Nearly a Bride

Book 2: Lords of Hazard

by Sabrina Jeffries

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

In this captivating new historical romance brimming with seductive twists and irresistible wit, an English nobleman is finally free from exile—but can his heart still be captured?

After more than a decade separated from his home and family, the Earl of Heathbrook returns to his London townhouse to face a new test: reclaiming guardianship of his younger brothers. His reputation as a rakehell, it seems, has followed him from detention inside Napoleon’s France and caused his own father to block Heathbrook’s rightful custody in his will. However, the clever rogue concocts a plan to restore respectability and rescue his siblings . . . by finding a “fiancée” with no strings attached.

Giselle Bernard is not looking to wed an earl with a wild past. All she seeks is a connected nobleman who can legally secure her new life in England and head off a mysterious stranger’s threats. Posing as Heathbrook’s bride-to-be would surely benefit them both. But as revelations come to light—the ill-fated young affair that left Heathbrook embittered, and the mademoiselle’s own guarded secrets—their engagement charade may unexpectedly blossom into a promise to love, honor, and cherish . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

London

October 1814

When Giselle Bernard, accompanied by her mother, knocked at the town house door of Rupert Oakden, the Earl of Heathbrook, the grizzle-haired servant who opened it caught her by surprise.

“Mr. Renham!” she exclaimed.

“Mademoiselle Bernard!” the gentleman said. “What on earth are you doing in Mayfair? You said you were returning to Paris last time I saw you at Verdun. Three years ago, was it?”

“Yes, and I did return to Paris. But after Napoleon’s abdication this past April, Maman and I chose to leave France entirely. All is chaos there.” She took her mother’s hand. “Maman was worried about what might happen under a new regime. Besides, we have family in England.” Well, she did, anyway. “But why are you at the earl’s home?”

Mr. Renham puffed out his chest. “I am Lord Heathbrook’s butler now.”

“How wonderful!” It must suit him, for his tall, healthful appearance differed greatly from the gaunt and stooped fellow she’d once known. “I am delighted you made it safely back to England. I was aware that Lord Heathbrook and his friends were offering posts to many Verdun detainees, but I did not realize you had received one. When did you return to London?”

“In April, when you did.” His eyes twinkled. “You probably don’t realize this, mademoiselle, but before my imprisonment in France, I served as underbutler to the Marquess and Marchioness of Tweeddale.”

“Very impressive!” She tapped her chin. “Isn’t that the couple who died of cholera a year after arriving at Verdun?”

He turned solemn. “The very same. So, knowing of my former post, the earl hired me on the spot when our mutual friend Mr. Beasley sent me over here to interview for the position. It seems Lord Heathbrook’s butler had left the family while the earl and his father were still prisoners in Verdun.”

Her mother, who spoke little to no English, asked in French, “What is he saying? Will we be allowed inside?”

Mr. Renham looked startled, then answered her in French. “Forgive me, madame. We are merely reminiscing. Please, do come in, both of you.” He continued in French as he ushered them into a grand entry hall, waiting while she helped her mother make her slow way inside. “I assume you are here to call on the earl?”

“Oui,” Giselle told him.

When she said nothing more, Mr. Renham looked concerned. “Is his lordship expecting you?”

“Not exactly.” They were here to ask a large favor of him. But she dared not speak of that to a former detainee who might know more about the situation than most.

Instead, Giselle paused to take in her surroundings. She’d never been in the earl’s house but was not surprised to find the hall’s furniture looking ragged. After all, his mother had died in London over four years ago and his father had passed away soon after, during his and his son’s detainment in France. After eleven and a half years abroad, Lord Heathbrook had undoubtedly been too busy taking care of the family properties and arranging his financial affairs to bother with such things as wallpaper styles and the efficacy of bronze sconces.

“So, this is to be a social visit,” Mr. Renham said when it became apparent she would not reveal more.

“It is.” She cast him a bright smile that seemed to make him relax.

“Very well. This way, ladies.” Mr. Renham gestured to an open door. “His lordship will be with you in a moment. I’m afraid that today is not the best—”

“The man is an arse!” roared a voice down the hall.

It was the earl’s. Giselle frowned, having never witnessed Lord Heathbrook in a temper, at least not in England. She had only occasionally seen him that way in Verdun, the town where he and thousands of other English civilians had been detained for years at Napoleon’s whim.

