Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

From the grandeur of regency Mayfair to the dark danger of London's East End, Liz Carlyle sweeps you away with a powerful story of a love born against all odds, as an honorable young widow stands fast against the cynical rogue who seems determined to consume her, heart and soul. A Woman of Virtue In the lonely months since her husband's death, Cecilia Lorimer has hidden her emptiness by devoting herself to a charity mission for the unfortunate women of London's slums. But when the dashing Lord Delacourt takes control, she feels an uncharacteristic urge to flee. Just six years earlier, Delacourt had proven himself to be the immoral rake society called him, nearly ruining her reputation in the bargain. It's whispered that the womanizing Delacourt is vain, vindictive, and merciless. But he's a man who honors his wagers -- and one result lands him in his brother-in-law's godforsaken mission, face-to-face with the woman who has long haunted his dreams. When treachery closes in, only he knows how to guard Cecilia from the consequences of her own principles. Can a profligate knave persuade a virtuous woman that he is worthy of her trust -- and her love?

Release date: September 16, 2001

Publisher: Pocket Books

Print pages: 464

Sample

Chapter One: The incorrigible Henrietta Healy

February 1824

The Countess of Walrafen -- who in a long-ago life had been known as Cecilia Markham-Sands -- was newly possessed of a most fashionable villa in Park Crescent. Mr. Nash's latest spurt of architectural genious boasted every modern convenience, including flushing lavatories, an elegantly stuccoed facade, and pale yellow paint so sumptuously applied it looked like butter running down the walls.

There was nothing of the old or the venerated about Park Crescent, though the earldom of Walrafen was both. In fact, to her ladyship's way of thinking, the Walrafen title was so old and stuffy it was well nigh to moldering. She could smell the musty self-righteousness drifting all the way across Marylebone.

The official London address of the earldom was situated deep in the heart of Mayfair, in an imposing brick town house in Hill Street, from which her ladyship had taken her congé as soon as her elderly husband had breathed his last at the ripe old age of seven-and-fifty. Her stepson Giles, two years her senior, lived there alone now and was very welcome to do so.

For her part, the Countess of Walrafen was the unpretentious descendant of a title even older than that of her late husband, a fact which had always needled him a bit, and for no good reason that her ladyship could see. What good was a coronet, she often asked herself, when the generations of Markham-Sands men had been -- and still were -- such a luckless and clueless lot?

Indeed, the first Earl of Sands had been ennobled by old William the Red himself. In a reign pockmarked by avariciousness, arrogance, and atheism, the Sands family had been one of the few Saxon dynasties that had not only survived but also prospered in the Norman yoke.

And that circumstance had, so far as Lady Walrafen could determine, been the last bit of fortuity to befall her ancestors. After the War of the Roses, most of their land had been seized. During the Dissolution, they had been faithful papists, and following the rise of Bloody Mary, they had somehow become staunch Protestants. Sometime in the seventeenth century, they had spread their ill luck to the moneyed Markham family, by means of a financially motivated marriage.

And following that, the succeeding noblemen of the Markham-Sands dynasty had managed to situate themselves on the wrong side of every political conflict, civil disturbance, cockfight, dog scrap, horse race, and bear baiting which came their way, all of it culminating with the Divine Right of Kings debacle, which they had assiduously supported, and the Restoration, which they had not.

Cecilia sighed aloud. She had never understood that bit of perversity.

All she had understood, and from a very young age, was that it fell to her to look out for both herself and her misbegotten elder brother, the current Earl of Sands. Until her sister-in-law Julia had joined their household and taken that little job off her hands. Cecilia still wasn't sure how she felt about that, but at least Julia's subtle pressure had propelled her out of the family brick pile and into a wedding dress.

At that recollection, Cecilia sighed and leaned a little closer to her dressing mirror. Oh, was that a wrinkle at the corner of her right eye? Indeed it was. And was that another on the left? Well. At least her life held some consistency. At least her wrinkles matched.

