Lord Stillwell's Excellent Engagements

Books by Victoria Alexander

THE PERFECT MISTRESS

HIS MISTRESS BY CHRISTMAS

MY WICKED LITTLE LIES

WHAT HAPPENS AT CHRISTMAS

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Lord Stillwell’s

Excellent Engagements

VICTORIA ALEXANDER

KENSINGTON BOOKS

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Books by Victoria Alexander

Title Page

Part One:

Felicia

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part Two

-

Lucille

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part Three:

Caroline

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Dear Reader,

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

Part One:

Felicia

The Right Honorable the Viscount

and Lady Whitingdon

request the honour of your presence

at the marriage of their daughter

Miss Felicia Obigail Constance Whitingdon

to

The Right honorable

The Viscount Stillwell

on Wednesday June ninth

Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine

at eleven o’clock

Fairborough Hall chapel

Chapter 1

April 1879

My dear Gray,

Pack your bags, Cousin, and prepare to return home no later than June eighth as I shall be married on June ninth. You are, no doubt, surprised as I have always said I shall be quite long in the tooth when at last I take a bride and I have scarcely passed my twenty-fifth birthday. Marriage was not a state I was seeking, at least not yet. As you have likely gathered from my letters, I have had quite a good time of it up to now. I freely admit that there was a moment here and there, perhaps more than one, when I came perilously close to irrevocable scandal and one can only credit the prayers of my mother that I managed to avoid complete social disaster. But, on occasion, fate takes a hand and cannot be denied. The perfect woman has swept into my life, much to the delight of Mother and Father, and marriage is no longer the sentence it once appeared.

She is exquisite, Gray, everything I ever imagined I wanted in a bride in one delectable package. Her hair is the color of darkest night, her skin like the finest porcelain, her eyes rival the rarest sapphire. And yes, I do realize I have never been especially poetic in the past, but she brings out the long slumbering poet in my soul. Even her name—Miss Felicia Abigail Constance Whitingdon—falls like poetry from the tongue.

In a practical sense, she is indeed a perfect choice. Her lineage is impeccable, her education acceptable, her reputation unblemished. She is the only child of Viscount Whitingdon and as such will inherit a substantial fortune upon his demise. Her dowry is most impressive and though this is not necessary, it will nonetheless be appreciated as Miss Whitingdon is so obviously not a frugal sort. She has a penchant for fine jewelry and the latest fashions from Paris, and who can blame her? One would scarcely put an artistic masterpiece in a shabby frame.

We are a perfect match, Gray. Everyone says so. Why, ours is being lauded as the most brilliant engagement of the season, which doesn’t matter at all, of course, although it is rather amusing. There are those, you know, who assumed I was headed directly to hell.

The wedding itself is to be a grand affair here at Fairborough Hall and perhaps a bit more ostentatious than I might have preferred, although it has been pointed out to me that, given our stations, such a display is to be expected. I must confess, I find merely the discussions of what is required for a fete such as this to be daunting. But it is all in the capable hands of Mother, Felicia’s mother and, of course, the bride herself. Father and Lord Whitingdon are wisely staying out of the path of these forces of nature, as am I.

Do come home, Gray, and help me survive my nuptials. I need my cousin, my closest friend, by my side. While I have the courage, my stamina is in question. You will like Felicia. She is beautiful and amusing, really very clever, and all I could ever ask for. We shall get on quite well together.

Father thinks she is delightful....

“You do realize . . .” Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, drew a deep breath and chose his words with care, sending a silent prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that, at the moment, he was more shocked than angered, although he suspected anger was not far off. He tried again. “You do realize Fairborough Hall is filled nearly to overflowing with guests of your family’s and mine?”

“Of course I do.” Felicia waved off the comment.

“And each and every one of them is expecting a wedding.” Win stared. “Tomorrow.”

“I realize that as well.” She shook her head and sighed. “It is most awkward.”

“Awkward?” His voice rose. “Awkward?”

“If you are going to take that tone with me, Winfield Elliott, I shall leave this house at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you shall have to deal with this awkwardness without me.”

Win clenched his jaw and tried to remain calm. “Then perhaps you could desist referring to all this merely as awkward.”

“Very well.” She shrugged. “How would you prefer I refer to it?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I have never been told on the day before my wedding by my intended, that while she was quite fond of me, she much preferred to marry someone else, thank you very much!”

“Goodness, it’s not as if I have left you waiting for me at the altar. That would be most embarrassing.”

“Ah well then, I do thank you for that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield, will not make this any less difficult.” Her brows drew together over her sapphire eyes. “And I should think you would indeed be grateful for that.”

“Grateful?” He sputtered. “Grateful?” In his twenty-five years he didn’t think he’d ever sputtered. Never imagined he could. Why, his father sputtered. And Colonel Channing from Millworth Manor sputtered. And a number of older gentlemen at the club in London his father had insisted he join, as his grandfather had belonged and his father before that, sputtered. Indeed, Winfield Elliott was the kind of man who caused others to sputter in disbelief or surprise or, on occasion, shock, but he certainly never sputtered himself. “Grateful that you did not actually leave me standing at the altar?”

“Well, yes.” She tucked a stray strand of midnight-black hair back into place. “I had hoped to make this as painless as possible.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us,” she said sharply. “This is not exactly what I had planned, you know.” She turned away and meandered around the perimeter of the library in a manner entirely too casual for the occasion. As if the topic of discussion was of no more importance than whether they should picnic near the lake or by the rose garden. It was as disconcerting as the discussion itself. “I fully intended to marry you.” She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed all these preparations otherwise.” She glanced at him. “And I am sorry.”

“Well, as long as you’re sorry.”

Her brow furrowed and she stared at him. “You’re really quite surprised, aren’t you?”

“Surprised is the very least of what I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Come now, Winfield, it’s not as if you were in love with me.”

“I was not . . . not in love with you.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that I fully expected to love you someday. I expected love between us to grow.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good as he’d thought it would. “I like you a great deal.” Oh yes, that was much better. “I thought we were well suited to one another.”

“Yes, well, there was that.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “I must admit, the idea of spending the rest of my days with you was not the least bit daunting. Indeed, it had a great deal of appeal.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Nonsense, Winfield, of course you do. You’re simply letting the . . . oh, I don’t know . . . sentimentality of the moment confuse you.” She continued her casual progress around the room. “But even you admit you and I were never a love match.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So, although we do like one another—and make no mistake about it, I do like you—”

“Imagine my delight,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “Our marriage was more of a practical matter, almost a business arrangement, really.”

He stared. “That’s rather cold.”

“Granted, it’s not quite that callous and, as I said, I do like you.” She thought for a moment. “But I’m certainly not in love with you, nor are you in love with me.”

“I could be,” he said staunchly.

“But you’re not. Tell me, Winfield.” She pinned him with a firm look. “Does your heart flutter when you hear my voice or your eyes meet mine?”

“Well, no but—”

“And when I kiss you, do your toes curl?”

“Not that I have noticed but—”

“Nor do mine. And Winfield . . .” Her gaze met his firmly. “Can you imagine living the rest of your life without me?”

“No,” he snapped.

She raised a brow.

“Perhaps,” he muttered.

“Of course you can. This would be an entirely different matter if we were in love with one another, but as we aren’t . . .” She shrugged.

“Are you in love with him then?” He strode across the room, yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk where his father had long hid a bottle of his favorite Scottish whisky, as his mother did not especially approve of hard spirits. He grabbed the bottle and one of two glasses stored with it, and poured a glass.

“It’s rather early in the day for that, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” He took a long swallow. “Indeed, on the day before your wedding when your fiancée informs you there shall be no wedding, I don’t believe there is any such thing as too early in the day.” He glared at her. “Do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“And you have yet to answer my question.” He wasn’t sure why he cared, why it seemed rather important to him. And yet it did. “Are you in love with him?”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m no more in love with him than I am with you, but I am confident I will be one day. I suspect he is in love with me, which is a delightful idea.”

“One wouldn’t think he would come all the way here to propose marriage on the day before your wedding to another man if he wasn’t.” He considered her for a moment. “Unless, of course, he is interested in your inheritance.”

“Nonsense. He already has an impressive fortune and is heir to a dukedom. If anything, I am interested in his prospects, not the other way around.” She shook her head and sighed as if he was entirely too simple-minded to understand. “Even in this modern day and age, women like myself of good family are expected to make the best match possible. It’s the way women improve themselves. And as Harold’s uncle is a duke, and he is his uncle’s only heir, his elderly uncle, it only makes sense for me to marry him as you will only ever be an earl.”

“So you have found a better way to improve yourself than by marrying me?”

“Exactly.” She cast him a satisfied smile. “Besides, he claims to love me, whereas you only plan to love me. All in all, Winfield, even you must admit Harold is a much better choice.”

“You do realize you have broken my heart,” he said in a manner even he knew was perhaps more dramatic than necessary.

“Nonsense, I don’t believe that for a moment. If I did . . .”

“If you did, what?” He sipped his whiskey and studied her.

“If I did . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to break it off with you directly. I didn’t have to, you know. I simply could have failed to appear at the wedding or sent you a carefully worded note. But your affections are not overly engaged and you well know it.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“It’s your pride that is, well, not broken exactly but bent a bit, wounded perhaps. As is to be expected.” She considered him thoughtfully. “Therefore if you wish to let it be known that the cancellation of our wedding was my doing, I would certainly understand, although . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I would much prefer if the rest of the world did not know I was the one who broke off things between us to marry a man with better prospects.”

He snorted. “In spite of the fact that you are.”

“I know that and you know that, but there’s no need for others to know.”

“I daresay people will notice when you marry Mr. Hedges-Smythe.”

She waved off his comment. “Oh, I have no intention of marrying Harold any time soon. We shall wait a suitable period.” She frowned. “I should think three months would be long enough, don’t you?”

“No.” He huffed.

“Perhaps you’re right.” She considered the question. “Six months would be better. I would hate to appear shallow.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield.” She shook her head. “It would reflect poorly on you too, you know. My being seen as shallow and preferring one man over another simply because of his title. Why, you might even be viewed as somewhat pathetic. At the very least, people will wonder whatever were you thinking.”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” he said under his breath. Still, there was no need to make this worse. He drew a deep breath. “I would propose then that we simply let it be known that by mutual agreement, we have decided not to wed.”

“That will do nicely.” She paused. “I do appreciate it, Winfield.” She hesitated. “This is not as easy for me as it might appear. I am exceptionally fond of you as well. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to marry you otherwise. But I do have to think of my future and, well, you have my sincere apologies.”

He stared at her for a long moment. She was as beautiful as she had always been, as charming and amusing as well. And she was right.

He had no doubt he would have loved her one day, but he certainly didn’t love her now. His heart was not broken, although it did feel a bit chipped. Still, that might well be his pride.

Felicia was perfect for him and would have been a perfect Countess of Fairborough one day. She did seem to be everything he had ever wanted. Or everything he had ever thought he had wanted. But perhaps this was for the best.

Did he really want to marry a woman who was only his because nothing better had come along?

Chapter 2

“It’s amazing to me how quickly guests take their leave when there is the possibility of becoming embroiled in something awkward.” The Countess of Fairborough swept into the library and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh of exhaustion. “It’s only slightly less amazing than those who wish to linger and view the destruction firsthand. Like those people who flock to fires only to see the ruin they have wrought.”

Win stood near the fireplace, yet another glass of whiskey in his hand. He and his father had retired to the library late this morning shortly after Felicia and her parents had departed, accompanied, of course, by Mr. Hedges-Smythe. Perhaps Felicia had had the courage to face Win directly, but facing anyone else was a different matter entirely. Indeed, her entourage had been prepared to flee the moment she’d called off the wedding, leaving Win and his family to deal with the guests and all else that accompanied cancelled nuptials. They had made a brief announcement to those who had gathered for luncheon, and his mother had spent the rest of the day bidding farewell to guests and agreeing that yes, it was a shame, but it was probably for the best. Win and his father had taken refuge—some might say hidden—in the library.

He glanced at his father seated in the chair that matched his mother’s, a glass in his hand as well. “Why does every female here insist on calling this awkward? Awkward is the very least of what this is.”

Father shrugged. “Perhaps because if they were to use words like devastating or disastrous it would seem so much more . . .”

“Devastating?” Win raised a brow. “Disastrous?”

“Perhaps a little less sarcasm . . .” his mother said under her breath.

Win stared at her.

“Oh dear, I am sorry.” She ran her hand over her forehead. “Forgive me, dearest, none of this is your fault. It’s been a very long day and not at all the day I expected, and I might be a bit, oh, out of sorts.”

His father snorted.

