To Win a Widow (Soldiers & Soulmates Book 5)

Book 5: Soldiers & Soulmates

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Regency Romance; historical romance; Regency romance; England; widow; 1800s; Earl; romantic heroines historical; Soldiers Soulmates

Synopsis

She craved his touch—and they had yet to kiss.

Book 5 in the exciting new Soldiers and Soulmates series from bestselling author Alexa Aston has arrived. A widowed duchess at loose ends, longing for love. A colonel with no family who unexpectedly becomes an earl. Two stubborn individuals who are drawn together by passion—and also find friendship . . .

Dalinda Baker wed the Duke of Gilford after one brief meeting, escaping a cruel, unloving father before he could betroth her to a stranger. The much older duke gives her confidence, stability, and two sons before he dies of a heart attack a dozen years into their marriage. With her young boys away at school, Dalinda is at loose ends and visits her brother, where she meets a sinfully handsome stranger.

Rhys Armistead toils as a working-class groom when he is plucked from obscurity by the Earl of Sheffington, whose sickly son might never live to succeed him. Rhys' mother is a distant cousin to the earl and Rhys is next in line to become Lord Sheffington if the heir apparent passes. Treating Rhys as a second son, the earl purchases a commission in the army for Rhys, who spends a dozen years fighting on the Continent until he receives word that he has inherited the earldom.

Turning to Dez, his closest friend from the war who recently returned to England when he unexpectedly became an earl, Rhys visits the new Lord Torrington—and is taken with Dez's twin sister, Dalinda, a vivacious widow. The couple spends one magical night together but Rhys realizes the duchess is far superior to him socially and offers her friendship instead of marriage.

Can Dalinda convince Rhys that they are a perfect match—or will his stubbornness keep them apart forever?

Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston's fifth book of Soldiers and Soulmates, To Win a Widow. Each book in Soldiers and Soulmates is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order.

Soldiers & Soulmates:
Book #1: To Heal an Earl
Book #2: To Tame a Rogue
Book #3: To Trust a Duke
Book #4: To Save a Love
Book #5: To Win a Widow

Release date: July 21, 2020

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 246

Sample

CHAPTER 1

London—May 1795

 

Rhys Armistead mounted the horse and turned it in the direction of Hyde Park, which was only a few blocks away from Viscount Mowbray’s London townhouse. The horse happily cantered along until they reached Rotten Row, where all the lords and ladies of Polite Society preferred to ride. Of course, the likes of them had only gone to bed an hour or two ago since the Season was in full swing. He had been awakened from where he slept in the stable’s loft when the viscount’s carriage returned from the previous night’s ball. Rhys had risen and gone straight to the kitchens, where Cook had placed out bread and cold meat for his breakfast, and then he began his daily round of exercising the various horses in his employer’s stables.

If he were the viscount, he would sell most of the animals off, leaving only the carriage horses and a mount for Lady Rebecca to ride. Viscount Mowbray suffered from gout, which flared up from time to time. He had given up riding several years ago but still kept horses to ride both at his country estate and here in London. Rhys exercised and groomed the viscount’s horses and had even taught Lady Rebecca to ride two years ago. The daughter of the household had fallen from a horse when she was only six, breaking her leg, and she had never attempted to ride after that. As Lady Rebecca approached the age of her come-out, though, her father had insisted that she take up the sport again since riding apparently was one of the ways gentlemen courted ladies of the ton during the London Season.

Rhys was currently fifteen but he was known for his patience with both horses and people. He had made a good rider of Lady Rebecca within a few short weeks and she now sat a horse comfortably. She had enjoyed several outings to Rotten Row with various suitors during the past month. Once she married, as she undoubtedly was expected to do once the Season concluded, Rhys didn’t see the point of keeping any horseflesh beyond those which would transport the viscount around London or back to his country estate. That was the difference between him and the rich, though. He had a pragmatic nature and would never be wasteful, as he saw so often in regard to the viscount. All the rich acted entitled. The laws of England certainly gave them advantages far beyond what they deserved, in his opinion.

As he reached Rotten Row, he heard the chime of a distant clock ring five times. Dawn would break in the next handful of minutes. For now, the park was deserted. He gave the horse its head and let it charge at full speed down the path, reveling in the wind blowing through his hair, exhilaration filling him. He reined in the horse, turning it and letting it gallop again back along the direction they had come before he eased into a canter and returned the horse to its stall. A sleepy stable lad rubbed his eyes and then took the reins.

“You know what to do,” he told the young boy before going to a different stall and retrieving the next horse.

Rhys worked his way through the five horses over the next two hours and then personally rubbed down the final one he’d returned to the stables. He had just finished grooming the mount and feeding it when a voice called out to him. Rhys turned and anxiety filled him when he saw it was a footman from the house. He did everything he could to do his job to the best of his ability and not call attention to himself. A house servant calling his name did not bode well.

