Intimate Betrayal

by Adrienne Basso

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Fiercely independent Alyssa Carrington deftly ran her father's English estate for years. But before his death, he auctioned Westgate Manor to the highest bidder, leaving her penniless. Now there was a new lord of the manor—and Alyssa found herself at his mercy. . . A charismatic ladies' man, the Duke of Gillingham is more than happy to welcome lovely Alyssa into rooms that were once hers—especially the master bedroom. Never before has he met a woman who so attracts him body and mind. But it is exactly Alyssa's mind that concerns her. Much as she enjoys the Duke's attentions, she does not enjoy the longing he inspires. Nor will she become another of his conquests. Yet the Duke has powers of persuasion Alyssa never dreamed possible. Now she must decide whether to risk her sensibly planned future—and her sensibly guarded heart. . . Praise for the Novels of Adrienne Basso "Basso has a gift for creating stories tinged with simmering passion and poignancy." — Romantic Times on How to Enjoy a Scandal "Sinfully sensual." — Booklist on The Christmas Countess 89,000 Words.

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 368

Sample

Hampshire, England: 1813.

The sleek curricle traveled the dusty, rutted road at a clipping pace. The inferior road conditions and constant jostling did little to improve the mood of its driver and sole occupant. Morgan Edmund Harcourt Ashton, sixth Duke of Gillingham, stared gloomily ahead and concentrated on keeping his high-spirited bay geldings under control. The trip had been fraught with inconveniences from the start, and with darkness fast approaching, the duke grudgingly admitted he was lost.

“Damn Jason Cameron,” the duke swore under his breath, cursing his absent secretary. “At the very least the man could have gotten accurate directions to this bloody place.”

As the duke began mentally reviewing his rather limited options, he spied a young boy ahead, sprinting out of the woods on the right side of the road, a rope of impressively large fish strung carelessly over his shoulder. The duke urged his horses to an even faster pace as he keenly observed the lad’s progress over the embankment and across the road. In desperation, lest he lose this one chance at finding his elusive destination before nightfall, the duke uncharacteristically let out a loud, shrill whistle.

The boy’s head turned sharply at the unexpected noise. Seeing the huge horses rapidly bearing down, the boy moved swiftly off the road to avoid being trampled. His young face registered surprise when the smart-looking curricle unexpectedly pulled alongside him.

“Can you tell me”—the duke shouted to be heard above the snorting and pawing of the bays—“will this path bring me to the Hampton Gate crossroad that leads to Westgate Manor?”

“Yes, milord,” the lad replied respectfully. Pointing straight ahead, he added helpfully, “‘Tis just around the next curve.”

Nodding his thanks, the duke gave the horses their lead and expertly guided them into the turn. According to his secretary’s rather scant directions, another four miles would bring him to Westgate Manor’s front door. Allowing himself to relax a bit, the duke eased back slightly in his seat and let his mind replay the astonishing events of the past 24 hours.

Yesterday had begun badly. Morgan awoke much later than usual, hampered by a monumental hangover and only a dim recollection of the previous evening’s occurrences. He distinctly remembered arriving at his club on St. James Street, but could not recall precisely when or how he returned from an evening that included overindulging in brandy, gambling until the early hours of the morning, and spending several hours in the arms of the leading lady of Covent Garden’s latest production. Compounding the day’s problems was the necessity of attending a private luncheon at Carlton House with the regent, an event the duke sorely wished he could beg off from, and knowing that was impossible only worsened his mood.

Arriving at Carlton House barely on time, the duke was kept waiting, clicking his heels in annoyance, until the regent, corseted in his latest and thus far most splendid field marshal’s uniform, was ready to receive him. Even though the duke was too young to be a member of the raffish Carlton House set, the regent liked him and considered Morgan a special confidant.

At 35 the duke was 15 years younger than the prince, yet it was often the regent who asked for advice, especially in matters of money. The duke had a remarkable talent for making money, while the Regent was a known spendthrift, constantly in debt and living a life-style well beyond his income.

“Lady Hertford informs me you caused quite a stir at Almack’s the other evening,” the regent said as an elegantly garbed footman in scarlet livery served the turtle soup. “Rumors abound that you are considering marrying again.”

