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Four lessons on love from four extraordinary authors! From Sabrina Jeffries… Look before you leap. When Eliza flees her evil guardian, she unwittingly steals (oops!) a horse from Colin Hunt, a newly minted earl who wants nothing more than to send her home…or to keep her forever. From Liz Carlyle… At least pretend to be innocent. After a passionate encounter between Martinique—the daughter of a French courtesan—and the notorious rake Lord St. Vrain, there is talk of a proper courtship…though there’s nothing proper about either of them! From Julia London… Don’t be naïve. Sent to London to attract a match among the ton,Grace finds herself drawn to rugged Barrett Adlaine—an entirely inappropriate mate who will never meet with her father’s approval. From Renee Bernard… Break free of the gods of mischief. With her constant mishaps and chaotic ways, Alyssa is no match for Mr. Leland Yates, who is ruled by logic and reason—or is she?
One T he new Earl of Monteith, Colin Hunt, had been in possession of Chaunceston Hall less than a day and already trouble was afoot. Surrounded by unpacked boxes, Colin watched through his study window as a cloaked form darted across the lawn to slip into the stable. It was after midnight; none of the servants he’d hired in London should be about. And since the stable was filled with prime horseflesh he’d purchased at Tattersall’s earlier this week… Confound these English thieves to hell! Unearthing his pistol from a box, he loaded it and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers before hurrying into the hall. Why wasn’t some groom outside guarding the stable? Because this wasn’t India, of course. In Colin’s home country of twenty-eight years, the weather was so balmy that a syce could sleep across the stable doorway very comfortably. But here in England, no sane man slept outdoors in such weather. Grumbling to himself about the brutal English winter, he donned his heaviest wool sur
Two W ith alarm beating wildly in her chest, ElizaCrensha we stared up into Lord Monteith’s glittering gaze. For a moment, she’d actually forgotten that the new earl was half-Indian and a foreigner, but this close it was hard to ignore the man’s swarthy features and the inky slashes of eyebrows drawn in a frown. Or the large hand encircling her throat with potent menace. She swallowed, which only made her more aware of his grip. Surely he was bluffing. He was the duke’s cousin—he’d never assault her virtue. Would he? Blast it—she didn’t have time for this! By morning, her uncle, Silas Whitcomb, would surely have discovered her gone, no matter how drunk he was. They were supposed to head to Cornwall in a hired coach at dawn, so once he came to fetch her from her bedchamber— “If I tell you my name, will that satisfy you?” she offered. She’d throw the dogged earl a bone to get him to release her. Giving him her name was probably safe, since both of them were new to the area. He wouldn’t k
Three M uttering a curse, Colin moved to block Eliza’s march to the door. “I can’t let you do that.” He was already furious with himself for listening to the spoiled chit’s nonsense about a drunken guardian. How many of his wife’s exaggerated complaints had he acted upon before he realized she’d say anything to get her way? “You said you wouldn’t let me leave until I told you everything,” she protested, looking every bit the outraged gothic heroine. “So I did. It’s not my fault you refuse to believe it.” “Nor mine that your tale left out so much,” he countered. “The name of your guardian and where he lives. Even details about your dastardly suitor, like who he is and why you object to the match.” “I object to the match because he’s a stranger to me! And that’s why I can’t tell you who he is. Why would I lie about it, anyway?” “Because you think exaggerating your situation will enable you to talk me into helping you run away.” She looked genuinely appalled. “I would never—” “If your gua
Four C olin’s second, rougher kiss stunned Eliza. Especially when he slid his tongue between her lips and inside her mouth. Lord save her. The girls at school had whispered of such outrageous kisses, but she hadn’t known…she hadn’t expected…He seemed to be trying to violate her mouth the same way he’d threatened to violate her body, but it didn’t feel like a violation. It felt…amazing. Blatantly erotic, blatantly enthralling. Oh, what was wrong with her? She mustn’t let him do this, even if he was just trying to frighten her into letting him cart her back to her uncle’s. Frighten her, yes—the way the pistol digging into her thigh was meant to frighten her. This was not a real kiss. She must pay it no mind, even though her heart hammered in her chest, and the thrusts of his tongue did funny things to her insides, making her want to open her mouth further, tangle her tongue with his— He jerked back with an oath. “For God’s sake, what are you doing?” “I-I don’t know,” she answered honestl