“You’re needed at the house,” the footman said abruptly, his eyes sweeping over Rhys’ appearance and obviously finding it lacking.

“What for?” he asked, dread saturating him.

He needed this job, one he had held for three years. His mother couldn’t work anymore. She had a weak heart and depended upon Rhys to pay the small monthly rent on her room, as well as the food she ate. The same weak heart had killed his sister when she was only eight and Rhys ten. By then, he’d already been the man of the house for two years, his father having been killed in an accident at the shipyard where he worked.

“Dunno,” the footman said, shrugging his shoulders. “They just said to fetch you fast. Come along.”

“Let me at least wash my hands.”

“Be quick about it. They don’t like being kept waiting.”

Rhys assumed the footman meant the viscount. But why was the nobleman out of bed at this hour, having only come home shortly before? If Mowbray was going to fire a lowly groomsman, would he do it at this hour?

They exited the stables and he went to the pump, priming it and then washing his hands. He pulled his lone, tattered handkerchief from his pocket and wet it, running it along his face and neck and wringing it out before jamming it back inside his pocket. He combed his fingers through his hair, hoping the thick, unruly mess now looked somewhat tamed and presentable.

“Get moving!” the footman ordered, lording over him as only a house servant might do when speaking to another servant in a lower position.

They entered the kitchens, which now bustled with activity. Rhys nodded to Cook, who always treated him with kindness, as he followed the footman. They left the kitchens and went through a long corridor and up a staircase. He wished they could slow down so he could take in the grand surroundings. He had never been inside the main house before and was overwhelmed by the thick carpeting and elegant furnishings.

On the first floor, they continued down a long hallway and then arrived at a closed door.

“Wait,” the footman commanded before knocking and entering the room. A moment later, he stuck his head back out and hissed, “Come in.”

With trepidation, Rhys entered the most magnificent room he had ever seen. He clinched his jaw, else it might hang open like a dog’s. Though he longed to study the art on the walls and take in the fine furniture, he knew he had been summoned for a reason and couldn’t tarry.

He spotted Viscount Mowbray sitting in a chair across the room, his gray hair askew. He had some kind of robe on which shimmered in the light. Rhys approached him and saw another man, fully dressed, sitting in a nearby chair. He had never seen this gentleman, who studied him with keen eyes as Rhys came forward and then stopped before them.

“This is the boy?” the stranger asked.

“Yes, yes,” the viscount said. “Rhys Armistead. He’s the one.”

He wondered why he had been singled out. Why this man wanted to know who he was. Why he had been sent for. Yet he knew it wasn’t the place of a lowly groomsman to ask any questions. He was here to answer them, whatever they might be.

The man cleared his throat. “I am Mr. Goolsby, solicitor for the Earl of Sheffington. Have you heard of him?”

“No, Sir. Why would I have?”

Distaste crossed the man’s face and Rhys realized he shouldn’t have asked a question. He reminded himself to only answer what was asked of him so he could hopefully return to the stables and never be troubled again.

“The Earl of Sheffington is a very rich, powerful man,” the solicitor said. “His country seat is in Surrey, several miles west of Addlestone.”

He neither knew where Surrey was nor this Addlestone, which he assumed was a town. His education had only lasted for two years, where he had learned to read and write and do sums. Geography hadn’t been a part of his lessons. He nodded but kept silent.

The solicitor’s mouth tightened. “It has come to light that your mother is a distant cousin of the Earl of Sheffington. Which means you, as well, are very distantly related to his lordship.”

This was certainly news to him. He knew his mother spoke very well and had a beautiful hand when it came to writing but he couldn’t picture her as a part of the nobility.

“The chain of relations is complicated and too long to get into now,” Mr. Goolsby continued. “Suffice it to say that you are related, however. Because of that, the earl wishes you to come to Sheffield Park.”

“As a groom?”

Goolsby harrumphed. “No, lad. Not as a groom.”

“Then what?” he challenged, disregarding his previous promise to himself to keep quiet. “I have a good job with Viscount Mowbray. I know horses well and love what I do. Why should I leave the viscount’s employ?”

“Because Viscount Raleigh isn’t in the best of health.”

Now, Rhys was totally confused. “Who is this viscount? What does he have to do with me?”

His employer stood. “I am weary, Goolsby. See to things. I am off to bed.” He glanced to Rhys. “Good luck to you, boy. You did well teaching my Rebecca to ride. I didn’t think anyone would ever be able to get her back on a horse again. You did and she now enjoys riding tremendously.”

The viscount trudged from the room, making it obvious his gout was paining him.

After he left, Goolsby said, “Sit.”

Rhys glanced at the fine material on the chair and said, “I would rather stand, Sir,” knowing the dirt and sweat from his clothes would ruin the chair’s fabric.

