Scandal Becomes Her

Book 1: Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Regency Romance

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Shirlee Busbee weaves the intricate, unforgettable story of a chance meeting, a forced marriage--and the surprise of a love so passionate it cannot be denied... Love Is Sweetest When It's Unexpected Nell Anslowe and Julian, Earl of Wyndham, are an unlikely couple in every respect. Injured in a riding accident ten years ago, Nell was left with a fiancé who abandoned their engagement and the firm belief that she will never marry. The abrupt end of Julian's unhappy marriage formed his resolve to remain a bachelor until the end of his days. But as Julian chases down his reckless stepsister, he seeks shelter from a summer storm in a cottage--and finds it occupied by Nell, who has escaped from a fortune-seeking libertine bent on carrying her off to Gretna Green. Discovered together by Nell's family, the couple's hasty wedding is the only way to save Nell from scandal. But the polite union each of them expects soon ignites into something much more powerful. . . "Scandal Becomes Her is a delightful romance--altogether a wonderful book." --Roberta Gellis "A scandalously delicious read that left me wanting more!" --Bertrice Small Exciting Sneak Peek Inside!

Release date: June 2, 2009

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

The nightmare came shrieking out of the depths of dreamless sleep. One second Nell was lost in quiet slumber, the next the nightmare had her in its taloned grip. Thrashing amongst the covers of the bed, she fought to escape the ugly images that were flashing through her brain, but it was useless—as she knew from other terrible nights.

As had happened before, she was a helpless spectator to the vicious acts that followed. The setting was the same: a dark place that must have been in some half-forgotten dungeon hidden away under the foundations of an ancient ancestral home. The walls and floor were of massive, hand-hewn, smoke-stained gray stones…the wavering light from the candles revealing instruments of torture from an earlier, more savage age in England—instruments that he used when the mood suited him.

The victim tonight, as in other times, was a woman, young and comely and fearful. Her blue eyes were huge and full of stark terror, terror that seemed to please her tormentor. The candlelight always fell upon the faces of the women, the man remaining in the shadows, his face and form never fully revealed, yet every act he perpetuated on the young woman’s shrinking flesh was horribly clear to Nell. And in the end, after he had done his worst and taken the corpse and carelessly tossed it down the old sluice hole in the dungeon, the light would fade and Nell would finally manage to claw her way up out of the realms of the nightmare.

Tonight was no different. Released from the appalling images, a scream rising in her throat, Nell jerked upright, her sea green eyes bright with unshed tears and remembered horror. Throttling back the scream she glanced around, relief pouring through her as she realized that it had, indeed, been only a nightmare. That she was safely in her father’s London townhouse, the faint shapes of the furniture of her bedroom taking shape from the glow of the waning fire on the hearth and the soft dawn light that slipped into the room from behind the heavy velvet drapes. From outside her windows came the familiar London clatter, the sounds of horses’ hooves on the cobbled streets and the clang of the wheels of the carts, wagons and carriages that the animals pulled. In the distance she could hear the cries of the street vendors already hawking their various wares—brooms, milk, vegetables and flowers.

A shudder went through her. Ah, God, she thought, burying her face in her trembling hands, will the nightmares never stop? The infrequency of them was the only thing that kept her from going mad—no one, she was convinced, could remain sane if compelled to view such violence night after night.

She took a deep breath and pushed back a strand of heavy tawny hair that had fallen onto her breast. Leaning over, she groped for the pitcher of water her maid had set on the rose marble table near her bed. Her fingers found it and the small glass next to it, and pouring herself a drink, she gulped it greedily.

Feeling better, she sat on the side of her bed and stared into the gloom that greeted her, trying to get her thoughts in order, trying to take comfort from the knowledge that she was safe…unlike the poor creature in her nightmare. With an effort she wrenched her thoughts away from that track. After all, she reminded herself, it had only been a nightmare. A horrible one, but not real.

