don’t think that you can lead me away from the matter in hand, you cunning little minx!”

The only effect this mild rebuke had on his headstrong daughter was to make her smile more brilliantly, and his lordship’s annoyance finally got the better of him. “You appear to take a light view of marriage, Sophia. Well, permit me to point out that it is a very serious business. An ill-judged choice of partner only brings misery to all concerned, and I do not intend that you should make a mistake in your choice of husband if it is within my power to prevent it. So, I have come to a decision.”

He paused for a moment to ensure that he had her full attention. “I have made no secret of the fact that I intend to settle a large sum of money upon you when you marry. There is, however, a condition attached to my generosity. If you choose to marry without my consent, then your future husband had better possess sufficient funds to support you, because you will receive not a penny from me.” Again he paused while he tossed the letters from the rejected suitors back on the desk. “Now, do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, sir. What you are trying to tell me is that I may marry whomsoever I choose providing he has wealth and belongs to our social class.” An ominous glint replaced the teasing sparkle in her eyes, as Sophia rose gracefully from the chair nearest to the hearth. “It would appear, then, that I am destined to lead a life of hardship, for I would far rather be poor and married to a man of real worth than riveted to some empty-headed fribble whose only concern is how best to tie his cravat.”

His lordship could be as determined as his headstrong daughter when he chose, and refused to give way on this issue. “I would suggest that you go up to your room and think very seriously about this matter,” he remarked, unbending.

Obediently she moved across to the door, but turned back to add, eyes still glinting, though whether in anger or devilment or a mixture of both, his lordship wasn’t perfectly sure. “Of course I shall do as you wish, but not for any great length of time. Mama would not be best pleased if I were late in putting in an appearance at my very own ball.” And with that quite deliberately provocative remark she left the room, and her father wondering what he had ever done that the gods should have seen fit to curse him with such a headstrong chit of a girl.

The Countess, emerging from the front parlour in time to see her daughter mount the stairs, was not slow to notice the stubborn set of those lovely features, and knew even before she entered the library to find her husband glowering out of the window that the interview had not progressed quite as he might have wished.

“I assume Vale’s offer received the same contemptuous refusal as the other three,” she remarked, seating herself in the chair recently vacated by Sophia.

“That daughter of yours is impossible!” his lordship snapped. Which, of course, was answer enough.

“Why is it, Thomas, that she is always my daughter whenever she has displeased you in some way, and your darling little Sophie at all other times?”

Annoyed though he was, he could not help smiling at this undeniable truth. He turned to look at the woman who had brought real peace and contentment to his life, and not for the first time blessed Providence for ensuring that their paths had crossed all those years ago out in India.

Unlike Danielle, his first wife, Marissa had never possessed any real claim to beauty, not even in her youth, and yet his lordship considered that her many wonderful qualities had withstood the test of time, whereas mere prettiness never could. She had proven to be a devoted wife and loving mother to their own offspring, and even though she had failed completely to cement a maternal bond with Marcus, the only child by his first marriage, his eldest son had never made any secret of the fact that he held his stepmother in the highest esteem.

A sigh escaped him as he drew his mind back to the present, and seated himself in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “I fear, my dear, that I have made a mull of it all. Sophia flatly refuses even to consider Vale’s offer.”

Her ladyship smiled faintly. “Can you honestly say that you’re surprised? He is, after all, a good deal older than she. Apart from his wealth, he has little to commend him, and I’m afraid the size of a gentleman’s fortune would have very little influence on our daughter.”

“She has made that abundantly clear.” The Earl’s grey brows snapped together, clearly revealing his continuing displeasure. “Of course, all this flagrant disregard for wealth and rank was instilled in her at that confounded school. She ought never to have gone there, Marissa! That Guarding creature is nothing short of a revolutionary, with her nonsensical notions of equality.”

Once again the Countess smiled that serene smile of hers. “If you recall, Thomas, we both agreed that Sophia would benefit from a year or two away at school. It was, let me remind you, you who insisted that she should not be placed in any one of those superior seminaries in Bath, where she would be absent from home for weeks at a time. The Guarding Academy, being situated so close to home, and having such a good reputation, was the most obvious choice. And as regards what she learnt there…” Her ladyship reached for her embroidery and began calmly to ply her needle. “She learnt nothing from Mrs Guarding that you yourself did not instil in all your children. From an early age all four of them were taught to treat those less fortunate than themselves with fairness and civility. And that, my dear Thomas, is precisely why we rarely have a servant wishing to leave our employ.”

He found himself quite unable to argue with this. “Very true, my dear,” he concurred. “I do believe in treating good and loyal servants courteously, but that doesn’t mean I’d be content to have a footman as a son-in-law.”

Her ladyship’s brows rose at this. “And what on earth makes you suppose that there is any likelihood of that occurring?”

“Because that confounded daughter of yours can be quite stubbornly headstrong when the mood takes her!” his lordship retorted, irritation surfacing again. “She as good as informed me that nothing would induce her to marry a member of her own social class, and that she would far rather be poor and riveted to some impoverished nobody, would you believe?”

The Countess regarded her husband in silence for a moment, realising suddenly that far more had taken place between father and daughter than she had at first realised. “Why should Sophia imagine that she will ever be poor? She is an heiress. You have agreed to settle a fortune on her.”

For the first time his lordship betrayed clear signs of unease. “Only on condition she marries with my full approval,” he mumbled, already regretting having issued such a threat.

It was only to be expected that a girl accustomed to having most everything her own way almost from the day of her birth would kick over the traces when finding herself harnessed for the very first time. But what choice had he? He had only her best interests at heart. Why in heaven’s name couldn’t the headstrong chit see that!

Feeling suddenly weary, he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Marissa, I’m at a loss to know what to do for the best. I’m one-and-seventy. I can’t live for ever. I do not doubt for a moment that the boys will go on very well without me, but who will take care of my little Sophia when I’m gone?”