The duke paused with his gold soup spoon in midair and, giving the regent an amused grin, replied, “Heaven save us, sire, from the matchmaking efforts of Lady Hertford and the meddling patronesses of Almack’s.”

“Quite right, Morgan,” the regent laughingly agreed. “They spot an unattached man, titled, handsome, and rich and it sets them all aflutter. It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to help themselves, poor creatures. Must be in the blood.” The prince slurped noisily at his soup. “Still, it can’t be denied. You are an excellent catch.”

“You flatter me, sire,” the duke exclaimed, feeling genuinely uncomfortable at the truthful remark. Being considered a plum marriage prize and one of the most eligible and elusive bachelors of the ton depressed Morgan. He would never marry again. His brief marriage several years earlier had been a painful, dismal failure, and under no circumstances was he willing to subject himself to a second fiasco.

“I respectfully request a change of subject, sire. I find I am fast losing my appetite for this sumptuous meal.”

The regent, his own unhappy marriage to Princess Charlotte a disaster by all accounts, was glad to comply. “I must tell you about the new Dutch paintings Lady Hertford and I chose for my collection.” Breathing a sigh of relief, the duke listened politely while the regent spoke enthusiastically of his latest art acquisitions.

With luncheon concluded and the new Dutch paintings seen and admired, the duke was finally able to take his leave. Waiting outside Carlton House for his carriage to be brought around, he filled his lungs deeply with the cool fresh air, attempting to clear his muddled head and vowing to never again spend another night like the last.

“I am getting too damn old for this sort of thing,” Morgan muttered under his breath as he climbed into the waiting coach. However, he quickly pulled up short when he saw the carriage was already occupied,

“What the hell!” he exclaimed in annoyance. He felt two strong hands forcibly shove him inside the coach. Morgan instinctively thrust out his arms to keep himself from sprawling onto the carriage floor. The door was quickly latched behind him, leaving the duke only a few seconds to straighten himself before the vehicle began moving.

“Please excuse these rather unorthodox circumstances, Your Grace.” A man seated in the far corner of the coach spoke quietly, his features indistinguishable in the shadows. “It is imperative that our meeting be kept confidential.”

“Lord Castlereagh?” the duke queried in an amazed tone, thinking he recognized the stranger’s voice, yet finding it almost impossible to believe a government official as important as the foreign secretary would act in such a ridiculous manner.

“I am impressed,” came the reply. Lord Castlereagh leaned forward into the small band of light coming through the partially drawn shade. “Again I apologize for my rudeness, but we have been unsuccessful for the past few days in arranging a chance meeting.”

The duke shook his head in puzzlement. “I saw you at White’s last evening, did I not?”

“Ah, so you do recall. I thought you looked none the worse for wear, but my man informed me you were drinking for several hours before I arrived.”

“Things did get a bit out of hand,” the duke admitted ruefully. “It was a celebratory evening. My brother Tristan has recently become engaged.”

“Congratulations.”

Lord Castlereagh paused a moment before continuing. “First I must inform you I am here under the direct orders of the prime minister. Lord Liverpool and I have discussed this matter at length and have both determined you not only have the right to know, but ultimately may be able to assist us in discovering the truth.”

Pausing dramatically for effect, Lord Castlereagh announced somberly, “It appears, sir, according to our latest intelligence reports, you are using your considerable power to aid the emperor Napoleon.”

“What! I know the country has gone mad over this damnable war with France, but that is a totally ludicrous accusation.”

Pleased with the duke’s reaction, Lord Castlereagh held up his hand to stop Morgan’s tirade. “We have uncovered enough inconsistencies to know you are being deliberately incriminated, Your Grace. Yet the evidence against you is considerable and warrants an investigation. This situation is rapidly escalating into a major concern for the war department. For nearly two months, vital information has been moving both in and out of England through a network of French spies who are routinely receiving and sending couriers along a stretch of secluded private beach in Portsmouth, near Ramsgate Castle.”

“My private beach?”

“Precisely.”

The duke grimaced. “I find it difficult to believe my people are involved with French spies, Lord Castlereagh. Nearly everyone who lives at Ramsgate Castle has been with my family for generations.”