Eleanor “Nell” Anslowe had never been troubled with nightmares in her childhood. No bad dreams had ever disturbed her sleep until after the tragic accident that had nearly killed her when she was nineteen.

It was odd, she mused, how wonderful her life had been before the tragedy and how very much it had changed in the months that had followed her brush with death. The spring of that awful year had seen her triumphant London Season and her engagement to the heir of a dukedom.

Nell’s lips twisted. Having just celebrated her twenty-ninth birthday in September, as she looked back at that time a decade ago, it seemed incredible that she had ever been the carefree, confident girl who had become engaged to the catch of the Season, the eldest son of the Duke of Bethune. When Aubrey Fowlkes, Marquise Giffard, the heir to his father’s dukedom, had declared that he intended to marry the daughter of a mere baronet, albeit a very wealthy one, there had been much gossip about the match in that spring of 1794. And there had been even more, Nell thought with a snort, when the engagement had ended, that same year. The same year that she had suffered the horrific fall from her horse that had brought her near death and had left her with a leg that had never healed properly—to this day, she still walked with a limp, mostly when she was tired.

Getting up from the bed, Nell walked over to one of the tall windows that overlooked the garden at the side of the house. Pulling aside the rose-hued drapery, she pushed open the tall double doors that led to a small balcony. Stepping out onto it, she glanced down at the stone terrace below and the sculpted beds and shrubs that surrounded it, the mauve light of dawn fading, and the pink and gold flush of the sun beginning to touch the tallest rosebushes. It was going to be a lovely October day—the same sort of crisp, sunny October day on which she had taken that fateful ride that had changed her life forever.

She had arisen early that morning ten years ago at Meadowlea, the family estate near the Dorset coast, and had hurried to the stables. Heedless of her exasperated father’s admonishments not to ride alone along the cliffs, she had brushed aside the services of the groom, and once her favorite mount, Firefly—a sassy little chestnut mare—had been saddled, she had galloped away from the house and manicured grounds. Both she and the mare had been eager to be out in the brilliant sunshine and as they raced on their way, the cool morning air had whipped roses into Nell’s cheeks and made her eyes gleam with pleasure.

It was never clear what had caused the accident and Nell, once she regained her senses, never remembered. Apparently her horse had stumbled or reared and they had both plunged over the ragged edge of a cliff. The only thing that had kept Nell from death that day was a small ledge where she had landed, some thirty feet down the otherwise sheer face of the cliffs. Firefly had died on the sea-swept rocks far below.

Nell had not been missed for hours and by the time she was found, dusk had begun to fall. In the flickering light of a lantern, one of the searcher’s keen eyes had noticed the torn-up ground near the edge of the cliff and had thought to glance over the side. His shout had brought the others. It had taken hours to bring her up from her slim perch above the sea and, blessedly, she had remained unconscious. Not even when she was finally brought home and the physician had attended to her, setting the broken bones in her leg and arm, did she stir. It was feared in those first days, as she lay like one dead, that she would never recover.

Of course, Lord Giffard was notified immediately. And, she thought sourly, to give him credit, he had come immediately and remained at Meadowlea for the long fortnight afterward while they all waited for her to wake, wondering if she ever would.

For several days after she became aware of her surroundings, she was confused and there was talk that the fall had left her addled. With such a bleak outlook, no one was very surprised when her father, Sir Edward, informed Giffard and the duke that he would understand if they wanted the engagement to end. Giffard had leaped at the chance—after all, his wife would one day be a duchess and the maimed, mumbling creature who lay in bed upstairs at Meadowlea was not the wife he’d had in mind when he had proposed. That November, the engagement was discreetly ended, just five short months after it had been announced.

Nell’s recovery had been slow but by the following spring her confusion had vanished, her arm had healed without incident and she was able to limp about the grounds of Meadowlea with the aid of an ivory-knobbed cane. In time the only effects of the near-fatal brush with death that remained were her limp and the nightmares.

