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Synopsis
HE HIDES HIS TRUE COLORS . . . Miss Grace Fairchild is under no illusions about her charms. Painfully plain, she is a soldier's daughter who has spent her life being useful, not learning the treacherous ways of the ton. She may have been caught in a scandal with society's favorite rogue, but how can she marry him when it means losing herself? WHILE SHE HIDES HER TRUE SELF . . . Diccan Hilliard doesn't know which of his enemies drugged him and dumped him in Grace's bed, but he does know the outcome. He and Grace must marry. To his surprise, a wild, heady passion flares between them. Yet Diccan is trapped in a deadly game of intrigue Grace knows nothing about. Will his lies destroy Grace just as he realizes how desperately he needs her? And how can he hope for a future with her, when an old enemy has set his murderous sights on them both?
Release date: April 1, 2011
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 469
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Never a Gentleman
Eileen Dreyer
Praise for Eileen Dreyer’s
Barely a Lady
One of Publishers Weekly’s Best of 2010
A Top Ten Booklist Romance of the Year
One of Library Journal’s Five Best Romances of the Year
“Dreyer flawlessly blends danger, deception, and desire into an impeccably crafted historical that neatly balances adventurous
intrigue with an exquisitely romantic love story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Vivid descriptions, inventive plotting, beautifully delineated characters, and stunning emotional depth.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Romantic suspense author Dreyer makes a highly successful venture into the past with this sizzling, dramatic Regency romance.
Readers will love the well-rounded characters and suspenseful plot.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Barely a Lady is addictively readable thanks to exquisitely nuanced characters, a brilliantly realized historical setting, and a captivating
plot encompassing both the triumph and tragedy of war. Love, loss, revenge, and redemption all play key roles in this richly
emotional, superbly satisfying love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Top Pick! 4½ stars! An emotionally powerful story… unique plotline… intriguing characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Brimming with sensuality, intrigue, and luscious prose, Barely a Lady will leave readers sighing with satisfaction and breathless with anticipation for the next book… A gem of a book that will
have readers cheering for the hero and heroine, booing the villain, and smiling through tears as they reach the end.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“Five hearts! Ms. Dreyer definitely knows how to write one passionate and drama-filled story!… A book that keeps you madly
flipping through the pages, desperate to know what is going to happen next… Fans of the genre will fall in love with it.”
—AJourneyofBooks.halfzero.net
“A beautiful story [with] an amazing supporting cast of characters… a wonderful start to a new series.”
—TheFictionEnthusiast.blogspot.com
“Plenty of danger and intrigue… Barely a Lady will surely be a hit with romance fans.”
—TheThriftyThings.blogspot.com
I’d like to thank everyone who encouraged me on this road to the past: the Divas, of course. Members of the Convocation, members
of my long-suffering family, who put up with a lot in the name of deadlines. My family at Rotrosen, especially Andrea Cirillo,
and my family at Grand Central. Thank you, Amy, for always making me think harder, and Beth, for your support and friendship.
To my copy editor, Isabel Stein, who cleans up my continuity glitches and makes sure each character has only one name; to
the art department, especially Clare Brown, for my luscious covers; and everyone in sales, marketing, and PR, especially Samantha
Kelly and Anna Balasi.
I would also like to thank everyone who helped make my research trip to India a reality, from my lovely Rick to everyone at
Larsen & Toubro for their hospitality, especially Mr. and Mrs. A. P. Misra, R. S. Kapur, and Sangeeta, who was not only a
wonderful hostess, but managed to create a western sari for me. Thanks to our friends Saurabh and Ghitika Kant, and to Rick’s
brother, Manmohan Chowla; and Ruchi and Chintoo Mohanty, who welcomed us like family to their wedding. Thanks to Michele and to Travel and Leisure Elite,
and to Bhankaj, driver extraordinaire, who went out of his way to actually find Lohagarh Fort in Bharatpur when I asked. And
thanks to all the wonderful hosts who welcomed us into their inns and B & Bs (and who are listed on the Travel for Fun page
of my Web site, www.eileendreyer.com), and taught us so much about their country. I will never forget my visit, and hope I can return soon.
Thanks to the real Barbara Schroeder, who donated money to the Brenda Novak Auction for Diabetes Research to have a character
named after her. Good choice. You’ll be seeing her again. To the generous friends on the Beau Monde loop, Ninc, Teabuds, MoRWA,
and all the friends I’ve made on Facebook. Knowing you’re there makes it feel less as if I’m sitting all alone in my office
wringing words out of a soggy brain.
Paris, September 1815
The room stank of whiskey, sweat, and despair. Tucked away on the top floor of an aging hotel on the rue de Seine in Paris,
the suite still bore remnants of its past glory. The torn wallpaper was gold-flocked. The tatty furniture betrayed elegant
lines, and the windows, too grimy to see through, stretched up ten feet. Age and time had worn away the elegance. The current
inhabitant had destroyed the rest. His half-eaten food and liquor bottles littered every surface. Dirty clothing lay piled
on the floor. A table had been shattered against the door, and red wine dripped down the wall.
Bertie Evenham, the one responsible for the mess, balanced on the balls of his feet, as if listening for the sound of pursuit.
An unprepossessing blond, he had fine aristocratic features, wide blue eyes, and a hawkish nose he hadn’t yet grown into.
His hair was greasy and unkempt, his linen soiled, and his hands shaking. His eyes darted impatiently between his guest and the door.
Across from him, Diccan Hilliard lounged in a faded blue brocade armchair, legs crossed, his quizzing glass spinning from
his left hand. It was all Diccan could do to hold still. He hated confessions, and Bertie seemed compelled to make one. It
wouldn’t do to seem anxious to leave, though. Bertie had vital information to impart. He also had a gun pointed at Diccan’s
head.
“But why should I believe you, old chap?” Diccan asked the pallid, unwashed boy. “You must admit it sounds a bit fantastic.
A gang of British nobles trying to overthrow their own throne.”
Bertie scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Don’t you understand? You’re in danger. England is in danger.”
“So you’ve said.” Leaning back, Diccan shot his cuffs. “Why not inform the Embassy here?”
Bertie’s laugh was sharp. “Because I’m sure some of them are members.”