“At this point we have no concrete proof anyone from the estate is directly involved, except for the manufactured evidence against you personally. It is clear, however, someone who is very knowledgeable about the activities on your property is aiding these spies. And implicating you.”

The duke leaned back in his seat, unconsciously drumming his fingertips on the armrest. “I can’t think of anyone, but apparently no one is above suspicion.”

“The war department agrees, and therein lies the dilemma. All we know for certain is the person directing these activities is called the Falcon. We thought the inner circle of this organization was successfully infiltrated. Regretfully our informant’s body was found in a London brothel three days ago.”

The duke sat up abruptly. “My grandmother, the dowager duchess, is currently in residence at Ramsgate. Is she in any immediate danger?”

“I don’t believe the dowager is in any personal danger, but it might be prudent to move her elsewhere until this mess is resolved.”

“Clearly you are not acquainted with my grandmother,” the duke remarked dryly. The dowager duchess was not a woman to be “moved elsewhere.” Morgan seriously doubted there ever was a time when others told the dowager duchess what to do.

Addressing the current problem, Morgan asked simply, “What is to be done, Lord Castlereagh?”

The foreign secretary took a moment to scrutinize the man sitting opposite him. He was not personally acquainted with the duke, but the prime minister expressed complete confidence and trust in the duke’s abilities. “A plan has been devised to unmask the Falcon. Will you assist us?”

Morgan did not hesitate for an instant. “When do we begin?”

A sudden jolting of the curricle as it hit a deep rut jarred the duke back to the present. He was relieved to discover he had successfully reached the drive to Westgate Manor. All was quiet as he drove up the gravel drive. Halting the energetic bays in front of the stone portico, the duke waited expectantly for a servant to emerge from the house and offer assistance. He was traveling without the benefit of servants because his secretary, Jason Cameron, had taken ill that morning, and Morgan wanted no one in his household aware of his comings and goings.

An unusual set of circumstances brought Morgan to Westgate Manor on this brisk February afternoon. Early last week, Lord Jeremy Carrington, the Viscount Mulgrave, created quite a stir as he stood atop a table in the middle of White’s dining hall.

“Your attention, gentlemen,” Lord Carrington shouted. “It is my intention to sell off, this very instant, to the highest bidder, my country estate known as Westgate Manor. ‘Tis a fine property, located in the county of Hampshire. The sale I now propose shall include the manor house, its furnishings, and all surrounding properties. Who will be so bold as to give the opening bid?”

After deciding Lord Carrington was not in his cups and was perfectly serious, Morgan entered the impromptu auction and at the conclusion of the heated bidding found himself the new owner of Westgate Manor. Viscount Mulgrave accepted Morgan’s chit with a distracted air and enthusiastically returned to the gaming tables.

Morgan gave no further thought to the estate until several days ago when his secretary produced the deed of ownership. Acting on impulse, Morgan decided to stop at Westgate Manor before continuing on to Ramsgate Castle in Portsmouth. Sitting alone in the biting wind, the duke was now regretting that impulse.

He stomped his feet vigorously on the carriage floorboards to stay warm and took a good look at his new property. It was a pretty house, large in size, yet not overbearing. There were symmetrical leaded glass bay windows, carved corner posts, and high gables proclaiming its Elizabethan origins. At one time it had been an impressive property, but the peeling paint and falling brickwork attested to the fact it had been neglected for some time.

Morgan was not surprised. Jeremy Carrington did not strike him as a man who would spend his money on the upkeep of a country estate. Overall, the house appeared to be in better condition than Morgan had anticipated.

“Damn inconvenient,” Morgan muttered, his impatience growing over the lack of servants.

Before he was able to give a rather undignified yell to gain some attention, the heavy oak door slowly creaked open. A man Morgan could only classify as well advanced in years descended the three stone front steps in a measured, dignified manner. Looking at his formal attire and stiff demeanor, the duke correctly surmised he was the butler.

“Can I be of assistance, my lord?” the older man asked tonelessly.

The duke favored him with a chilling stare, but the stouthearted butler stood his ground. With a grunt of admiration, the duke jumped gracefully down from the curricle, tossing the stone-faced butler the reins.