“Very well. I will be as succinct and clear as possible since you obviously are not grasping the situation. Your mother is related to the Earl of Sheffington. The earl’s son, Viscount Raleigh, is his only child and has been prone to be a sickly boy. No more children will be forthcoming in the marriage. The countess cannot have anymore. Because of that, the earl is looking to the future. He does not want to leave the estate in a precarious position nor does he wish to do harm to his tenants. If Viscount Raleigh does not live to adulthood and cannot succeed his father, you would become the heir apparent.”

He stood there numbly, trying to take in the solicitor’s words. “Are you telling me that I could one day become . . . an earl?”

The solicitor sniffed. “Yes, it is a possibility. Of course, the earl hopes that his son’s unstable health will not be an issue. His lordship hopes as Viscount Raleigh matures, he will grow stronger.”

“How old is the viscount?”

“Sixteen” Goolsby responded. “He is being tutored at home since his last bout of illness. You will share in that tutor.”

“I . . . I will what?”

“You are to accompany me to Sheffield Park, Mr. Armistead. The earl was most insistent. In the event his son passes prematurely, Lord Sheffington needs you to be prepared to one day take on the earldom. You will be clothed. Educated, though not sent away to school. Your mother said you only had two years of schooling.”

Surprise filled him. “You’ve spoken to my mother?”

“Yes. She was most agreeable. The earl doesn’t believe a university education will be necessary. Instead, in three years’ time, once you have reached your eighteenth birthday, Lord Sheffington will purchase a commission for you and you may enter the army. That way, you will earn an honorable living.”

Rhys knew commissions in the army were costly. It would allow him to become an officer, something that he never would have imagined possible.

“In the event Viscount Raleigh does succeed to the earldom and becomes Lord Sheffington, his sons would naturally take precedence over your claim to the title,” Mr. Goolsby said. “That is what the earl hopes for but he wants to be prepared just in case.” The solicitor smiled brightly. “So, you will receive an education and become an officer in His Majesty’s Army. You will continue with your career in the military unless the unfortunate happens and Viscount Raleigh meets with an untimely death before he can provide an heir himself.”

Rhys’ head reeled with the quick turn of events. “When am I to come to Sheffield Park?” he asked.

“Immediately. Lord Sheffington expects me to bring you back from London with me. First, we will stop at a tailor’s shop, however, and see that you are suitable clothed for your new role in society, Mr. Armistead.”

No one had ever addressed him in such a manner. He had been Rhys or Armistead. Suddenly, the magnitude of what was happening swept over him.

“Are you certain no mistake has been made?” he asked, thinking it must all be a dream.

Goolsby shook his head. “Every effort was made to find a male relative closer than you. You were all our investigations turned up,” the solicitor revealed, his disdain obvious.

“What of my mother? Can she also come to live at Sheffield Park?”

Goolsby frowned. “Mr. Armistead, you are in no position to bargain. However, Lord Sheffington knows you have been sending money to her and she will be provided for. Do you understand?”

Rhys did. But it didn’t mean that one day—if he became Lord Sheffington—that he couldn’t bring his mother to the estate. For now, though, he would count his blessings. He would receive an education and be allowed to gain a profession. Even if he never became the earl, he would be an officer and be able to always provide for his mother.

“I understand perfectly well, Mr. Goolsby.” Rhys smiled. “When do we leave?”

 

 

CHAPTER 2

London—May 1798

 

Dalinda Bretton gazed out the window, wondering if she would ever be allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been forced to remain within it the past two weeks, all because of her role in The Debacle. Just thinking of that made her throat grow thick with unshed tears. She thought she had cried herself out, knowing Anna had been banished to the country and Dez sent away to the army. The two people she loved most were gone. Out of her life. And Dalinda had no idea when she might see either of them again.

She hated her father. Hated him. He had never liked her or Dez.

Probably because they had killed her mother.

No, she couldn’t think like that. Women died in childbirth all the time. She couldn’t help that her mother had given birth to twins and it had been too much for her. Of course, Ham had also blamed her and Dez for Mama’s death. He was five years older than she and Dez and the biggest bully she knew. Ham had called the twins murderers for doing in their mother. As they grew up, Ham had played tricks on them. Mistreated them. Blamed them for things he did. Taunted them that he would be the earl one day and they would be no ones. Ham had said when their father died and he became the Earl of Torrington that he wouldn’t even speak to her or Dez.

That would actually be a relief.

A bird landed on the windowsill and Dalinda held her breath, not moving so that it would remain in place. The bird pecked on the windowsill a few times and then warbled before flying away.

This was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in her two weeks of incarceration. She should be out enjoying herself. It was her first Season and in the month she had attended events, Dalinda had proven quite popular. A bevy of gentlemen had called upon her each afternoon. They vied to dance with her. Take her on carriage rides. Escort her through gardens and into supper.

Now, though, she languished in her bedchamber, wondering if she would ever be let out. She had nothing to read. Nothing to do. It was a wonder she hadn’t gone mad.