That is, until Lord Heathbrook and his friends had attempted an escape three years ago and been packed off to the dungeon in Bitche for their trouble.

“Do not fret, my lord,” said a voice unfamiliar to her. “I swear—”

“Do not fret!” Lord Heathbrook cried. “Evan, Kit, and Zachary are still wards of my mother’s damn cousin. How can I ‘not fret’?”

At the sound of the word damn, the butler colored, then hastily ushered them into a drawing room and closed the door. “If you will be seated, ladies, I will make sure his lordship knows you are here. But I don’t know if he will be free. At present, he and his attorney are involved in a … er … discussion.”

“In France, we call that an argument,” Maman muttered, thankfully low enough that Renham couldn’t hear.

“We understand,” Giselle told the butler, forcing a smile, though she disliked men with hot tempers. Her stepfather had tried to bully both her and her mother from the time Giselle was small. Mother had put up with it, although she had complained a great deal out of his hearing. But past the age of twelve, Giselle had not tolerated her stepfather’s temper, and she certainly would not tolerate it from an Englishman.

Unfortunately, she still needed a favor from this particular Englishman. “If the earl cannot see us now, Mr. Renham, please ask him when he can. We would very much like to chat with him.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.” Mr. Renham hurried to the door and paused, as if listening for more shouting before he opened it. But Lord Heathbrook had apparently regained control over his temper, for the only thing they could hear was the murmur of voices. Thank heaven.

Mr. Renham flashed her a relieved smile. “I shall see that tea is brought.”

As soon as he had left, her mother used her cane to lower herself onto a settee of red toile de Jouy. Someone in the household must once have had a fondness for French décor, because in addition to the classically French toile, the other pieces of furniture were of ornately carved and heavily gilded mahogany and rosewood. The Parisian style made Giselle homesick.

Not that she wasn’t glad she had come to England. Getting to know her British half sister, who had completely embraced her despite her illegitimacy, had been lovely, but sometimes she desperately missed the quality of light in Paris, the lazy drift of the Seine, the taste of French coffee and baguettes. She missed having a garden. Their London lodgings had none.

“Why was the earl shouting?” her mother asked in French.

Surprisingly, Giselle knew the answer. “From what Jon has told me, Lord Heathbrook has been fighting for guardianship of his young brothers ever since he returned home in April.”

Her mother gave an exasperated shake of her head. “You should not call the duke ‘Jon.’ You should call him by his proper title.”

As usual, Giselle bristled at her mother’s admonitions. “I refuse to call my brother-in-law ‘Your Grace.’ I knew him as Lord Jonathan in France because that is what Monsieur Morris called him, but apparently I can’t call him that now that he is duke.” She drew herself up proudly. “Besides, he bade me call him ‘Jon,’ so that is what I do.”

She and Maman had this battle often. Giselle had grown up during the Revolution and thus possessed the lack of reverence for—or fear of—nobility that most of her French peers did. Her mother, however, despite marrying a member of the bourgeoisie, was the daughter of a count, though few knew it. Maman had never banished the images of the guillotine from her mind. She was still terrified of being sent back to France, which was why she placated the English whenever possible.

And pushed Giselle to save them both from such a fate.

“Why does Lord Heathbrook not have guardianship already?” her mother asked.

“I have no idea.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It has something to do with English law. I do not understand what. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. But if this man has such a temper …”

The fierce set to her mother’s chin made Giselle force softness into her voice. “It will be fine, Maman. He is not generally that sort of fellow.” But just to be sure, she went to the door and cracked it open to see if she could hear anything.

Lord Heathbrook now stood in the foyer with his back to her, speaking in low tones with a gangly fellow. That man wore the white powdered wig of an English barrister and a simple suit of black wool with a white shirt and a black stock about his neck.

Nothing so dull for the earl, oh, no. He wore pantaloons—no, the English called those “trousers”—of an almond color. They were tight enough to show every line of his muscular thighs and calves. His tailcoat was of so deep a shade of green forest that it would surely match his dark green eyes.

His beautiful, teasing eyes. The man did have the loveliest eyes.

She shook off the thought, reminding herself she was only one of many women who had admired those eyes. And Lord Heathbrook had probably pursued half of them, too.

From what she could see of the back of him, she could almost guess the rest of what he wore. A spotless and starched white shirt. A waistcoat of patterned white on white silk or some other popular design. A snowy cravat tied in an elaborate knot about his neck. And all that white accentuating the midnight-black of his straight, thick hair. Indeed, even seen from the back, his whole ensemble was very stylish, very fashionable, as always.