Diccan nodded. “Of this group of yours that calls itself the British Lions. But you’ve also just told me that you helped Napoleon
return to France. That’s treason, old son. You’re asking me to believe a man who betrayed his country.”
If possible, the boy looked even more desperate. “Don’t you think I know it? But they were blackmailing me. They’re going
to blackmail you, too, damn it. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Maybe if you tell me what it was about you they thought worthy of blackmail.”
The gun began to wobble in the boy’s hand. Diccan couldn’t help but notice that it was a finely crafted Manton dueling pistol.
It wouldn’t take much for the lad to make a mistake. He was too unstable. Too desperate. Sweat was dripping down his temples.
Bertie actually turned his face away, and Diccan couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, no matter what he’d done. “You don’t
understand,” the boy whispered. “You can’t. You’re not… unnatural.”
Ah.
Diccan kept his voice gentle. “Tristram Gordon.”
Evenham’s face crumpled. “You know?”
“That you and Lady Gracechurch’s cousin were lovers? Yes. You’re right, though. Most don’t.”
“Her husband murdered him!”
“Not murder,” Diccan suggested quietly. “A duel. I know. I was there.”
The boy began to shake harder. “So was I. And I couldn’t even go to him….”
Diccan didn’t like tearing wings off flies or torturing children. Evenham couldn’t be more than twenty-five. “What do you
want me to do, Bertie?”
“Warn the government. Make them believe that these people are dangerous. These people really think they can do better.” He
shrugged and sat abruptly on a straightback chair, as if he had used the last of his energy. “We have a mad king and a profligate
heir,” he said, sounding like a recitation. “Riots from the lower class and threats to power from the middle class. Unemployment,
crime, failed crops, rising prices. They believe that they can cure it all by taking power back into noble hands.”
“What about the king?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. They aren’t stupid enough to share that kind of information with someone who’s been coerced.”
He shrugged. “Besides, the way the Lions are organized, only a few people know all. Five or six, maybe. Each of those has a specific area of responsibility,
and recruits and organizes individually, so no one can betray the whole group. Even those who believe in the cause only know
who their immediate superiors are.”
“So you don’t know who your group is headed by?”
He shook his head, rubbing now at his eyes. The gun, sadly, was still leveled on Diccan. “I know who controlled me. I’ve told
you their names. They funneled gold and men to Napoleon. The Lions believed that if he won on the Continent, the Lions would
control the British government.”
“How do you know I’m in danger?”
“I overheard them. They think you might be susceptible. And that you have contacts they want.”
Diccan shook his head, wondering whether someone might have peeked beneath his facade. “Honored they think I live such an
interesting life. Can’t think why. The most interesting people I meet are chefs and fishmongers. They do know that my most
challenging diplomatic task is organizing parties, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. They’ll succeed, though. If they can’t blackmail you, they’ll use threats. If threats don’t work, you’ll suffer
a fatal accident so you can’t expose them. When they came after me, they told me that even if I slipped from their net, they
could drag me back by hurting my mother or sisters.”
Diccan gave a bark of amusement. “I would buy a ticket to watch them face off with my mother. She’d eviscerate them without
bending a nail.”
He did not, however, speak of his sisters. Deciding that he had to take control of the situation, he made a move, as if to
get to his feet. Immediately Bertie jumped up, gripping the gun more tightly.
“I will shoot you. If you won’t help, I’ll kill you. Don’t you see?” There were tears in the boy’s eyes. “I’ve risked everything.”
Yes, Diccan knew. He had. The boy hadn’t just put himself at risk from the Lions. His love for another man was a hanging offense.
“And there isn’t anything else you can tell me?” Diccan asked. “I mean, I appreciate your concern for me, but I’m not sure
that’s enough to interest Whitehall.”
“Well then, what about this? The Lions are looking for something they’ve lost. I don’t know what, only that they’ll hand it
off as a signal to set a plan into motion. When they find it, they will act.”
“Act how?”
“They’re going to assassinate Wellington.”
Diccan felt the air leave his lungs. “Yes,” he mused, “I imagine that would get the government’s attention.”
“The group that aided Napoleon has already been reassigned. They are to assist the Surgeon.”
Diccan all but stopped breathing. “The assassin?” Images of the Surgeon’s work flashed before his eyes; bleeding, raw wounds
draining life. Fish-white bodies. “But he’s in Newgate.”
Bertie shook his head so hard droplets of grease flew. “Not for long.”
Diccan’s instinctive reaction was to argue. Nobody got out of Newgate Prison. But if the Lions were as well-placed as Bertie
said, nothing was impossible.
“All right.” This time he gained his feet without challenge. “You have my word, Bertie. I’ll ride ventre terre to London to warn them. We’ll stop this long before it involves Wellington.”
The boy laughed. “Don’t be so sure. They won’t stop. If you get one of them, another will step in to take his place. You really
don’t know how committed they are. You don’t know how well-placed.”
If Diccan hadn’t already been investigating this very plot, he would have scoffed at Bertie’s charge. But a few traitors had
already been unearthed, and they had indeed been well-placed.
“Thank you, Bertie,” he said, hoping the boy knew how sincere he was. “You have done your country, and me, a great service.
If you ever need assistance, find me.”
It was as if Bertie had held up on will alone, and Diccan’s concession had stolen it. The boy literally sagged, tears streaking
his gaunt cheeks. The gun drooped in his hand. Diccan thought to make a try for it, but he believed Bertie had lost any reason
to hurt him.
“Thank you,” the boy said, free hand over his eye. “You’re kind.”
Diccan knew he was nothing of the sort. He nodded all the same and turned for his gloves. “Then if you don’t need anything
else from me, I believe I’ll be off.”
Bertie nodded. He took a breath. “No. Nothing more. I’ve done what I needed to.”
Diccan was still pulling on his gloves when he saw Bertie raise the gun again. Instinct kicked in and he dove to the side.
He was just about to hit the floor when he realized that Bertie had no intention of hurting him. He meant to hurt himself.
“No!” Diccan screamed, lunging for him.
He was too late. Smiling, as if relieved, Bertie turned the gun on himself. Diccan could do no more than hold the boy in his
arms as he died.