Much of what had occurred during her recovery she did not remember. All that was clear in her mind from that time was the nightmare that had haunted her senseless state. The first one that drifted repeatedly through her brain had been different from the ones that wrecked her sleep these days. The victim had been a man, a gentleman, she thought, and the setting had been in a wooded copse. But the ending had been the same: ugly death at the hands of a shadowy figure. Only in later nightmares had women become the prey and the dungeon the favored site for brutality and murder.

As her recovery progressed, Nell had hoped that the nightmare would fade, that it was just some odd remnant connected with her fall. She had been elated that first summer when the nightmare finally stopped. Into autumn and winter she enjoyed month after month of deep, undisturbed sleep. Certain that she had finally put the tragedy and its aftermath behind her, she had been thrilled. Until the nightmare, in its present form, had come storming back to haunt her nights.

Sighing, she turned away from the view of the garden and walked over to poke at the faint embers on the hearth. Like her intermittent limp, the nightmares seemed to have become a permanent part of her. Not, she thought gratefully, that they afflicted her as frequently as her limp. Sometimes an entire year would pass before she was visited with the nightmare, and after each one she would pray that it would be the last. But, of course, it never was. It always came back, with the only changes over time the faces of the women and the degree of savagery. Tonight, she realized with a chill, was the third time this year that she had suffered through the awful thing.

The third time this year. Her breath caught. The knowledge she had been avoiding since she had awakened slammed into her: the nightmares were increasing, the faces of the women changing with horrifying regularity. Worse, in tonight’s nightmare, she had the feeling that she had seen the young woman before, that she knew her.

Leaving the fire, Nell picked up her robe from a nearby chair and shrugged into it. She really was going mad, she decided, if she thought that she had recognized tonight’s victim. It was pure nonsense. Ugly and appalling to be sure, but it was not real. And if she was foolish enough to think she recognized the woman, well, that was merely a coincidence. It had been, she told herself fiercely, only a bloody nightmare!

Marching into her dressing room that adjoined the bedroom, she poured water from a violet-patterned china urn into its matching bowl. Scrubbing her face and washing her teeth, she forced her mind away from those troubling thoughts. Today was going to be busy; the household was returning to Meadowlea for the winter within the week and there was much to be done.

 

When Nell reached the morning room she wasn’t surprised, despite the early hour, to find her father there ahead of her.

Dropping a kiss onto his balding pate as she passed where he was sitting at the table, she wandered over to the mahogany sideboard positioned against one wall. Selecting a piece of toast and some kippers from the various food displayed there, after pouring herself a cup of coffee, she joined her father at the table.

At nine and sixty, except for his bald head, Sir Edward was still a handsome man. His daughter had inherited his eyes and his tall, slim build, but her tawny hair and fairy features had come from her mother, Anne—along with the teasing laughter that often lurked in those gold-lashed sea green eyes.

There was no laughter in those eyes this morning and noting the purple shadows under them, Sir Edward stared at her keenly and asked, “Another nightmare, my dear?”

Nell made a face and nodded. “But nothing for you to worry about. I managed to sleep most of the night before it occurred.”

Sir Edward frowned. “Shall I send a note around for the physician to call?”

“Absolutely not! He will dose me with some vile concoction, look wise and then charge you an exorbitant fee.” She grinned at him. “I merely had a nightmare, Papa, nothing for you to worry over.”

Having from time to time in the past been awakened by her screams when the nightmares had been unbearable, Sir Edward had his doubts, but he did not press the issue. Nell could be stubborn. He smiled. A trait she had also inherited from her mother.

For a moment, his expression was sad. His wife had died fourteen years ago, and while he had learned to live without her gentle presence, there were times that he still missed her like the very devil—especially when he was worried about Nell. Anne would have known what to do. A girl needed her mother’s guidance.

The opening of the door to the room broke into his thoughts. Catching sight of his son, he smiled and said, “You are up early, my boy. Something important on your agenda today?”