Very delicious.

Her cheeks heated. No, she must not indulge her ridiculous attraction to the sinfully handsome earl or she would never last through this visit without making a fool of herself. He had once, years ago, stolen a kiss from her, the most perfect kiss of her life. The earl did have a way of setting the very bones of a woman aflame with just a look or a touch. It was most thrilling.

Until he had refrained from kissing her again. Rumor had it he had kissed plenty of other unattached women in the camp, but apparently she had not warranted a second kiss.

She sighed. Obviously, she had not attracted him in the least.

Fortunately, it had taught her not to allow any man such freedoms. A dangerous enough game in France, it was positively disastrous in England, where men of rank used women, then tossed them aside.

Besides, she had seen Lord Heathbrook engage in flirtations with many a woman at Verdun in their early days there. He had even had affairs with a widow and two married women, and those were only the ones she knew about. For all she knew, he had ruined a dozen others. She did not wish to find herself discarded by him here.

Nonetheless, she must convince him to help her and Maman. To that end, she had worn her best gown of violet taffeta, the one that showed her slender figure at its best. She wished she had more ample breasts, since men seemed to prefer them, but such was life. And since his lordship had kissed her once, he must have found something in her figure to attract him, even if it had not gone anywhere. She only hoped she could be forgiven for using any small attraction he had to her to get what she needed without becoming too enamored of the fellow.

If he still had such an attraction after all these years. And if she could keep her wits about her.

She scowled. She must. There was Maman and their future to think about.

Calling herself an imbecile for her unwise response to the earl, she strained to hear what the men were saying. Fortunately, their voices had risen just enough for her to do so.

“It’s been months, Pitney,” Lord Heathbrook was saying. “How much longer must I wait? You’re already my third attorney in this matter.”

“I’m aware of that. But sometimes it takes years for the Court of Chancery to act,” Mr. Pitney said. “I did warn you when I took on your case.”

“Yes, but Evan won’t be twenty-one for more than two years. By then, Yates could loot his property entirely.” Lord Heathbrook let out a surprisingly rough oath. “Why Father chose that man to be their guardian, I’ll never understand. If Mother had lived—”

“But she didn’t.”

Behind Giselle, her own mother had risen and ventured close enough to pull at Giselle’s arm and hiss, “Come back, you foolish girl, before they see you!”

Giselle shrugged off her mother’s hand and made a motion for her to return to the settee. Maman did so, muttering about “girls who don’t listen to their mothers,” then sat turning her cane round and round in her hands as Giselle leaned closer to hear.

“My point is,” Lord Heathbrook said to his lawyer, “Father should have listed me as guardian when he wrote his will.”

Mr. Pitney released a heavy sigh. “We went over this, my lord. You were sixteen at the time.”

“Then he should have done it once I turned twenty-one,” the earl said irritably.

Mr. Pitney shook his head. “You were being detained in Verdun.”

“So was my father,” Lord Heathbrook bit out. “God knows he had plenty of leisure to change his will. There was nothing else to do in that godforsaken place. And by the time he died, I was twenty-six, more than old enough to be their guardian.”

“And still, again, in a French prison,” the attorney pointed out.

“The prison came later,” Lord Heathbrook snapped. “I was at that time in Verdun, technically not a prison. In any case, Father could have written a codicil to the will and given it to me, so I could become guardian the moment I set foot on England’s shore. Then I wouldn’t be having to endure this Court of Chancery nonsense.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but from what I’ve determined of your situation before you went to France, he was concerned that your temper would make you inadequate to be your brothers’ guardian.”

“I was sixteen then, for God’s sake! Show me a sixteen-year-old who has not got a temper!”

“You’re showing your temper right now, sir.”

As a frosty silence ensued, Giselle arched an eyebrow. Touché, monsieur. You tell him.

Then Lord Heathbrook dragged in a heavy breath that made his broad back rise, then fall. “You’re right. Forgive me. I’m not putting my best foot forward.”

His apology surprised her. Her stepfather had never apologized for his temper, not even in situations that warranted it far less than this one. That the earl would do so relieved her a bit. But only a bit.

Meanwhile, Mr. Pitney winced as if realizing he might have spoken too boldly to his lofty client. “I am merely saying that perhaps your father believed that a more … shall we say … even-tempered guardian was in order. And he did also seem to think that your … er … fondness for the ladies might be a problem.”