Five C olin’s expression was so comical, Eliza had to smother her relieved smile. Finally, she had the reaction she needed. She’d begun to think he would never respond to her feminine wiles, given how he’d ignored her for the past few hours. She arched an eyebrow at him. “Well? Will you tell me what it is?” She held up the print. “The title didn’t explain, although I must say the picture itself is very naughty—” “Give me that!” Colin set his candle down on a box near the door and strode into the room. “That is not for a lady to see.” “I don’t know why not,” she shot back, though when she’d first found the prints, she hadn’t been able to stop blushing. But shock had given way to fascination, and then to a plan. A very risky plan. “You found them perfectly acceptable to carry around with you.” Snatching the print from her, he pushed past her to gather up the others and stuff them back into the box. “They were a farewell gift from an artist friend. He thought it a grand joke.” “And of cou
Six L iar. Colin ground his teeth as he drove the cabriolet toward Brookmoor two hours later. She’d called him a liar, and she’d been right. He’d tried so hard to hide how badly he wanted her. The whole time she’d been flashing his erotic prints at him and tempting him with talk of the jeweled chain beneath her seductive costume, he’d been torn between laughter and the urge to throttle her. And that was before her sweetly innocent offer to pleasure him had sent his desire for her soaring into a frenzy. He should never have suggested that stupid trade—pleasure for pleasure. But like some green cadet, he’d thought that touching her and kissing her and bringing her to ecstasy would somehow quell his need for her. Idiot. All it had done was whet his appetite. And banish hers. No, the words he’d spoken afterward had done that. She’d clearly taken them to heart—when he’d gone to bring her breakfast and take his leave, she’d been wearing her male attire again and sitting pensively, reading hi
Seven C olin caught his breath as Eliza tugged his cravat free, then shoved his coat off. “I can give you at least ten reasons,” he vowed, startling even himself with the intensity of his need. “Ten?” she said, her eyebrows arching high. “Or however many you need.” “Ten is plenty, my lord.” She flattened her hands on his chest. “If they’re very compelling.” So she meant to make this difficult, did she? He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He’d done his best last night to discourage her from considering a marriage between them, and a woman with Eliza’s pride wouldn’t easily forget that. But that didn’t mean he would let her walk out of here to a life of ruin and spinsterhood. Not after that horrible, patently untrue claim of her uncle’s. No wonder she’d been so stubborn—she really hadn’t seen a way out. And now neither did he. Except to marry her. An errant thrill coursed through him, the same one that had seized him when he’d first decided that marriage was their only course. He’d been a
Eight S omething insistent tugged Colin from sleep, nagging at his consciousness. As he awakened, the vestiges of a dream followed him: Eliza saying she loved him. It was only a dream, yet its sweetness tantalized him. Opening his eyes, he turned toward her… She wasn’t there. He tried not to panic as he scanned the room. She was probably just looking for the necessary or a chamber pot. “Eliza!” he called out. No answer. He glanced at the window. She couldn’t have gone far—it was still light. Then he saw the clock. Seven. But how could that be? It was winter, and the sun set early— Heart pounding, he leaped from the bed and rushed to the window. Oh God, it was dawn, not sunset! He’d slept for twelve hours at least. So how long had she been gone? Confound it all, where was she? He started for the dressing room, then neared his writing table and froze. There was a letter atop it addressed to him. Trying to still the frantic rush of his pulse, he picked it up. Beside it lay two others, one
Prologue The End T he heavy tock-tock-tock of the schoolroom clock was deafening in the expectant silence. It was over at last. The books, the tennis racquets, the ribbons and the sketchpads; all the bits of flotsam from a moderately happy girlhood had been carefully packed away. Her trunks sat now in the carriage drive. Waiting. The woman who stood by the window studying the traveling coach below turned abruptly, a muted smile upon her face. “You came to me a hellion, Martinique,” said Mrs. Harris, her hands extended. “May I trust you do not leave me the same way?” Martinique dropped her gaze. “Oui, madame,” she answered. “I am the perfect English miss now.” Mrs. Harris slipped a long, flawlessly manicured finger beneath Martinique’s chin. “Liar,” she said with a glint of humor in her eye. “Ah, but a lovely liar, all the same.” Returning her gaze to the woolen roses on Mrs. Harris’s carpet, Martinique tried not to grin. “Perhaps Lord Rothewell will be well served if I am both a hellio
Prologue
One A Room with a View L ord Rothewell’s heavy traveling coach lurched right, turning onto the stone bridge which arched over the languid River Witham and drawing ever nearer the estate of Highwood. The baron himself seemed oblivious to the sway of the carriage. His gaze seemed eternally fixed on the baize account book over which he had been poring since they had taken luncheon at an inn north of Sleaford. An account book, or a brandy glass, thought Martinique. In the six weeks since their dispassionate reunion, she had seen her guardian with little else in hand. Beside her, Aunt Xanthia gave a little shiver. “Dear God, does the sun never warm this wretched place?” At last, Rothewell looked up. “This is warm, Zee,” he said coolly. “Or as warm as it ever gets in December. Life in the West Indies has thinned your blood, that is all.” Martinique covered her aunt’s gloved hand with her own. “You shall grow accustomed to it, Xanthia,” she assured her, giving her aunt’s stiff fingers a squee