Robert grimaced and, helping himself to a thick slice of ham and some coddled eggs from the sideboard, he said over his shoulder, “I promised Andrew that I would go with him today to look at some bloody horse he is certain will beat Lord Epson’s gray. The animal is somewhere in the country and nothing would do but that I agree that we leave London no later than eight o’clock this morning. I must have been mad.”

At two and thirty, Robert was the heir and the eldest of Sir Edward’s three sons. He resembled his father to a fair degree—tall and rangy, the same color eyes and the same stubborn chin and hard-edged jaw. His tawny hair, Robert thanked providence frequently, he had inherited from his mother, grateful that it was still thick and there.

Normally, Robert would not have been staying at the family townhouse. His own rooms were on Jermyn Street but, having closed up the place when he had left for Meadowlea in July, only the necessity of driving home the new high-perch phaeton he had ordered from the London carriage builder had brought him back to town. His brother Andrew had offered to drive the new vehicle home for him, but Robert would have none of it. As he had told his father when he had arrived on Thursday, “I appreciated his offer, don’t think I didn’t, but I’d as lief let a blind man drive it home as that jingled-brained brother of mine. Drew would be ditched before he had driven ten miles.” Sir Edward privately agreed. Drew was known to be reckless.

Casting a glance at his sister as he tackled his breakfast, Robert asked, “Did he tell you about this horse he is so set on buying?”

Nell nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. “Indeed he did. I have been having its praises sung in my ear this past fortnight.”

“Do you think there is any chance the animal has even half the potential that Drew claims?”

She shook her head, a twinkle leaping to her eyes. “I saw the creature the first day the owner brought him to town. The stallion is a lovely bay and beautiful to look at, but has no substance or stamina—the usual pretty face that always takes Drew’s eye.”

Robert groaned. “Oh, lud, I knew it would be the case. I’d hoped that he had learned his lesson from that last bonesetter he bought.”

“Give the boy credit,” Sir Edward muttered. “He can’t help it if he doesn’t have the eye for horses that you and Nell have.”

“Boy?” Nell burst out laughing. “Papa, have you forgotten that both Andrew and Henry are thirty years old? Neither one of them is a ‘boy’ any longer.”

The subjects of the conversation entered the room just then and it was obvious at a glance that they were twins; Andrew a mere half inch taller and ten minutes older than his brother, Henry. Few people, except those who knew them well, could tell them apart, both having the same aquiline nose and firm jaw and their mother’s golden-brown eyes and tawny hair. Shorter than Robert, they stood just over six feet, but had the same slim build as the rest of the family.

Andrew, a major in the cavalry, was serving with Colonel Arthur Wellesley in India. Having been severely wounded during the last days of the war against the Mahrattas, he had been in England for several months recovering. He was due to rejoin Wellesley just after the first of the year. Henry, too, was a major, but being less dashing than his twin had elected to serve in an infantry regiment. He had seen his share of battle in Europe, but to his chagrin, he was presently assigned to the Horse Guards in London. Only the resumption of the war with Napoleon the previous year gave him hope that he would soon leave his desk duties behind and once again be in the thick of things on the continent.

“Ah ha,” Andrew remarked, a grin slashing across his face, “you are awake. I had a small wager with Henry that we would have to wake you.”

“You lose,” Robert said, as he pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. “I am ready. Let us go view this incredible horse you have found.”

Over Andrew’s shoulder, Henry made a face and shook his head. “Waste of time,” he mouthed silently to Robert.

Robert shrugged and turning away, took his leave from Sir Edward and Nell. The room was quiet for a moment after the three men had left.

“And what,” Sir Edward asked, “do you plan to do today, my dear?”

“Nothing as exciting as buying a horse,” Nell replied with a smile. “If we are to leave on Monday as planned, I must make final plans with Mrs. Fields and Chatham. Are you going to leave a few servants here? Or is everyone coming to Meadowlea with us?”