Mother continued without pause. “Indeed, I think your wit is most amusing. I can’t imagine any woman who wouldn’t think so. You are charming and handsome and dashing, you’re quite clever and really all any woman could possibly want.”

“Unless she wished to become a duchess someday,” his father said in a cool tone.

“There is that,” Win muttered and took another sip. He had resisted the inclination to drink steadily through the course of the day and drown his sorrows as it were. The realization that he wasn’t as much sorrowful as annoyed tempered that desire. Indeed, the thought had already crossed his mind that not marrying Felicia was a better idea than marrying her, even if it had not been his idea.

“Well,” Mother began in a brisk voice. “What do you intend to do now?”

Win raised his glass.

She frowned. “You cannot spend the rest of your life with your head in a bottle, dear.”

“Good Lord, Margaret, leave the boy alone,” his father said sharply. “A man who has been thrown over on the day before his wedding has earned to right to seek solace in oblivion for, oh, a week at least, I would think.”

“I doubt that I will need that much, Father,” Win said with a wry smile. “Apparently I am not as crushed as one would expect. Disappointed, yes—my pride has definitely been wounded—but all in all . . .” He thought for a moment. “I believe I am escaping relatively unscathed.”

His parents traded glances.

“Then you were not in love with her?” Caution sounded in his mother’s voice.

“I liked her a great deal. I believe now I might well have been infatuated with her and we were well suited to one another. I can think of any number of couples who do not have that much. I assumed love would come in time.” Win considered the question for a moment. “I suppose I thought, given as everyone else thought we were the perfect match, that we, well, were.” He chuckled. “And we probably would have been for the rest of our lives had not a better catch come along. I expected to love her, sooner rather than later really, but, no, I was not in love with her.”

“That’s something at any rate.” Mother blew a relieved breath. “I do hope you do not allow this to discourage you, dear. There are any number of charming young ladies who would be most interested should you do little more than glance in their direction. Why, I can name a dozen off the top of my head. After a suitable interval—”

He laughed. “And what is suitable in circumstances such as this?”

“I’d say about the time her engagement to another man is announced to be more than long enough,” Father muttered.

Mother cast him an annoyed glance. “Long enough that it does not appear you threw her over for someone else.” Her lips pressed together in a prim line. “I don’t know why you wish for everyone to think calling off the wedding was by mutual accord. I think she should be known for the . . . the . . . the opportunist she is.”

“First of all, I would much prefer not to be the object of pity,” Win said firmly. “And there is much less chance of that if this is seen as being amicable.”

“Still, people will talk. There’s bound to be a certain amount of gossip.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Why, no doubt, conclusions will be drawn as to your behavior. They’ll assume you did something dreadful. You do have a reputation for fast living, you know.”

“Excellent.” Father nodded. “I would much rather it be thought that my son did something unforgivable in the eyes of his fiancée rather than that he was nearly taken in by a girl who was little more than a fortune hunter.” He aimed a pointed look at his son. “Most women, interesting women that is, especially those suitable for a man of your prospects, are most intrigued by a man whose reputation is not entirely spotless. A bit wicked, as it were.”

Mother gasped. “Roland!”

“Come now, Margaret, you must admit you were initially attracted to me because I was considered entirely too dangerous for a young lady of good breeding.”

“I was not!” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Why, I never—”

“Oh, but you did, Margaret,” Father said with a smug smile. “You most certainly did.”

Win looked from one parent to the next. That was a story he had never been told. And one he wasn’t sure he ever wished to hear. There were some things about the past lives of one’s parents one should probably never know.

He cleared his throat and continued. “Secondly, Mother, consider this for a moment. If you had a daughter, would you not want her to make the best marriage possible?”

Mother sniffed. “Not at the expense of other people’s happiness.”

“Do you really think I would have been happy with someone who cared so little for me that they would cast me aside for someone with a larger fortune and grander title?” Win shook his head. “In truth, I think I have had a narrow escape and I feel quite lucky at the moment.” He grinned. “Indeed, this is entirely too good to waste. I believe I shall head to London tomorrow and try my hand at the gaming tables.”

“Well, next time, you shall have to choose someone—”

“Next time,” Win said in a no-nonsense tone. This was not up for discussion and the sooner his mother realized it the better. “Next time is very far away and not something I wish to consider at the moment.”

“Permit him to recover from this time first.” His father’s gaze met his. “Even though he is taking this debacle in stride, such things are never as easy as they look.”

“Thank you, Father.” Win smiled.

“I suppose,” Mother murmured.

“Oh and, Father, you had mentioned something about it being past time I learned management of the estate and the family’s business interests.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I agree. I know you had originally planned to divide those responsibilities between Gray and myself but, as we have no idea when he’ll return from his pursuit of success in America . . .” Win shrugged. “I am prepared to take it all on. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

“Then we shall begin at once. Well . . .” A slow, decidedly knowing smile spread across his father’s face. “When you return from London, that is.”

“No more than a week or so, I would think.”

“Take as long as you wish, Winfield.” Father nodded in a sage manner. “And do enjoy yourself.”

Again, Win was struck by all the things he didn’t know about his parents in their younger days. Still, from the few stories he had heard through the years, he had always suspected his father had indeed been something of a rake in his day. And the current Earl of Fairborough probably knew far better than his wife what it would take for his son to recover from his cancelled wedding.

His father would probably understand as well that there was an odd ache somewhere in the vicinity of Win’s heart. Not that Win would ever admit such a thing. No, this dull pain was a secret he doubted he would ever reveal to anyone. Besides, what could he say?

Did he ache for what he had lost?

Or for the shattered promise of what now would never be?

June 1879

My dear Gray,

While it is unfortunate your business concerns did not allow you to travel to England it was perhaps for the best. Although I could certainly use your assistance at the moment in my stalwart attempts to drink most of the spirits in the country and bed as many of its women as possible.

I regret to inform you that the wedding of Miss Felicia Abigail Whitingdon and the Viscount Stillwell did not take place as planned as the bride decided she would much prefer to be a duchess rather than a mere countess. Yes, indeed, Gray, I have been thrown over for a man who will one day have a more prestigious title and a greater fortune.

Oddly enough, I am not sure if my heart is as wounded as my pride. Upon reflection, I realize the exquisite Felicia was not as perfect a match as I had initially believed although, had the wedding not been cancelled, it might well have been many years before I realized that fact. Perhaps even a lifetime. As the thought of living the rest of my days with the wrong woman is as a cold hand squeezing my heart, this development is for the best. At least I have convinced myself of that.

This incident, as Mother refers to it, has led me to consider my life in a new light. While I daresay I shall not entirely abandon my wicked, but most enjoyable, ways, I am resolved to turn my attentions to matters of business, property management and all else I will need in the future to ensure the prosperity of the family. Father is most pleased. I daresay I shall become quite respectable and eminently proper and even a bit stuffy. God have mercy on us all.

There is a lesson to be learned here even if admittedly, I have no idea what it is. I know the next time I choose a wife, I shall want someone who has more depth of character. Although it has always seemed to me those women who truly have good character are not always as easy to gaze upon. Felicia was very easy to gaze upon.

Mother says she never liked her. . . .

Part Two

Lucille

My Dearest Cousin Beatrice,

Lord Stillwell and I have fixed on the fourteenth of September for our marriage. It will be celebrated at his family home of Tairborough Hall and will indeed be the happiest day of our respective lives.

I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have found a man of the steadfast nature and stalwart character of Winfield Elliott I consider myself extremely fortunate and his feelings echo mine. We are agreed that we are well suited.

Our happiness will only be increased if you will favor us with your presence at the ceremony. It shall be small and dignified, as is appropriate for his station and mine. Da say you will come, Cousin, as your absence would surely cast a pall on what will certainly be the most important day of my life.

Your loving Cousin,

Lucille

Chapter 3

August 1881

My dear Cousin,

We are all delighted to hear of your successes in America. Regardless, Mother would have my head were I not to point out that in spite of the busy nature of your days she would appreciate if she would receive letters from you more frequently than you have managed thus far. Now that I have fulfilled my duties as loyal son and have delivered her message, I may move on to other matters with a clear conscience.

As you know, I have now fully taken over the management of Father’s financial investments and much of the management of the family’s properties as well. I will confess, it has not been entirely easy and has required far more effort to prove myself worthy of his confidence and trust than I had imagined. Nonetheless, I have managed to do so and humbly note I am well pleased with myself, as is Father. Furthermore, I will be forwarding you a substantial sum to invest in your next venture. No thanks are necessary. I simply wish to share in your financial acumen. But that is not the only purpose for my letter.

Once again, I beg you to arrange your affairs to the point where you can return to England for a visit. And a wedding. Yes, it’s true. I am engaged to be married.

I can see the grin on your face now, Gray, and I am always glad when the important events in my life provide you with a source of amusement.

I have no doubt I have now found the perfect woman. Lady Eustice, Lucille, is the widow of Sir Charles Eustice and is a lovely creature with a mind nearly as sharp as my own. There is nothing more enjoyable than engaging in stimulating debate of an intellectual nature with my Lucy. I suspect the passion she shows in our verbal dueling will be matched by passion of a more intimate nature, although I will confide to you that nothing untoward has occurred between us. Much to my regret. But Lucy is quite cognizant of proper behavior. I know you are thinking one of us should be.

We met quite by accident at the office of her late husband’s solicitor, who is my solicitor as well. Then met again at the opera. And once more at a dinner at the home of mutual friends. By then, we both agreed fate had obviously taken a hand and we would be foolish not to acknowledge it. After all, one should never defy fate. We have seen a great deal of each other in recent months and she has agreed to become my wife.

We have decided on a small, discreet affair here at Fairborough Hall with only our family and closest friends in attendance. But I cannot face another wedding without you by my side so do consider returning home no later than September tenth, as I should like to spend the last days of my bachelor life with my cousin and my closest friend.

Nor can I wait for you to meet Lucy. You will like her, Gray. She is as lovely as she is sensible. I assure you, intelligence and beauty is not an easy combination to find. She will one day make an excellent countess.

Mother likes her a great deal....

“You’ve come a long way, my boy.” Father closed the ledger book with a heavy thunk as befitted its serious nature. He had two such ledgers. In this one he kept an accounting of business endeavors and investments; the other was dedicated to matters regarding property including Fairborough Park and the house in London. Father was nothing if not well organized. He set the book aside on the desk. “I must confess, I wasn’t sure you would take to this as well as you have.”

“Were you afraid Gray had inherited all the business expertise in the family?” Win said with a wry smile. He sat in the chair positioned in front of the mahogany desk that had served any number of previous Earls of Fairborough and would, God willing, serve those yet to come. Win had sat in this precise position more times than he could count through the years, more often than not when he was being called to task for some infraction or other. Odd to be sitting here now not as recalcitrant offspring but as something more akin to an equal.

“Not at all.” Father shook his head. “I’ve never had any doubts as to your competence or intelligence. It was your desire that was in question. Grayson had something to prove, if only to himself. You do not.”

“True enough.” Win’s cousin, Gray, had lost his parents at an early age. Win’s family had taken him in and, to Win’s observation, had never treated him, or thought of him, as anything less than their own. But when the woman Gray loved threw him over for a man with a title and fortune, his cousin left England to build a fortune of his own. “You do realize he isn’t aware that I told you about that business with Miss Channing, or rather, Lady Lydingham now?”

Father nodded. “Nor shall I tell him that your mother and I know.” He paused. “Do you think he will return for this wedding of yours?”

“I doubt it.” Win shrugged. “I have asked him, but I am not counting on his presence. I suspect we will not see him until he has accomplished what he has set out to do.”

“Pity.” Father shook his head. “Your mother misses him.”

“As do we all.” Gray was more than a cousin to him. In every respect save blood, they were brothers and Gray was, as well, his closest friend. Regardless, Gray had always been his own man. “Still it would be good to have him here.”

“About this wedding . . .” Father began.

“Yes?”

Father pulled open his bottom drawer and withdrew his bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Win raised a brow. “So, this is to be one of those talks, is it?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Father scoffed and filled the glasses. “Can a man not celebrate the companionship of his only son with a glass of good whiskey?” He slid a glass across the desk toward Win.

“What about the wedding?” Win hefted the glass and took an appreciative sip. His father did know his whiskey.

“I assume, from what your mother has said, that the preparations are all in order,” Father said in an overly casual manner.

“In truth, I have no idea. It seems the groom is of little use in the planning of weddings. Therefore I have done the intelligent thing and stayed out of it.”

“Very wise.” Father paused. “While your mother and I have urged you to find a suitable bride, I do hope our encouragement has not pushed you in the wrong direction.”

Win frowned. “What do you mean?”

Father shifted uneasily in his chair. “After the last . . .”