At least she was still in London, though. Poor Anna had been sent back to Surrey, her brief Season coming to an abrupt end. Dalinda missed her best friend terribly. Anna was the closest thing Dalinda had to a sister. They had been friends throughout their entire childhood, thanks to the fact they lived on adjoining estates, and had eagerly looked forward to their first London Season. Dalinda had known, though, that her twin harbored feelings for Anna. She had come across them too many times in the last couple of years where they both wore guilty expressions, looking as if they’d just sprung apart. When she did catch them kissing last Christmas, she had eased from the room, not confronting either of them.

Dalinda thought Dez and Anna were perfect together but knew their fathers had other plans for the pair. When Anna’s father had proclaimed his daughter was to wed a man old enough to be her grandfather, Dalinda knew she had to act. She had suggested to Dez and Anna that they elope to Gretna Green and the couple had eagerly taken her suggestion to heart. Unfortunately, someone betrayed them. Anna was sent home in disgrace without finishing her Season. Dalinda’s father was going to choose a husband for her because of her meddling. And Dez, who was supposed to go to university in a few months before entering the army, had his education cut short. Their father had purchased his younger son’s commission and now Dez, too, was gone.

“Your father is allowing you to attend tonight’s ball at the Duke of Gilford’s.”

Dalinda whipped around and saw Aunt Mathilda had entered the room.

“What? I may?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes. I am to help you dress for the occasion.”

She hadn’t even known her aunt existed until a week ago. Aunt Mathilda had come to Dalinda’s bedchamber and informed her of their relationship and that she would be taking her in hand in light of The Debacle. Dalinda had been too frightened to ask why she had never heard of this aunt, who revealed she was the sister of Torrington. Mathilda had visited her each day for a few, brief minutes but had revealed nothing else of her background.

“I think this gown will do nicely.”

Dalinda didn’t care if she wore a flour sack to the ball. She was itching to leave this room and the townhouse. Ready to be back with people. Hopefully, to find a gentleman who would suit her and offer for her. Only then could she escape this horrible house and her even more horrible father.

Her aunt helped her shed her current gown and undergarments and put on fresh ones for the ball. She tightened Dalinda’s stays until she could hardly breathe but she wasn’t going to complain and put a possible end to her newly-won freedom.

“Sit at your dressing table,” her aunt instructed. “I will do your hair.”

She hadn’t bothered with her hair during her exile, merely combing and braiding her hair each day. Her aunt undid the single braid and brushed Dalinda’s rich, brown hair until it gleamed. Then Mathilda began creating an elaborate hairstyle, better than Dalinda’s own traitorous lady’s maid had ever managed.

“Oh, I look quite pretty!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Aunt Mathilda.” Dalinda rose and embraced the woman, who stiffened at the show of affection.

“Before you leave, I must tell you something,” her aunt declared, her expression grim. “I want you to be prepared.”

She didn’t like her aunt’s ominous tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Your father will announce your betrothal at tonight’s ball.”

“What?”

Immediately, she ran through a list of eligible gentlemen who might have offered for her during her absence from ton events. She had thought two or three of her suitors had potential and was delighted that hopefully one of them had spoken with her father. That must be why she was being released from her makeshift prison.

“Who, Aunt?” she pressed, naming a few names.

“None of them,” Mathilda responded.

Her brows knitted together. “Then which gentleman could it be? I can’t think of anyone else that has shown an interest in me this Season.”

A dour expression crossed the older woman’s face. “It is a choice your father has made for you, Child.”

Dalinda’s stomach tightened. “Who?” she insisted. “Who will he bind me to?”

Aunt Mathilda’s mouth tightened. “I have sworn I would not say. However, I didn’t want what was done to me repeated with you. I was unpleasantly taken by surprise when my betrothal was announced by my father in front of a ballroom full of guests.” She grimaced. “Not a man of my choosing. I didn’t handle it well and wanted you to be forewarned so you won’t embarrass yourself as I did.”

For a moment, Dalinda forgot about her own upcoming betrothal, thanks to the hurt she saw on her aunt’s face.

Taking Mathilda’s hands, she asked, “Was it so very awful?”

“It was worse than death.” Her aunt swallowed. “He had debts. Terrible ones. My dowry was quite large.” She sighed. “Of course, I was not the first girl sold into marriage. My dowry covered his debts and I gained a fine title and my family those all-important connections. Unfortunately, my husband was a gambler. Before a year of marriage had passed, he was back in the mire, even worse than before. He sold off his unentailed estates. Then horses. Paintings. Furniture. All the while drinking himself to death.”

She squeezed her aunt’s hands. “That must have been awful for you.”

“It was,” Mathilda admitted. “He only touched me a few times. Though I longed for a child, I quickly understood one would not be forthcoming. And when he died, swamped in debt, I was cast aside. The new marquess couldn’t even afford to keep the country estates open. Even today, he lives in a few rooms in London and subsists off the small income of his tenant farmers.”