Two Room for Confusion S t. Vrain’s evening should have ended at mid-night, when the last of Lord Sharpe’s houseguests gave in to their fatigue. The pretty virgin had long since followed her great-aunt Olivia up to bed, and after her little scene in the library, Christine had not bothered to return to the parlor. When the rest of the party surrendered amidst suppressed yawns and cheerful plans for the morrow, St. Vrain found himself eager to be gone. He bowed low over Miss Xanthia Neville’s hand, and bid her brother a polite good evening. Like St. Vrain himself, Lord Rothewell had spent the last of the evening drinking, perhaps a little too deeply. On parting, he shot St. Vrain a look of dark, barely veiled suspicion. St. Vrain wondered at the cause. Surely not Christine? No. No, it was his little tête-à-tête in the drawing room with the man’s niece, more likely. Already, St. Vrain regretted that little indiscretion. He wondered what had come over him. Boredom, he supposed. Sharpe saw
Three The Betrothal Kiss L ady Sharpe’s tidy breakfast parlor was heavy with an awful silence. The three occupants had long since given up any pretense of eating, or of even drinking so much as a cup of coffee. Indeed, Lord Rothewell had already smashed one of Lady Sharpe’s delicate Sèvres teacups to bits, crushing it like an eggshell in his massive fist. He now roamed around the room like a caged lion, alternately dragging one hand through his hair and pounding his fist on whatever piece of furniture he happened to be passing by. “Stop it, Kieran,” his sister ordered. “Stop, and show me your palm. Have you cut it?” “To hell with my palm,” he growled. “To hell with everything.” “Oh, Kieran!” Lady Sharpe quite literally wrung her hands. “Oh, I never dreamt! I am so sorry! And to think—beneath my very roof!” “This is not your fault, Pamela.” Xanthia caught Lady Sharpe by the arm. “It is Martinique’s fault, at least in part, for she says so. I cannot imagine…dear God, I really cannot thin
Four A Word of Warning D inner at Highwood that evening was a tense, nearly silent affair. Justin was noticeably absent, and Mrs. Ambrose’s pale beauty had frozen into an expression which could only be described as embittered satisfaction. Rothewell said nothing, other than to gravely announce Martinique’s betrothal and toast her happiness. The glasses were obligingly raised, but the sharp chink of crystal rang hollow in the stillness of the room. In the days which followed, Justin resumed his visits, but only for dinner. He fell into the role of devoted suitor with disconcerting ease, but to Martinique’s frustration, they were never alone. She could share nothing of substance with him; certainly she could not remind him of their bargain. Worse, his proximity served only to drive her physical yearning to a near fever pitch. When they strolled about the drawing room together, his long-fingered, elegant hand would clasp hers protectively, and his eyes would heat almost adoringly. She was
Five The Beginning M artinique lay sleepless through what was left of the morning, then sent her breakfast tray away without lifting the cover. Instead, she wriggled back in the depths of the bed, and pulled the woolen coverlet to her chin. She fancied she could still smell Justin’s scent on the linen sheets, and it comforted her in a moment of dreadful indecision. Justin loved her. He had loved her almost at first sight. And she loved him; not just in that breathless, heart-fluttering way, but with a quiet confidence. He was a strong, broad-shouldered man, literally and figuratively. He would be the sort of husband one could laugh with, and yet rely upon throughout life’s inevitable joys and hardships. She was fortunate indeed to have found him so soon. And now she was willing to refuse him? Truly, she must be mad. Martinique threw back the coverlet, and began to pace the room. Be certain of your worth, and everyone else will follow, Mrs. Harris had said. Wise words, to be sure. But h
One Leeds, England August, 1822 O n a warm August afternoon, an ornate post chaise painted black with gold trim and topped with gold feather plumes thundered into Leeds on the strength of four grays that each stood sixteen hands high. The coach was returning from London en route to a stately mansion, only recently completed, that boasted twelve chimneys on the banks of the River Aire. Mr. George Holcomb, the owner of Heslington Park, was fond of pointing out to anyone who was kind enough to listen that his home had more chimneys than any other house in Yorkshire. Generally speaking, Mr. Holcomb was fond of speaking of his wealth at every opportunity. After all, he’d come by it honestly (an enormous number of sheep) and, at least in his estimation, he’d come by it rather brilliantly, for he’d foreseen a growing market for English wool and wool products in America. As a result of his foresight, Mr. Holcomb now enjoyed one of the largest wool production operations in all of Yorkshire. He