Refusing to become depressed at discussing such a melancholy topic, her ladyship said, “Marcus will, I’m certain, admirably fill your shoes when the time comes. Which I sincerely trust will not be for several years yet.” She clearly heard the faint derisive snort. “You do Marcus a grave injustice, my dear, if you suppose for a moment that he would neglect his responsibilities. He has looked after your estate in the north superbly during these past years. I know that he sometimes seems hard and unapproachable, but beneath that prickly exterior he is a very considerate man. He is very fond of his twin brothers, and of Sophia in particular.”

Much to his intense regret, his lordship had never been able to deal well with his eldest child. None the less, he was fair-minded enough to admit that his wife was right. “But remember, my dear, that Marcus will one day marry himself, and raise a family. He will not then wish to be saddled with the added burden of keeping his eye on his frequently wayward half-sister.”

“She might be wilful on occasions, Thomas,” her ladyship responded, once again finding herself coming to Sophia’s defence, “but she’s no fool. She may still harbour some girlish romantic notions, but I believe she will think long and hard before she ties herself to any man.”

The Earl remained unconvinced, but the Countess had more faith in their daughter’s judgement. “Leave it to me, my dear,” she said in her placid way. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

Final arrangements for the ball kept the Countess occupied for the remainder of the afternoon. Even if this had not been the case she would still have refrained from searching out her daughter and raising the topic of marriage, simply because it could only make the situation worse if Sophia felt that both her parents were intent on her making a superb match before the Season was over.

In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. Although the Countess could well understand her husband’s concern over their only daughter’s future, and could appreciate, too, even though he had not admitted to it in so many words, that he was eager to keep fortune-hunters at bay, she saw no earthly reason why Sophia should not relax and enjoy her first Season in London. If she did happen to make the acquaintance of some personable gentleman with whom she could happily spend the rest of her life, all well and good; if not…well, there was always next year.

It was in this very understanding mood that the Countess entered her daughter’s bedchamber in time to see the skilful young abigail positioning a spray of silk flowers in Sophia’s beautifully arranged black locks. Unlike her occasionally volatile daughter, her ladyship always kept a tight hold on her emotions, but there was definitely a hint of pride in her grey eyes as she studied her daughter’s faultless appearance.

“My dear, you look utterly charming,” she announced in her quiet way, while nodding dismissal to the maid.

Although Mother Nature had been undoubtedly generous, blessing her with lovely face and figure to match, Sophia was singularly lacking in conceit, as she proved now by glancing at her reflection with scant enthusiasm. “This is a very pretty gown, Mama, and I do like it very well, but I would have preferred to have it made up in dark blue or red. Madame Félice said that, with my colouring, vibrant shades would suit me best.”

“And Madame Félice has earned herself something of a reputation for never being wrong, I know,” the Countess responded. “Nonetheless, I’m still old-fashioned enough to believe that only pastel shades are suitable for young ladies. After you’re married, of course, the wearing of richer colours will be perfectly in order.”

She caught her daughter’s suddenly assessing look in the dressing-table mirror, and smiled. No, she mused, there was precious little wrong with Sophia’s understanding. Nor did she suppose for a moment that her daughter would disgrace herself by eloping with some penniless nobody, providing, of course, pressure was not brought to bear which might induce her to commit such folly.

“No, my dear, I didn’t come to your room with the intention of discussing the subject of marriage,” she assured her, knowing precisely what was going through that pretty little head. “I should imagine you’ve heard more than enough on that particular topic for one day.”

Sophia almost sighed with relief. Her mother, always remarkably composed, was unfailingly sympathetic to the feelings of others. How she wished she could be more like her! Sadly, though, she feared she had inherited the occasionally fiery and frequently stubborn Cleeve temperament.

“I’ve never known Papa to be so unreasonable before. He seems to suppose that only a person of rank and wealth will make me a good husband.”

The Countess, appreciating only too well her poor husband’s dilemma, remained silent. How could a loving father explain to a much beloved daughter that her hand might be sought in marriage for her fortune alone, without hurting her feelings?

“And yet it was he who instilled in us all,” Sophia went on, “that a servant can exhibit just as much nobility as a duke. Perhaps he taught me too well, for I would much rather be married to a good and worthy man, no matter what his position on the social ladder, than marry a titled gentleman simply because by doing so I could continue to live in luxury.” She cast her mother a look of entreaty. “You can understand that, can’t you, Mama?”

“Better than you think, my dear. What you are trying to say is that you wish to marry a man you can love and respect and, moreover, a man who will love and respect you in return.” Seating herself on the chaise-longue, she held out her hand and waited for her daughter to join her before adding, “Your father wants that too. He is only concerned for your happiness, Sophia. He would do everything within his power to ensure that you do not make the mistake that he once made.”

The Earl’s first marriage was a subject that was rarely mentioned—taboo, almost. Sophia had, none the less, learned enough over the years from elderly servants and friends of the family to be certain that her father bitterly regretted marrying the beautiful Danielle.

“Yes, I do understand,” she said softly. “But I have yet to meet a man with whom I could happily spend the rest of my life. I’m afraid, Mama, that the Lord Vales of this world are not to my taste.”

“Middle-aged dandies were never to mine either, child,” the Countess confessed, giving her daughter’s hand an affectionate pat. “There is no earthly reason why you should accept a proposal of marriage if you do not wish to. Sooner or later I feel certain that you will meet some personable young gentleman who will succeed in capturing your heart, but until such time, do not worry your pretty head over it any more.”