Canterbury, England
Three days later
Grace Fairchild was confused. She was dreaming; she knew that. But she couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, she’d had dreams like
it before; vague, anxious fantasies of a man making love to her. But usually her dreams were indistinct, more suggestion than
fact. Visual rather than visceral. After living with the army her whole life, she knew what copulating looked like. In India,
she’d seen graphic depictions of it painted and carved into temple walls, parades of couples writhing in ecstasy in each other’s
arms.
Her dreams, predictably, mirrored them. She saw what happened; she didn’t feel it. Even as her dream lover took her, she did
no more than watch, a voyeur in her own boudoir.
This time was different. In this dream, she could feel her lover tucked against her back like spoons in a drawer. Skin to
skin, heat to heat, pounding heart to pounding heart. His clean scent filled her nostrils. The harsh rasp of his breathing fanned through her hair. He was nuzzling the base of her
neck, releasing a shower of shivers that cascaded down her body. His callused fingers traced each vertebra in her back. She
swore she could feel the abrasion of hair against her legs and bottom; she heard the syncopated sounds of breathing.
She shuddered before the onslaught of sensations she’d never known: an almost painful sweetness, heat like a Madras sun, shocks
of pleasure that skittered through her limbs like lightning. Her skin seemed to have caught fire, the scrape of his palm igniting
her like flint against too-dry tinder. An exquisite, anxious thrill snaked through her, curling along her legs, the sensitive
skin of her nipples, the deepest recesses of her belly to touch her womb, like the sun warming a dormant seed. Her insides
felt as if they were melting, and she couldn’t seem to hold still.
She smiled in her sleep, where it was safe to dream a bit. Where she could remember that beneath the gray dresses and pragmatic
mien everyone saw, she was a woman. And that even a plain woman wanted the same things other women took for granted. Touch.
Comfort. Pleasure. She wanted to be one of those temple paintings.
In her head she pleaded with him to hurry. To stoke the fire; to ease it. To pull her closer, closer yet, so she would never
again have to be alone. She stretched, a cat in the sun, closer to his hard, lithe body. She gasped at the hard shaft that
pressed against her bottom. Such an alien pleasure, so intriguing. So deeply erotic.
She heard a moan, a gravelly, low threnody that resonated right through her. A sensuous, mesmerizing growl of pleasure. It
made her chuckle. His one hand was teasing her breast, flicking the nipple until it ached. His other was drifting lower, stealing her breath. Her heart was pounding;
her skin was damp. She heard another moan.
Abruptly she stiffened. Her eyes popped open.
She really had heard a moan.
Desperately she tried to think. She could see the early morning light seeping into the inn room. Yes, that was right. She
had stopped at the Falstaff Inn at Canterbury with her friend Lady Kate the night before. Drawing a careful breath, she tested
the air, expecting to smell woodsmoke, fresh air from the open window, her own rosewater scent. Instead she smelled brandy
and tobacco and a subtle scent of musk. She smelled man-sweat.
Her heart seized. Her brain went slack. She had dreamed him; she was certain. Why could she still smell him? Then she felt
his hand move toward the nest of curls at the juncture of her legs, and she knew. He wasn’t a dream at all.
Shrieking, she lurched up. The bedclothes were tangled around her legs. She yanked at them and pushed with her feet, trying
to get away. She pushed too hard. Suddenly she was tumbling off the bed, arms flailing wildly for balance. She shrieked again
when she landed with a thud on the floor.
For a moment she lay where she was, eyes closed, pain shooting up her bad leg, her stomach threatening revolt. All the heat
that had blossomed in her died. She was dizzy and dry-mouthed and confused. And, evidently, lying on the floor of a strange
man’s bedroom, trapped by his sheets. Christ save her, how could that be?
“Bloody hell!” she heard from the bed, and knew without opening her eyes that the disaster had just become far worse. It was
not a stranger at all in that bed. It was Diccan Hilliard, the single most elegant man in England. The one person who never failed to turn Grace into a stuttering fool.
Still cursing, he sat up. The early morning sunlight gilded his skin as in a Rembrandt painting, limning muscle and sinew
and bone with a molten gold. Shadow etched the sharp ridges of jaw and cheekbone and shuddered through his tumbled sable hair
as he dragged his hands through it. He was shaking his head, as if to clear it. Rubbing at his eyes. Grace knew she should
flee before he spotted her. She couldn’t seem to look away from him.
Could he have been more compelling? Not handsome, precisely. His features were a bit too broad, his nose a bit bent, his eyes
too ghostly gray. But tall and elegant and aristocratic to his toes. The perfect antithesis for the hopeless spinster sitting
like a lump on his floor.
“Merde,” she muttered in despair.
He turned at the sound, and his jaw dropped. He had obviously just recognized who it was he’d been fondling.
“Miss Fairchild,” he drawled, his voice like ice. As gracefully as a god, he climbed out of the bed and stalked over to stand
before her. “If I might be so bold. What the deuce are you doing here?”
She couldn’t draw breath to answer. Sweet Lord, he was naked. He was breathtaking, with solid shoulders, and arms that had
worked hard. His chest was taut and lean, and shadowed with curling hair that arrowed down his torso right to… She flushed
hotly. Sweet, sweet Lord. He was magnificent. He was an ancient statue come to life… well, except for one small difference.
Well. Not so small at all. And it wasn’t as if she could miss it. Not only was she at eye level, but, if her old temple art
hadn’t lied, he was magnificently aroused. Just the sight of his shaft, jutting straight up from that nest of dark hair, sent shivers cascading through her. It made all those two-dimensional
watercolors pale in comparison.
Of course, the minute he got a good look at her, his erection wilted like warm lettuce.
“I’m still dreaming,” she muttered, shamefully unable to look away. “That’s it. A nightmare. I should never have had that
second piece of pigeon pie last night.”
She should shut her eyes. She should make a grab for her clothes and run. She should at least defend herself. She couldn’t
so much as blink. She could still feel his hands on her skin, the unbearable pleasure of his body against hers. His expression
of horror made her want to wither with shame.
“I expected better of you, Miss Fairchild,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, his hands planted on sinfully lean hips.