“I can think of no good reason to leave anyone behind, can you?”

“Housebreakers?”

Sir Edward shook his head. “We will take all the silver and plate with us, and except for the furniture there will be little else to steal.”

The twinkle in her eye became pronounced. “The wine cellar?”

He smiled. “Secured behind a stout door and barred and locked. Chatham assures me that my wines will be safe.”

“Very well then, I shall get busy,” she said, rising to her feet. “Far be it for me to argue with Chatham.”

As she passed her father, he reached out and caught one of her hands. Surprised, she glanced at him. “What is it?”

Quietly he asked, “Have you enjoyed yourself, Nell? I know this is the first time you have come with me to London in many years. Has it been very bad?” His expression troubled, he added, “Was it difficult seeing Bethune and that wife of his?”

“Bethune?” she inquired in astonishment. “Oh, Papa, I got over him a long time ago—it has been ten years, after all.” Seeing that he was not quite convinced, she kissed his head and murmured, “Papa, it is all right. My heart is not broken, even if I thought it was once upon a time.” She grinned. “And as for that wife of his—he got precisely what he deserved. He should not have been so quick to throw me over.”

“If I had not been so quick to offer him his freedom, then instead of locking yourself away in the country and acting as my hostess, you would have been a duchess, a leader of society,” he said, watching her carefully.

Nell wrinkled her nose. “And utterly bored and miserable. I am glad you offered him his freedom—and that he took it. If he cared so little for me that he could so quickly rid himself of me, I am much better without him.” She patted his arm. “Papa, I have told you time and again, I am very happy with my life. I like the country. I know that I could come with you to London whenever I want—I chose to stay at Meadowlea.” When he would have protested, she put a finger against his lips. “And, no, I do not stay there because I fear running into Bethune and his wife, or anybody else, for that matter.” Her face softened. “It happened a decade ago, I am sure that few people even remember that I was engaged to him. I do not repine over it and you should not, either.” She grinned at him. “Unless of course it is you who hungers for a great title for your daughter.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You know that my first concern is for you to be happy. A title be damned.” He looked wistful. “Although I will confess that I was proud of the grand match you had made. But title or no, I would like to see all of my children married and with their own families.” He sighed. “I will be honest, Nell, it baffles me that none of you has married. Robert is my heir—he should be married and have a quiver full of children by now. I would like to dandle a grandchild or two on my knee before I die. As for the twins…I would have thought by now that at least one of them would have married.”

Nell could think of nothing to say. Her own spinsterhood she took for granted. In the beginning, she had realized that even with her fortune, there were few men who wanted a crippled wife. It didn’t matter these days that her limp was nowhere as obvious as it had been during the first few years after her fall, the stigma was still there. And then there was the fact that, for a while at least, it had been common knowledge in the ton that she had been a bit, well, strange for a time after she had regained consciousness. No gentleman of breeding wanted a wife who might become a resident of Bedlam, the home for the insane. Her eyes hardened. She had Bethune to thank for that bit of lingering gossip. He had wanted to make certain that no blame ever fell in his direction for the ending of the engagement and so he and his family had made certain that her mental state was touted about as being far worse than it had actually been. Supercilious swine.

Touched by her father’s concerns, she sank down onto a chair near Sir Edward. Leaning forward, she said earnestly, “Papa, you know that I do not wish to marry. We’ve discussed it many times—and, no, it is not because I am heart-broken over Bethune. I simply have not met any gentleman who rouses my interest.” She smiled. “With my fortune, there is not the necessity for me to marry. Even when you are gone, which I pray will not be for years and years yet, I am well provided for. You do not need to worry about me.”

“But it is unnatural for you to remain unmarried,” he muttered. “You are a beautiful young woman and, as you just said, you are wealthy, and while we may not have a great title, our ancestry is as proud and grand as any in England.”