Two G race’s first day back in the bosom of her family turned out to be as miserable as she’d anticipated. Her father paced the hearth, his lanky stride eating up the carpet as he verbally reviewed his suspicions as to why she hadn’t received an offer of marriage, while her brothers, Frederick and Stephen, sat idly by, both of them visibly bored by the proceedings. Her mother, as usual, was silent and very solicitous of her husband, rarely speaking except to agree with him. That left Grace to fend for herself. “I swear to you, Papa, I did nothing wrong,” she said for the hundredth time since arriving home. “But Gracie, love—surely you will agree that something is amiss, or else you would have received an offer. Just this morning, your mother was told that her cousin’s daughter, who has been out only one Season, has gained an offer.” Grace looked at her mother. “It’s quite true,” she said. “Mary is marrying a baron.” “By your own admission, Gracie,” her oldest brother, Frederick, chimed
Three T he hunting season was a fortnight old when George Holcomb hosted a weekend of shooting and a ball at Heslington Park. It was attended by the region’s most notable persons, including an earl and some lesser lords, as well as wealthy merchants with whom Holcomb had the pleasure of doing business. Included in that number was Mr. Barrett Adlaine, who, Grace had surreptitiously observed, looked even more splendid when dressed in proper clothing. He wore a coat of dark navy superfine, and a patterned waistcoat embroidered with gold thread. His thick hair was brushed over his collar, and his neckcloth was tied in an intricate and handsome knot, which rather surprised Grace—she supposed only men with valets possessed such artfully tied neckcloths. She had not found an opportunity to speak to him—her father had kept her quite occupied by introducing her to the earl, and then two barons, a baronet, and a man who had been knighted recently for his work on the canal between Leeds and Liver
Four M r. Barrett Adlaine could not account for what had come over him. He was not the sort of man to boldly kiss a young woman in the shadow of her father, particularly without the slightest hint of invitation. But he’d been quite unable to resist Grace Holcomb. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely certain why he was so taken with her. She was too pompous, really…but something had moved him. Perhaps it was her delicate feet, or the smooth skin of her leg, or the way her cheeks flushed when he teased her about marrying well. Or perhaps Grace Holcomb’s appeal was more simple than that. She was a very handsome woman—a pretty face, soft curves, satin skin, and shining hair—and he was a very basic man. In truth, he’d admired her since she’d come of age. As a child, he recalled that she was forever hanging from trees or throwing rocks with her brothers, but it seemed as if overnight one summer she’d changed, turning into a pretty, vibrant young woman. Still, he did not know how he could forget himse
Five G race thought of little else but Mr. Adlaine the following week—the way he’d sat so casually across from her at the whist table, watching her. Or the way a lock of his darkly golden hair dipped over one blue eye and the way his lips curved up in the corners and ended in twin dimples with his quiet smile. Or the way he held his cards in hands that were twice as broad as hers and looked as if they could break a person in two…or caress her leg… The memory gave her another delightful shiver, and she privately lamented that he was merely a textile merchant, not an earl. Or a baron. Not even a baronet. But her greatest regret was that she would return to London soon and likely would not see Mr. Adlaine again until after she’d received a viable offer of marriage. In that, her father was quite determined, particularly after she had, in a fit of tears, refused to even entertain the notion of marrying Lord Prescott. Two days past, Papa had announced that he would send Grace back to London
Six O n a wet and dreary Michaelmas afternoon, Grace was standing at the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the family salon, looking out over a rainsoaked landscape. She had been standing for a quarter of an hour, dreading her return to London and the life as an outsider in a society that would not have her. She could not help but think of Lord Billingsley, and his public ridicule of her, or how Miss Elizabeth Robertson, whom Grace had thought was her friend, had commented in a room full of gentlemen that she could smell sheep. Grace had been mortified to the tips of her toes. How could it possibly be any different this time? Her friend, Ava Broderick, the Marchioness of Middleton, said it was merely that Grace had met a lot of fops and dandies thus far, and not the sort of gentlemen worthy of her consideration. She was mulling that over when her eye caught a movement on the road. She straightened up and peered out the thick, rain-streaked glass pane. A rider was coming toward the hous