“Failed engagement? Cancelled wedding? Embarrassing incident? Humiliating debacle?” Win cast his father a dry look. “Do feel free to stop me at any time.”

“I was going to simply say time, but I suppose all of those are fairly accurate.” Father shook his head. “I was quite proud of you, you know. I can’t imagine it was easy to keep the exact circumstances of the termination of the engagement to yourself. To allow the world to place the fault at your feet rather than hers, thus protecting her reputation.”

“If you recall, I have never had a reputation particularly worthy of protection.”

Father raised a shoulder as if it was of no consequence, yet another indication of their ever-changing relationship. There was a time when Win’s less than stellar past behavior would have prompted at the very least a stern lecture from his father and accompanying worried looks from his mother. The kind that suggested she feared he would come to a bad end and she could do nothing to prevent it save pray to a higher power. “Nor did I at your age.”

Win had long suspected as much.

“Pity your gallantry was undeserved.” Father snorted. “It would have gone far better for her had she been smart enough to have waited more than a few weeks to announce her engagement to another man.”

“Still, while I wasn’t at the time, I am grateful to her at this point. I could have married the wrong woman instead of biding my time and waiting for the right one.”

“I did think twenty-five was a bit young to marry at any rate.”

“And yet you never said a word.”

“It wasn’t easy.” Father chuckled. “Why, I didn’t wed until I had passed my thirty-first year.”

Win studied his father for a long moment. Very often what his father didn’t say was every bit as important as what he did say. He chose his own words with care. “But you think twenty-seven an acceptable age?”

“I’m not sure age truly matters when one is certain one has found the right woman.” Father had long been a master of evasive answers. He leaned back in his chair and considered his son over the rim of his glass. “As you have done.”

“Indeed I have,” Win said staunchly.

“And you are certain?”

“I haven’t a doubt in my mind.” Which wasn’t entirely the truth, but that was not something he wished to admit to his father or, for that matter, to himself. It was bad enough to have chosen the wrong woman once. Twice, well, he pushed the thought from his head. Lucy was definitely not the wrong woman.

They had arrived at Fairborough Hall nearly a week ago and the wedding was still a week away. Lucy had sensibly suggested they come to the country early so that she might better know his parents and his country house. It was an excellent idea and indeed the week had gone quite well for the most part. Lucy did have a tendency to comment on things that might be run more efficiently, both at the hall and in the gardens and the village, with the unsaid implication that when she was the Countess of Fairborough, changes would be made. He had noted a similar inclination in London to suggest changes on various aspects of the family house in Mayfair: furnishings, servants and whatever struck her as needing improvement. As well as occasionally on his attire, his selections at dinner or his fondness for brandy and cigars. He’d dismissed it in town; it was part and parcel of getting to know one another after all. Indeed he’d found it rather charming. But here in the country, the place he loved best in all the world, where he never felt so much himself, here . . .

“That’s all that matters then, isn’t it?”

Win’s attention jerked back to his father. “What?”

“That you haven’t any doubts about your impending nuptials.”

“Yes, of course,” Win murmured.

“It’s a big step, you know—marriage that is.”

“I am aware of that, Father.”

“Lady Eustice is, oh, a sensible, responsible choice.” He paused. “More so than your last fiancée.”

“I am aware of that as well. Indeed, no one is more aware of it than I.”

Father hesitated. “She’s not at all the type of woman I expected you to choose.”

Win chuckled. “Nor did I.”

“You are selecting the next Countess of Fairborough, the woman who will be your mother’s successor.” Father took a sip of his whiskey. “It looks to me that Lady Eustice is well up to that challenge. She shall make an excellent countess.”

“I have no doubts about that whatsoever,” Win said firmly.

“She is quite cognizant of proper behavior. A very reserved sort. One might even say cold. But I’m sure, as we grow to know her better, she will warm to us,” he added quickly.

“I would think so.” Still, Lucy did have a tendency to be aloof. Yet another quality he hadn’t really noticed before.

“She will no doubt make an excellent wife.”

“Absolutely.”

“By your side for the rest of your days.”

“As it should be.”

“Exactly.” Father nodded in a sage manner. “Every day, every night for the rest of your life.”

“Most certainly.”

“Until the very moment you breathe your last.”

“Of course,” Win said, forcing a bit more enthusiasm than he felt. Could he be with Lucy for the rest of his days? Until he breathed his last was a very long time.

As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he hadn’t truly considered the unending permanence of marriage until this past week. But then he hadn’t spent as much continuous time with Lucy in London as he had since their arrival at Fairborough Hall. Even the fact that she preferred Lucille to Lucy had escaped his notice until now. There were other aspects of her nature as well. Minor things, really, that he had paid no attention to, discounting them as unimportant. He had always found a great deal of freedom in the country. He was beginning to suspect Lucy—Lucille—would much prefer to spend her days in town. He was starting to wonder as well if he had made yet another rash decision. He pushed the thought from his head. Lucy was a sensible match.

“There’s nothing dishonorable in honesty, you know,” his father said in an offhand manner. “In admitting one has perhaps made a mistake.”

Win met the earl’s gaze directly. “I shall remember that, Father, the next time I find myself in that position.”

Father blew a long breath. “Stubbornness is not the same as conviction, Winfield.”

Win tightened his jaw. It was one thing to admit his doubts to himself. Quite another to have them pointed out by his father. Not that Father had done that directly. Not that Win had any doubts. “I know that, Father.”

Father fell silent for a thoughtful moment, then heaved a resigned sigh. “As long as you are indeed certain of your path.”

“Quite certain, Father.” Win drew a deep breath. “But I do appreciate your concern.”

“I don’t doubt your judgment, Winfield, or your intelligence. You should know that.” He leaned forward and met his son’s gaze. “But even the cleverest of men can lose his way when a woman is involved. And a woman who is both rational and pretty . . .” He shook his head. “They appeal both to a man’s sense of duty, of doing what he should do, as well as to his more, oh, shall we say baser desires. Lady Eustice is a lovely woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She is a wise choice, Winfield,” Father said with a conviction that didn’t seem entirely genuine. Or perhaps Win was reading more into his father’s demeanor than was there.

“Thank you, Father,” Win murmured, even if his father’s comment struck him as more resigned than approving.

Lucy was not merely a sensible choice but the right choice. She would indeed make a perfect countess, consummate hostess and model wife. To be by his side for the rest of his days. Every day, every night. Until the moment he breathed his last. His stomach twisted. He ignored it. After all, what man didn’t experience a twinge of anxiety at the thought of his impending nuptials? This was nothing more than that.

Odd that his father had never asked about love. But then it was no doubt apparent this was not a love match although Win did like Lucy a great deal. He fully expected the affection they now shared would grow with the years. After all, hadn’t he witnessed the very same thing among many of his friends who had married for convenience or duty? As most men of his acquaintance had done. A love match was to be desired, of course, but certainly wasn’t necessary.

No, his father hadn’t mentioned love. But then again, neither had he.

Chapter 4

“There it is.” Win slipped off his horse and gazed with pride and a certain amount of affection at the small, open-sided structure that seemed at once out of place and yet entirely natural. He turned to Lucy to help her dismount. In her green riding habit, that precisely matched the color of her eyes, with a hat sporting two long feathers nestled in her blond hair she was indeed the perfect picture of a future countess: elegant, fashionable and eminently proper. “What do you think?”

“That depends I suppose,” Lucy said cautiously. “What exactly is it?”

He laughed. “A replica of a temple, I believe, or someone’s idea of a temple more likely, but it’s always been referred to as a folly. It scarcely matters what we call it, I suppose.” The building was little more than six stone columns on a slightly elevated six-sided platform, supporting a domed roof. Stone benches curved between two pairs of columns. “In truth it’s a testament to love.”

“It doesn’t look like a testament to love,” she said under her breath. “It looks like it might well collapse at any minute.”

“Admittedly, it is in some disrepair.” He studied the structure with a critical eye. The folly sat in a clearing some distance away from the manicured grounds and gardens of Fairborough Park in a small copse of trees and sadly overgrown brush. As such, it escaped notice unless one was deliberately seeking it, probably the very reason why it had been built in this relatively isolated spot. But in spite of its need for cleaning and assorted repairs, it retained a quiet sort of dignity. He’d loved it since the first time he’d stumbled upon it as a boy. It had struck him then as a place of magic where very nearly anything could happen. And indeed it had.

Lucy tilted her head and studied the small building. “It’s leaning, isn’t it?”

“No.” Win scoffed, although it did seem a bit off-kilter. “It’s simply that the ground here is somewhat uneven. I shall make a note to have it inspected.”

She glanced around and wrinkled her nose. “The grounds need maintenance as well. It’s quite overgrown here. You should add that to your list.”

He chuckled. “I don’t really have a list.”

“You should, you know. Lest you forget.”

“Perhaps.” He moved closer to the folly, Lucy trailed behind him.

“Winfield.” Speculation sounded in her voice. “I daresay those stones, marble aren’t they?”

“I believe so.”

“They could be put to a more practical use elsewhere on the estate. Why don’t you simply have this torn down? It’s so far from the house, it’s really of no use to anyone.”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly do that,” he said absently. The structure didn’t really look all that bad, although, admittedly, his perception might be colored by affection. “It’s had repairs through the years, but it’s holding up exceptionally well, given its age.”

“How old is it?” she asked, slapping away a fly.

“Oh, some two hundred years, I think. There’s one exactly like it on the grounds at Millworth Manor.”

Her brows drew together. “Why?”

“Fairborough Hall and Millworth Manor were originally built by members of the same family nearly three centuries ago.” He circled the structure, making notes to himself about a crack here, a shifted stone there. “Fairborough, as you may have noticed, has remained virtually unchanged, although Millworth has seen any number of structural changes, additions added at the discretion and needs, some might say whims, of the owners.” He shrugged. “Perhaps because Fairborough has been in my family since it was first built, whereas Millworth has changed hands any number of times throughout its history.”

“And the follies?” A touch of impatience edged her voice.

“I was coming to that, but it all ties together, you see.” No, with proper care the building could last forever. As it was intended to. “The folly at Millworth is older than this one and was built by a lord, whose name escapes me now, for his wife. His son, I believe his name was Thomas, fell in love with a Fairborough daughter, Anne. According to the story, legend now really, she loved the folly at Millworth. They would often slip away and meet there. Thomas had this one built in the dead of night for her as a betrothal present, to remind her of him when they were apart. Which is why it is so far from the house. He intended it to be a surprise.”

“How charming. If that’s it then . . .” She turned back toward the horses.

He laughed. “Not quite. There’s more.”

“Of course there is.” She sighed and brushed away another insect. “Do go on.”

“Before they could wed, the young Lord Thomas was forced to leave England on some sort of urgent business for the crown, the details of which have always been vague. It all happened some two hundred years or so ago. He promised to return no later than a year and meet her here on this very spot. He vowed that nothing would keep him from her as she was the true love of his life.”

“And of course he returned and they had a dozen children and lived quite happily for the rest of their days.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “Now may we leave?”

“I’m afraid that’s not how the story ends.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “The year was nearly up when Thomas’s ship was lost at sea. Anne didn’t believe it, fate wouldn’t be that cruel. So she waited for him here, every day through all sorts of weather. Another year went by, and another. . . .”

“Rather silly of her really, to wait for a man who was surely dead. She should have gone on with her life.”

“How could she? He was her life.” Win heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “For more than two years she waited until she fell dreadfully ill—”

“No doubt from being out here in all sorts of weather.” Lucy shook her head. “Foolish girl.”

“And died.”

“How very sad. Shall we go now?” Lucy cast him a hopeful smile.

“That’s not the end.”

“Then do get to it, Winfield, before I am eaten alive.” She huffed.

“As I said, Anne died. Not a fortnight later . . .” He paused for effect. He’d always enjoyed telling this story. “Thomas returned, as she always knew he would. He had been shipwrecked and badly injured. It had taken him all that time to make his way home. When he discovered she had died, he was inconsolable. He came here and begged for her to return to him.” He lowered his voice. “They say he was quite mad with grief.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not the end though, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “His family and hers tried to reason with him. When he refused to leave the folly, they brought him food, which he ignored. A few days after his return, they found him dead. Some say by his own hand.”

“Then he was as foolish as she was,” she snapped.

“But some say it was foul play. That he was killed by a rejected suitor of Anne’s who blamed Thomas for her death.” Win glanced around the clearing. “They’re supposed to be buried near here somewhere, according to the story. I have no idea where. I’ve never seen any evidence of graves. It’s said . . .”

“Oh good, there’s more.” She rolled her gaze toward the heavens. “I was afraid you were finished.”

He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “It’s said in death Anne and Thomas were finally reunited, here, where they were last so happy.” He glanced from side to side suspiciously. “It’s said as well they have never left.”