Nell dropped her gaze and, her expression demure, she drawled, “Well, there is Lord Tynedale…”

Sir Edward sucked in a breath, aghast. “That scoundrel! He has gambled and whored away his entire fortune. It is common gossip that he owes so much money that, peer or not, he stands a good chance of being thrown into debtor’s prison.” He shook his finger at her. “Everyone knows that he is desperate and hanging out for a rich wife. I heard it from Lord Vinton that he actually tried to kidnap the Arnett heiress. Said her father caught up with them before any harm was done. You be careful around him. If you don’t watch your step, you might find yourself in the same position.” He shook his finger harder at her, saying fiercely, “I ain’t blind, you know. I’ve seen him sniffing around you this past month. Probably thinks that your fortune will do him nicely. You mark my words, gel, he’ll beggar you pulling himself from the River Tick.” His fire fading, he asked anxiously, “Surely, you would not consider such a match?”

Nell raised a pair of laughing eyes. “Papa! As if I would! Of course I would not consider throwing myself away on such a fellow. I am aware of his reputation—even the gossip about the Arnett heiress—and I assure you that I am very careful around him. If I were to marry, it would not be to a poor creature like Tynedale.”

Sir Edward relaxed, a smile curving his mouth. “You should not tease your dear old papa that way, my dear,” he scolded. “You could send me off to meet my maker sooner than any one of us would like.”

Nell snorted. Rising to her feet, she kissed his bald pate again and made for the door, tossing over her shoulder, “Papa, you worry too much about us. Robert will marry one of these days and I am sure that the twins will not be far behind him. You shall dandle those grandchildren you long for before too many more years pass. You wait and see.”

 

Across town, a few hours later, in the grand London house of the Earls of Wyndham, a similar conversation took place. The present Lord Wyndham, the tenth, having endured one unhappy marriage for the sake of his title and his family, was not about to undertake another. No matter how many tears and scenes were staged by his young stepmother.

Looking across the scattered remains of their breakfast into her tear-filled eyes, Lord Wyndham murmured, “Now let me see if I understand you correctly. You want me to marry your godchild, because if I were to die, your godchild, presumably having presented me with an heir, would ensure that your future was secure?”

The Countess Wyndham, looking far too young to be his stepmother, stared back resentfully. She was a lovely little thing, possessed of speaking velvet-brown eyes and enchanting dusky ringlets that framed an equally enchanting face. She was also, at five and thirty, three years younger than her stepson.

“I don’t see,” she muttered, “why you have to take that tone with me. Is my position so hard to understand? If you die without an heir, your cousin Charles will step, no, leap, into your boots. You know that he will toss me and my poor, darling child out onto the streets.”

“I thought that you liked Charles,” Lord Wyndham replied innocently, amusement glimmering in his eyes.

“I do like Charles well enough,” she admitted. “He can be very amusing, but he is a rake and wild to a fault. And his women! You know very well that if Charles inherits that he won’t want Elizabeth and me underfoot. You know that he’ll toss us out onto the streets.”

Lord Wyndham grinned. “Yes, he would most likely toss you out onto the streets—out onto the streets where you and Elizabeth will pick yourselves up and order your carriage brought round to drive you to the Dower House at Wyndham.”

Her dainty fingers tightened on her teacup. “Yes, it is true that we could live there…buried in the country, in a house that has sat empty for decades and is in need of repair. It is also true that your dear, sainted father settled a handsome sum on me when we married.” She leaned forward. “But don’t you see, Julian, it isn’t just about money. You must remember it may not be Charles who inherits—don’t forget that he barely escaped with his life this past summer when his yacht sank and there was that terrible accident with his horses just last month. With his reckless ways Charles may die before you and it may be Raoul who inherits.”

She looked pensive. “I like Sofia Weston, but you have to admit that Raoul’s mother is a strong-minded woman. If Raoul were to inherit, she would see to it that he wasted little time in marrying, and you can be sure that it will be to some little mouse that Mrs. Weston can keep under her thumb. Mrs. Weston will be the Countess Wyndham in all but name—not my sweet-natured godchild, Georgette. If Charles or Raoul inherit, I shall probably never be allowed to step foot in these halls again.”