“Never did I think you’d be the kind of scheming, brass-faced hussy who’d force her way into a man’s bed. Just what did you
slip into my drink?”
Suddenly furious, Grace clambered to her feet, grabbing a bedpost to steady her when her bad leg cramped. “What did I slip
into your drink?” she demanded, outraged. “Why, you insufferable, self-centered, overweening park saunterer. You’re the last person
on earth I would ever let—”
Instead of apologizing, he shut his eyes. “For the love of God, madame, cover yourself.”
Grace looked down and squeaked in dismay. She hadn’t considered her state of undress. She’d grabbed the covers because it
was frigid in the room. Not because she was… oh, bugger. She was as naked as he was, providing him with a view of every bony inch of her chest and shoulders.
“Where are my clothes?” she cried, trying to cover every unlovely jutting angle of her with the voluminous blanket.
“Don’t waste your time,” he snapped. “Just hide yourself.”
“You could do the same,” she snapped back.
Cocking an imperious eyebrow, he considered his status. “No, could I? But I thought this was what you were after.”
Grace felt panic shutting off her air. Her head hurt. She felt sick. “I told you,” she insisted, her voice unpardonably shrill.
“I wasn’t after anything.”
Suddenly the door to the room slammed open and bounced against the wall. At least half a dozen people peered in, all clad
in nightclothes and gawking like pit rowdies. Grace did the only thing she could. She dropped to the floor and yanked the
covers over her head.
“Isn’t that General Fairchild’s daughter?” a woman who sounded like Lady Thornton demanded from the doorway. Grace shrank
down even more.
“How delicious,” another, thinner voice answered with a delighted giggle. “The feather-brained antidote obviously thinks she’s
nabbed Diccan Hilliard.”
Grace heard laughter and wanted to die. How many people were out there?
“Good to see everyone,” Diccan was saying, as if they had come to tea. “My apologies for presenting myself to you en deshabille.”
More salacious laughter. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, her thundering heart almost drowning out the sound of Lord Thornton
and some unknown man taking bets on her future. She was terrified she was going to disgrace herself. Her stomach was lurching
as if she were back on the channel packet.
“Well, well,” she heard a new and welcome voice intrude. “Letitia Thornton. I had no idea that this was what you wore to bed.
Amazing color, really. You must have been dragged right from your sleep. Not a very attractive time of the day for you, is
it? And Geoffrey Smythe. What an interesting banyan. Are those roosters on your chest? Hmm. I must admit I’ve never seen a
puce chicken before.”
Lady Kate had arrived.
If this had been happening to anyone else, Grace might have smiled. Leave it to Kate to send the cream of the ton scurrying away like embarrassed debs. But it was happening to her. She was the one crouched on the floor, naked beneath a blanket as an audience laughed.
She must not have heard the door close, because suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Grace?”
If it could be possible, she felt worse. She had so few female friends. Only three, really: Olivia Wyndham, Lady Bea Seaton,
and Lady Kate Seaton, who had taken her in after Grace’s father had died at Waterloo. It had been Lady Kate who had seen her
through those terrible days, who had provided safety and support as Grace adjusted to civilian life. Grace couldn’t betray
her friend this way. Even a notorious widow like Kate had no business associating with a ruined spinster.
“Grace, tell me you’re all right,” Kate said, sounding distressed.
“I’m fine,” Grace managed, huddled miserably on the floor.
It didn’t occur to her to cry. Soldiers don’t cry, her father had always told her. At least not after their seventh birthday.
“Is this some joke of yours, Kate?” she heard Diccan demand, sounding like a petulant child.
Lady Kate huffed. “Don’t be demented. I’m even more stunned than you are. I know for a fact that Grace has better taste.”
“Why, you repellent brat,” he snapped. “Your friend just arranged to make an appearance in my bed before the worst gossips in the ton. Naked.”
“Really, Diccan? She must be amazingly sly, then, since neither of us expected to see you or them here.”
“She must have, damn it! They’re here. And she’s… here.”
Lady Kate sighed. “Your arguments might carry more weight if you were dressed, Diccan.”
“What about her?”
Still crouched beneath her blanket, Grace winced. Her leg hurt. The blanket was beginning to scratch, and a draft had found
its way underneath to bedevil her. And yet she wasn’t about to move.
“Grace can dress after you leave,” Lady Kate was saying over Grace’s head. “From her bedroom, by the way.”
“Hers?”
“The miniature of her father in regimentals on the bedside table should be a dead giveaway.”
Grace heard the rustling of clothing. He must be dressing.
“What are you doing here, by the way?” Lady Kate asked as if she were addressing him over tea. “We were supposed to meet you in Dover
tomorrow.”
There was sudden silence. “This isn’t Dover?”
“Canterbury,” Grace answered, before she thought of it.
“Canterbury?” Diccan echoed, the sounds of movement ceasing. “Deuce take it. How the devil did I get here? The last I remember I was on the Dover packet. Where’s Biddle?”
“Your valet?” Kate said, sounding absurdly amused. “Undoubtedly looking for you in Dover. We’ll send someone after him, once
we’re all dressed. Are you still all right under there, Grace?”
Grace felt another miserable blush spread over her. “Do you see my clothes?” she asked.
“Strewn over the floor as if they’d been on fire,” Kate informed her. “Another reason I know you are not the culprit here.
Even during those awful days we spent caring for the wounded from Waterloo, you never once failed to fold your clothing like
a premier abigail.”
“She could have been anxious to get into bed,” Diccan suggested dryly.
“Not with you, she wouldn’t,” Kate said, sounding positively delighted. “She doesn’t like you.”
Grace made a sound of protest. It wasn’t polite, even if it was true. She didn’t like him. It didn’t mean she was immune to
him. He was like a broken tooth Grace couldn’t resist running her tongue over, a sharp reminder of everything she wasn’t and
never would be.
“Don’t be absurd,” Diccan was saying. “Everyone likes me.”
“Would you please get your pants on and leave?” Grace demanded, finally losing her patience. “I’m about to catch the ague down here.”
And damn him if he didn’t chuckle. “Anything you say, Boadicea.”