“Ghosts, you mean?” She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not the least bit ridiculous,” he said staunchly. “There have been numerous sightings here of a couple in the clothes of another time who simply vanish after a minute or two. Not only here but at the folly at Millworth as well. As if the lovers can’t decide if they want to be where they were happiest or where their dreams ended. There is quite a bit of documentation to that fact as well.”

“Oh, come now. Ghosts? Really, Winfield.”

“I have seen them myself,” he said without thinking, and at once realized he should have kept that piece of information to himself. “My cousin Gray and I saw them some years ago.”

“I have no doubt you saw something and your imagination simply—”

“We saw Thomas and Anne.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you. What utter foolishness.” She turned on her heel and started toward the horses. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“I know what I saw.” He hurried after her. “It may be unusual, but I don’t think foolish—”

She swiveled back toward him. “What is foolish is this, Winfield—you and me.”

He stared. “What do you mean?”

“I was a fool to think that we suited. It’s obvious now that marriage to you would be an enormous mistake. One I have no intention of making.”

He drew his brows together. “Because I saw a ghost?”

“No, of course not, although I do think your insistence as to what you saw is silly.” She waved off his comment. “But you are not the man I thought you were. May I say you are an entirely different person in London than you are here.”

“I am not!”

“In London you are serious and dignified, concerned with matters of finance and business. You are quite responsible as well. Here you are . . . you are . . .” She struggled to find the word. “Frivolous! That’s what you are. You’re frivolous.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Winfield, but I cannot marry a frivolous man.”

He ignored the immediate sense of relief that rushed through him. “I’m not at all frivolous. Perhaps I was when I was younger but I’m certainly not frivolous now.”

“People warned me about you, you know. You have a most disreputable reputation.”

“Had a most disreputable reputation,” he said firmly. “I have reformed, for the most part. Indeed, I have been entirely too busy acquiring the skills necessary to manage my family’s interests to be disreputable.”

“And now that you have acquired those skills?”

“Now, I am going to be married!”

“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Goodness, Winfield, do you realize there have been times this week when you have appeared improperly attired? Without a coat?”

He gasped in mock horror. “Good God, not that!”

“Blasphemy is not the answer, Winfield. Nor is sarcasm.” She squared her shoulders. “I cannot marry a man who disregards the tenets of proper dress simply because he is in the country.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not the least bit absurd and that’s not all. You are entirely too lax with your servants. Indeed, you treat them to a certain extent as if they are members of your family.”

“As they are.” He drew his brows together. “Many of them have been in our employ for most of my life.”

“Even so, they should be treated as befits their stations.” She raised her chin. “I have certain standards I adhere to, proper rules of behavior, if you will, and I have no intentions of allowing those to fall by the wayside.”

He drew a deep breath. “Lucy, this is—”

“And my name is not Lucy!” She glared. “I have told you that over and over again. I do realize you think it’s a sign of affection to call me by an abbreviated version of my own name but I do not like it. It’s Lucille, not Lucy. Lucy is the name for a scullery maid. Or a spaniel!”

“My apologies,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize it was that important.”

“Neither did I. In truth, I found it rather sweet the first time you called me Lucy. And perhaps the second. But by the third . . .” She huffed and tucked a strand of hair that had had the temerity to escape, under her hat. “It’s silly perhaps, I do realize that, but honestly, Winfield, it drives me quite mad. And it’s only one of many things I have noticed since our arrival.”

“Do tell, Lucy.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Where else have I fallen short this week?”

“Well . . .” She stared at him for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “You’re entirely too witty for me. There, I’ve said it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you say things that you, and other people, think are most amusing and I just think they’re silly.”

“I gather your late husband was not especially witty.”

“Absolutely not. Charles was never amusing.” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Charles was serious and somber, steadfast and stalwart. He was concise and intelligent. He was eminently proper and had never been touched by so much as a breath of scandal—”

“He sounds fascinating,” Win said under his breath.

She ignored him. “Charles had no need for reformation as he did not have a past to live down.”

“And I do.”

“You say you have reformed and I have no reason to believe otherwise, although . . .”

He raised a brow. “Go on?”

“Well, one does have to wonder, given all the other flaws in your character, if your reformation is truly permanent.”

“Good Lord, Lucy—Lucille!” He stared. “Just because a man doesn’t always wear a coat in the privacy of his own home or is more witty than you think proper doesn’t mean he will take up with every tart that passes by.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said without so much as an iota of conviction. Her firm gaze met his. “I did think you and I were perfectly suited, but it is now obvious to me that I was mistaken.”

As much as he did so hate to lose another fiancée, she was right. All things considered, it was for the best that she had reached this conclusion, even if he had begun to realize much the same thing himself.

“Very well then.” He studied her for a moment. “I am curious though, given that I have these numerous flaws that have driven you mad, what was the final straw?”

“You mean aside from dragging me out to the middle of an insect-infested nowhere to see a crumbling ruin?”

“It’s scarcely crumbling, but yes.”

“It was the story, I suppose.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That endless story. You fancy yourself a fine storyteller, indeed you have a great deal of dramatic enthusiasm, but I find your stories only passably interesting.”

“It was a great story,” he muttered.

“As you droned on and on I simply realized I could not spend the rest of my life listening to you tell stories.” She shook her head. “And I realized as well, while I do have a great deal of affection for you, should I be told your ship had been lost at sea, I would certainly mourn the appropriate amount of time, but I would go on. Without any problem at all, really.”

“I see.”

“We have never discussed love between us and I am under no illusion on that score. Indeed, we share a certain affection and I thought a certain sensibility as well, but it’s really not enough to overcome the differences between us.” She thought for a moment. “It does seem to me that when one is madly in love one forgives all those little flaws—”

“Like being overly amusing.”

“I didn’t say you were overly amusing; I said that you think you’re amusing. It’s not at all the same.”

“My mistake.”

“As I was saying, if we were head over heels for one another, those qualities that I find so annoying wouldn’t bother me at all. I might well find them endearing.”

He smiled in a wry manner. “I would hate to spend the rest of my life annoying you.”

“I don’t doubt that I might possibly annoy you in return.”

He shrugged.

“Winfield, I agreed to marry you because I thought you were an excellent, indeed a sensible, match. I thought you were a man I could spend the rest of my days with. Now I see I was wrong.” She laid her hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “Isn’t it better that we face this now rather than after we married?”

“You do have a point.” He sighed. He was not at all pleased about cancelling another wedding. At least this one was small. Still, she was right. Better to part now than spend the rest of their days annoying one another. “Shall we be friends then?”

“Good Lord no!” She snatched her hand away from his arm as if he were on fire. “Acquaintances perhaps, but nothing more than that.”

He stifled a grin. “Lucille, in many ways you are a delight. I believe I shall miss you.”

“There is a possibility I shall miss you as well.” She moved to her horse and waited for him to assist her. He helped her on to the saddle and stepped back. She gazed down at him, a slow smile creasing her lovely lips. “But every time I hear an endless story told by someone who thinks he is most amusing I shall certainly think of you.”

Win laughed.

“I will admit it was a most romantic story. Even the ridiculous part about the ghosts.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Perhaps when you next consider asking a woman to marry you, you should tell her the story and show her your folly first.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

And perhaps, the next time he headed toward the altar, he would choose a lady who was interested in more than his title and his fortune. And a woman who enjoyed the more amusing and frivolous aspects of his nature. Perhaps he should make a list of those items as well, lest he forget.

And then perhaps the next time he headed toward the altar, he might actually make it.

October 1881

Dear Gray,

Once again I take pen in hand to inform you that yet another wedding of mine has not taken place. This time, however, I write with an abiding sense of relief and the firm conviction that I have escaped a fate far worse than death.

Lady Eustice decided we did not suit after all, a conclusion, I confess, I was reluctantly coming to myself. A conclusion, I suspect as well, Father had already come to, although, in his infinite wisdom, he refrained from interfering in my decision. For once, I rather wish he had.

I do so hate making mistakes of this sort, as I have done twice now. One would think, given the many mistakes I made in my younger days, I would be accustomed to making unwise decisions. So it is as surprising to me as it may well be to you that choosing the wrong bride yet again bothers me.

I have come to think of myself as being more than moderately intelligent and yet, in one of the biggest decisions I shall ever make, I have been in error twice now. One can only hope I have learned my lesson. Although I did think the lesson was Miss Whitingdon, and Lady Eustice was the result of what I had learned. Apparently not.

In some respects, I blame you for my misfortune. In a most superstitious manner, I have begun to think that fate, or some higher power, will not allow me to be wed if I have invited you to the wedding and you have failed to appear. Therefore, as I suspect your presence can never be assured, I shall simply not tell you of my impending nuptials in the future. You will receive an announcement of my wedding only after it is an accomplished fact.

And, yes, Gray, I will attempt this again. It is my duty after all to provide an heir and as you have failed to assure the continuance of the family name, that too falls to me. The burdens of responsibility are great, but I do attempt to bear them without complaint. Do try not to laugh.

There is a beneficial side to all this. While dreadfully disappointed, Mother has already thrown herself into attempts to find a perfect bride for me. She has begun discussing the current offering of debutantes in a most casual manner, as if I will not notice what she is doing. She is never so happy as when she, and her friends, are attempting to make a match. Although, my latest failure at matrimonial bliss has oddly enough made her question her own judgment in this arena. She did believe Lady Eustice was a perfect match for me.

Father now claims he never liked her. . . .

Part Three:

Caroline

Sir William and Lady Hibbitt

request the honour of your presence

at the marriage of their daughter

Miss Caroline Gwendolyn Hibbitt

to

The Right Honorable

The Viscount Stillwell

on Wednesday, May twenty-first

eighteen hundred and eighty-four

at half-past ten o’clock

Fairborough Hall

Chapter 5

April 1884

My dear Gray,

Is there a more optimistic time of year than spring? I think not. Why, the very air itself is imbued with the promise of better days ahead. Days of warmth and light and frolic. Do not scoff at the poetic nature of my words, Gray, as I am certain is your inclination. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I can be quite lyrical when the appropriate mood strikes. Regardless, my humble words can only approach the delight of this season of new beginnings.

Would that the glory of budding primroses and blooming violets work their magic and lure you home. While there is no lack of pride in your accomplishments, it has been nearly nine years since you have last set foot on England’s shores. Your family and friends agree that is entirely too long. Do consider returning, if only for a short time. Mother fears she will no longer recognize you or worse, with the passage of time, you will not recognize her.

Until then, I should acquaint you with some of the more interesting bits of news that I have happened upon of late. You may recall, my first engagement came to an end when Miss Whitingdon decided she preferred marriage to Mr. Hedges-Smythe over marriage to me. As Mr. Hedges-Smythe was the sole heir to the elderly Duke of Monmount, Miss Whitington looked forward to one day becoming the Duchess of Monmount. What is it they say about even the best laid plans?

Forgive me, Gray, if I seem decidedly snide or smug or even wicked in the telling of this tale, but I cannot seem to help myself. Indeed, since I heard the news I have had the most disgraceful tendency to grin like a lunatic. Last year, much to everyone’s surprise, the duke wed a lady some forty years younger than himself. A few weeks ago, the duchess gave birth to twin boys, thus ending Mrs. Hedges-Smythe’s ambitions.

I suspect you too are now grinning like a lunatic....

Win strode down the walkway on the west side of the broad stretch of lawn that ran the length of the Fairborough Hall formal gardens. The breeze whispered through the twelve-foot-tall beech hedges that effectively boxed in outdoor rooms on either side of the lawn.

There were six such rooms, each concealing a different purpose or landscape. One sheltered the rose garden; a large fountain and pool filled another; two more were devoted to tennis and croquet courts respectively; and the remainders were dedicated to whimsical, some might say confusing, gardens with a profusion of blossoming plants, arbors, statuary and whatever else struck his mother’s fancy in any given season. She had long ago surrendered the planning and design of the rose garden to the gardener, but these two areas she retained to rule over and do with as she pleased.

The center lawn was bounded and crossed at right angles by crushed stone walkways. As a child, Win had always thought it was a pity that those long past designers of Fairborough’s gardens had decided to train hedging for rooms rather than mazes like those at Millworth Manor. Although at the moment, Win was grateful that he was trying to find his fiancée in easily navigated boxes rather than a puzzle of a maze.

Caroline’s maid said she had gone for a walk in the gardens but had no idea which one. As the day was so delightful, Win thought he would join her. He had checked the first two rooms on this side of the lawn and was headed toward the third. The spring in his step matched the lightheartedness of his mood. He was about to be married to the woman who was surely his perfect match. This time, he had nothing to worry about. Not that he had worried before, an annoying voice in the back of his head noted. He ignored it.