She took up her hairbrush, then thumped it back down again, staring pensively across the dressing table full of bottles and vials. Cecilia simply could not escape the dreadful feeling that her life had ended even before it had begun. The first anniversary of her husband's death was now six months gone. Yet here she was, at the grand old age of four-and-twenty, unable to shake the sensation of being in deep mourning. And why? Had she loved him?

No, not as a husband.

Did she miss him?

No, not greatly, but --

Suddenly, a piercing shriek rang out from her dressing room. Etta!

Cecilia let her face fall forward into her hands. Lord, what had the girl done now?

At that moment, Etta emerged from the dressing room holding a length of emerald green sarcenet before her face, peering straight through the big brown hole in the middle of it. Even through the hole, Lady Walrafen could see that tears were already rolling down Etta's narrow face.

"Oh lor, Lady Walrafen!" the maid squalled, rolling her damp eyes dramatically. "Look 'ere what I've done! Yer ortter 'ave me whipped, and that's a fact. Yer ortter 'ave me skinned, that's what -- then ship me right back to the King's Arms t'make a livin' on me tail."

Cecilia managed a smile. "It's perfectly all right, Etta. I shall wear the blue silk."

But as usual, the maid did not listen. "I just put the iron down for the veriest wee second, and now look!" Etta shook the scorched sarcenet for emphasis. "Look! And what you'd be wantin' with a dresser the likes of me, mum, is more'n I'll ever know. I'm too witless to iron a little bit of fluff like this -- " Again, she rolled her watery eyes and shook the ruined shawl. "And I reckon I'm not apt to learn, neither."

At that, Cecilia rose from her stool and snatched the green sarcenet from her maid's hands. "Now, just hush, Etta!" she commanded with an impatient stamp of her foot. "I'll not have such talk, do you hear? It's a silk shawl, for pity's sake! I've a dozen just like it. Now, stop crying and stand up straight! Who will believe in you, if you don't believe in yourself?"

"Oh, very well!" Etta gave a last dramatic sniff. "I'll fetch the blue. But I'm telling you straight out now, it don't look near so good as this green. And I mean for you to look your best when you go to that Mrs. Rowland's sore-ay tonight, since you know bloody well -- "

"Perfectly well," corrected her ladyship gently.

"Perfectly well," echoed Etta without missing a beat, "that old high-in-the-instep Giles'll be watchin' your every twitch."

Cecilia watched as Etta, still chattering, hastened into the dressing room, pitched the ruined shawl into one corner, and began to shake out the blue silk evening gown, all without pausing for breath. "And d'ye know, Lady Walrafen, I sometimes suspicion but what 'e ain't got it a little hot for you, stepson or no. Don't mean to say 'e likes it none too good -- but there! A fellow don't always get to pick what pricks his -- er, his fancy, if yer takes my meaning."

"Why, I daresay I do," murmured Cecilia a bit unsteadily, lifting the back of one hand to her forehead. Good Lord! After three weeks, Etta still seemed incorrigible. "But Giles simply feels responsible for me, that's all. Now, pray talk of something else. How shall we dress my hair for tonight?"

It was as if she had not spoken. "And what about that Mrs. Rowland?" continued Etta, picking through a handful of lawn undergarments. "Coo! Ain't she a downy one? Mean looking, too, with all them sharp bones and high eyebrows. And her husband a cousin to that nice Mr. Amherst! It don't figure."

"Like the rest of us, the Reverend Mr. Amherst did not get to choose his relatives," murmured Cecilia dryly. "And as to Edmund and Anne Rowland, I daresay even they have their uses. If they are so shallow as to crave fine society above all else, then very well! But there is a price to be paid for folly, and I'll gladly extract a pound of flesh on Mr. Amherst's behalf."

From the dressing room, Etta hooted with laughter. "Now 'oo's the downy one, I arst you, mum? That hoity-toity Mrs. Rowland'll soon be buying new mattresses for the good vicar's mission house, or my name ain't 'Enrietta 'Ealy."