Which made Grace feel even worse. A few months earlier, Diccan had nicknamed her after the English warrior queen, undoubtedly
because he couldn’t think of another female tall enough to look him in the eye. Which, as Grace well knew, was not necessarily a compliment.
“Why don’t you secure a private dining room?” Kate said to him. “We’ll meet you there.”
Grace heard some inarticulate grumbling.
“Trust me,” Kate said with a laugh. “They’re changing. See if you can get to the parlor before they make it back out of their
rooms. I would remind you that one of those people is Letitia Thornton, and you know she doesn’t consider a day complete u
Barely a Lady
One of Publishers Weekly’s Best of 2010
A Top Ten Booklist Romance of the Year
One of Library Journal’s Five Best Romances of the Year
“Dreyer flawlessly blends danger, deception, and desire into an impeccably crafted historical that neatly balances adventurous
intrigue with an exquisitely romantic love story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Vivid descriptions, inventive plotting, beautifully delineated characters, and stunning emotional depth.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Romantic suspense author Dreyer makes a highly successful venture into the past with this sizzling, dramatic Regency romance.
Readers will love the well-rounded characters and suspenseful plot.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Barely a Lady is addictively readable thanks to exquisitely nuanced characters, a brilliantly realized historical setting, and a captivating
plot encompassing both the triumph and tragedy of war. Love, loss, revenge, and redemption all play key roles in this richly
emotional, superbly satisfying love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Top Pick! 4½ stars! An emotionally powerful story… unique plotline… intriguing characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Brimming with sensuality, intrigue, and luscious prose, Barely a Lady will leave readers sighing with satisfaction and breathless with anticipation for the next book… A gem of a book that will
have readers cheering for the hero and heroine, booing the villain, and smiling through tears as they reach the end.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“Five hearts! Ms. Dreyer definitely knows how to write one passionate and drama-filled story!… A book that keeps you madly
flipping through the pages, desperate to know what is going to happen next… Fans of the genre will fall in love with it.”
—AJourneyofBooks.halfzero.net
“A beautiful story [with] an amazing supporting cast of characters… a wonderful start to a new series.”
—TheFictionEnthusiast.blogspot.com
“Plenty of danger and intrigue… Barely a Lady will surely be a hit with romance fans.”
—TheThriftyThings.blogspot.com
I’d like to thank everyone who encouraged me on this road to the past: the Divas, of course. Members of the Convocation, members
of my long-suffering family, who put up with a lot in the name of deadlines. My family at Rotrosen, especially Andrea Cirillo,
and my family at Grand Central. Thank you, Amy, for always making me think harder, and Beth, for your support and friendship.
To my copy editor, Isabel Stein, who cleans up my continuity glitches and makes sure each character has only one name; to
the art department, especially Clare Brown, for my luscious covers; and everyone in sales, marketing, and PR, especially Samantha
Kelly and Anna Balasi.
I would also like to thank everyone who helped make my research trip to India a reality, from my lovely Rick to everyone at
Larsen & Toubro for their hospitality, especially Mr. and Mrs. A. P. Misra, R. S. Kapur, and Sangeeta, who was not only a
wonderful hostess, but managed to create a western sari for me. Thanks to our friends Saurabh and Ghitika Kant, and to Rick’s
brother, Manmohan Chowla; and Ruchi and Chintoo Mohanty, who welcomed us like family to their wedding. Thanks to Michele and to Travel and Leisure Elite,
and to Bhankaj, driver extraordinaire, who went out of his way to actually find Lohagarh Fort in Bharatpur when I asked. And
thanks to all the wonderful hosts who welcomed us into their inns and B & Bs (and who are listed on the Travel for Fun page
of my Web site, www.eileendreyer.com), and taught us so much about their country. I will never forget my visit, and hope I can return soon.
Thanks to the real Barbara Schroeder, who donated money to the Brenda Novak Auction for Diabetes Research to have a character
named after her. Good choice. You’ll be seeing her again. To the generous friends on the Beau Monde loop, Ninc, Teabuds, MoRWA,
and all the friends I’ve made on Facebook. Knowing you’re there makes it feel less as if I’m sitting all alone in my office
wringing words out of a soggy brain.
Paris, September 1815
The room stank of whiskey, sweat, and despair. Tucked away on the top floor of an aging hotel on the rue de Seine in Paris,
the suite still bore remnants of its past glory. The torn wallpaper was gold-flocked. The tatty furniture betrayed elegant
lines, and the windows, too grimy to see through, stretched up ten feet. Age and time had worn away the elegance. The current
inhabitant had destroyed the rest. His half-eaten food and liquor bottles littered every surface. Dirty clothing lay piled
on the floor. A table had been shattered against the door, and red wine dripped down the wall.
Bertie Evenham, the one responsible for the mess, balanced on the balls of his feet, as if listening for the sound of pursuit.
An unprepossessing blond, he had fine aristocratic features, wide blue eyes, and a hawkish nose he hadn’t yet grown into.
His hair was greasy and unkempt, his linen soiled, and his hands shaking. His eyes darted impatiently between his guest and the door.
Across from him, Diccan Hilliard lounged in a faded blue brocade armchair, legs crossed, his quizzing glass spinning from
his left hand. It was all Diccan could do to hold still. He hated confessions, and Bertie seemed compelled to make one. It
wouldn’t do to seem anxious to leave, though. Bertie had vital information to impart. He also had a gun pointed at Diccan’s
head.
“But why should I believe you, old chap?” Diccan asked the pallid, unwashed boy. “You must admit it sounds a bit fantastic.
A gang of British nobles trying to overthrow their own throne.”
Bertie scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Don’t you understand? You’re in danger. England is in danger.”
“So you’ve said.” Leaning back, Diccan shot his cuffs. “Why not inform the Embassy here?”
Bertie’s laugh was sharp. “Because I’m sure some of them are members.”
Diccan nodded. “Of this group of yours that calls itself the British Lions. But you’ve also just told me that you helped Napoleon
return to France. That’s treason, old son. You’re asking me to believe a man who betrayed his country.”
If possible, the boy looked even more desperate. “Don’t you think I know it? But they were blackmailing me. They’re going
to blackmail you, too, damn it. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Maybe if you tell me what it was about you they thought worthy of blackmail.”