This was easier said than done. Although slightly reassured by her mother’s understanding attitude, Sophia remained decidedly troubled. She hated being at odds with her father, while at the same time she continued to resent the unreasonable stand he had adopted. Was it her fault that four gentlemen had proposed marriage to her since her arrival in town? She certainly hadn’t offered any one of them the least encouragement, unless agreeing to partner someone in a dance was considered sufficient inducement for a gentleman to propose marriage.

It was all so ridiculous, she decided, rising to her feet and accompanying her mother from the room. She had barely exchanged more than a dozen words with any one of those rejected suitors, so what on earth had made them suppose that she would make an ideal wife?

She was not so small-minded as to suppose that just because love at first sight was a phenomenon that she herself had failed to experience the event never took place. She was well aware, too, that gentlemen were frequently beguiled by a pretty face. She could not help wondering, though, whether she would appear quite so appealing to certain members of the opposite sex if it were not for the fifty thousand pounds her father had promised to settle upon her when she married.

A slow and wickedly calculating smile curled the corners of what one besotted young fop had been overheard to call the most kissable mouth in London, as Sophia caught sight of her father standing at the entrance to the ballroom in readiness to greet the first of the guests. His threat to disinherit her if she married without his approval might well be turned to her advantage. If it became common knowledge that she wasn’t an heiress at all, those offers for her hand might swiftly lessen and, with any luck, cease altogether, leaving her free to enjoy her first Season in London without causing further friction between her and her sire.

The idea, once firmly embedded, quickly began to grow, and Sophia had little difficulty in putting her plan into effect by dropping a word here and there into a receptive ear. Although the Season had not officially begun, London was certainly not thin of company, and invitations to the Yardley ball had been eagerly accepted. Among the four hundred guests were many hopeful mamas whose daughters sadly possessed scant claim to beauty. It was only to be expected, therefore, that some doting parents would be only too willing to pass on unfavourable snippets concerning a dangerous rival, especially if it increased their own offspring’s chances of achieving a suitable match.

Consequently, as the evening progressed, Sophia became increasingly satisfied with the many long and thoughtful glances cast in her direction. She was not so foolish as to suppose for a moment that everyone would believe the rumour which was circulating about her, nor did she consider that a supposed lack of fortune would deter every gentleman from making her an offer, and made allowances for this contingency by not standing up with the same gentleman more than once.

Nevertheless, she was never short of a partner, and the evening was well advanced before she managed to leave the dance floor and search out her good friend Robina Perceval, who also happened to be enjoying her first London Season.

“This is a truly magnificent ball,” Robina announced when Sophia had almost slumped, exhausted, in the vacant chair beside her. “I do not think I’ve ever seen so many people crowded into one room before. The dances Aunt Eleanor organises at the Angel back home are nothing to it.”

Sophia was not so impressed. Unlike Robina, who lived a rather quiet life at the vicarage in Abbot Quincey, a small market town situated within easy walking distance of the Cleeves’ country home, Sophia had attended many large parties since the age of sixteen. “Yes, a dreadful squeeze, isn’t it? You’ll need to accustom yourself to such gatherings, Robin, because I’m reliably informed that a party isn’t considered a success unless you’re forever stepping on someone’s toes.”

She took a moment to gaze about the crowded ballroom, trying to pick out the odd familiar face. “I was sorry to learn that your cousin Hester would not be attending, but her brother Hugo is here. I danced with him earlier.”

“I understand that Aunt Eleanor and Hester will not be arriving in town until April.” Robina couldn’t help but smile. “I think if it was left to Hester she wouldn’t be coming at all. Unlike Hugo, she has no taste for town life. She would much prefer to remain locked away in that attic room of hers. Though what she finds to keep her so occupied up there for hours at a time is anybody’s guess. Who would believe a brother and sister could be so dissimilar!”

Her smile faded as she glanced at her friend’s lovely profile. They had known each other most all their lives, and had always been the very best of friends, so Robina experienced no hesitation in saying, “I think you should know that there is a rather unpleasant rumour circulating about you tonight.” It was then she noticed the betraying twitch at the corner of her friend’s mouth. “Never tell me that you put it about that you haven’t a feather to fly with! What on earth possessed you?”

Well aware that the vicar’s daughter would never betray a confidence, Sophia didn’t hesitate in enlightening her. “So you see,” she went on, after repeating the gist of the interview with her father earlier in the day, “I was forced to do something to stem these ridiculous proposals of marriage. And it isn’t as if the rumour is a lie. Papa has threatened to disinherit me if I marry against his wishes.” A defiant little gleam sprang into her eyes. “And to be perfectly honest with you, at this precise moment in time I’m inclined to do precisely that.”

Robina sat silently digesting what she had learned. She had been taught to consider envy a sin, but couldn’t help feeling a touch resentful over her friend’s privileged position. Their circumstances were vastly contrasting. Sophia could reject suitors at will, whereas she herself would need to consider very carefully any offer of marriage that came her way. There was no fault to find with her lineage: both her parents came from noble stock. The Perceval name was an old and honoured one, but that did not alter the fact that she was little more than a country parson’s daughter whose dowry was woefully small. Her parents, though comfortably circumstanced, were by no means wealthy, and they most certainly could not afford a second London Season for their eldest daughter with three younger ones eagerly waiting to be launched into society. So Robina felt it her duty to accept any reasonable offer of marriage. But how she wished that she too could marry just for love!

“I have been away from the steadying influence of the vicarage a few days only,” she remarked with a wry little smile, “yet already I’m in danger of being corrupted by the dangerously frivolous lures and heady atmosphere of the metropolis.”

Sophia frankly laughed. “My staid little friend being led astray…? By whom or what, may I ask?”

“I shall explain some other time, for unless I much mistake the matter, a gentleman is approaching, with every intention of asking you to dance.”