"Henrietta Healy!"

"Right, mum!" The maid stuck her head through the dressing-room door long enough to flash a wicked grin. "Won't Mr. Amherst get a laugh out 'er that! And bless me if that wouldn't be a sight to fair heat up a room, 'cause that smile o' his has melted gamer gals 'n me. It don't seem quite right for a parson to be so purely 'andsome, do it?"

Cecilia had risen from her dressing table and had begun to pick through her jewel chest for something to wear with the blue silk. "Oh, to be sure, he is most striking," she wryly admitted, pulling out a heavy topaz pendant and laying it across her palm. "But do not mistake him, Etta. He's deeply devout, though perhaps not in the conventional way. His mission has done a great deal of good in east London."

Etta, now with pins stuck in her mouth, nodded and rattled on. "Aye, there's many an uprighter what wants savin' from them petticoat merchants, and he's just the gent to -- "

Her ladyship dropped the necklace with a ker-thunk! "An...an uprighter?" she interjected sharply.

"A whore, mum," came Etta's garbled explanation around her mouthful of pins. "Beggin' your pardon 'n all. And speaking of that 'andsome Mr. Amherst, I knows one a sight prettier. That friend of 'is -- or friend of the wife's, more like -- that fancy Lord Delacourt. Coo! 'Ave ye ever laid eyes on 'im?"

"Really, Etta!" chided Cecilia uncomfortably. "Do stop dropping your h's! And we need to know nothing about Lord Delacourt!" Cecilia felt the heat flush up her cheeks.

"Aye, well," said Etta with an amiable shrug. "He's a right handsome swell, that's wot I knows of him," she announced, leaning heavily on her h's. "Now, mum, you've 'eard me talk o' me Aunt Mercy, the one 'oo owned a flash house orf the Ratcliffe Highway?"

"Yes," agreed Cecilia hesitantly. Etta's family was legion, and none of them above the law.

"Well," announced Etta, "she knew a gal 'oo'd been in the theater, very fine in 'er ways, and this Lord Delacourt took a liking to 'er, see? Set 'er up in a grand style, 'e did. Two servants, a carriage, and a little trained monkey with a red waistcoat and bells 'round its neck. Went everywhere with 'er, that little monkey did -- "

"Really, Etta!" interjected Cecilia for the fifth time, hurling herself onto her bed in despair. "I have no interest whatsoever in Lord Delacourt's trained monkey!"

Indeed, Delacourt was the last man on earth Cecilia wished to think about. She had made a deliberate effort these last six years to not think of that self-indulgent libertine. It didn't matter that his lips were as sinfully full as a woman's. Or that his sleepy green eyes were as unfathomable as the ocean at dusk. And that hair! As heavy and rich as burnished mahogany.

Yes, even superficial elements -- the low, mocking sound of his laugh in a crowded ballroom, the reflection of candlelight in his eye as he whirled across the dance floor -- any of these things could awaken a wrath she did not understand. And that was before one even considered his sadly lacking morals.

But in a society as limited as London's, it had been impossible not to see him. And to her acute discomfort, he'd grown leaner, harder, and harsher with the passage of time. And certainly more dissolute. Lord Delacourt's intrigues made for most common sort of gossip. When he passed through a room, the less discerning ladies of the ton would draw a collective breath, strike simpering smiles, and snap open their fans, fluttering them back and forth as if kindling a fire.

But no decent woman would let a man like that cross her mind. Certainly, she had no wish to remember him. None at all. Oh, but how often in her dreams she had felt his hand skimming up her thigh, his mouth hot against her throat, only to wake up burning with lust and shame? Delacourt had awakened in her the baser side of her nature long before she had even realized she had one. Still, Cecilia had never been a fool. She knew lust for what it was.