The gun began to wobble in the boy’s hand. Diccan couldn’t help but notice that it was a finely crafted Manton dueling pistol.
It wouldn’t take much for the lad to make a mistake. He was too unstable. Too desperate. Sweat was dripping down his temples.
Bertie actually turned his face away, and Diccan couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, no matter what he’d done. “You don’t
understand,” the boy whispered. “You can’t. You’re not… unnatural.”
Ah.
Diccan kept his voice gentle. “Tristram Gordon.”
Evenham’s face crumpled. “You know?”
“That you and Lady Gracechurch’s cousin were lovers? Yes. You’re right, though. Most don’t.”
“Her husband murdered him!”
“Not murder,” Diccan suggested quietly. “A duel. I know. I was there.”
The boy began to shake harder. “So was I. And I couldn’t even go to him….”
Diccan didn’t like tearing wings off flies or torturing children. Evenham couldn’t be more than twenty-five. “What do you
want me to do, Bertie?”
“Warn the government. Make them believe that these people are dangerous. These people really think they can do better.” He
shrugged and sat abruptly on a straightback chair, as if he had used the last of his energy. “We have a mad king and a profligate
heir,” he said, sounding like a recitation. “Riots from the lower class and threats to power from the middle class. Unemployment,
crime, failed crops, rising prices. They believe that they can cure it all by taking power back into noble hands.”
“What about the king?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. They aren’t stupid enough to share that kind of information with someone who’s been coerced.”
He shrugged. “Besides, the way the Lions are organized, only a few people know all. Five or six, maybe. Each of those has a specific area of responsibility,
and recruits and organizes individually, so no one can betray the whole group. Even those who believe in the cause only know
who their immediate superiors are.”
“So you don’t know who your group is headed by?”
He shook his head, rubbing now at his eyes. The gun, sadly, was still leveled on Diccan. “I know who controlled me. I’ve told
you their names. They funneled gold and men to Napoleon. The Lions believed that if he won on the Continent, the Lions would
control the British government.”
“How do you know I’m in danger?”
“I overheard them. They think you might be susceptible. And that you have contacts they want.”
Diccan shook his head, wondering whether someone might have peeked beneath his facade. “Honored they think I live such an
interesting life. Can’t think why. The most interesting people I meet are chefs and fishmongers. They do know that my most
challenging diplomatic task is organizing parties, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. They’ll succeed, though. If they can’t blackmail you, they’ll use threats. If threats don’t work, you’ll suffer
a fatal accident so you can’t expose them. When they came after me, they told me that even if I slipped from their net, they
could drag me back by hurting my mother or sisters.”
Diccan gave a bark of amusement. “I would buy a ticket to watch them face off with my mother. She’d eviscerate them without
bending a nail.”
He did not, however, speak of his sisters. Deciding that he had to take control of the situation, he made a move, as if to
get to his feet. Immediately Bertie jumped up, gripping the gun more tightly.
“I will shoot you. If you won’t help, I’ll kill you. Don’t you see?” There were tears in the boy’s eyes. “I’ve risked everything.”
Yes, Diccan knew. He had. The boy hadn’t just put himself at risk from the Lions. His love for another man was a hanging offense.
“And there isn’t anything else you can tell me?” Diccan asked. “I mean, I appreciate your concern for me, but I’m not sure
that’s enough to interest Whitehall.”
“Well then, what about this? The Lions are looking for something they’ve lost. I don’t know what, only that they’ll hand it
off as a signal to set a plan into motion. When they find it, they will act.”
“Act how?”
“They’re going to assassinate Wellington.”
Diccan felt the air leave his lungs. “Yes,” he mused, “I imagine that would get the government’s attention.”
“The group that aided Napoleon has already been reassigned. They are to assist the Surgeon.”
Diccan all but stopped breathing. “The assassin?” Images of the Surgeon’s work flashed before his eyes; bleeding, raw wounds
draining life. Fish-white bodies. “But he’s in Newgate.”
Bertie shook his head so hard droplets of grease flew. “Not for long.”
Diccan’s instinctive reaction was to argue. Nobody got out of Newgate Prison. But if the Lions were as well-placed as Bertie
said, nothing was impossible.
“All right.” This time he gained his feet without challenge. “You have my word, Bertie. I’ll ride ventre terre to London to warn them. We’ll stop this long before it involves Wellington.”
The boy laughed. “Don’t be so sure. They won’t stop. If you get one of them, another will step in to take his place. You really
don’t know how committed they are. You don’t know how well-placed.”
If Diccan hadn’t already been investigating this very plot, he would have scoffed at Bertie’s charge. But a few traitors had
already been unearthed, and they had indeed been well-placed.
“Thank you, Bertie,” he said, hoping the boy knew how sincere he was. “You have done your country, and me, a great service.
If you ever need assistance, find me.”
It was as if Bertie had held up on will alone, and Diccan’s concession had stolen it. The boy literally sagged, tears streaking
his gaunt cheeks. The gun drooped in his hand. Diccan thought to make a try for it, but he believed Bertie had lost any reason
to hurt him.
“Thank you,” the boy said, free hand over his eye. “You’re kind.”
Diccan knew he was nothing of the sort. He nodded all the same and turned for his gloves. “Then if you don’t need anything
else from me, I believe I’ll be off.”
Bertie nodded. He took a breath. “No. Nothing more. I’ve done what I needed to.”
Diccan was still pulling on his gloves when he saw Bertie raise the gun again. Instinct kicked in and he dove to the side.
He was just about to hit the floor when he realized that Bertie had no intention of hurting him. He meant to hurt himself.
“No!” Diccan screamed, lunging for him.
He was too late. Smiling, as if relieved, Bertie turned the gun on himself. Diccan could do no more than hold the boy in his
arms as he died.
Canterbury, England
Three days later
Grace Fairchild was confused. She was dreaming; she knew that. But she couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, she’d had dreams like
it before; vague, anxious fantasies of a man making love to her. But usually her dreams were indistinct, more suggestion than
fact. Visual rather than visceral. After living with the army her whole life, she knew what copulating looked like. In India,
she’d seen graphic depictions of it painted and carved into temple walls, parades of couples writhing in ecstasy in each other’s
arms.