Seven A fter a month in London, Grace was no closer to gaining an offer than she had been last Season. Mrs. Wells fretted endlessly about it, but Grace was much more tranquil. She thought it was perhaps because her heart was not fully engaged in the process of finding a match. After all, she’d thought of little else but Mr. Adlaine since that extraordinary and illicit farewell in her family’s drawing room. She thought of it every day—dreamed of it, too—and always woke wanting more. She could still feel his hands on her, could still taste his mouth…and every other man seemed to pale in comparison. Unfortunately, she had to put her feelings firmly behind her, for Mr. Adlaine could not possibly be part of her future. And she was trying to forget him. In the last fort-night, she had attended two supper parties, one assembly, and a soirée. At every event she had done her best to be charming and bright. And she thought she had succeeded, too, until she had occasion to attend Mrs. Harris’s te
Eight L ady Purnam’s assembly was a glittering display of wealth, and her poor niece, fresh from Devonshire, stood about all evening with her eyes as wide as moons. Apparently, the girl had never been to London or a high-society assembly. One might think Grace hadn’t either, judging by the way Ava and Lady Purnam—the self-proclaimed matron of society—eyed her so critically in a small room off the foyer before allowing her to enter the ballroom. She was wearing the latest fashion from Paris—a green and white striped silk, embroidered with tiny rosebuds along the hem and sleeves that matched the embroidery on her shoes. “It is a lovely gown,” Lady Purnam said, frowning, “but far too much jewelry. Rather reminds one of the crown jewels. Here,” she said, sticking out her hand. “The bracelet. And the earrings.” “My jewelry?” Grace echoed in dismay. “It’s really overdone,” Lady Purnam said, and it was clear she would brook no argument. Grace reluctantly removed the offending pieces and watch
Nine B arrett awoke the next morning to a throbbing headache, brought on not by drink as he might have hoped, but by a sleepless night in which his dreams had burned with the image of Grace smiling at Sir William, her brown eyes sparkling with delight. What had he expected, for Chrissakes? Did she love Sir William? When he’d seen them standing so closely together, smiling so intimately in that way lovers had of looking at one another, he’d felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach and had the breath knocked clean from his lungs. He could not look away, could not help but gape and wonder if she loved Sir William. How long had she known him? Was it an affair continued from the summer or something new altogether? What did they say? Did they whisper their declarations of esteem to each other? Barrett could not help but wonder if Grace ever thought of him, the man who had kissed her, touched her, held her, adored her in Leeds? He’d been a fool to come—she was clearly immune to the passion
Ten T he next two weeks went by so quickly for Grace that the days and events blurred together. It was remarkable—after suffering through two Seasons in London with only a handful of gentleman callers, she was suddenly juggling two full courtships. Mrs. Wells was enthralled with Sir William’s attentions, which were, Grace had to admit, charmingly persuasive. He said all the proper things, was very solicitous of her, and was a perfect gentleman. Grace truly admired him; under any other circumstance, she could see herself married to him and presiding as mistress over Gosford Hall, which, her friend Ava had pointed out, was quite large and quite grand. But while she admired Sir William, when she saw him, she did not experience the shock of excitement she felt each time she saw Barrett Adlaine. When she saw him, her world erupted in a cascade of stars. Unfortunately, Grace did not see Barrett as often as she saw Sir William, for Mrs. Wells made sure invitations for tea or supper or walking
Eleven B arrett paced the floor of Dewar’s salon the morning of the Montgomery assembly, anxiously awaiting a reply to the note he’d sent to Grace. Dewar, who had earlier proclaimed he’d never known Adlaine to be the sort easily smitten, laughed at his old friend behind the newspaper he was reading. “What?” Barrett demanded. Dewar lowered the paper. “Nothing at all…other than you quite remind me of a colt who can scarcely wait to be let out of his pen and given his head.” Barrett scowled and walked to the window, peering down the street for any sign of Betty, their courier of choice. “One would think a man as anxious as you appear to be might give in to his feelings and ask for the woman’s hand,” Dewar added. Barrett shot a look over his shoulder at Dewar, but he’d raised the paper again…although Barrett guessed, from the way the paper shook, that he was enjoying another laugh at his expense. Damn Dewar. Damn the world. He couldn’t help how he felt about Grace Holcomb. He couldn’t help
Twelve T he wind had picked up as Grace made her way home, yet she scarcely felt the cold of it. She could have walked into the Thames until the water covered her head and not realized it, so sick at heart was she for what had happened with Barrett. She had done the only thing she could do, had responded the only way she knew how. Mrs. Harris had been very specific about accepting gifts, and her father had been more than specific about what he expected of her. Yet she could not bear the look on Barrett’s face when she had refused his gift. She could not bear the pain in his expression, the wounded look in his eyes, particularly since she had felt it so acutely herself. She would have liked nothing more than to have given herself completely to Barrett. But how could she make him understand that if she did, she would give up her family for it? When she reached her home, the butler took her cloak and bonnet. Barrett’s gift she held tightly in her hand; her drawers, she’d left behind. He p