“Kindly inform Viscount Mulgrave the Duke of Gillingham has arrived,” Morgan instructed. “And have someone fetched to see to my horses.”

The butler nodded his snow-white head in understanding, expertly transferred the reins to one hand, and raised his unencumbered white-gloved hand slightly. Almost magically, a thin young man appeared from behind a tall hedge to lead the horses and carriage away. Relieved of the burden of the reins, the butler walked slowly up the steps and expectantly held the door for the duke.

Morgan paused momentarily in the entrance hall as the butler divested him of his hat, gloves, and greatcoat. He was then silently led to the front salon, poured an excellent glass of brandy, and left to his own thoughts.

Alyssa Carrington sat back in the tall wooden chair clasping a lukewarm cup of tea in her hand. She had been trying to enjoy the fragrant brew for the past half hour, but thus far had been interrupted twice to attend to estate business. Listening with half an ear as the cook, Mrs. Stratton, repeated various pieces of local gossip, Alyssa now absently sipped the beverage, hoping for a few quiet moments.

“Lady Alyssa,” Mrs. Stratton admonished in a stern voice, “you have barely touched my apple tart. I made it especially the way you prefer, with extra cinnamon.”

“It looks wonderful,” Alyssa instantly replied. Hoping to avoid a long discourse on how she must eat more because she was too thin, Alyssa broke off a small portion of the tart and began vigorously chewing.

Satisfied that her mistress would comply with her wishes, Mrs. Stratton returned to the large stockpot simmering on the stove. Deftly she chopped onions and carrots, adding them to the broth. The pungent aroma drifted through the air, giving the kitchen a feeling of comfort and warmth completely separate from the heat radiating from the iron stove.

Alyssa closed her eyes and savored the warmth of the cluttered kitchen. She always tried spending at least an hour of her busy day here; partially to escape the endless flood of difficulties encountered in running Westgate Manor, but mostly because she enjoyed the friendly atmosphere.

Mrs. Stratton could always be counted upon to know the very latest gossip from the neighboring estates, and even though Alyssa knew she shouldn’t encourage it, she was frankly curious about this strange world of the aristocracy that was virtually cut off to her. For years Alyssa was concerned about her neighbors’ impressions of her unorthodox life, but after hearing about the local gentry’s reckless and occasionally shocking behavior, she doubted her eccentricities would be of much interest to them.

Her father, Viscount Mulgrave, was a man who detested country life and spent the majority of his time in the clubs and gambling dens of London, leaving his young motherless daughter to be raised by servants and a succession of governesses. It was an unconventional and oftentimes lonely upbringing, but not an unhappy one. The servants at the manor soon adopted the somber little girl into their hearts and Alyssa grew to maturity surrounded by love.

By the time she reached an age to be introduced into society, her father was too far in debt to consider wasting money on a lavish coming-out season in London. Consequently, at 24 Alyssa was unmarried, with no prospects and a realistic acceptance of her life as a spinster. She never let on if this upset her, because she had taken on a far more formidable task than marriage—the running of the estate.

It was an unlikely occupation for a young woman, but Alyssa embraced her role in her usual forthright manner. She did not hesitate to ask for help from those she trusted, the men who worked and lived on the tenant farms for generations. Her knowledge increased steadily over the years and in some instances surpassed those men who taught her. The estate flourished under her guidance, and her tenants, skeptical at first, embraced her heartily for her fairness and genuine feeling for the land and its people.

Alyssa was pleased with her success, and although the burdens became almost overwhelming at times, she felt useful and accomplished. The only dark clouds appeared when her father would make an unexpected visit. Lord Carrington was constantly looking for funds, indulging in too much drink, insulting the servants, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Thankfully his visits were short and well spaced.

Alyssa was taking another bite of the scrumptious apple tart when the butler, Perkins, suddenly appeared in the doorway. She immediately noticed he was wearing his coat and gloves. The piece of pastry fell to her stomach like a stone. Perkins only wore formal attire when there was a stranger at the manor. And strangers only came to collect on gambling debts.

“He is in the front salon, Lady Alyssa,” Perkins informed her quietly, reading the stricken look on her face.

At the butler’s announcement Mrs. Stratton turned sharply, watching Alyssa with anxious eyes. It is always the same, Alyssa thought miserably, feeling the tension building in the room.