She rolled her eyes. She could have told the lawyer that. Lord Heathbrook had come by his reputation honestly.

Lord Heathbrook sighed. “Knowing my father, I’m sure he thought precisely that. No matter what I did to change his opinion of me in our later years together at Verdun, it remained fixed.” The touch of bitterness in Lord Heathbrook’s voice saddened Giselle. “And whose side are you on, anyway?”

Mr. Pitney colored. “I’m merely pointing out that appearances are everything to the Court of Chancery, and their investigators probe everywhere. Your cousin is older than you and seems less … susceptible to strong emotions when he comes before the chancellor. You must learn to be just as dispassionate. Or at least give the appearance of being so.”

“Right.” The earl rubbed the back of his neck. “Certainly. I will try. Besides, how do you know so much about my father’s opinions?”

“I have my own investigators, my lord.”

“Well, I hope they are investigating Yates, sir, and not just me. Or, for that matter, my relationship with my father.”

“Investigating your cousin is their first priority, of course. But it always helps to know what the other side plans to use against you as well.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Lord Heathbrook said, a bit stiffly.

“Next week should be better. By then, my spies will undoubtedly have turned up information we can use to reinforce your opinion of Mr. Yates when we counter his arguments for keeping the lads.”

“I hope so. My friend, Captain Scovell, speaks highly of you, so I’m willing to give you a chance.”

She knew Captain Scovell because he, too, had been in Verdun, living in the same house where she had worked and where her father and his other friends had lived. It did not surprise her that his lordship would trust the captain’s recommendation.

The earl went on. “God knows the other two lawyers weren’t as knowledgeable as you. Or as blunt.”

Mr. Pitney blinked. “Sir, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Lord Heathbrook said wearily. “I’d rather a blunt man than a sycophant. Besides, you were right to take me to task. My temper landed me in trouble in my youth, and in this particular situation, I seem incapable of being ‘even-tempered.’ But I realize I cannot let it get the better of me.”

The attorney nodded his agreement. “And you will consider the other recommendation I made? It wasn’t only your father’s concern about your temper that guided his decision, after all, and my recommendation—”

“I’ll consider it.” The earl sighed. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“What man does? Still, it’s a trial all men must bear.”

“An interesting way to look at it.”

They both laughed inexplicably and began chatting of other things.

Giselle shook her head. What was that about? What trial must all men bear? She was so busy trying to puzzle it out that she didn’t see the maid heading toward the door with the tea tray before the young woman was practically upon her.

Managing to step back just in time, Giselle hurried over to the settee to take a seat beside her mother. The maid nodded to them as she entered and bustled over to set down the tray before bustling out again.

“Shall I pour the tea, Maman?” Giselle asked.

“There’s no coffee?” her mother asked.

“The English mostly drink tea,” Giselle reminded her.

“Bah, I hate tea,” her mother complained.

“I know you do. But English tea is stronger than French, so you might enjoy it more.”

As Giselle poured her a cup, her mother said, “Hmm. We shall see.”

Giselle added the same amount of sugar that her mother preferred to have in coffee. “The English even prepare their tea differently. Fortunately, my sister has taught me how to make a proper English tea.”

“The duke’s wife, you mean. Your half sister.”

Giselle sighed. “Yes, Maman. My half sister.” Whose father was your lover once, the man whom you refused to marry.

No, she could never say that to her mother, who grew more ashamed of her past the older she got. At least she had borne Giselle within the confines of a legitimate marriage, with only Maman—and eventually Giselle’s real father, Monsieur Morris—knowing Giselle had not been conceived within the marriage.

So, the world thought Giselle was legitimate, and Giselle had thought the same. Until she had met Monsieur Morris. After that, she had come to England and acquired her wonderful English family—Tory and her little brother Cyril and the rest of them—who had accepted her and been kind to her and made her feel welcome in her new home. Now that she had them, she never wanted to lose them.

Fine. She would do whatever she must to gain the earl’s help, short of letting him take her innocence. Because if he could not help them, all was lost, anyway.

And she did not think she could bear that loss this time.

After showing Pitney out, Heathbrook climbed the steps of his town house, fighting to regain control of his anger as he unfolded the piece of paper Pitney had scribbled on and passed to him on their way out.

Yates rides with the lads in Hyde Park every afternoon at 3:30. As I told you, I have my own spies.