One M iss Martin, Your enthusiastic and lively nature brightens the lives of those around you, but you must apply yourself to better control and decorum. I know it is your greatest desire to impress and excel amongst your peers, but you must recall yourself in each and every moment and mind your surroundings. Think before you act, my dear, and I am sure your better nature will assert itself. So, of all the tasks I am assigning to my students for the holidays, yours is perhaps the simplest and I fear the most daunting. Your goal is to survive the holidays without incident and prove to all that you have the restraint and manners of a true lady. Good luck, Miss Martin. Yours in sincere regard, Mrs. Charlotte Harris “Survive the holidays without incident,” Alyssa Martin whispered, eyeing the elegant handwriting yet again. She bit her lower lip and slid the folded vellum into her reticule. At first glance, it appeared a very simple assignment. But with the sage experience of eighteen years
Two W omen were trouble. Leland had prided himself on keeping a safe distance from their scheming clutches. He’d spent long years focused on gaining his footing and personal fortune, determined to prove himself apart from his family’s connections. A good marriage was the only socially approved means of acquiring wealth for a man in his position, but something in him had balked at the prospect. He’d seen other men, including his father, squander their fortunes and reputations over women who had rewarded them with only misery. Leland had long congratulated himself on not being as blind to the dangers as his peers. At least, he had until today. Clearly, this girl was trouble and any man with a shred of sense would know exactly what his course of action should be. But damned if he wasn’t in a fog at the moment. She had asked him to release her at the edge of his host’s property. Since his arrival a few days ago, he’d had ample time to familiarize himself with the property and he’d recogniz
Three S leep eluded her, and Alyssa finally gave up the struggle. Kicking off her bedcovers, she sighed, resolving to make the best use she could of the dark, quiet hours. She’d never been one to waste the gift of time granted by an occasional bout of insomnia—though this bout had a new unique twist. Her brain simply wouldn’t stop replaying the sensations of her ride with Mr. Yates earlier in the day. It was an exhausting exercise, to say the least. Donning her dressing gown and slippers, she made her way to the windows to admire the wintry scene outside. Frost covered everything in a subtle glittering layer that appeared and disappeared as clouds moved across the moon. Home. She’d missed it during her months away, long absence adding appeal to every remembered detail of the house and its occupants. Now the return was just as sweet. Her belongings had been recovered that afternoon, and carriage and horses retrieved without great ado. But word of the accident and Gilbert’s state had rea
Four S leep well?” Alyssa blushed as she took her seat at the breakfast table. “Yes, thank you, Father.” He grinned merrily, unaware of her discomfort at the inquiry as he settled back into his meal. “I imagine there is no better rest to be had than your first night back home.” “Oh, yes!” she agreed, focusing on the eggs on her plate. She couldn’t remember falling asleep the previous night, but odd heated dreams featuring Leland had chased her into the morning. As the sun had mercilessly driven her from bed, Alyssa had decided that kissing was hazardous to one’s health. How could anyone survive for long without a good night’s sleep? “Ah!” her father hailed. “Mr. Yates! I was wondering if we’d see you this morning.” Alyssa managed not to drop her fork before composing her features into a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Yates.” “Good morning, Miss Martin.” He took his place across from her, looking entirely too rested and handsome as far as Alyssa was concerned. “I’m so glad to have you both h
Five T he pugs created quite a stir the following day. The ringleader, Binkley, disappeared from his doting owner’s rooms and the search for him was nothing less than a catastrophe in motion. In despair at the loss of her favorite dearling, Mrs. Wolfe suffered an attack of the vapors and took to her bed, while guests and staff were charged with his recovery and safe return. Alyssa quickly volunteered to look outside. She was sure that Violet would latch onto Mr. Yates, and she was in no mood to watch their romance unfold. Now she had a wonderful excuse to escape the house. Or at least to take a brisk walk to clear her head of dreary fancies about Violet’s perfect face being kissed by Mr. Yates or his lean strong hands unpinning Violet’s brunette curls. “Binkley!” she called out, but not with any urgency. I’d have run away too, little man. Poor Binkums might have had his fill of little sweaters and his mistress’s endless attentions. Then again, he might just be planning another ambush.