“Where were you all these years, Aunt?” Dalinda asked.

“I lived in a small cottage on the primary country estate. My father passed less than a year after my marriage, one which he thought would bring the Bretton family more prestige. My brother—your father—was so embarrassed by the turn of events that he refused to take me in, even as a poor relation. It was only after your brother’s failed elopement that Torrington sent for me.”

Mathilda’s mouth turned down. “I am supposed to keep a careful watch over you. Curb your wild ways. Make sure you do nothing else reckless until you are safely wedded and gone from this household.” She released Dalinda’s hands. “I only want you to prepare yourself, Child. Tonight, your betrothal will be announced. You must accept your fate.”

“Why? From what you are saying, I fear I will be charged with marrying a man I will despise.”

Her aunt pulled away and began pacing the room. “I have told you all that I can, Dalinda. I did so not to have you try and prevent the outcome but to merely make you aware so you would not be taken by surprise in front of a ballroom full of Polite Society.” She came to a halt. “Accept your fate, my dear girl. It’s the only thing you can do.”

With that, Mathilda left the room.

A sick feeling rose inside Dalinda. She was being married off so her father wouldn’t have to worry about handling her anymore. Most likely, Ham was the one pushing for this decision. She hated that her father had turned his back on Mathilda when she was in such great need of family and comfort but it didn’t surprise her. The Bretton men—Dez being the exception—seemed to be coldhearted and unfeeling.

How could she escape what her father had planned for her?

A knock sounded at the door. She answered it, finding her older brother standing in the corridor.

“Father says you are to come downstairs. We’re leaving for the Gilford ball,” he informed her, a look of glee upon his face.

“Are you the one who persuaded Father to keep me in my room so long, Ham?”

“Don’t call me by that childish nickname,” he said angrily. “My name is Hamilton.”

“I will bloody well call you whatever I wish,” she told him.

His eyes narrowed. “It’s a good thing you will be gone soon.” With that, he turned and strode away.

Dalinda slipped a shawl about her shoulders and retrieved her reticule before going downstairs. Her aunt was nowhere in sight. She didn’t think Mathilda would be going to the ball. Polite Society—and her own family—had turned away from her long ago.

Her father awaited her in the foyer, his mouth set in grim determination.

“There you are. Come along,” he ordered, quickly spinning away and going through the front door.

She followed the earl and Ham out to the carriage. A footman assisted her inside the vehicle and she sat opposite the two men. She didn’t mention that she knew what would occur tonight. Until her father made the betrothal announcement, Dalinda would keep thinking on how to escape her fate.

Just before they arrived, the earl said, “I wish for you to dance with someone tonight. The Earl of Smothe.”

Suppressing the shudder that ran through her, she asked, “Why?”

Her father played his cards close to the vest, however. “Do not question me. Ever. Dance the first number with Smothe.”

“Yes, Father,” Dalinda said meekly, wishing she could tear his eyes out.

The Earl of Smothe was at least sixty. Probably older. He was bald. Fat. Disagreeable. He would be the last person she would ever choose to wed.

Except she didn’t have a choice. Women rarely did. Especially ones such as herself, who had done something the men in her family deemed terrible. Now, Dalinda was being punished for helping Dez and Anna, who were madly in love. She had only wanted to see the two people she cared for the most find lasting happiness. Now, all three of them were penalized. At least Dez wasn’t being made to marry some old hag. Of course, being parted from Anna would seem like death to her twin. Dalinda assumed when Anna wed, it would also be to an older man, one who would be thought to be able to control her.

Well, she wasn’t having any of it.

She went through the receiving line with her father and Ham. The Duke of Gilford and his son, the Marquess of Medford, welcomed them. The marquess looked to be close to her age. Both he and the duke had brown hair and brown eyes that looked like melted pools of chocolate. She heard Ham ask the marquess about school and the young man said that he would be off to university the next term. Once more, Dalinda thought men got to do all of the fun things in life. Go off to school and university and then a Grand Tour. Sow their wild oats. They were able to get out in the world and learn not only about it but who they were before they ever had to settle down. Meanwhile, women tried to look pretty and attract the right husband. It was wildly unfair.

Entering the ballroom, she accepted the programme from a footman, remembering her first dance was to be reserved for the Earl of Smothe. As if he had heard his name called, he suddenly appeared by her side.

“Ah, my dear Lady Dalinda, it is so good to see you. Your father said you have been rather ill.”

So that was the story going around. Heaven forbid that the ton learn that she tried to help Dez and Anna elope and got caught up in the crossfire. Her father was always so concerned about the family name and wouldn’t want it tainted by the knowledge that his young son had tried to run off to Gretna Green with his neighbor’s eighteen-year-old daughter. Just look at how Torrington had abandoned his own sister for years. Until he needed Mathilda. Dalinda wondered if once her father washed his hands of his daughter he would do the same to his sister.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, not wanting to bother with conversation.