“Did this gentleman give his name?” she questioned, slowly rising to her feet.

“He claims to be the Duke of Gillingham.”

A duke! Alyssa was momentarily stunned. This was very unusual. Only the truly desperate men came themselves; most sent a secretary or lawyer to collect on the markers Jeremy Carrington wagered when he ran short of funds but refused to leave the gaming tables. She silently prayed there was another, less costly reason for this man’s appearance.

“Do you think he really is a duke?” Alyssa asked, trusting Perkins’s opinion.

Perkins thoughtfully considered the question before responding. “He is expensively dressed and carries himself with a duke’s arrogance. He gave the impression we were expecting him, yet he arrived alone, without servants.”

This was odd, Alyssa thought. “Thank you, Perkins. I shall attend our duke at once.”

Alyssa quietly followed the butler through the kitchen and up to the main entrance hall. Pausing a brief moment outside the salon door, she successfully conquered an almost uncontrollable urge to turn and flee. Taking several deep breaths to steady her nerves, Alyssa finally nodded slightly, and Perkins opened the door.

She entered the room soundlessly and stood in the doorway. She remained unobserved until the door closed behind her. At the sound, the duke turned expectantly. She saw surprise register briefly in his face before his features took on a questioning look.

Alyssa nearly gasped aloud as she got her first good look at him. The elegant man standing before her was unlike anyone she had ever seen, or even imagined. His hard masculine presence seemed to fill the room, and Alyssa found herself unwittingly staring at his bronzed face, admiring the finely chiseled features.

The duke was a tall man, powerfully built, with broad shoulders and muscular legs. He was dressed impeccably in a slate-blue double-breasted coat, fitted snugly over a high-collared white waistcoat and accented with a faultlessly tied cravat. His fawn-colored leather breeches clung tightly to his legs and fitted expertly into his polished black knee-high Hessian boots. His hair was jet black in color, cut close to his head and curling slightly at the ends. He took several steps closer and Alyssa became captivated by his hypnotic silver-gray eyes.

Beautiful. The word echoed through Alyssa’s mind. He was positively beautiful. This stranger was such a cut above the usual men her father associated with, Alyssa felt certain she misjudged his reason for visiting Westgate Manor.

Forcefully shaking herself out of her admiring stupor, Alyssa spoke. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I see Perkins has provided you with some refreshment.” She gracefully inclined her head toward the half-empty glass of brandy he held. “Is there anything further we may bring you?”

“I was expecting Viscount Mulgrave,” the duke replied in confusion. “Or if he is unavailable, perhaps the estate agent can be summoned.”

Alyssa’s heart sank at his words. If this beautiful stranger wanted to see the estate agent, he wanted a gambling debt settled. Unconsciously she let out a sigh of disappointment, but regained her composure quickly when she noticed the duke watching her closely.

“Please follow me.” Alyssa turned on her heel and swept out of the room with regal disdain, wanting very much to conclude this unpleasant task. The duke barely had time to catch his breath before she disappeared.

“What the devil is going on?” he shouted. Temper rising, the duke slammed his brandy glass down on the mantel and raced after Alyssa’s retreating figure.

He crossed the vast entrance hall in several long strides, catching up with Alyssa as she reached the heavy paneled doors of the drawing room. She swung the doors open in a dramatic manner and strode purposefully into the room, never once glancing back to see if the duke was following.

Alyssa headed directly for a mahogany leather-topped desk from which she produced an account ledger and a pair of small, round, gold-rimmed reading glasses. Perching the glasses on the edge of her nose, she spoke to Morgan in a cool tone. “Shall we conclude your business as swiftly as possible, Your Grace?”

The duke stood in the doorway carefully scrutinizing the room, not quite sure if his eyes were deceiving him. The last remaining rays of sunlight streamed through the open drapes, casting a golden hue on the room’s contents. It was an amazing sight. Long wooden tables joined together against the wall were filled with gold, silver, and bronze plate. Running through the center of the room were six rows of additional tables that held magnificent objects of beauty and art collected from previous centuries and various parts of the world. Unusual Chinese vases stood on one table, a set of early Byzantine chalices on another.