Six V iolet?” Alyssa knocked softly on the door again. The hot bath and change of clothes had settled her nerves considerably. If only she could manage an apology to Violet before dinner…She needed an ally, not a rival, and the argument had been entirely her fault. No matter what effect Mr. Yates had on her senses, she had no right to lash out at Violet. Her cousin had always been a loyal confidante and quick with sage advice. She longed to tell Violet of her father’s invitation to Mrs. Wolfe, and receive some friendly sympathy to bolster her courage. Instead there was no response to her knock. “Beg pardon, Miss Martin, but she’s already gone downstairs,” one of the maids said as she passed her in the hall, and Alyssa conceded defeat. “Thank you, Betsy. I’ll be sure to join her.” Betsy curtsied and disappeared quickly back down the corridor, and Alyssa was left to make her own way downstairs. Perhaps she might still find Violet alone for an opportune moment to repair some of the damage
Seven T he conversation with her father had left Alyssa even more confused and restless than she felt earlier. He’d teased her about not being a romantic and said that love was solely the territory of the young, but then stated again that he wanted her to achieve a good match. She could hear echoes of Mrs. Harris even now. “A woman of sense and fortune can ignore those who would poach on her future.” Was Mr. Yates one of the men that Mrs. Harris had warned them about? She repositioned her pillow for the countless time, and wondered which was doing her more harm: thinking about Mr. Yates or trying not to think about Mr. Yates. She decided on the latter and kicked off her covers to sit up with a frustrated groan. Very well, since not thinking about him is robbing me of my peace, let’s have at it! She took a deep breath and allowed herself to draw him completely to mind. How firm and serious he’d been that night compared to everyone else; how playful and relaxed he’d been when he’d found
Eight C hristmas Eve arrived without regard to Alyssa’s sleepless night or her misery after her last meeting with Mr. Yates. As her maid finished fixing her hair, she tried not to keep replaying his words in her mind. Was there no consolation in being so completely assured that he was not a fortune hunter? Evidently not. Not when, God help her, his denial only made her want him more. As he’d spoken, she’d realized that she’d insulted him beyond repair while confirming that he was no villain. It was the worst kind of tangle. Whatever passing fascination he had with her was in ashes. She swallowed briskly to keep her eyes from tearing again. Well, at least I’ve learned a valuable lesson about asking direct questions, and that is that I’d better not venture them unless I’m prepared to accept the answers. A knock on the door provided a welcome distraction, and Alyssa called out, “Come in!” Violet entered, a vision in a pale green dress with dark green ribbon work along the bodice and tiny
Epilogue D ear Mrs. Harris, While I have applied myself with utmost concentration and great effort to my last holiday assignment, I confess I may have failed. I can assure you I did my best to mind my surroundings and behave at all times as a true lady. Though no serious public scandal or destruction occurred in my wake, I did, in retrospect, manage the following: —To become quite stuck in a carriage window; —To have a run-in with a pack of ravenous pugs, resulting in the loss of one shoe; —To trap myself in tree branches and ruin a perfectly good bonnet; —To receive a singular mud bath behind my father’s gardens; —To experience a minor brush with the combustibility of angel wings (truly I was only singed a bit); And finally, —To gladly accept a proposal of marriage from Mr. Leland Yates of London, a fine man of outstanding character and disposition whom I madly and absolutely adore. I hope you aren’t too disappointed, as I remain… Your affectionate student, Miss Alyssa Martin
Epilogue
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