She buried her nose in a scrap of lace. “These same halls,” she said in muffled tones, “that your dear, dear father first brought me to as a bride five years ago. How different things would be if something did happen to you, and you were married to Georgette! She would see to it that I would always be welcome. And Elizabeth, too. If she doesn’t run away and marry that awful Captain Carver.” She peeped over the top of her handkerchief. “You know the one, the captain in the cavalry, who goes around looking romantic and dashing with his arm in a black sling. Why, I don’t even believe he needs it. He is, no doubt, wearing it just to impress my dear child.”

Julian sighed. Following Diana’s thinking always exasperated his supply of patience, but this morning her thoughts seemed even more disjointed and confused than usual. He glanced at her curvaceous little form and delicate features and he could understand, at least partially, why she had so captivated his father. Of course, he thought dryly, that was the basic difference between him and his father: he would have enjoyed a discreet affair with the young widow, not married her. He sighed again. Not that he blamed his father. His mother had died some twenty years ago and his father had been alone, except for the occasional ladybird, for some twelve years before the taking little widow Diana Forest had caught his eye.

Polite society had been stunned when the ninth Earl of Wyndham had suddenly married the impecunious widow of a lieutenant in the infantry. Not only was she poor, and younger than his only child, but she came with a child herself, her twelve-year-old daughter, Elizabeth.

But the odd marriage had worked and, Julian reminded himself, Diana had made his father happy. Very. His father had adored her and he had doted on Elizabeth, going so far as to settle a nice tidy sum on his young stepdaughter so that she was not penniless. It was too bad that he had died within two years of his marriage, three years ago, leaving his son with the care of a young stepmother and stepsister. Not that Elizabeth gave him any trouble. Sunny-natured and accommodating, Elizabeth adored him and he had a decided soft spot for his sister by marriage. Of course, he had one for Diana, too—when she wasn’t trying his patience.

Recognizing from past experience that Diana had finally come to the crux of her conversation, he asked neutrally, “Do you want me to talk to someone at the Horse Guards about this, uh, Captain Carver? Perhaps the captain can be assigned another post. Say, in Calcutta?”

Diana’s eyes opened wide. “Could you do that?”

He smiled, his harsh-featured face suddenly very attractive. “Yes, I could do that—if it pleases you.”

She looked uncertain. “Well, I don’t think that Calcutta would be very healthy for a man who was wounded, do you? I would feel dreadful if something terrible happened to him. Couldn’t you just have your friends at the Horse Guards see that he is kept very busy—too busy to dangle after my daughter?” She paused, struck by a new worry. “Oh, dear, that might not be wise. Suppose it was discovered that you are keeping them apart. Why, they might be compelled to do something rash.” In a voice full of horror, she breathed, “Oh, Julian, you don’t think that Elizabeth would consent to a runaway match, do you? She is so innocent, of such a sweet, easy-going nature that there is no telling what this man might convince her to do.”

His patience at an end, Julian rose to his feet. He needed to escape before he did something rash. Bowing in her direction, he said, “Do not worry, Diana. I shall take care of it.” Dryly he added, “As I always do.”

Since it was Saturday, and he doubted that he would find his friend Colonel Stanton at the Horse Guards, Julian put off the chore of settling Captain Carver’s fate. The problem could wait until the beginning of the week. But Diana was not so convinced and to head off the incipient hysterics he could see brewing, before he left the house that afternoon to follow his own pursuits, he wrote to Stanton, requesting a private meeting on Monday afternoon. He was not worried about the situation and he doubted that Elizabeth would throw her cap over the windmill for a mere captain—no matter how dashing. Elizabeth had a good head on her slender shoulders. His mouth twisted. Unlike her mother.