Her dreams, predictably, mirrored them. She saw what happened; she didn’t feel it. Even as her dream lover took her, she did
no more than watch, a voyeur in her own boudoir.
This time was different. In this dream, she could feel her lover tucked against her back like spoons in a drawer. Skin to
skin, heat to heat, pounding heart to pounding heart. His clean scent filled her nostrils. The harsh rasp of his breathing fanned through her hair. He was nuzzling the base of her
neck, releasing a shower of shivers that cascaded down her body. His callused fingers traced each vertebra in her back. She
swore she could feel the abrasion of hair against her legs and bottom; she heard the syncopated sounds of breathing.
She shuddered before the onslaught of sensations she’d never known: an almost painful sweetness, heat like a Madras sun, shocks
of pleasure that skittered through her limbs like lightning. Her skin seemed to have caught fire, the scrape of his palm igniting
her like flint against too-dry tinder. An exquisite, anxious thrill snaked through her, curling along her legs, the sensitive
skin of her nipples, the deepest recesses of her belly to touch her womb, like the sun warming a dormant seed. Her insides
felt as if they were melting, and she couldn’t seem to hold still.
She smiled in her sleep, where it was safe to dream a bit. Where she could remember that beneath the gray dresses and pragmatic
mien everyone saw, she was a woman. And that even a plain woman wanted the same things other women took for granted. Touch.
Comfort. Pleasure. She wanted to be one of those temple paintings.
In her head she pleaded with him to hurry. To stoke the fire; to ease it. To pull her closer, closer yet, so she would never
again have to be alone. She stretched, a cat in the sun, closer to his hard, lithe body. She gasped at the hard shaft that
pressed against her bottom. Such an alien pleasure, so intriguing. So deeply erotic.
She heard a moan, a gravelly, low threnody that resonated right through her. A sensuous, mesmerizing growl of pleasure. It
made her chuckle. His one hand was teasing her breast, flicking the nipple until it ached. His other was drifting lower, stealing her breath. Her heart was pounding;
her skin was damp. She heard another moan.
Abruptly she stiffened. Her eyes popped open.
She really had heard a moan.
Desperately she tried to think. She could see the early morning light seeping into the inn room. Yes, that was right. She
had stopped at the Falstaff Inn at Canterbury with her friend Lady Kate the night before. Drawing a careful breath, she tested
the air, expecting to smell woodsmoke, fresh air from the open window, her own rosewater scent. Instead she smelled brandy
and tobacco and a subtle scent of musk. She smelled man-sweat.
Her heart seized. Her brain went slack. She had dreamed him; she was certain. Why could she still smell him? Then she felt
his hand move toward the nest of curls at the juncture of her legs, and she knew. He wasn’t a dream at all.
Shrieking, she lurched up. The bedclothes were tangled around her legs. She yanked at them and pushed with her feet, trying
to get away. She pushed too hard. Suddenly she was tumbling off the bed, arms flailing wildly for balance. She shrieked again
when she landed with a thud on the floor.
For a moment she lay where she was, eyes closed, pain shooting up her bad leg, her stomach threatening revolt. All the heat
that had blossomed in her died. She was dizzy and dry-mouthed and confused. And, evidently, lying on the floor of a strange
man’s bedroom, trapped by his sheets. Christ save her, how could that be?
“Bloody hell!” she heard from the bed, and knew without opening her eyes that the disaster had just become far worse. It was
not a stranger at all in that bed. It was Diccan Hilliard, the single most elegant man in England. The one person who never failed to turn Grace into a stuttering fool.
Still cursing, he sat up. The early morning sunlight gilded his skin as in a Rembrandt painting, limning muscle and sinew
and bone with a molten gold. Shadow etched the sharp ridges of jaw and cheekbone and shuddered through his tumbled sable hair
as he dragged his hands through it. He was shaking his head, as if to clear it. Rubbing at his eyes. Grace knew she should
flee before he spotted her. She couldn’t seem to look away from him.
Could he have been more compelling? Not handsome, precisely. His features were a bit too broad, his nose a bit bent, his eyes
too ghostly gray. But tall and elegant and aristocratic to his toes. The perfect antithesis for the hopeless spinster sitting
like a lump on his floor.
“Merde,” she muttered in despair.
He turned at the sound, and his jaw dropped. He had obviously just recognized who it was he’d been fondling.
“Miss Fairchild,” he drawled, his voice like ice. As gracefully as a god, he climbed out of the bed and stalked over to stand
before her. “If I might be so bold. What the deuce are you doing here?”
She couldn’t draw breath to answer. Sweet Lord, he was naked. He was breathtaking, with solid shoulders, and arms that had
worked hard. His chest was taut and lean, and shadowed with curling hair that arrowed down his torso right to… She flushed
hotly. Sweet, sweet Lord. He was magnificent. He was an ancient statue come to life… well, except for one small difference.
Well. Not so small at all. And it wasn’t as if she could miss it. Not only was she at eye level, but, if her old temple art
hadn’t lied, he was magnificently aroused. Just the sight of his shaft, jutting straight up from that nest of dark hair, sent shivers cascading through her. It made all those two-dimensional
watercolors pale in comparison.
Of course, the minute he got a good look at her, his erection wilted like warm lettuce.
“I’m still dreaming,” she muttered, shamefully unable to look away. “That’s it. A nightmare. I should never have had that
second piece of pigeon pie last night.”
She should shut her eyes. She should make a grab for her clothes and run. She should at least defend herself. She couldn’t
so much as blink. She could still feel his hands on her skin, the unbearable pleasure of his body against hers. His expression
of horror made her want to wither with shame.
“I expected better of you, Miss Fairchild,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, his hands planted on sinfully lean hips.
“Never did I think you’d be the kind of scheming, brass-faced hussy who’d force her way into a man’s bed. Just what did you
slip into my drink?”
Suddenly furious, Grace clambered to her feet, grabbing a bedpost to steady her when her bad leg cramped. “What did I slip
into your drink?” she demanded, outraged. “Why, you insufferable, self-centered, overweening park saunterer. You’re the last person
on earth I would ever let—”
Instead of apologizing, he shut his eyes. “For the love of God, madame, cover yourself.”