Heathbrook blinked, then shook his head ruefully. Pitney was proving to be a very helpful attorney, even if he was going a bit far to keep his information from being overheard.

Well, the least Heathbrook could do was follow the man’s advice and strive for better regulation of his own emotions. To be fair, however, he’d had two reasons for anger: not only his late father’s refusal to trust him, but also Yates’s idiocy. Yates could have just handed guardianship over to him, but no, the arse had insisted on hanging on to it … and in the process, hanging on to the boys’ property until at least Evan, the oldest, came of age. That alone made him suspect in Heathbrook’s eyes.

All right, so the man was Mother’s cousin. Still, Heathbrook refused to call Frederick Yates “my cousin” himself, although technically the man was his first cousin once removed. Until Father had listed Yates as guardian in his will, Heathbrook had only known him by the moniker Mother had given him: Frigid Freddy. Heathbrook’s image of the man had been of a cold fish who’d never married because no woman could warm to him.

So far, Heathbrook’s limited dealings with the older fellow had confirmed that image. Was such a man, with the inability to show even familial affection, fit to look after Evan, Kit, and Zachary? Not bloody likely. Heathbrook’s very occasional spates of bad temper—or his youthful mistakes—did not compare.

The worst of it was that even if Pitney’s investigators could discover how Yates was looting the boys’ property, the Court of Chancery would still have to do their own due diligence to make sure Yates was unfit. And as Pitney had said, the court wasn’t known for their speed.

Well, at least he had a chance now at seeing how the boys looked. Perhaps he could go riding in Hyde Park and pretend to encounter them by chance.

He entered the house. Or should he just—

“My lord,” his new butler said. Good God, the fellow had been hovering about ever since he and Pitney had left the study.

“What is it, Renham?”

“You have guests. I put them in the drawing room.”

“Guests?” When the bloody hell had “guests” slipped into his town house? Damn, had they heard him shouting?

He winced. Probably. All the more reason he must learn to better govern his temper. “Who is it, then?”

“Two ladies, sir. Madame Bernard and her daughter, Mademoiselle Bernard. You know. From Verdun.”

That brought Heathbrook up short. He definitely knew Giselle Bernard, Queen of Verdun. Or so he’d dubbed the lovely Frenchwoman whom he’d once had the audacity to kiss. She’d had soft lips, a shy smile, and a figure that would have tempted any man with blood in his veins to ravish her. Which, of course, he’d known better than to attempt.

Especially after Morris, who’d apparently seen them kiss, had warned him away, threatening to call him out if he persisted in showing her any attention. So, Heathbrook had steered clear of her. The last thing he’d needed in curst Verdun was to fight a duel. Besides, he and his father had already been at odds—it hadn’t made sense to damage that tenuous relationship any further.

Only recently had he learned the real reason for Morris’s concern. The late Dr. Morris had sired her. But that knowledge made it even more imperative that Heathbrook leave her be. Now she was sister-in-law to one of his closest friends, so she was still very much forbidden to him.

And why in God’s name were she and her mother here, anyway?

He paused in the entry hall, weighing whether to go in the drawing room or have Renham tell them he wasn’t at home to visitors today. Given his present state, the latter was probably best.

But curiosity got the better of him. Not to mention the urge to see the French beauty once more. After all, since arriving in England, he’d only encountered her twice—once at Jon and Tory’s wedding and once at Tory’s birthday celebration. Neither time had she flirted with him, which in itself was enough to whet his interest.

He groaned. Don’t even think it. Jon will skewer you for going after his wife’s half sister.

Still, if she needed something while Jon and Tory were away, he should at least find out what it was. It was the only proper thing, the only gentlemanly thing to do. Right?

Trying not to probe too deeply into that facile excuse, he put on the mask he was forced to wear all too often these days, of a gentleman in complete control of his life. As he strode into the drawing room, he fought not to notice how Mademoiselle Bernard’s hair gleamed like molten chocolate in the light filtering through the drawing room curtains. How the enigmatic smile she perpetually wore lent a mysteriousness to her expression that intoxicated him.

How her eyes were the exact shade of blue as Tory’s, but somehow more evocative.

He shook off those oddly poetic sentiments when the two ladies rose. He wasn’t surprised to see Mademoiselle Bernard wearing a lavender gown. She’d always preferred lighter, more cheerful colors in Verdun. And she looked like a violet in spring in that one.

As he approached, she curtsied, although her t. . .