Lord Nicholas Risely was, indeed, heading in their direction. Tall, slim and very good-looking, he was a firm favourite with a great many of society’s leading hostesses and, consequently, was invited everywhere. His attire was faultless, his address excellent, and as he just happened to be the son of a duke, albeit a younger one, he was looked upon as being a very eligible parti.

In the normal course of events these facts alone would have prompted Sophia to add his name to that list of gentlemen best avoided, but she had not. Instead, she had permitted him to add his name to her dance card, simply because she had been most reliably informed that Lord Nicholas Risely was not on the look-out for a wife.

Happily allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor, she couldn’t help noticing the strange look he cast her as they prepared to join one of the sets. “Something appears to be troubling you, my lord,” she remarked. “I cannot imagine you are concerned over making a cake of yourself. You are such an excellent dancer.”

As luck would have it the steps of the dance separated them, which granted Lord Nicholas the opportunity of formulating a response. Having met her on two occasions before, he had already decided that he rather liked Sophia Cleeve. She was bright and witty, nothing like the majority of simpering misses who flooded the marriage mart every year. If he had not been quite content to continue with his bachelor existence for a few years longer, she would have been just the sort of girl that would have appealed to him.

She was immensely pleasing on the eye, too. Perhaps not a beauty in the true classical style, but certainly lovely enough to prompt many a spiteful tabby with a daughter of her own to launch to start spreading malicious gossip about lack of fortune in the hope of making the lovely Lady Sophia appear far less desirable. It was all so unfair, so underhanded, and he for one had no intention of aiding any matchmaking mama’s cause by repeating what he had overheard that night.

“Nothing troubling me at all, my lady,” he assured her, as they came together again. “Couldn’t be happier. This is a wonderful ball, and I am honoured to be dancing with its belle.”

“How very gallant of you to say so, Lord Nicholas! Had any other gentleman said such a thing I would have been instantly on my guard, but with you I know I’m perfectly safe.”

Now what the deuce did she mean by that? he wondered, as they separated, and didn’t hesitate to ask for an explanation when they came together again.

“Simply that your good friend Freddy Fortescue assures me that you’re not about to relinquish your bachelor status quite yet and, therefore, I can accept your compliments without fear that you will be foolish enough to follow them up with a proposal of marriage.”

Nicholas blinked. This was plain-speaking of the highest order, and he wasn’t certain that he cared for it very much. He might not have any intention of asking this chit, or any other for that matter, to marry him, but it was very lowering to be told that one’s suit would never be welcomed anyway.

Sophia was not slow to notice the flicker of annoyance. “I’ve offended you, my lord, and I never meant to do so,” she assured him, her dazzling smile going some way to soothe a young gentleman’s bruised ego. “It’s just that I too am in no hurry to relinquish my single state either, and when I do it will never be to a member of the Ton.”

He thought for a moment that she couldn’t possibly be serious, that she might well be indulging in some wicked jest. Then he recalled being informed earlier in the evening that Lord Vale’s suit had not prospered. The gentleman himself was not present tonight to confirm this or not, though whether his absence stemmed from pique at having been rejected, or having a prior engagement, was anyone’s guess.

“You see, Lord Nicholas, men of wealth and rank hold no appeal for me.” Sophia decided that it could only aid her cause to spread this about. “I am determined to marry a worthy man, no matter how lowly his station in life.”

“A footman, rather than a marquis; a groom rather than a duke,” he suggested, half-joking. “I rather think your father will have a thing or two to say about that, Lady Sophia.”

“Oh, he already has, believe me,” she didn’t hesitate to disclose, “but his threat to disinherit me is certainly no deterrent.”

Still doubtful whether to believe her or not, he returned her to her pretty friend’s side once the dance came to an end, and promptly moved away in order to sample some of the excellent refreshments being served that evening. He had only just relieved a footman of a glass of champagne when he received a tap on the shoulder, and heard an imperious voice enquire, “Well, Risely, is what I’ve learned true or not?”

He turned to discover that most feared patroness of Almack’s regarding him with haughtily raised brows. Had it been anyone else he might have been tempted not to answer, but one ignored Sally Jersey at one’s peril. “Couldn’t say for certain, ma’am, one way or t’other. Shouldn’t imagine so, though, would you? The Earl of Yardley seems dashed too fond of his daughter to disinherit her.”

She dismissed this with a wave of one slender hand. “I’m not talking about that piece of utter nonsense. I really don’t know how these foolish rumours get started. No, it was to Sharnbrook I was referring. I ran into your sister the other day, paying one of her rare visits to town, and she mentioned that nothing had been heard from your brother in months.”

“Oh, aye, that’s right enough,” he confirmed, betraying what some might consider a callous lack of concern. “We received a letter from him six months ago, after he had learned of our father’s death, stating his intention of returning to this country before the end of the year. Can only imagine that something must have detained him out there in Jamaica.”

“Well, you may tell him from me, when he does return, that he’s not to hide himself away in that magnificent ancestral home of his. We hostesses need him here in London. Such a matrimonial prize! Why, all the young ladies will be eager to capture his interest.”

“Oh, no—not quite all,” he murmured, catching sight of a raven-haired beauty being led once again on to the dance floor.

Chapter Two

Lord Nicholas Risely was among the first guests to leave the ball. He certainly managed to raise a few startled brows when he took his gracious leave of the host and hostess, for he had gained the reputation, since entering society two years before, of being a very sociable young man whose energy seemed boundless. Rarely did he seek the comfort of his bed much before three in the morning, once the social rounds had begun. Tonight, however, he seemed to have lost his desire for company, enjoyable though the Yardley ball had been.

Without waiting for a servant to find him a hackney carriage, he stepped outside into the cool night air and, heedless of any possible footpad lurking in this fashionable part of the town, walked briskly in the direction of his small but comfortable London home.