The earl’s eyes gleamed. “Well, I must say that you are looking better than ever.” Then he licked his lips and she thought she might be ill.

“Would you do me the honor of dancing the opening number with me?”

“Yes,” she responded succinctly and he signed his name to her card.

“Very well,” he said, a satisfied smile crossing his face. “I will see you shortly.”

As he turned to walk away, Dalinda was suddenly swarmed by a good number of bachelors, all vying for her attention and begging for a dance. She turned her dance card over to them, bile rising in her throat at the prospect of not being allowed to wed someone of her own choosing and close to her own age.

The musicians began tuning their instruments and Lord Smothe appeared again. He placed her hand on his sleeve and led her onto the dance floor. Her flesh crawled at his touch. They danced what had to be the longest Scottish reel imaginable. By the end, he was huffing loudly and his face was so red that she doubted he would last the evening. She didn’t want to wish death upon anyone. But if the earl died, it would be ever so convenient for her.

“Your father wishes us to have supper with him,” Smothe told her as he led her from the floor.

“I have already promised the supper dance to another,” she said. “It is understood that I should dine with my partner.”

The old man grabbed the dance card attached to her wrist with a ribbon and frowned. “Hmm. You’ll simply have to tell him you are otherwise engaged.” He chortled, amused by his play on words, thinking her unaware of the situation.

Lord Smothe captured her hand and kissed it, almost causing her to gag. “Until later, my lady.”

Dalinda couldn’t stand being in the ballroom anymore. The press of people. The swirl of colors. The heat from too many being in too small a space. She had to escape.

Turning, she fled the ballroom. She thought to go to the retiring room but couldn’t bear the thought of being asked about her recent illness and recovery. Or where Anna might be. Everyone knew the two of them to be inseparable.

Instead, she rushed down the hall until she couldn’t hear music anymore. She paused in front of a door and decided to go inside. She needed time alone to think.

Hurrying into the room, she closed the door behind her. A cheery fire burned in the grate at the far corner of the room. Moving toward it, Dalinda held out her hands, trying to warm herself from the cold dread which filled her.

“I won’t do it,” she said stubbornly. “I won’t let him ruin my life.”

Then the tears came, tears which had threatened to flow ever since Aunt Mathilda revealed what tonight held in store. Dropping to her knees, Dalinda wept copiously, her sobs racking her body.

“It’s so bloody unfair,” she said aloud.

A hand appeared before her face, holding a handkerchief. Though startled, she grabbed at it, mopping her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured, afraid to look up and see who had caught her at such a weak moment.

“You are most welcome,” a deep voice said.

Dalinda shot to her feet.

Standing beside her was the Duke of Gilford.

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

“Your Grace? I am so very sorry,” she apologized. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” the duke said, a twinkle in his eyes. “You should be dancing, Lady Dalinda.”

“You . . . you know my name?”

He frowned. “Were we not introduced earlier this evening? Why, it couldn’t have been an hour ago that you went through my receiving line.”

“Yes, but . . . you’re a duke,” she sputtered.

“I am,” he agreed pleasantly. “One who happens to possess an excellent memory for both names and faces and linking the two together.” He tilted his head, studying her a moment. “I fear you are all out of sorts. Come, let us sit and you can tell me your troubles.”

Dalinda wanted to protest but you simply didn’t say no to a duke. Especially when he was the host of the event you attended and you held his handkerchief in your hand. She followed him to the settee and perched upon it, wiping her eyes again and then clutching the handkerchief in her lap, glad she had something to cling to in order to help still her hands.

“Now, I know you are making your come-out this Season. I learned that from the receiving line. Is it some young rake who has upset you in my household? If he has, I will box his ears for you.”

She smiled at his sweet declaration. “No, Your Grace. Nothing like that.”

“Then why is a beautiful young woman wearing a delightful gown so utterly sad? Sad enough to leave the ball and retreat to my library?”

She hiccupped. “Well, the library must have some appeal if you also have left your own ball,” she said, hesitant to reveal why this powerful man had found her in tears.

He nodded knowingly, as if he knew she were reluctant to speak about her troubles and wished to put her more at ease.

“My wife and I used to host a ball every Season. It was my favorite night of the year, seeing my duchess in her finery, sparkling like no other woman present.”

Dalinda hadn’t met the duchess this evening and asked, “Is she no longer with us, Your Grace?”

A shadow crossed his face. “No. She passed away many years ago. When our boy, Reid, was but four years of age.”

She remembered meeting the marquess and, for a moment, was sad that he had only been a little boy when his mother died. She supposed getting to spend a few years knowing his mother and then losing her hurt even more than her situation, where she had never known her mother at all.

“It sounds as if you were a love match,” she ventured.