Venetian glass sculptures stood side by side with crystal goblets and porcelain figurines. A spectacular jade collection filled a large glass curio cabinet in the corner, and the walls were hung with countless paintings, from the Italian Renaissance to seventeenth-century Dutch. Even the regent’s most lavish rooms in Carlton House paled in comparison to the treasures housed in this room.

Alyssa observed the duke’s reaction carefully. Finally he sent a questioning glance her way, surprising her. There were always different reactions upon first entering this room, but in Alyssa’s experience a face struck with awe eventually turned to one of greed. Puzzled, Alyssa questioned the duke.

“Am I not correct in thinking you have come to Westgate Manor to collect on a debt owed you by Viscount Mulgrave?”

Morgan favored Alyssa with a long stare, his patience giving out.

“Madam, if you harbor any hope of retaining your position in this household you shall immediately produce the viscount, or his agent, or some person in authority so I may conduct my business,” Morgan declared in a tight voice.

“I run the estate, Your Grace,” Alyssa replied, matching the curtness of his tone.

“And who the devil are you?” he shouted.

“Alyssa Carrington,” she answered, her voice also rising in volume.

“His wife?”

“His daughter,” she corrected.

Her answer stunned him. She was dressed like a servant. Nay, worse than a servant. The duke’s eyes raked her in puzzled appraisal, taking in every aspect of her appearance with a critical eye. She was tall, taller than most women he was acquainted with, and she held herself erect, almost rigid. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, a straight, defined nose, and a full, wide mouth. Her complexion was fair, with just a hint of color in her cheeks. It was, however, her eyes that drew him. Even behind the lenses of her glasses he could see they were almond shaped, deep green in color, accented by lashes that were long, dark, and full. They gave her an exotic, almost mysterious look.

Her hair was pulled back in a most unbecoming manner, making it difficult to determine the color. Her gown was a drab-brown garment, very plain and hopelessly out of fashion. It was too loose and too short and completely hid her figure. Still, her lovely face held Morgan’s attention against his will. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, but her features were classic and she radiated an aura of confidence and refinement he found utterly intriguing.

“I was unaware Jeremy Carrington had any family living at Westgate Manor.”

“Well, he does.” Alyssa directed a withering look at the duke. He ignored it.

“You run the estate, Lady Carrington?”

“Miss Carrington,” she corrected in a tight voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lady Carrington was my mother. I prefer to be addressed as Miss Carrington.”

“Very well, Miss Carrington,” the duke replied in a deep voice, punctuating each syllable. “Do you run the estate?”

“Yes, I am in charge.”

“What then, may I ask, is all of this?” Morgan queried sarcastically, sweeping his arm about the room. “Your private study where you conduct estate business?”

“Not exactly.” Alyssa responded with a distinctly challenging note in her voice and a decidedly stubborn look in her rich green eyes.

She could see he was having difficulty controlling his anger, yet she refused to volunteer any additional information. She knew she was being rude, but she honestly did not care. After all, the duke had not explained the purpose of his sudden unannounced appearance even though she understood all too well why he was at the manor. Feeling completely justified, Alyssa stood her ground.

“Start at the beginning, Miss Carrington,” he commanded softly.

“Beginning of what, Your Grace?”

That remark brought Morgan swiftly into the room and up to the edge of the desk. The dark scowl on his handsome face told Alyssa she had pushed him too far.

“Do not play games with me, Miss Carrington. I warn you, I am in no mood for them,” he threatened softly.

Alyssa’s composure slipped slightly as the duke leaned menacingly across the desk to emphasize his point. He was so close she could feel his warm breath on her face. Her heart thumped wildly. Wisely, she decided to comply with his demands for answers.

“Lord Carrington, as you have already discovered, is not in residence at the moment. In his absence I take responsibility for these . . . umm . . . matters of business. I assume he owes you a sum of money?”

The duke’s scowl darkened and Alyssa hurriedly continued.

“I have inventoried and cataloged the various items in this room. As you can plainly see, all are of great value: some are considered priceless. You may select any item or items that are equal in value to the sum owed you by Lord Carrington. If you prefer your debt to be settled in coin, I respectfully request you grant me 24 hours to procure the necessary funds. May I inquire how much you are . . .