Although he had managed to appear sublimely unconcerned at the time, his short conversation with Lady Jersey had renewed those feelings of disquiet over his brother’s safety which had plagued him increasingly during these past weeks. In the last letter sent from Jamaica, Benedict had clearly stated his intention of returning to the land of his birth some time during the autumn. That was almost six months ago, and nothing had been heard from him since.

It was quite possible, of course, that he had been forced to change his plans and had delayed his departure. It was equally possible that a letter informing his family of his revised plans had gone astray. Nevertheless Nicholas could not wholly dismiss the possibility, no matter how hard he tried, that some accident had befallen the Seventh Duke of Sharnbrook.

Long sea voyages were dangerous undertakings at the best of times, and more so during these past troubled years. Britain’s splendid navy might be master of the seas, but those gallant sailors could not guard every stretch of water, and an attack from a French vessel was an ever-present danger. More disturbing still was the memory of those vicious gales which had wreaked havoc along the coast during the winter months, whipping the seas into a frenzy and causing more than one vessel to come to grief. The Atlantic was a vast ocean; any sailing ship foundering out there miles from land might not be reported missing for some considerable time.

He tried not to dwell on this dreadful possibility as he arrived back at his house. Not only had he a sincere regard for the brother he had not seen for more than half a decade, but he had no desire whatsoever to step into Benedict’s shoes as head of the family. He was more than content with his carefree bachelor existence, and although he didn’t consider himself to be in the least light-minded, he recoiled at the mere thought of having to accept responsibility for the running of the family’s vast estate in Hampshire, not to mention the other sizeable properties dotted about the land.

Extracting the key from his pocket, he let himself inside the house. As he was never very sure of precisely when he would be returning home, he never encouraged his worthy factotum to wait up for him, and was faintly surprised to discover his butler-cum-valet dozing in the comfortable leather-bound chair in the hall.

“What’s all this, Figgins? Why aren’t you abed, man?” he demanded, as the servant awoke with a start at the closing of the door.

Having been in service most of his life, Figgins was quite accustomed to the ways of the nobility, and was not in the least offended by his young master’s rather impatient tone.

Although he had always considered himself to be a very superior valet, he had not been averse, after his previous master had passed away, to accepting a position as general factotum in this small but fashionable household. He had worked for Lord Nicholas for the past two years, and could say with a clear conscience that not once had he ever committed the least solecism—never until tonight.

Rising to his feet, he cast a faintly concerned look in the direction of the parlour. “I felt it my duty, sir, in the—er—circumstances, to await your return in order to apprise you.”

“Apprise me of what, may I ask?” Nicholas prompted when his very correct manservant cast a further glance in the direction of the parlour’s closed door.

“Of the fact, sir, that there is someone else awaiting your return.”

Nicholas, having by this time divested himself of his outdoor garments, gave his servant his full attention. It was by no means unusual for him to return home in the early hours to discover one of his many friends sound asleep on the couch in the parlour, so he was at a loss to understand why Figgins should be making such an issue of the fact.

“Well, who is it? Harry Harmond?”

“No, sir. It is someone I’ve certainly never seen before.” Figgins, who rarely displayed the least emotion, permitted himself a thin smile of satisfaction. “I have always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character, able to pinpoint very accurately a person’s station in life. And I certainly know an encroaching individual when I see one.” His smile disappeared. “But I am forced to admit that the person who called shortly after you had left the house, and who is now comfortably ensconced in the parlour, has me well and truly puzzled. His appearance leaves—er—much to be desired, as you might say, but his speech and manners are those of an undoubted gentleman. I have therefore formed the opinion, sir, although he stubbornly refused to give his name, that he must be an old acquaintance of yours who has, perhaps, fallen on hard times.”

For a few moments it was as much as Nicholas could do to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. “And you let him in? Good gad, man, you must be all about in your head!”

Nicholas was by no means a hard-hearted person, and would willingly come to the aid of a friend, should the need arise, but he refused to be taken advantage of by some rascally individual he barely knew. “What in the world prompted you to admit him? The rogue has probably taken himself off long since. And with all my best silver, if I know anything!”

“Oh no, sir. He hasn’t done that,” Figgins responded, completely unruffled. “And I can assure you, sir, that I would never have permitted him to set foot inside the house, let alone provide him with supper and a glass or two of wine, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he informed me that he had news concerning your brother.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” Nicholas was decidedly sceptical. “Well, his tidings had better be worth the food and drink he’s consumed already at my expense,” he ground out, throwing wide the parlour door, and striding purposefully into the room to discover the shabbily dressed individual sprawled at his ease in the most comfortable chair in the house. “Otherwise he’ll find himself helped on his way by the toe of my boot!”

A slow and lazy smile tugged at the corners of the visitor’s well-shaped mouth, but the eyes remained firmly closed as he said, “I shall take leave to inform you that I consider that a most impolite greeting to offer someone you haven’t seen for several years, dear brother.”

Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks, once again powerless to prevent his jaw from dropping perceptively when the lids of dazzling blue eyes finally opened and the visitor rose to his feet in one graceful movement. “Benedict?” he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. Then, “Ben, by all that’s wonderful!…It is you!”

Figgins, hovering in the open doorway, experienced a sense of pride as he watched the two men clasp each other warmly. It was comforting to know that his instincts had not played him false and that the very welcome visitor, taller than his brother by an inch or two, and noticeably broader, had turned out to be what he had suspected from the start—a gentleman of quality.

He coughed delicately, thereby indicating his continued presence, and the brothers loosened their hold. “Do you wish me to fetch brandy, m’lord?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Nicholas answered, still somewhat bemused by his sibling’s unexpected arrival. “And make sure it’s the best brandy, Figgins. This calls for a celebration.”