Winfield Elliott was not the sort of man given to introspection. He was not prone to melancholy, brooding or the writing of dark poetry late in the night. Nor was he the type given to searching his soul even if, on occasion, his conscience might bear further examination. No, on the contrary, he considered himself quite a jovial, friendly sort. He hid no deep secrets, no skeletons in his closet as it were. Indeed, he was very much an open book sort of person.

Life, he firmly believed, was a pleasant adventure.

Certainly, in his younger days he had often come perilously close to full-fledged scandal, but in nearly every instance he had escaped relatively unscathed. And because he had far more intelligence than most usually credited him with, he had learned a lesson from every misadventure. He had never known real tragedy or true heartbreak. But with Caroline, while he knew he wasn’t truly in love with her, he suspected he was very, very close to it. He suspected as well that he had resisted giving her his heart as something of a precaution. After all, he had already experienced two failed engagements.

There was nothing about Miss Caroline Hibbitt not to love. She was much younger than he, which struck him as beneficial, as his previous fiancées had been close to his own age. She was lovely, of course, with hair a shade of red so pale it seemed more like gold, creamy flawless complexion and eyes the color of summer skies that sparkled when she laughed. And she laughed a great deal, finding amusement in much the same things he did. She was clever and funny and at ease with her place in the world. She was not overly outspoken, but she was not especially quiet as well. Win considered himself fortunate to have found her. Caroline was surely his destiny. The woman he had been waiting for, even if he hadn’t known it, and well worth waiting for. This was a woman he could gladly spend the rest of his days with. A woman he could—he would—easily love. And in a scant four days, she would be his wife.

The faint murmur of voices sounded on the breeze, apparently coming from the last garden room on this side of the lawn, the one sheltering the croquet court. It appeared someone had already joined Caroline in the gardens.

The rooms did not open directly onto the lawn. Indeed, from the lawn one would have no idea of the hidden gardens behind the hedges. One had to follow the walkways between the hedges to find the arched openings on the north and south sides of each separate room.

Win turned and approached the opening. In spite of continued trimming, the hedges had grown thicker through the years and were now nearly ten feet in width. He started through the archway. That was indeed Caroline’s voice. He didn’t recognize the second voice, but it was definitely male.

“What are you doing here?” Caroline’s voice rose. Win slowed. What on earth was going on? “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You can’t marry him, Caro.”

Win stopped short. Caro? That was rather affectionate. Who was this man?

“Oh, but I can,” Caroline said firmly. “And I fully intend to.”

The right thing to do at this point would be to make his presence known. But right would not answer the questions that immediately came to mind. Win stepped back, moved to one side, found a small break in the leaves and bent to peer through the hedge.

“But you don’t love him.” The young man addressing Caroline appeared to be perhaps a year or two older than she. He was smartly dressed and entirely too handsome to suit Win.

“I am, however, extremely fond of him.”

Excellent. Win was extremely fond of her as well. Why, he was practically in love with her.

“I know any number of couples who have married with far less affection between them,” Caroline said.

The young man gazed at her with an intensity Win could almost feel. “But you love me.”

For a long moment she didn’t say a word. Win held his breath. At last she heaved a resigned sigh. Her voice was so soft Win could barely hear it.

“Yes, well, I always have.”

“I knew it.” The young man pulled her into his arms. “Then you can’t marry him.”

“Stop that, Lawrence.” She pushed out of his arms. “I can’t not marry him. I have given my word after all, as has my father. Besides, Lord Stillwell is a very nice man—”

Win bit back a groan. Didn’t all men hope their fiancée considered them very nice?

“And quite dashing as well,” she added.

Much better.

“I suppose,” Lawrence said. “For an old man.”

Old? Win’s brow rose. Why, he had just passed his thirtieth birthday. One could scarcely consider that old.

“I would not call him old,” Caroline said staunchly. That was something at any rate. “Older perhaps but not old.”

“He’s ten years older than you.”

“Which is insignificant.” She shrugged. “There’s a greater difference in age between my parents and between yours as well.”

“I know.” Lawrence blew a long breath. “I am simply trying to think of reasons why you shouldn’t marry him. Although . . .” He paused and considered her. “One would think the fact that you love me would be reason enough.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Indeed, it’s all rather complicated.”

What did she mean by complicated?

“You promised to wait for me. You gave your word.”

“I did wait for you,” she said sharply. “I waited for months past when you were originally scheduled to return. When you promised you would return. Who would have imagined representing your family’s interests abroad would have taken so long? If one was a suspicious sort, one might have thought you were having entirely too good a time of it to bother with returning home. To me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But I did wait. Until your letters stopped and your sister informed me you had become betrothed to the daughter of an Austrian count. Then, Lawrence, then I decided there would be nothing so foolish as my continuing to wait.”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Lawrence said quickly.

Win was intrigued in spite of himself. How was this young man going to extricate himself from this?

“Oh?” She cast him a scathing look. “Which part?”

“We were never actually engaged.” He scoffed. “It was really nothing more than a, oh, misunderstanding, really. There was simply a great deal of gossip and a fair amount of manipulation. But believe me, Caro, I didn’t ask for her hand and I didn’t consent to marriage to her, nor did I ever have any desire to do so.”

She stared with suspicion. “Your letters stopped. What was I to think?”

“I never stopped writing you,” he said firmly. “I don’t know why you didn’t get my letters, but I did write.”

“That’s possible, I suppose.” Reluctance sounded in her voice and she thought for a moment. “Entirely possible, really. My mother was delighted when we heard you were engaged and wasted no time in encouraging me to put you completely out of my head. She wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of your letters before I saw them. She doesn’t like you, you know.”

“She thinks you can do better.” He paused. “She thinks you can marry a viscount.”

“As I fully intend to do,” she said in a lofty manner. “If you have said what you came here to say, you may leave and—”

“I have no intention of leaving.” He stepped toward her. “I came home as soon as I learned of your engagement.”

“You should have returned long before that.” She sniffed.

“Yes, I should have, but I didn’t. In truth, I couldn’t. It was all quite awkward and convoluted and complicated.” He ran his hand through his hair. Win had no idea what Caroline was thinking, but he felt a touch of sympathy for the young man. “And yes, I admit, it has been rather exciting and I have enjoyed myself. But I am here now and I never intend to leave you again.” Lawrence took her hand. “And I will not allow you to marry another man.”

“Allow?” She pulled her hand from his. “You have no say in the matter.”

He stared at her. “But I love you and you love me.”

“And I fully expect to love Lord Stillwell. In time.” She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be at all difficult. Why, I daresay I am already a bit in love with him. He kisses extremely well.”

Win grinned. He did kiss extremely well.

“No doubt because he has kissed so many,” Lawrence snapped. “Do you really want a man who has already been engaged twice and yet has never married?”

“I am certain the blame for both of those falls squarely at other feet,” she said. Win did like that she came to his defense. “Why, his first fiancée broke it off with him to marry a man who was expected to inherit a lofty title and huge fortune. My sister says she’s a bit of a twit at any rate. The second, well, everyone says she is overly proper and extremely stuffy. I suspect Lord Stillwell was entirely too . . . too nice for her.”

True enough.

“If he is such a very nice man, surely he will understand when you tell him you are in love—”

“Oh, but I can’t. I simply can’t.” She shook her head. “I could never do that to him. He’s been wonderful to me. Really, all a girl could ask for, and I have no doubt he will make an excellent husband. Besides, while he hasn’t said it, I suspect the failures of his previous engagements have affected him deeply.”

He had been extremely annoyed.

“He gets the oddest look in his eye when the subject comes up, as it has once or twice. It’s not something he likes to talk about.”

Lawrence snorted. “Nor would I if two women had left me practically at the altar.”

Where did the boy get his information? Win huffed. It was never actually at the altar.

“Regardless of whether or not it was for the best, I think he was hurt by both ladies.” She shook her head. “I will not do that to him.”

Lawrence studied her for a long moment. “You said it was complicated. What haven’t you told me?”

“Isn’t this complicated enough?”

“I know you, Caro.” He shook his head. “There’s something else.”

Was there something else?

Caroline twisted her hands together and drew a deep breath. “My father is having some financial difficulties. I am not privy to the exact details, but it has to do with unwise investments. Lord Stillwell has made something of a reputation for himself in his handling of his family’s investments. Father says he is quite brilliant in that respect.”

Well, brilliant might not be entirely accurate, but close.

“Father hopes, once we are all family, Lord Stillwell will come to his rescue in some manner.”

“If he’s such a nice man, wouldn’t he be inclined to assist your father anyway?”

“Father would never ask. He scarcely knows Lord Stillwell. Besides, he has a great deal of pride. Even asking my . . . my husband will be difficult for him.”

“So you are marrying him to help your father?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I am marrying him because I am very fond of him, because he is a very nice man”—Win did wish she would stop referring to him as very nice—“and I think he will make an excellent husband. Regardless of my father’s difficulties, I would not marry him otherwise.”

“Marry me instead. I’ll find a way to help your father. My brothers say I have a great deal of potential when it comes to business and investing and that sort of thing.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“But you love me.”

“I know! And that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?” She stared at him for a long moment. “If you had come back when you were supposed to, if I had received your letters, if all sorts of things had happened differently . . .” She shook her head. “But they didn’t. And now, well, now it’s too late. I will not hurt him. I have tasted the kind of pain one feels when one has been abandoned and I will not inflict it on someone else. He’s a good man, Lawrence, and he does not deserve that.”

“I will not give up, you know.” Determination showed in the young man’s stance, in the tone of his voice and the look in his eye. It would have been most admirable had it not been that said determination was in regard to the woman Win was to marry. “I have been an idiot. I have made any number of mistakes, but this is one I will not make. I’ll be back, Caro. Tomorrow and the day after and every day until your wedding. And I will protest at your wedding as well if I need to. I will not lose you.” He nodded, turned and strode toward the far end of the field and the opening in the south wall of the hedge.

Caroline stared after him. Her manner resigned, her eyes touched with sorrow, she was the very picture of heartbreak. Win’s heart twisted. There was nothing to be done about it then.

He waited until Lawrence had disappeared through the hedge, then straightened and walked through the archway.

Caroline turned, caught sight of him and gasped. “Winfield!”

“Caroline.” He smiled. “I suspect we have a great deal to talk about, don’t we?”

Her gaze searched his. “Dare I ask how much of that you heard?”

“More than enough.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Caroline.” He took her hands. “In four days, you are to become my wife. I would like nothing better than that.”

“Good.” She raised her chin. “As I have no intention of not becoming your wife.”

“And yet I find it, oh, awkward to wed a woman who is in love with someone else.”

“Winfield, I—”

“We are going to have to do something about this.”

She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze directly. “I am still fully prepared to marry you.”

He raised a brow. “Fully prepared?”

“Dear me.” She winced. “That sounded awful, didn’t it?”

“Fully prepared is not exactly what one wishes to hear from his bride.”

“I am sorry. I never meant . . . that is to say . . .” She heaved a heartfelt sigh.

“Perhaps I can assist you.” Amusement sounded in his voice. “My first fiancée said she could not marry me because she had a better offer.”

“How very shortsighted of her,” Caroline said indignantly.

“I thought so. As it turns out, I suspect she would now agree.” He chuckled. “My second decided I was too amusing—frivolous was the word she used.”

Caroline stared. “What utter nonsense.”

“You, however.” He brought her hand to his lips. “You are in love with another man. And while you are fully prepared”—she grimaced—“to go through with our wedding, I’m afraid I cannot allow that.” He released her hand and shook his head. “I had planned to make you happy, Caroline. And it now seems the best way to do that is to allow you to follow where your heart leads.”

“Winfield, I—”

“I shall lend your father my assistance, of course. That will make this easier for your mother. However—” He paused. “It also seems to me that while your young man has at last realized his mistakes, one questions whether he has learned his lesson.”

“One does wonder,” she murmured.

“Winning your hand too easily might not be the way to begin a lifetime together. Perhaps he shouldn’t be allowed to walk back into your life and sweep you away without some sort of, oh, amends being made.”

She stared at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

“Do you trust me, Caroline?”

She gazed into his eyes and grinned. “Why I believe I do, my lord.”

He explained what he had in mind and her eyes widened. “You are a wicked, wicked man, Winfield.”

“I do try,” he said in a modest manner.

“And a good man as well.” Her gaze met his and she smiled. “I quite envy the woman who at last becomes your wife. She will be a very fortunate creature.”

“Fortunate or not”—he cast her a wry smile—“she is apparently a difficult creature to find.”

She laughed. It struck him that he would not hear that laugh every day for the rest of his life. The thought would have been unbearable had he been in love with her. Had she been the love of his life. As she was not, he rather liked the idea of uniting her with the love of hers.