A smile lit his face. “Ah, we were, my lady. That we were.”

He gazed off and she knew he was lost in happier times. Finally, his gaze returned to her.

“I continued hosting this ball to help keep my darling’s memory alive. It has been more than a dozen years since she’s been gone but I still miss her each day.”

Dalinda smiled. “I would say you were lucky to have her for as long as you did and know love between you. You also have a beautiful reminder of your wife in your son,” she added.

He nodded. “You’re right, of course. But though the ball is in her memory, it makes me realize that she is never coming back. I watch the dancers. The women’s skirts swishing. I hear the laughter. The music. And it only forces me to remember that she is gone.” Shrugging, he said, “I find I leave my own event each year earlier and earlier. I retreat to the library and think upon happier times before I join my guests again at supper.”

Pity filled her, seeing how the duke had loved his wife so.

“I am sorry to have interrupted your time to be alone and reflect on happier days, Your Grace. I will be going.”

Dalinda started to rise but he stopped her. “No. Stay. Help me take my mind off my own troubles. Hopefully, you will share yours with me—and we will both feel better.”

“I don’t see that happening, Your Grace,” she said frankly. “I find myself in the shoes that other women have. My father has chosen my husband for me.”

“Has he?” the duke asked. “I am sure you have had a bevy of gentlemen calling upon you ever since the Season began, Lady Dalinda. Perhaps your father taking matters into hand will—”

“I was not hoping for a love match, as you had, Your Grace. I merely wanted to find a kind man who would provide me with children. And yes, I have had a good many young men show interest in me. However, my father wishes me to be tamed. He thinks my nature is reckless because I tried to help my brother and my best friend elope to Gretna Green.”

She bit her lip, worried that she had shared too much, but the duke looked on with interest.

“Did they wed? And are they happy?”

“No. Father caught up to them, thanks to my traitorous maid. Poor Anna was banished to the country. Dez was hustled into the army and will miss out on going to university. As for me? I am to be managed by an older man who will bring me to heel.”

His brows knit together. “Do you know the man Lord Torrington has chosen for you?”

She sighed. “I learned his identity tonight. And he is ancient.”

The duke chuckled. “You might consider me ancient, my lady. I must be a good three decades older than you.”

“Oh, no, Your Grace. You don’t seem old at all. And you are quite kind and very nice to converse with.” She paused. “Father will announce my engagement tonight to Lord Smothe.”

Shock filled Gilford’s face as he visibly shuddered. “No wonder you are in despair, my lady.”

“I came here to collect my thoughts and try to find a solution to my problems,” she said. “I am not a Catholic so becoming a nun is out of the question. I could run away but I have nowhere to go and no money to live upon.” She paused. “I suppose I could become a governess or companion but I think I would be dreadful at either of those things.”

He fell silent, as if lost in his own world.

Dalinda had imposed upon him enough and she quietly stood in order to leave the room. As she passed the duke, he caught her wrist, halting her movement.

“Your Grace?” she asked, uncertainty filling her.

“There is another option,” he said quietly, his gaze penetrating her. “You could marry me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Marry me, Lady Dalinda.”

Her legs wobbled, feeling as if they would give out. Gilford rose and placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“Why would you wish to wed me, Your Grace?” she asked. “You have been a widower for many years.”

“For my sister,” he revealed. “Decades ago, our father forced her to wed a much older man. She was frightened of him. She begged not to have to go through with the ceremony. Father insisted she do so, claiming it was a good match.” His face darkened. “She spent the next ten years in a living Hell before she escaped into death.

“One of her own making.”

“She . . . died by her own hand?”

The duke nodded. “She used laudanum to dull the pain of her existence. The doctor told us that she had accidentally indulged in too much but I knew better. We had been close growing up and I knew the way she thought. She dropped enough hints to me so that I knew her actions had been deliberate.”

Gilford squeezed her shoulders lightly. “I would not want to see you that unhappy, my lady.” He paused. “I am free to wed. I cannot promise you love because my heart will forever belong to my beloved wife. I will, however, give you freedom from your father and this horrid match with Lord Smothe. A duchess is a powerful person among the ton. You could pursue your own interests and never be stifled.”

Dalinda’s heart pounded within her chest. “Would . . . this be . . . I mean . . . I know you are offering a marriage of convenience but . . .” Her voice faded. She swallowed, drawing on the courage within her and said, “Would it be a marriage in name only?”

“Is that what you would wish for?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I told you of my desire to have children.”

The duke smiled. “Then I will do my best to give you a few.” He searched her face as if looking for her answer. “The choice is yours, my lady.”

Hope sprang within her. She wouldn’t be forced to wed and lie with the ancient Lord Smothe. She could wed this kind, generous man, a man who offered her a way out of the cage her father wished to place her inside.

She smiled, feeling warmth radiating within her. “I choose you, Your Grace.”

“You are certain? I am old.”