After his servant had departed, Nicholas busied himself for a minute or two by going about the room lighting more candles, and then joined his brother by the hearth. He was quite unable to forbear a smile as he watched Benedict piling more logs on what was already a substantial fire. Evidently the British climate no longer agreed with him, which was hardly surprising after spending so many years abroad. This, however, was by no means the most obvious change in him.

No one viewing him now would ever have supposed for a moment that Benedict had once been considered a dandy, rivalling the famous Beau Brummell himself in dress. Nicholas recalled quite clearly watching his brother on numerous occasions, sitting before a dressing-table mirror, patiently tying intricate folds in a highly starched cravat until he had it just so. Yet here he sat, now, with a gaudy red kerchief tied about his throat, his long legs encased in a pair of rough homespun trousers, and a slightly soiled and heavily creased shirt encasing that broad expanse of chest. Why, he looked little better than a vagrant with that mass of golden-brown hair almost touching his shoulders. And the weeks of growth on and around his chin did absolutely nothing to improve his appearance!

“By that disapproving look,” Benedict remarked, after raising his striking blue eyes in time to catch his brother’s frowning scrutiny, “I assume my appearance does not meet with your approval.”

“Good gad, Ben! You resemble nothing so much as a rascally vagrant.”

“I am relieved the hard-working soul who gave me these clothes isn’t present,” Benedict responded, with more than a hint of wryness. “He would have been most offended. This shirt, I am assured, was his very best. Though it isn’t strictly true, I suppose, to say that he gave me these clothes,” he corrected. “We struck a bargain. I exchanged them for a suit of my own. And was heartily glad to do so! I was sick and tired of my own apparel after several weeks at sea.”

“Do you mean to say you exchanged all your clothes for those…those deplorable rags?” Nicholas did not believe a word of it. “You must take me for a half-wit if you think I’ll swallow that one.”

“True as I sit here, dear brother,” Benedict assured him. “Except I only gave him the clothes I stood up in. They were all I had, you see. Pirates deprived me of the rest.”

Once again Nicholas found himself gaping. “Pirates? What pirates?”

“The ones we unfortunately encountered two days after setting sail from Port Royal.” Benedict smiled at his young brother’s decidedly sceptical look. “Sailing through the Caribbean is not the same as taking a boat trip down the Thames, dear boy. It is still a dangerous place. Many people of varying nationalities, fleeing from the law, seek refuge there. Piracy is still quite common, believe me.”

“What happened?” Nicholas prompted, suddenly resembling an excited schoolboy, and Benedict was of a mind to be indulgent.

“The captain of our ship, being a Christian soul, could not find it within himself to blithely ignore what appeared to be a vessel in distress, and gave the order to heave-to. Grappling-hooks were thrown with remarkable speed, and before the captain and crew realised what was happening we were being boarded by a horde of cut-throats. The captain and crew of our ship gave a good account of themselves, as did a couple of the passengers, and we soon had the rogues returning to their own vessel, but not before they had deprived us of some of the food on board, and several other items of worth, including my trunk, which contained not only my clothes, but my valuables, too. Consequently all I was left with were the clothes I stood up in. And, as you can imagine, by the time we had docked in Liverpool, I was heartily glad to be rid of them, even to exchange them for the ones I’m wearing now.”

Nicholas could well understand this and smiled, until a thought suddenly occurred to him. “How on earth did you manage to reach London without money? Surely you didn’t walk?”

“Thankfully, I wasn’t reduced to that, though it could hardly have been more uncomfortable than travelling by the common stage. I have grown accustomed to doing without many creature comforts during my time in Jamaica, but sitting for hours in a vehicle that smells of perspiration, onions, and various other unpleasant odours was almost more than I could bear.”

His pained expression almost had his young brother writhing in laughter. “No, I still retained my pocket watch, which I was able to sell for half its real value. I swear the rogue who purchased it in Liverpool thought it had been stolen.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Nicholas responded when he had gained sufficient control of himself. “No one would take you for a member of the peerage!”

“That isn’t strictly true,” Ben corrected. “Your estimable butler, unless I much mistake the matter, managed to penetrate the disguise.” He glanced round as the door opened, his face brightening. “And here he is, and armed, I see, with more of that delicious apple tart.”

“I thought, perhaps, you could manage another mouthful, your grace,” Figgins said, placing the tray containing the food and brandy down on a convenient table near his master’s chair. “Will there be anything else you require, sir?”

“Yes, you’d best make the bed up in the spare room, and look out one of my night-shirts.” Nicholas turned his attention back to his brother as soon as Figgins had left the room. “There’s only a skeleton staff now at the house in Grosvenor Square. The place hasn’t been used since Father died.”

He searched in vain for a sign of remorse on his brother’s handsome face, and yet he knew how fond Benedict had been of their father. “He passed away peacefully in his sleep. He didn’t suffer,” he assured him, and this time Benedict responded with a softly spoken, “I’m glad,” and then promptly changed the subject by enquiring after their sister.

“Oh, Connie’s in fine fettle. Put on some weight since the last time you saw her. Still,” he shrugged, “only to be expected at her age. Increased the progeny by three since you’ve been away. Five of the little blighters she’s produced now. Which says something for Lansdown, I suppose. I have a deal of respect for our dear brother-in-law. Poor chap must possess the patience of a saint to put up with our bird-witted sister.”

Benedict, willingly accepting a further slice of the apple tart and a full measure of the brandy, could not suppress a smile. No doubt Constance continued to treat Nicholas as though he were still a mischievous schoolboy, and his evident resentment was quite understandable. He decided to make his own feelings known.

“I perceive a great change in you, Nick.” He took a moment to study the very fashionable attire. “Apeing the dandy yourself now, I see.”

“One must dress, dear brother.” The pained expression returned as his attention was drawn to that gaudy neck decoration once more. “Just as well you did come straight here. Wouldn’t do to let people see you looking like that, you know. There’s the name to consider, and all that,” he remarked with quaint snobbery. “We’ll rise early tomorrow and pay a visit to a tailor…Or perhaps several.”