Once again, he had planned a wedding at Fairborough Hall and, by God, this time there was going to be one.

Chapter 6

Win threw open the library door and stalked into the room in his best Viscount Stillwell, heir to the Earl of Fairborough manner. He did so love playing viscount and heir to the hilt.

Caroline’s Lawrence paced the floor and pulled up short when Win stepped into the room. His eyes widened. “My lord, my apologies. I received a note.... I did not . . . that is, I expected—”

“You expected to see Miss Hibbitt.” Win strode to his father’s desk and sat down.

“Yes, sir.” Caution sounded in the young man’s voice.

Win gestured for him to take the chair directly in front of the desk. Lawrence reluctantly sat down, the expression on his face no doubt exactly the same at that on Win’s face whenever he had sat in that chair to face his father’s wrath at some indiscretion or misdeed. Odd, Win had sat in his father’s chair any number of times, but he’d never noticed that it was slightly higher than the chair it faced. And whatever miscreant sat in that chair. Indeed, this subtly elevated position gave whoever sat behind the desk a distinct advantage. How very clever of whichever earl had discovered this.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced.” Win pinned the younger man with a hard look. “I am Viscount Stillwell.”

Lawrence swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“And you are Mr. Royce, I believe.”

Lawrence nodded.

“The youngest son of the Earl of Thadwick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have four older brothers do you not, Mr. Royce?”

“I do, sir.”

“What are your prospects then, Mr. Royce?” Win leaned back in his chair and studied the young man. “Unless a dire disaster strikes most of your family, you will not be the next earl.”

“No, of course not. I do have ambitions and plans, however. I am said to show great promise in the area of investment.” He stopped and stared at Win. “Forgive me, my lord, but what business is this of yours?”

“You intend to steal my fiancée, Mr. Royce.” Win narrowed his eyes, leaned forward and met Lawrence’s gaze sternly. “I wish to know if you are worthy of her. Or perhaps I should simply assume you are not and demand satisfaction. You should know I am an excellent shot with a dueling pistol.”

“Dueling is illegal, sir.”

“That would indeed make it more of a challenge.” Win cast him a wicked smile. “I have always enjoyed a challenge.”

“Well then, sir.” Lawrence got to his feet and squared his shoulders. “Is it my understanding, as you issued the challenge, the choice of weapons falls to me. I too am an excellent shot and—”

“Oh, sit down, Mr. Royce.” Win rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “Nobody is going to shoot anyone, although make no mistake, I would be the victor in such a confrontation. Now, sit down.”

Lawrence sat.

“But were I to shoot you, no doubt one of your brothers would feel it necessary to do the same to me. Then my cousin would, of course, have to dispatch him and then another one of your brothers would do him in and so on and so forth. The next thing you know, it is the Montagues and the Capulets all over again.”

“Then there’s to be no duel?” Caution edged Lawrence’s voice.

“Not today.”

“Good.” Lawrence blew a relieved breath. “I don’t mind telling you, sir, my father would, well, let us simply say he would not be at all pleased if I were to be involved in a duel or anything of that nature. Especially not after the incident with the . . .”

“The Austrian count’s daughter?”

Lawrence stared. “How did you know about that?”

“How does one ever know about things like that?” Win said in an enigmatic manner and realized his father did precisely the same thing. Perhaps it was the chair itself that made whoever sat it in sound at once all-knowing yet still rather vague.

“Please don’t tell me the incident has become fodder for England’s gossips.”

Win could confess that he had overheard the young man mention the Austrian count’s daughter to Caroline, but then he would have to admit he had been eavesdropping, which would alter the moral balance of their discussion. At the moment, Win was the injured party and therefore had the advantage. “Not as far as I know.”

“Then how . . . Never mind.” Lawrence shook his head. “It scarcely matters, I suppose.” He paused. “If you do not intend to shoot me, what do you intend to do?”

“I suppose that depends on you.”

Lawrence’s brow furrowed. “On me?”

Good Lord. Had Win been that stupid when he was Lawrence’s age? Probably. “Do you or do you not intend to prevent Caroline from marrying me?”

“Oh.” His expression cleared and he nodded. “I do. I most definitely do.”

“Why?”

“Because I love her and she loves me.”

“And?”

“And . . . and therefore she cannot marry you.”

On second thought, Win had not been that stupid. “You do realize your actions have consequences. Are you prepared for them?”

Confusion shone in the young man’s eyes. “Consequences?”

“Yes, consequences. Marriage. Are you prepared for marriage?”

“Marriage?”

“Yes, marriage,” Win said sharply. “You know. One woman, forever and ever, until the day you breathe your last. Marriage.” Win studied him closely. “You did ask her to marry you instead of me.”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t really mean . . .”

Win stared in disbelief. “What did you mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly.” He leaned forward in an earnest manner. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. The words just came out of their accord. It did seem the right thing to say at the time. You understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You never said something to a woman in the heat of the moment that wasn’t quite what you meant?”

“I never asked one to marry me!”

“You did ask a few others,” Lawrence said under his breath.

“Two others and neither of those proposals were impulsive.” Win glared. “They were both well thought out.” He paused. “Well, perhaps not the first. I was, oh, infatuated I would say and marriage seemed like an excellent idea. The second, however, was extremely well thought out. In hindsight, perhaps too well thought out. It was a rational, sensible decision and that itself was probably a mistake.”

“Was asking Caroline to marry you a mistake as well?”

“I didn’t think so at the time, but then I didn’t know she was in love with someone else.” He paused. “No, it was not a mistake. She is a lovely woman, the kind of woman one could easily spend the rest of one’s days with. She is amusing and clever and knows her own mind. Caroline is a woman one could easily love.” Too easily.

“Yes, she is.” Lawrence stared. “Do you love her then?”

“I am extremely fond of her,” he said staunchly. “But I cannot marry a woman who is in love with someone else.”

“Well, then there’s nothing more to talk about is there?” Lawrence grinned and got to his feet.

“Sit down!”

Lawrence plopped back down.

“Perhaps you did not give this due consideration, but if this wedding is cancelled, Caroline and I will be thrust into scandal. We will be the center of gossip. Speculation will be rampant. People will say the most unkind things about the two of us. But, as is the way of such things, she will bear the brunt of it. Her reputation will be in question if not ruined. Scandal does not particularly concern me. But I suspect it concerns her.” Win narrowed his eye. “I will not permit that.”

“Oh?” Lawrence squirmed in his seat.

“There is only one way to avoid scandal.”

“There is?”

“I have no intention of cancelling yet another wedding.”

“You don’t?” Lawrence said weakly.

“I do not.” Win sighed. “Mr. Royce, let me ask you this. Did you or did you not come here to stop this wedding?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Because you love her.”

“I do.”

“And can you imagine your life without her in it?”

“No, of course not, I . . .” Lawrence paused. “I do want to marry her, don’t I?”

“So it would appear.”

“There really isn’t any other choice, is there? It’s the only way to keep her with me for the rest of my days.” He thought for a moment. “It doesn’t sound quite as dire as it did a moment ago. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more delightful it sounds.” He grinned. “You know, on occasion one says things in the heat of the moment one truly means. By God, I shall marry Caroline!”

“Excellent.” Win nodded. “Then I suggest you send word to your family. They will want to be here. There are any number of arrangements that need to be made as well. Special licenses and all that.”

Lawrence’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Mr. Royce, I am beginning to think you are not as intelligent as I had hoped you were.” Win leaned forward. “In order to avoid scandal, the wedding will proceed as scheduled. However, I will not be the groom.”

“Then . . .” Realization dawned on the younger man’s face. “Me?”

Win nodded. “You.”

“Oh.” Lawrence stared for a long moment, a stunned look on his face. At last he smiled. “Oh.”

“One does hope there is more to your repertoire than oh.” Win resisted the urge to once more roll his eyes toward the ceiling. “Now, I suggest you find your bride and deliver her the happy news. I shall arrange for you to speak to Sir William privately. I’ll have to break the news to my parents. Again.” He shuddered. “There are any number of other arrangements that need to be dealt with as well.”

Lawrence nodded mutely.

“Don’t just sit there. There is much to do and only three days to accomplish it all.”

“Yes, sir.” Lawrence jumped to his feet, turned to leave and then turned back. “You have my thanks, my eternal gratitude for this. I shall never forget it.”

“Yes, well, that makes it all worthwhile then.”

Lawrence grinned and started to leave.

“Mr. Royce.”

Lawrence turned back.

“There is one caveat, as it were.” Win rose to his feet, narrowed his eyes and met the young man’s gaze. “I fully intended to spend the rest of my life making Caroline happy. Should I ever hear so much as a whisper, the faintest hint of gossip, a suggestion in passing that she is unhappy for whatever reason, I will not rest until I have destroyed you and perhaps your family as well. And, make no mistake, I have the means to do so. Do you understand?”

Lawrence stared. “You do love her, don’t you?”

“I . . . I am extremely fond of her. Now, do you understand?”

“Completely, sir.” Lawrence straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Let me assure you, you have nothing to fear on that score. I shall cherish her for the gift she is.” He cast Win a giddy sort of grin. “I’m going to marry Caroline.” With that, he nodded and took his leave.

Good Lord. Win sank back into his chair. Was this a disaster narrowly averted or debacle yet to come? There would certainly be gossip, but with the wedding at Fairborough Hall and Win in attendance, it would be more speculative than anything else. That was a matter for later. For now, he had to once again tell his parents he would not be married. Not an easy task, but he had no doubt he had done the right thing.

Still . . . He drummed his fingers absently on the desk. Why did doing the right thing always have to be so bloody difficult?

Three days later ...

At long last there had been a wedding at Fairborough Hall. The bride was almost ethereal in her beauty, glowing with happiness. Win’s throat tightened a bit at the look of her. It was the sentimentality of the day, nothing more than that.

The groom was understandably nervous. But the tremor in his voice at the start of the ceremony had faded and, by the end, it was strong, solid and steadfast. The voice of a man who had at last determined what he wanted, his course in life. The voice of a man in love.

Watching the happy couple, Win tried and failed to ignore a touch of regret. He had never regretted not marrying Felicia or Lucille. He knew now marriage to either one would have been a dreadful mistake. But Caroline, well, Caroline could have been the love of his life if, of course, she hadn’t already loved someone else. No, he couldn’t regret losing Caroline. In truth, he’d never really had her to lose. But when she gazed into her new husband’s eyes, as if he were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful, it was indeed regret that swept through him. Regret that he had yet to find someone who would gaze at him that way.

No, he had not fallen in love with Caroline and his heart had not been shattered.

It had simply cracked a little.

July 1884

Dear Gray,

I hope this letter finds you well. The promise of spring has given way to a dry, hot summer and, in spite of the heat, there is more amusement to be found in London than at Fairborough Hall. Therefore I am residing at the house in Mayfair for the foreseeable future and availing myself of all that London has to offer. While it is enjoyable, I have discovered I am not so easily entertained as I once was. The price of maturity, I suspect.

I was privileged recently to attend the wedding of a treasured friend. One could tell simply by the look in the happy couple’s eyes as they promised their fealty to one another that there was no thought as to the appropriateness of the match but only their feelings for each other. As it should be, I think.

Perhaps it was the romance apparent in their union or my own history, but I have found myself of late in an oddly thoughtful and reflective state. Do try not to be shocked at this revelation; I have been known on occasion to be somewhat deeper than I might appear. No doubt it will not last as I am not usually of a somber nature.

My failure to successfully progress from proposal to the altar has weighed heavily upon me and I find myself examining my past attempts to wed with an unyielding eye. I have come to the realization that I have been looking, for the most part, for the perfect wife, the perfect future countess, a woman I could grow to love. It does now seem that I have been going about this in entirely the wrong manner as certainly the evidence bears out. It strikes me that love might well make all else fall into place. Perhaps the appropriateness of the match is not as important as the needs of the heart. It sounds so obvious, doesn’t it? And yet this simple tenet has escaped me up until now.

I have decided to ignore the more practical aspects of choosing a wife and ignore as well the necessity to wed, the responsibility I bear to position and family and all else. I shall instead heed the advice I recently dispensed and follow where my heart leads. As it has never led me before, indeed as I have never truly known love, it does sound somewhat daunting. One wonders if perhaps I have never experienced that elusive emotion because I am not destined to do so.

But that is a dreadful thought and, as I am by nature an optimistic sort, I prefer not to dwell on that possibility.

Therefore I shall leave my future in the hands of fate and trust that one day I will find a woman who will look at me as if I were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful. A look that will come from her very soul to touch mine. A look I will return and treasure for the rest of my days.