Grace looked down and squeaked in dismay. She hadn’t considered her state of undress. She’d grabbed the covers because it
was frigid in the room. Not because she was… oh, bugger. She was as naked as he was, providing him with a view of every bony inch of her chest and shoulders.
“Where are my clothes?” she cried, trying to cover every unlovely jutting angle of her with the voluminous blanket.
“Don’t waste your time,” he snapped. “Just hide yourself.”
“You could do the same,” she snapped back.
Cocking an imperious eyebrow, he considered his status. “No, could I? But I thought this was what you were after.”
Grace felt panic shutting off her air. Her head hurt. She felt sick. “I told you,” she insisted, her voice unpardonably shrill.
“I wasn’t after anything.”
Suddenly the door to the room slammed open and bounced against the wall. At least half a dozen people peered in, all clad
in nightclothes and gawking like pit rowdies. Grace did the only thing she could. She dropped to the floor and yanked the
covers over her head.
“Isn’t that General Fairchild’s daughter?” a woman who sounded like Lady Thornton demanded from the doorway. Grace shrank
down even more.
“How delicious,” another, thinner voice answered with a delighted giggle. “The feather-brained antidote obviously thinks she’s
nabbed Diccan Hilliard.”
Grace heard laughter and wanted to die. How many people were out there?
“Good to see everyone,” Diccan was saying, as if they had come to tea. “My apologies for presenting myself to you en deshabille.”
More salacious laughter. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, her thundering heart almost drowning out the sound of Lord Thornton
and some unknown man taking bets on her future. She was terrified she was going to disgrace herself. Her stomach was lurching
as if she were back on the channel packet.
“Well, well,” she heard a new and welcome voice intrude. “Letitia Thornton. I had no idea that this was what you wore to bed.
Amazing color, really. You must have been dragged right from your sleep. Not a very attractive time of the day for you, is
it? And Geoffrey Smythe. What an interesting banyan. Are those roosters on your chest? Hmm. I must admit I’ve never seen a
puce chicken before.”
Lady Kate had arrived.
If this had been happening to anyone else, Grace might have smiled. Leave it to Kate to send the cream of the ton scurrying away like embarrassed debs. But it was happening to her. She was the one crouched on the floor, naked beneath a blanket as an audience laughed.
She must not have heard the door close, because suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Grace?”
If it could be possible, she felt worse. She had so few female friends. Only three, really: Olivia Wyndham, Lady Bea Seaton,
and Lady Kate Seaton, who had taken her in after Grace’s father had died at Waterloo. It had been Lady Kate who had seen her
through those terrible days, who had provided safety and support as Grace adjusted to civilian life. Grace couldn’t betray
her friend this way. Even a notorious widow like Kate had no business associating with a ruined spinster.
“Grace, tell me you’re all right,” Kate said, sounding distressed.
“I’m fine,” Grace managed, huddled miserably on the floor.
It didn’t occur to her to cry. Soldiers don’t cry, her father had always told her. At least not after their seventh birthday.
“Is this some joke of yours, Kate?” she heard Diccan demand, sounding like a petulant child.
Lady Kate huffed. “Don’t be demented. I’m even more stunned than you are. I know for a fact that Grace has better taste.”
“Why, you repellent brat,” he snapped. “Your friend just arranged to make an appearance in my bed before the worst gossips in the ton. Naked.”
“Really, Diccan? She must be amazingly sly, then, since neither of us expected to see you or them here.”
“She must have, damn it! They’re here. And she’s… here.”
Lady Kate sighed. “Your arguments might carry more weight if you were dressed, Diccan.”
“What about her?”
Still crouched beneath her blanket, Grace winced. Her leg hurt. The blanket was beginning to scratch, and a draft had found
its way underneath to bedevil her. And yet she wasn’t about to move.
“Grace can dress after you leave,” Lady Kate was saying over Grace’s head. “From her bedroom, by the way.”
“Hers?”
“The miniature of her father in regimentals on the bedside table should be a dead giveaway.”
Grace heard the rustling of clothing. He must be dressing.
“What are you doing here, by the way?” Lady Kate asked as if she were addressing him over tea. “We were supposed to meet you in Dover
tomorrow.”
There was sudden silence. “This isn’t Dover?”
“Canterbury,” Grace answered, before she thought of it.
“Canterbury?” Diccan echoed, the sounds of movement ceasing. “Deuce take it. How the devil did I get here? The last I remember I was on the Dover packet. Where’s Biddle?”
“Your valet?” Kate said, sounding absurdly amused. “Undoubtedly looking for you in Dover. We’ll send someone after him, once
we’re all dressed. Are you still all right under there, Grace?”
Grace felt another miserable blush spread over her. “Do you see my clothes?” she asked.
“Strewn over the floor as if they’d been on fire,” Kate informed her. “Another reason I know you are not the culprit here.
Even during those awful days we spent caring for the wounded from Waterloo, you never once failed to fold your clothing like
a premier abigail.”
“She could have been anxious to get into bed,” Diccan suggested dryly.
“Not with you, she wouldn’t,” Kate said, sounding positively delighted. “She doesn’t like you.”
Grace made a sound of protest. It wasn’t polite, even if it was true. She didn’t like him. It didn’t mean she was immune to
him. He was like a broken tooth Grace couldn’t resist running her tongue over, a sharp reminder of everything she wasn’t and
never would be.
“Don’t be absurd,” Diccan was saying. “Everyone likes me.”
“Would you please get your pants on and leave?” Grace demanded, finally losing her patience. “I’m about to catch the ague down here.”
And damn him if he didn’t chuckle. “Anything you say, Boadicea.”
Which made Grace feel even worse. A few months earlier, Diccan had nicknamed her after the English warrior queen, undoubtedly
because he couldn’t think of another female tall enough to look him in the eye. Which, as Grace well knew, was not necessarily a compliment.
“Why don’t you secure a private dining room?” Kate said to him. “We’ll meet you there.”
Grace heard some inarticulate grumbling.
“Trust me,” Kate said with a laugh. “They’re changing. See if you can get to the parlor before they make it back out of their
rooms. I would remind you that one of those people is Letitia Thornton, and you know she doesn’t consider a day complete u
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