The following morning Benedict discovered that his brother’s idea of rising early was not quite the same as his own. So, after he had consumed a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs and buttered rolls, washed down with several cups of freshly-brewed coffee, and there were still no signs that Nicholas was ready to leave the comfort of his bedchamber and face the new day, Benedict decided to pass the time by exploring the metropolis to see what changes had taken place during his years away.

He stepped outside to discover a morning that was both dry and bright, and blessedly free from the evil choking fog that often shrouded the city even at this time of year. His athletic, long-striding gait quickly brought him to the end of the street and into a wider thoroughfare, where hordes of people were now busily going about their daily work.

This was the part of the city that he knew best of all, where pretty girls in white pinafores and black taffeta bonnets were parading the fashionable streets and squares dispensing milk from the buckets they carried, their cries mingling with those of other hawkers, eager to sell their wares. This was where he had happily frittered away his time, and money, paying visits to friends and enjoying the many pleasurable activities the capital had to offer any young gentleman of wealth and rank. This was what, five years ago, he had very much resented being forced to leave behind.

He remembered clearly the bitterness he had felt when his father had insisted that he travel to Jamaica and learn to respect the value of money by taking charge of the family’s plantation out there. Their parting had been an unpleasant one, with many biting recriminations uttered on both sides. Not many months had passed, however, before Benedict had come to realise that his father’s actions had been totally justified, and he could only be thankful that the majority of letters exchanged during their years apart had been full of warmth and understanding; his only real regret now being that he had not returned to England in time to see his father one last time before his death.

Yes, those years in Jamaica had changed him completely. He was no longer that care-for-nobody, that frivolous, pleasure-seeking fribble whose only ambition was to cut a dash in society, and who squandered vast sums of money without a thought to whose hard work financed his pleasures or from whence the money had come. Older and, hopefully, wiser now, he believed he could take his father’s place and carry out his duties as head of the family in a responsible and caring manner. The cut of a jacket, the set of a cravat and a looking-glass shine on a pair of boots were no longer important to him. A sigh escaped him. Nevertheless he supposed it behoved him to take his brother’s advice, and attire himself as befitted his station in life before returning to the fashionable world, a world that, if the truth were known, he had little desire to re-enter.

The stink of rotting refuse and equally unpleasant odours suddenly assailing his nostrils induced him to take stock of his surroundings. Without being aware of it, he had walked ever eastwards into those areas of the capital where most people of his class rarely or never ventured. The distinction between rich and poor could not have been more marked. There were no fine mansions here, no crossing-boys to clear away the filth from the streets, and no ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their finery, taking the air. Which was hardly surprising, he decided, ripping the kerchief from his neck and putting it to good use by placing it over his nose and mouth.

The air was foul, polluted by filth and grime which oozed from the tightly-packed hovels, and half-starved children, dressed in rags, or nothing at all, were grubbing round in the dirt. What it must be like here when the weather became warmer he dreaded to think. Little wonder these areas of the city harboured the constant threat of typhus. To the poor wretches living here disease and starvation were commonplace, a way of life from which there was little hope of escape.

He knew, of course, that it was the height of folly to remain in these noisome streets, where vice and corruption abounded on every corner, and yet he found his interest well and truly captured. So engrossed did he become in the heart-rending wretchedness surrounding him that it was not until almost noon that he ventured back to the more affluent part of the city, and was greeted none too politely when he did eventually return to his brother’s house.

“Where the deuce have you been?” Nicholas demanded to know. “Figgins informed me that you left the house hours ago.”

“That is correct.” Benedict joined him at the table, and helped himself to a cup of fresh coffee. “I decided to occupy my time while waiting for you to rise in exploring the capital.”

“Expect you discovered some changes, eh?”

“Can’t say I took much notice of the area round here. Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Shoreditch and Smithfield certainly proved most interesting, though.”

“Good gad, Benedict!” Nicholas was beginning to wonder whether those years spent under a tropical sun might not have had some adverse effect on his brother’s mental state. “What on earth possessed you to venture to those spots? They’re all notorious havens for every form of low life. Even the Runners won’t enter those places alone, not even in broad daylight.” A disturbing possibility suddenly occurred to him. “Dear Lord! You didn’t go there to find a woman, did you?”

One ducal brow arched. “Credit me with some intelligence. Not that I didn’t receive several offers, but I have far too much respect for my health.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that!” his graceless brother responded, audibly sighing with relief. “Though I’m rather surprised you managed to return totally unscathed.”

“Dressed as I am, I no doubt appeared one of their own and, therefore, not worthy of accosting.”

This candid response returned Nicholas’s thoughts to what for him was the most pressing problem besetting him at the moment and, after hurriedly finishing his meagre repast, he wasted no further time in taking the first steps in putting his brother’s deplorable appearance to rights.

It rather amused him to see the appalled expressions on those famous Bond Street tailors’ faces when his brother entered their superior establishments in his wake. Benedict did not appear to take offence at the unenthusiastic reception he received wherever he went, and certainly displayed praiseworthy self-control when he was pulled this way and that, and measured with ruthless efficiency. Nicholas soon discovered, however, that beneath that veneer of complacency was an iron strong will, for nothing would induce Benedict to have his coats made fashionably tight, nor tempt him to select anything other than the plainest of colours for his clothes.

“Damned unimaginative! That’s what I call it,” Nicholas remonstrated, as they emerged into the sunlight once more. “Yellow-and-black-striped waistcoats are all the fashion this Season.”

“I do not doubt you are correct, brother. But I have no intention of going about the capital resembling something that spends most of its life collecting pollen.”