Good Lord, Gray, what has happened to me? Have I at last become a true romantic or has there always been a romantic imprisoned within me crying for release? In many ways, I have never had the patience to trust in fate, but my nature has not served me well. So I will bide my time, live my life as best I can and perhaps one day I shall find what I seek. And doesn’t that seem to be the way of it? Only when one ceases to search does one find what has been so elusive.

Ah well, we shall see....

Dear Reader,

In every book I write there are any number of secondary characters meant to be nothing more than secondary characters. He (or she) appears, moves the plot along and then conveniently vanishes. But every now and then I write a minor character who simply refuses to stay minor.

When Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, made his appearance in What Happens at Christmas, I knew I was in trouble. I knew I could not let this character appear in more than a handful of scenes because it was entirely possible he would take over. At that point, I had no intention of writing more about the characters who inhabited Millworth Manor for Christmas 1886 or their friends and neighbors. But Winfield Elliott was a character who refused to be ignored, no matter how hard I tried. So finally, I asked him, “What do you want from me, Lord Stillwell?”

“What does anyone in my place want? You have already given me wealth and position, and I am rather dashing, for which I am eternally grateful,” he said in an off-hand way. It seemed kind of insincere to me. The man was obviously trying to butter me up. “But when all is said and done . . .” He heaved a forlorn—and entirely unbelievable—sigh. “I’m simply a man—”

“An imaginary man.”

He ignored me. “A man looking for the one woman who will make his life complete. A man longing for love and all the joy it will bring for the rest of my days.” His voice rose in a theatrical manner. “I am nothing more than a man in search of a happy ending.”

Oh yeah, right. “Hasn’t your tendency toward sarcasm gotten you into trouble before?”

“I’m not being sarcastic. Overly dramatic perhaps, but I am being completely honest. And you well know it.” He flashed that wicked, irresistible smile I had written for him. “And don’t you think you’ve put me through enough? Don’t you think being—in the parlance of your time period—dumped by three different women has earned an ending better than we shall see? We shall see indeed,” he added under his breath.

“Well, we shall,” I said defensively. “I mean we will.”

He sniffed. “I deserve better.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I thought for a moment. “I admit, you were a good secondary character.”

“I was brilliant.”

“But they don’t always turn out to be good heroes,” I warned.

“I’m confident you can count on me.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?” I do hate to commit too quickly to a figment of my imagination.

“That will have to do, I suppose.” Again, he aimed his killer smile at me. “For the moment.”

I managed a weak smile of my own. I knew the man wasn’t going to leave me alone until I gave him what he wanted. And I knew he’d win in the end. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a perfect hero, or rather a hero who thinks he’s perfect.

But I will make him earn that happy ending. It won’t be easy for either of us. And along the way (in the first of the Millworth Manor series), he’ll learn The Importance of Being Wicked.

And so, I suspect, will I.

Best wishes,

Victoria

In this dazzling new novel, #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander welcomes you to Millworth Manor, a delightful English country estate where love is always perfectly at home....

For Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, finding a prospective bride always seemed easy. Perhaps too easy. With three broken engagements to his name, Win is the subject of endless gossip. Yet his current mission is quite noble: to hire a company to repair his family’s fire-damaged country house. Nothing disreputable in that—until the firm’s representative turns out to be a very desirable widow.

Lady Miranda Garret expected a man of Win’s reputation to be flirtatious, even charming. But the awkward truth is that she finds him thoroughly irresistible. While Miranda resides at Millworth to oversee the work, Win occupies her days, her dreams . . . and soon, her bed. For the first time, the wicked Win has fallen in love. And what began as a scandalous proposition may yet become a very different proposal....

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

Victoria Alexander’s

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED,

coming in February 2013!

Prologue

March 1887

It could be worse.

The phrase repeated itself over and over in his head like the irritating refrain to a little-liked song.

Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, stared at the façade of Fairborough Hall and tried to ignore the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, a weight that had settled there since the moment late in the night when he and the rest of the household had been roused from their beds by cries of fire.

“It doesn’t look nearly as bad as I thought it would,” his cousin, Grayson Elliott, said in what he obviously meant to be a helpful manner. It wasn’t. “A bit scorched around the edges perhaps, but not bad, not bad at all.”

“No, it doesn’t look bad.” The two men stood some ten yards from the house at the foot of the circular drive that linked the long drive to the main gate. And from here, given this precise angle and in the cold light of late afternoon, there was indeed little to indicate the destruction within the stone walls of the hall. Certainly what was left of the front door was charred and the glass in most of the windows in the center section of the house had shattered, but the east and west wings appeared untouched. All in all it really didn’t look bad.

“Appearances, Cousin, are deceiving.” Win started toward the house, barely noting the puddles of soot-laden water or trampled, filthy snow or the chunks of charred wood lying about. Nor was he especially aware of the pervading aroma of smoke and acrid burned matter or the brisk breeze and his lack of suitable outer garments. “It is much worse than it looks.”

It could be worse.

“Fortunately,” he continued, “everyone in the house escaped unharmed. And no one was injured battling the blaze.”

“Something to be grateful for,” Gray said at his side.

Any number of people still milled around the building, mostly male servants: the gardener and undergardeners, the stable hands, the footmen. The hours since the fire had been discovered blurred together in an endless moment or day or eternity. Win had lost track of the time, although it was now obviously late afternoon, as well as exactly who had been here. The fire brigade from the village had responded and help had arrived from neighboring estates, but the snow had made the going slow. Still, it had also helped put out the blaze. While it was certainly cold, the lake was not frozen and the estate pumping station had supplied the water needed to fight the flames.

Win stepped over the threshold and gestured for his cousin to join him. Gray had been in London and Win had sent word to him shortly after daybreak. After all, Fairborough Hall was as much Gray’s home as it was Win’s.

Gray stepped up beside him and sucked in a hard breath. “Good God.”

“I should think this was the work of a hand considerably lower than heaven,” Win murmured. It was indeed a scene straight from hell. Or perhaps it was hell’s aftermath.

Haphazard heaps of blackened wood littered what had once been the grand entry hall. Here and there a whisper of smoke drifted upward from still-smoldering debris. A blackened skeleton was all that remained of the magnificent center stairway. The glorious ceiling with its intricate plaster moldings and painted scenes from Greek mythology was little more than a charred memory, open now to the floors above them and all the way to the scorched roof timbers.

Gray started into the house, but Win grabbed him and pulled him back. “Careful, Gray, the integrity of the floor is still in question and will be until we can get in there, start cleaning out the debris and assess the destruction.” He ran a weary hand through his sooty hair. The aroma of smoke drifted around him. Odd, he would have thought by now he was immune to the smell of smoke.

“Of course.” Gray’s shocked gaze scanned the damage. “I can’t believe how much is gone.” He glanced at his cousin. “Were any of the furnishings saved? The paintings? Uncle Roland’s books?”

“We did manage to get the family portraits and most of the paintings out, those hung low enough to reach, that is. Thanks to Mother really.” He forced a wry smile. “While Father and I and Prescott and the other male servants were trying to prevent the spread of the fire, Mother was directing the housekeeper and the maids in rescuing the paintings and whatever else she could think of.” At this point he didn’t want to consider how much had been lost. Time enough for that later. It had been nothing short of chaos, and the fact that they had rescued anything at all now seemed something of a minor miracle.

“It looks like the fire was confined to the middle section of the house.” He glanced at Win. “So the library was unaffected?”

It could be worse.

“With any luck, given its location,” Win said. “The east and west wings appear untouched, although I fear there might be a great deal of smoke damage. Oddly enough, the stone walls between the wings and the main portion of the building were widened at some point in its history, providing a fire break all the way to the roof. Father mentioned something about that when we realized the fire had been contained, but it’s not original to the building of the house. I had never given the width of those walls much thought—indeed, I’m not certain I ever noticed—but they kept the fire from spreading.”

“Wasn’t a previous earl a witness to the great fire of London? And was terrified of fire from then on?”

“Perhaps we have him to thank then.” Nonetheless, it was difficult to manage any semblance of gratitude for a long dead ancestor. Win was fairly certain allowing any emotion, even one as simple as gratitude, would open the floodgates for despair, and for that he simply didn’t have the time. “I had always thought the house was essentially unchanged from the day when it was built by the first earl. I can’t remember when.”

“1592,” Gray murmured.

“You always were good at dates.”

“I know.”

Under other circumstances, Win would have replied with something appropriately sarcastic and witty, but, at the moment, he didn’t have the strength. The fire had awoken them some fourteen hours ago. It seemed like forever.

“At least the roof is still intact,” Gray said.

It could be worse.

“That’s something, I suppose.”

“Any idea how it started?”

“It could have been anything. A spark from a fireplace. An untended lamp.” Win shrugged. “I daresay we’ll probably never really know.”

“How are Uncle Roland and Aunt Margaret?”

“Bearing up. Mother is made of much sterner stuff than I had imagined. She and I insisted Father rest. I sent them to the dower house.” Win managed a slight smile. “It is testament to the serious nature of the day that Mother did not protest, although it was all she could do to make Father leave.”

“How is he?” Gray’s worried gaze searched Win’s.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s getting older and all this . . .” Win’s throat tightened. He shook his head, turned and stepped outside.

Gray followed him. His parents had died when he was very young, and Win’s parents had raised him as their own. Even though Gray had left England for more than a decade, he was still Win’s closest friend and very much his brother. Gray grabbed his cousin’s arm. “Win.”

“He’s tired, Gray, that’s all.” Win blew a long, weary breath. “We’re all tired.”

“I hope he looks better than you do.” Gray studied him closely. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

“I can’t imagine why.” He glanced down. His clothes were filthy; there was a tear in his coat sleeve and a nasty burn on the back of his hand. Odd, he hadn’t even noticed it.

“So . . .” Gray looked back at the house. “What happens now?”

“There’s nothing more to be done today. I have men here who will stay the night and make certain the fire does not reignite. Tomorrow, we’ll assess the east and west wings to determine the damage. Hopefully, it’s minimal.” It could be worse, the refrain echoed in his head. He ignored it. “For now, most of the servants have family in the village they can stay with. Mother, Father and I will stay in the dower house, along with whatever servants need a bed. It will be overly crowded but we shall make do, at least for tonight.”

“Prescott will love that.” Gray smiled. “He’s never approved of making do.”

Even the thought of their eminently proper butler making do in tight quarters with the Earl and Countess of Fairborough failed to ease Win’s mood. “Will you be going back to London tonight?”

“Absolutely not.” Indignation sounded in Gray’s voice. “I know I haven’t lived here for years, but this is still my home, Win. I intend to stay right here for as long as you and Uncle Roland and Aunt Margaret need me. And, given the looks of it, that will be for some time.”

“The dower house is already overcrowded,” Win said wryly.

“I’ll stay the night at Millworth Manor.” He paused. “Aunt Margaret and Uncle Roland would probably be more comfortable there as well, as would you. And it’s only a half an hour carriage drive from here.”

“That is something to consider for tomorrow, but as for tonight, we’ll stay here. I’m not sure I could drag Father away as it is.” Win gestured at the destruction. “I don’t know that he’s really accepted all this.”

It wasn’t easy to watch your heritage—the house that had served as your family’s home for nearly three centuries as well as all those treasures one didn’t realize were treasures until they were gone—go up in smoke. Win had known, in a rational sense, that his father was growing older, but he hadn’t really seemed at all aged until Win had seen the fire reflected in the older man’s eyes. And the sorrow. Win had known as well that one day he would be the next Earl of Fairborough, but last night that inevitable inheritance was for the first time very real and all too close.

He shoved the thought aside. Father was in good health and there was no need borrowing trouble. They had enough already.

“Have you accepted all this?”

“I don’t know.” Win’s gaze drifted over the house once again. The overcast skies only added to the dreary scene. It was as if all color had vanished from the world, leaving everything gray and black and dull and dingy. He wasn’t entirely certain it hadn’t all been a dreadful dream brought on by something he’d eaten that disagreed with him or some odd story he’d read that lingered in the back of his mind. “I shall have to, I suppose.” He glanced at his cousin. “Have you?”

Gray stared at the house for a long moment. “I was able to prepare myself, I suppose, after I received your telegram. Waiting for the next train and the hour-long trip here, I had the time to imagine the worst and ready myself.”

Win started down the drive toward the dower house. “You should see Mother and Father. They’ll be pleased that you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Gray took a last look at Fairborough Hall, then shook his head and joined his cousin. “It could have been much worse, I suppose.”

“That’s what I keep thinking.”

A crash sounded behind them, reverberating through the air and the ground beneath their feet. The two men swiveled back and stared at the house. A cloud of ash and dust hung in the air directly above the mid-portion of the building. Win winced.

Gray’s eyes widened. “What on earth was that?”