The woman was quite mad, Julian decided several hours later as he strolled down St. James Street toward Boodle’s. Quite mad if she thought he would ever make another marriage based solely on pleasing his family. His lips thinned. His marriage to Catherine had taught him the folly of that!

Catherine had been an heiress, the only child of the Duke of Bellamy and she had been very beautiful. His father had been pleased at the match—Julian had been twenty-nine at the time and to his father’s despair, he had not shown the slightest interest in marriage. “Think of the title,” Lord Wyndham had exhorted him on many an occasion. “When I am gone, and you stick your spoon in the wall, I want your son, not Daniel’s—fine boy that he is—to be the one stepping into your shoes. You need to marry, boy, and present me with grandchildren. It is your duty.” His father had winked at him. “Pleasant one, too.”

When the alluring Lady Catherine had crossed his path a few months later, to please his father, Julian had offered for her. Their wedding had been the most anticipated social affair of the Season of 1795. As he and his new bride had driven away from the reception, Lord Wyndham had fairly rubbed his hands together in glee at the thought of the grandchildren that were sure to be soon forthcoming from the union.

Except, he had thought wrong, Julian recalled grimly. Catherine was not eager for children and Julian discovered almost immediately that behind that beautiful face lived a spoiled and petulant child. Before many months had passed they were openly sniping with each other, and before they were married a year, except for necessity, were seldom seen in each other’s company. Neither one of them had been happy, he admitted, and Catherine had probably found him as boring, insipid and infuriating as he had found her. But they had hobbled along together for a few years, like many other couples in their position, and might still be yoked together if Catherine, pregnant and hating every moment of it, had not been killed in a carriage accident. Julian sighed at the memory.

Despite the fact that the marriage had been a mistake, he had never wished Catherine dead and her sudden death had stunned him. He had felt both guilt and grief and it had been years before he could think of her and the unborn child without an anguished pang. It had all happened over six years ago, but Julian would not have been honest if he had not admitted to himself that with every passing year his determination never to marry again had grown. Let Charles or Raoul step into my shoes, he thought sourly, I’ll be damned if I tie myself to another woman simply to oblige the family!

He was scowling by the time he walked into Boodle’s. Unaware of the fierce expression on his face, he was startled when his friend Mr. Talcott accosted him in the grand salon and demanded, “By Jove, but don’t you look glimflashy this evening! And with hunting season just started!” He studied Julian’s face. “I’ll wager that stepmother of yours has put you out of sorts.” Talcott’s usually merry blue eyes became thoughtful. “She’s a taking little thing, won’t deny it, but think she’d drive me mad.”

Julian laughed, his dark mood vanishing. Clapping Talcott on the back, he said, “Very astute of you. Now come join me in a drink, and tell me that you have decided to accept my invitation to stay at Wyndham Hall.”

They had just started to leave the grand salon when Julian caught sight of a slim blond man. His expression grim, he asked, “Since when has Boodle’s started letting any ragtag bobtail join its ranks?”

Talcott looked startled, then, following Julian’s gaze, he stiffened. “Tynedale! He is pushing his luck, isn’t he? Surely not even he would dare—” Catching sight of the burly man who stood to Tynedale’s left, he muttered, “Well, that explains it—he must have prevailed upon Braithwaite to sponsor him.”

Julian started forward, but Talcott grabbed his shoulder and jerked him into a nearby small alcove. “Don’t be a fool!” he hissed. “You’ve already fought one duel with him—and won. Leave it be. Challenging him again is not going to bring young Daniel back.”

Julian’s gaze never left Tynedale’s handsome form. “He killed him,” he snarled, “as surely as he had held the pistol to the boy’s head himself. You know it.”

“I agree,” Talcott said quietly. “Tynedale ruined Daniel, but Daniel is not the first green ’un to fall into the hands of an unscrupulous scoundrel like Tynedale and lose his fortune at the gaming table. Nor is he the first to kill himself rather than face what he had done—and he will not be the last.”

Julian gl. . .