Grinning, she replied, “Not nearly as old as Old Smothe.”

“I suppose not. My forty-eight years seem young compared to Smothe.”

Dalinda giggled. “I will become a stepmamma.”

The duke chuckled. “Reid doesn’t need any mothering.”

“Will he resent me taking his mother’s place?”

Gilford’s hand cupped her cheek. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my lady. Reid is off to university soon and then has grand ideas of serving in His Majesty’s Army.”

“But he’s a marquess,” she protested. “He will be the future Duke of Gilford.”

“I know. But the boy has a mind of his own. He will do as he wishes—and I will do the same by taking a new wife.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “Though I cannot give you my love, I will treat you with the utmost respect. I will care for you and our children.”

Tears filled her eyes. “That will be more than enough, Your Grace.”

He released her. “Very well. I feel good about this decision. I hope you do, as well, Lady Dalinda. Stay here. I will return shortly.”

She frowned. “Where are you going?”

“You’ll see.”

The duke left the room and Dalinda returned to the settee, his wrinkled handkerchief still in her hands. She smoothed it upon her lap, a bit dazed by the turn of events. She had come into this room filled with despondency, seeing no way out of her abysmal situation. Then, within a matter of minutes, the trajectory of her life had changed, taking her in a direction she would never have dreamed of going.

With a duke.

And she would be his duchess.

Dalinda understood how much Gilford had loved his wife. She knew she would never be a replacement for the first duchess. She would always remind herself of her husband’s goodness and never wish for more. If he could give her children, she would be happy enough. She thought the life they would build together could be a good one. She hoped he wouldn’t regret his hasty decision to offer marriage to her. Despite what he said, Dalinda knew the marquess might prove a bit hard to win over. Fortunately, Medford would be leaving for university in a few months. It saddened her that her new stepson would get a university education while that very thing had been denied to her brother.

The door opened and the duke entered, ushering in another man. Surprise filled her when she realized he had her father in tow.

The earl spied her, his brows knitting together. He asked, “What’s this, Gilford? You said we needed to speak privately. What is my daughter doing here?”

“I have decided to take a wife again,” the duke said. “I find I am rather lonely. Lady Dalinda is the catch of the Season. I want her—and I always get what I want. Always,” he emphasized.

Her father’s perplexed expression almost made Dalinda laugh aloud. Though he would never admit it, Lord Torrington was a bit afraid of those titled gentlemen that outranked him. As a duke, Gilford was one of the most powerful peers in the land.

When her father remained speechless, the duke pressed him. “I assume you will agree to the marriage, my lord.”

“Agree? Yes, of course, Your Grace,” the earl obsequiously replied. “I can think of no better man than you to wed my only daughter.”

Gilford’s eyes cut to her and she saw they were filled with mirth. She believed the duke was trying to refrain from asking if he were a better choice for her than Lord Smothe. He opened his mouth, a wicked glint in his eyes, and she shook her head furiously, hoping he would keep from doing so. He nodded deferentially to her and Dalinda now believed they were fully comrades-in-arms.

“Very well, Torrington. I will announce my betrothal to Lady Dalinda at supper this evening.” He glanced to her. “You will dance the supper dance with me, my lady?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said demurely.

“Then it’s settled. I will call upon you tomorrow at ten, Torrington, along with my solicitor. We will finalize the contracts then.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the earl said meekly. He glanced at her but she only had eyes for her soon-to-be fiancé.

“Shall we return to the ballroom, my lady?” the duke asked, offering her his arm.

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

They left the library, her father trailing after them, and went to the ballroom. The duke had her stand by his side. She knew she was missing all the dances that had been claimed but no one approached them. It was as if they stood in a world of their own making, surveying their kingdom as they watched the dancers before them.

When the supper dance arrived, Gilford escorted her to the center of the room. He was a marvelous dancer, the best she had partnered with all Season. Dalinda gave herself over to the joy of the dance as he swept her gracefully around the ballroom.

The dance ended and he led her into supper, whispering something into a footman’s ear. When the room had filled, he called for everyone’s attention. She heard the buzzing and knew it was because she was on his arm and had remained there for some time. By now, footmen appeared with trays carrying champagne and she realized how quickly the duke’s orders had been carried out.

“I would ask that my guests raise a glass tonight as we toast my betrothal to Lady Dalinda Bretton, daughter of the Earl of Torrington.”

She felt the intense gaze of every eye in the room on her at the duke’s announcement. A multitude of emotions swirled within her. Astonishment. Relief. Excitement.

The Duke of Gilford raised his glass and everyone in the room followed suit.

“To my fiancée, Lady Dalinda.”

“Lady Dalinda,” the guests echoed and drank.

Her betrothed looked down upon her. “Are you happy, my lady?”

“This may be the happiest moment of my life,” she exclaimed.

“It gets better,” he promised. “When you hold our first child in your arms. You’ll see.”