“I’m fairly certain that,” Win said with a weary sigh, “was the roof.”

Yes, indeed it could have been worse.

And now, it was.

Chapter 1

Three weeks later ...

“. . . and you will not believe what I was told about Lady . . .” Mrs. Bianca Roberts continued without so much as a pause for breath. And why should she? The latest on-dit about Lady Whoever-she-was-talking-about-now was entirely too tasty to keep to herself.

Under other circumstances, Miranda, Lady Garret, would be alternately amused or annoyed at her inability to get a word in. Today, she appreciated her sister’s ramblings. She had entirely too much on her mind to pay any attention at all, and Bianca’s enthusiastic and incessant chatter made it unnecessary to do so. All Bianca really required in terms of a response was the occasional nod or a murmur of surprise or a clucking of the tongue. In the last year or so, Miranda had become quite adept at it. It did seem she did some of her best thinking when Bianca was confident she had her rapt attention.

“. . . can imagine my surprise, of course. Particularly when I heard, from a quite reliable source mind you, that she had had quite enough . . .”

Miranda sipped her tea and smiled with encouragement. She had long gotten over this particular deception. It did no real harm and kept her sister from prying too deeply into Miranda’s activities. Activities she would much prefer to keep private. Who knew how her family—especially her brothers—might react? The Hadley-Attwaters considered themselves a fairly proper family.

Adrian, of course, would be most disapproving. Her oldest brother and the current Earl of Waterston was a great stickler for propriety even if, on occasion, he could also be most surprising. Miranda suspected that was due to the influence of his wife, Evelyn. Still, one couldn’t count on most surprising. Her next older brother, Hugh, was a barrister and, as such, all too cognizant of proper behavior. Her remaining brother, Sebastian, who had always flouted tradition in his own life, might well be her greatest ally given his wife, Veronica’s outspoken tendencies and penchant for support of various rights for women. Although, on the other hand, what one overlooked in one’s wife, one might not accept in one’s sister.

As for the female members of the family, one never quite knew on which side of a debate her mother and her oldest sister, Diana, would fall. Mother could be startlingly progressive when she wished to be, and Diana had always had an independent nature. Even so, this was not the sort of thing with which one wanted to test. Bianca might think it rather exciting, but she had never been particularly good at keeping a secret. Precisely why Miranda had gone to great pains not to reveal so much as a hint of her activities. There was nothing Bianca liked better than ferreting out secrets. Her cousin, Portia, who was as much a sister as Diana and Bianca, would certainly be shocked. Why, it was one thing for a lady to dabble in the arts or to take up the cause of charitable works, and quite another to become involved in business. This simply wasn’t the sort of thing a Hadley-Attwater did.

The fact that this was Miranda and not another member of the family would only add to their shock. Her family considered her the quietest of the lot and the most reserved. She was the youngest and the others had long felt she needed their protection. It was a source of annoyance even if she had never said anything. It had always been so much easier to avoid confrontation than to exhibit outright defiance. John had recognized, and indeed admired, her strength of character, which was yet another reason why she had loved him.

“. . . given that it was her fortune, after all . . .”

Not that her family had any say in the matter, not really. Miranda was, after all, twenty-eight years of age, financially independent and had been a widow for nearly three years. She was used to making her own decisions now and make them she would. Besides, she enjoyed what she was doing. While she did appreciate her family’s advice—and as the youngest of seven children, advice was in abundance—she would follow her own path. A path that had begun innocently enough. Indeed, one could say she had taken the first step upon that path when she had first met her late husband.

“. . . and needless to say, at first, I was shocked by the mere thought . . .”

Miranda had met John Garret, younger brother of Viscount Garret, at a lecture on the influence of Palladio on English architecture. Miranda had been one of the few women present, but she had always had an interest in the design of buildings. Indeed, she had drawn houses—both practical and fanciful—for much of her life. So she had summoned her courage, enlisted the assistance of an elderly aunt as a chaperone and attended.

The lecture had been fascinating but not nearly as interesting as the dashing Mr. Garret. He was handsome and amusing and of good family. To her eyes, he was very nearly perfect. He encouraged her interest in architecture and a good portion of their courtship consisted of attending lectures and viewing exhibits. Years later he admitted his encouragement had as much to do with being in her company as anything else. He quite swept her off her feet and they married within a few months. Shortly after their marriage, John opened his own architectural firm, thanks in part to funding from an anonymous investor who wanted nothing more than repayment and his name as part of the business. Thus was born the firm of Garret and Tempest.

Miranda had a good eye and an innate grasp of design, and when John would bring home drawings she would make a suggestion here and point out a problem there. Before long, she was quietly working by his side. John was proud to admit she was much more creative than he, and during the six years of their marriage, he taught her everything he knew and she gradually took over most of the design work, whereas he was the public face of the firm.

“. . . could scarcely avoid the comparison as it was so annoyingly obvious . . .”

When John died in a construction accident, along with his construction supervisor, Mr. West, Miranda inherited the company, and its debts, and the firm continued with the projects already under way. Miranda hired Mr. West’s sister, Clara—who had a clever mind with figures—to assist Mr. Emmett Clarke, who had been John’s assistant. But the second year after John’s death Clara pointed out the firm would not survive without new business. For that they needed an architect. Upon reflection, Miranda still wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but there was a void in her life and doing the design work she had done with John filled that emptiness.

Now, Emmett was the liaison with clients, Clara ran the company and Miranda produced the designs. There were a handful of additional employees as well. Garret and Tempest had endured, and Miranda continued to make regular payments to Mr. Tempest’s financial representatives. While the firm was prospering, Miranda, Clara and Emmett knew if Miranda’s involvement became public knowledge, the company would not survive, no matter how good its reputation. But Miranda had an obligation to the people who had worked for John, and now worked for her, to avoid failure at all costs.

Keeping this a secret, even from her family, hadn’t been easy, especially when it came to Bianca. She wasn’t merely Miranda’s sister but her dearest friend. But Bianca hadn’t seemed to notice that Miranda was unusually busy these days and that the sisters were meeting more and more often here at the Ladies Tearoom at Fenwick and Sons, Booksellers. It was convenient to the Garret and Tempest office, was a favorite of Sebastian’s wife, Veronica and, more importantly to Bianca, had become quite the place for ladies of society to frequent.

“. . . and I thought, if she could, why couldn’t I? After all, it’s not . . .”

Miranda had just come from a meeting with Clara and Mr. Clarke about a lucrative new commission to redesign and rebuild a manor house that had been devastated by fire. While they couldn’t afford to pass on the job, taking it would be difficult. Fairborough Hall was a hour away from London by train and the work would require the presence of someone from the firm nearly every day during construction. But Emmett’s wife was with child and she was having difficulties. She had already had two previous miscarriages and her doctor was insisting she stay bedridden. Emmett did not want to be away from London should she have need of him. Miranda and Caroline could not fault him for that, although the two women acknowledged between themselves, if his employer had been male, his reluctance might not be tolerated. The three decided there was no choice but to have Miranda meet with Lord Stillwell and, should they get the commission, she would present the plans and represent the firm. They agreed there was no need to reveal the true architect.

“. . . which, of course, will prove difficult as I have not heard from him for more than a year now. Nor have I wished . . .”

Aside from the obvious difficulties, Miranda wasn’t at all sure she was up to the task of dealing with someone like Lord Stillwell. He had a reputation that could only be called, well, wicked. She’d never met the man, but she had seen him at one social event or another. He was quite handsome and dashing and reportedly most charming. He did seem to laugh a great deal and he inevitably had the most devilish glint in his eye. She thought he was around Sebastian’s age and had skated remarkably close to scandal in his youth. Of course, so had her brothers. And while, from what she had heard, he had reformed somewhat with maturity, one could not discount his history. Why, the man had been engaged three times and had never once made it to the altar. Surely toying with the hearts of not one but three women was the very definition of wicked. One failed engagement might not be his fault, but three?

“. . . will be scandal, no doubt. But it does seem to me, in these circumstances, scandal is the lesser . . .”

She’d never really met a man with quite as wicked a reputation, which did, in hindsight, seem rather a pity. Her brothers, of course, had all been enthusiastic in their younger days, but one did hesitate to think of one’s own brothers as wicked. John hadn’t been the least bit wicked. Now that he was gone, there had been moments, late in the night, when she had wondered what it might be like to be with a wicked man. In his arms, in his bed. She would never dare say it aloud, never admit it to anyone, but for Miranda Garret, wicked had a great deal of appeal. She was at once apprehensive and rather excited at the thought of meeting the wicked Lord Stillwell.

“Then you agree?”

Certainly the man wouldn’t throw her to the ground and have his way with her on their first meeting. Nor would he run kisses up the inside of her arm or pull her into his embrace and press his lips to hers. The very idea was absurd. He was a gentleman, after all. She’d never truly been seduced, although that too had a certain amount of appeal. Not that she would allow him to do so at any rate. Not on their first meeting, or ever. After all, she was a woman of business. And, even if it wasn’t known to more than a handful of people, she rather liked the title. And a woman of business would never allow herself to be seduced by a man with a wicked reputation. Resolve washed through her. Why, the very thought that she could not handle Lord Stillwell was absurd. She was more than up to the challenge. Still, she couldn’t deny her anticipation in regard to meeting the disreputable lord equaled her apprehension even if there was—

“Do you agree or not?” Bianca said sharply.

Agree to what?

“There is a great deal to consider,” Miranda said cautiously.

“That is exactly what I have been doing.” Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t listened to a word I said, have you?”

“I most certainly have.”

“I get the distinct feeling more often than not that you pay absolutely no attention to me whatsoever.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Miranda shrugged off the charge, ignoring a twinge of guilt at its accuracy. “You have my complete attention.”

“Do I?” Bianca studied her closely. “Then tell me do you or do you not agree with my decision to seek a divorce?”

“Divorce?” Miranda gasped in spite of herself. For once, Bianca’s incessant chatter was important. Who would have imagined?

“I knew you weren’t listening.” Bianca sniffed. “This is an enormous decision. The biggest decision of my life thus far aside from wedding that beastly man in the first place. And as I value your opinion above all others, I should like to hear it.”

“A Hadley-Attwater has never been divorced.”

“I believe I mentioned that.”

“Mother and Adrian and, oh, well, everyone will be shocked. And horrified really.”

“Yes, I said that as well.” Bianca’s tone hardened.

“Absolutely no one will support you in this.”

“I am prepared for that.” Bianca’s gaze met her sister’s. “What I want to know is will you? In spite of its shocking nature, do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” Miranda said without thinking. “I do.”

“Really?” Bianca stared. “You don’t think I’m being rash or foolish?”

“No, I don’t. You were rash and foolish when you married Martin. This decision is far wiser than that.” Miranda shook her head. “The man has virtually abandoned you.”

“We did not suit,” Bianca said under her breath. It was more than simply not suiting, but Miranda knew better than to bring that matter up. She was the only one Bianca had ever confided in. Partially because she had felt so very stupid at her choice of husband and did not wish for the rest of the family to know, and partially because her brothers would have more than likely killed the brute.

“You have been separated and living apart for nearly three years and you haven’t even spoken for a good year or more.”

“I don’t know where he is.” Bianca set her lips together in a firm line. “I fear I shall have to track him down before I can do anything at all.”

“You do realize society may never forgive you.”

“Nonsense.” Bianca scoffed. “It has been my observation that society forgives anything if one is not involved in outright scandal or—”

“Divorce is generally considered outright scandal.”

Bianca ignored her. “Or if one has enough money.”

“And Adrian and Hugh were clever enough to take the legal precautions to make certain your money remained your own.”

“I resented them a bit in the beginning, you know. The fact that they didn’t completely trust the man I was to marry.” Bianca heaved a heartfelt sigh. “One of the worst parts of this is having to admit they were right and I was so very wrong.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do hate to admit I was wrong.”

“That, dear sister, is a Hadley-Attwater trait. It’s in our blood.”

“Hopefully, they won’t rub it in my face.”

“I daresay they will all be most kind. Once they get over the shock.” Miranda took her sister’s hand. “Why, I suspect they won’t even gloat for some time, perhaps even years.”

“Something to look forward to, I suppose.”

Miranda was not at all the kind of person to consider her own needs at the expense of others and nor did she do so now. But she couldn’t ignore the thought that the impropriety of her business pursuits paled dramatically in light of her sister’s decision to seek a divorce. Indeed, if she timed the revelation of her secret correctly . . .

“Then you think I have made the right decision?”

“Oh, my dear Bianca.” Miranda cast her sister her most encouraging smile. “I don’t know that you can do anything else.”

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

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New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Griffin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-4201-3135-2

First Electronic Edition: December 2012

Published in the United States of America