Nicholas was about to cast further aspersions on what he considered a deplorably unimaginative taste, when he caught sight of one of his degenerate friends on the opposite side of the street, and took evasive action by concealing himself in a doorway.

“I have no intention either of wearing coats so close-fitting that one cannot breathe, or breeches so tight that they’re in danger of splitting every time one sits down,” Benedict announced before he realised he was conversing with fresh air and, glancing round in an attempt to locate his sibling’s whereabouts, promptly collided with something soft, slender and totally feminine emerging from Hookham’s Library.

Benedict was powerless to prevent several books cascading from slender hands and ending up on the pavement, but managed to prevent the lady herself suffering the same fate by reaching out a steadying arm to encircle a very trim waist. “I’m so very sorry,” he apologised, silently cursing his clumsiness, and was about to relinquish his hold when the head beneath the fashionable bonnet was suddenly raised.

For several moments it was as much as Benedict could do to stop himself gaping like some lovelorn fool as thickly lashed eyes, with a spark of mischief in their beautiful green depths, twinkled up at him, and perfectly moulded lips curled into the sweetest of smiles. Beauties he’d known by the score, but never before had the sight of a lovely face and trim figure held him so totally captive, mind and body under some hypnotic spell, quite unable to function. The sights and sounds around him slowly began to fade, and he was conscious only of her, and the ever-increasing desire never to relinquish his hold.

Nicholas, on the other hand, stepping out from the convenient hiding-place, was instantly aware of the interest his clumsy brother was arousing in several passers-by, and promptly took command of the situation by treading none too gently on one roughly shod foot. “Don’t just stand there like a dolt!” he ordered, sublimely ignoring the flashing look of annoyance he perceived in a pair of masculine eyes. “Help this lady’s maid to pick up those books!”

Very reluctantly Benedict did as bidden, and Nicholas wasted no time in escorting the young lady in question to her waiting carriage. “Can’t apologise enough. The clumsy brute might have done you a serious mischief. I trust you’re none the worse for the encounter?”

“No, not at all, sir,” she assured him, her gaze momentarily wandering in the tall man’s direction as he handed her maid the books. “And please do not blame your servant. It was as much my fault as his. I was not attending where I was going either.”

Out of the corner of his eye Nicholas saw Benedict approaching, and hurriedly helped the lovely damsel into the carriage. “You are too kind, ma’am,” he responded, stepping to one side to enable the maid to enter, and then wasted no time in closing the door.

“Why in heaven’s name didn’t you introduce me?” Benedict demanded, aggrieved, as he watched the carriage move away.

“What!” Once again Nicholas very much feared those years spent beneath a Caribbean sun had taken their toll. “When I’ve done everything humanly possible to keep your identity secret since we left the house? You might have no pride in the name you bear, brother, but I most certainly have. Do you imagine I’ll permit London to see you going about looking like that? Why, it would be the talk of the clubs for months to come if your identity ever became known!”

Catching the eye of a passing jarvey, Nicholas hurriedly bundled his troublesome brother into the hired carriage before Benedict could draw more attention to himself. “I don’t understand what’s come over you, Ben. You used to take such pride in your appearance, and yet now you don’t seem to care a whit that you look more like a didicoi than a duke.”

More interested in the lovely image his mind’s eye was conjuring up, Benedict had listened with only half an ear to his brother’s strictures. “Who was she? Do you know?”

Nicholas cast him an impatient glance, wondering anew what had come over him. No one would have believed his brother capable of fending off an attack from pirates, when a pair of green eyes could fell him with one glance!

“Of course I know her. I was dancing with her only last night. She’s Lady Sophia Cleeve, the Earl of Yardley’s daughter.” He raised his eyes heavenwards when his brother’s besotted expression did not alter. “Anyone would suppose you’d never seen a pretty face before.”

“Pretty? A totally inappropriate description!” Benedict scoffed. “She’s exquisite.”

Nicholas considered this for a moment or two. “Opinions differ. Some consider her a beauty. However, blondes are all the fashion this Season.”

His brother appeared decidedly unimpressed. Evidently flaxen hair was not to his taste. “My, my, the little minx appears to have you well and truly in her toils,” Nicholas remarked, highly amused now by the unfortunate encounter with the Earl’s daughter. “Not that I don’t think it’s high time you were leg-shackled, brother, but if you take my advice you’ll look elsewhere for a wife.”

A heart-rending possibility occurred to Benedict. “She isn’t married already, is she? Or engaged?”

“No, nor likely to be, either.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t seem interested in marriage. At least,” Nicholas amended, memory stirring, “certainly not a marriage to a member of our class. If what she tells me is true, she prefers the company of grooms to dukes.”

“Ha! She must have been teasing you,” Benedict scoffed, thinking his brother highly gullible.

“Perhaps,” Nicholas conceded. “I’m only repeating what I was told last night. Furthermore, she’s received four proposals of marriage to my certain knowledge since her arrival in town, and has refused them all. Which would suggest that she certainly isn’t hankering after a husband, let alone a title.” His wicked sense of humour coming to the fore, he gave a shout of laughter. “Why, she paid more attention to you out there in the street just now than she pays to most members of her own class.”

Evidently his brother did not share the joke, for he sat silently staring out of the window. “Don’t disturb yourself,” Nicholas advised. “There’ll be plenty of other pretty wenches gracing the Season once it officially gets under way.”

“I dare say you’re right,” Benedict murmured, a decidedly calculating gleam springing into his striking blue eyes, “but it’s Lady Sophia Cleeve I intend to get to know. So perhaps, all things considered, it might serve me best if I remain incognito for a while longer.”

“How on earth can that benefit you?” Nicholas asked, totally at a loss.

Benedict transferred his gaze to his sibling’s puzzled countenance. “You said yourself that she prefers the company of grooms…And if there is one thing I do know…it’s my way around a stable!”

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