"Righty-ho," agreed Etta cheerfully as she tugged out a pair of new silk stockings. "Got orf me subject again, didn't I? What I meant to be telling you was that I seen 'im meself once. With Aunt Mercy in the Haymarket, it was, and Gawd bless me!" The maid's eyes rolled back in her head. "A finer set of shoulders and a snugger rump I never did see on a gent! And they do say Lord Delacourt is about the best thing a gal can get between 'er legs on a cold ni -- "

"Etta!" screeched Cecilia. "That will do. Really! It's excessively vulgar! Moreover, I have seen Lord Delacourt and his -- his fine shoulders. I see nothing in him at all. Nothing but a handsome debauchee. And where is your aunt's friend now, Etta, I ask you?"

Etta shrugged. "Couldn't say, mum."

"Well, I can!" Cecilia's fervor ratcheted sharply upward. "She's starving in some workhouse, old before her time and riddled with the pox, I do not doubt. Whilst his lordship and his snug rump are being cosseted by a bevy of expensive servants down in Curzon Street."

It was precisely half-past six when Lord Delacourt and his aforementioned rump arrived at his sister's imposing brick town house in Brook Street, just as he did at least four times a week. Lifting his gold-knobbed stick, he rapped his customary brisk tattoo upon the door, and, as always, it was immediately flung open by Charles Donaldson, her ladyship's butler.

"Ah, good evening, Charlie," said the viscount, just as usual. Smiling widely, he slid out of his elegant black greatcoat. "How the devil are you?"

Donaldson lifted the coat from Delacourt's fine shoulders and gave his standard reply. "Weel enough, m'lord. Yerself?"

The viscount forced a bland expression. "Ah, Charlie," he routinely replied, "you know there's not a fellow in all of England more content than I! Now, where might I find her ladyship? Not, you understand, that I am fully certain that I wish to." He flashed the butler a dry smile.

Donaldson nodded knowingly and draped the coat over his arm. Of late, one small aspect of their age-old routine had altered -- uncomfortably so. "Aye, my lord, she's a wee bit fashed t'day," Donaldson warned. "And wearin' out the rug in the book room."

0 "A bad sign, that," muttered Delacourt. "Is there brandy, Charlie?" He really didn't know why he asked. There was always brandy. And always his brand, the very best cognac money could buy. Donaldson made sure of it.

"Aye, m'lord. I've set a bottle o' your favorite atop the sideboard."

Then, very discreetly, the butler cut a glance up and down the corridor and bent his head to Delacourt's. "And if ye dinna mind a word o' warning, m'lord, she's scratching out anither o' those lists. It does'na look too gude for you."

"Hmph!" Delacourt's dark brows drew together. "Has Mother's footman been 'round today?"

Grimly, Donaldson nodded. "Brought anither note."

Delacourt's jaw hardened. "Plaguey, conspiring women," he grumbled. "Where's Amherst? Out saving more harlots from a life of sin and degradation?"

"Aye, gone off tae the mission 'til dinner. Ye'll have tae manage her w'out 'im."

* * *

But in the end, all Delacourt managed was his thirst. He'd downed but half a snifter of his sister's fine cognac before she set about her business. Watching her brother out of the corner of one eye, Lady Kildermore paced thoughtfully back and forth along the rich Turkey carpet of her book room, pencil and paper in hand. Outside, the early evening traffic rumbled up and down Brook Street. Impatiently, she sighed.

It was very hard to concentrate amidst all the racket of town when one had grown so used to the country. But her husband's work here was pressing. Nonetheless, he had faithfully sworn that they would soon return to Elmwood. And her husband was a man who always kept his promises.

Comforted by that thought, she paused to bite the tip of her pencil. "Very well, David. Here's one I think shall do quite nicely," she announced, turning the paper a little to the candlelight. "Miss Mary Ayers. She's young, biddable, and has very large -- "

Suddenly, Lord Delacourt set his cognac down with a clatter. "I don't want large anythings, Jonet!" he interjected, shoving back his armchair with a vengeance. "You need say no more! I do not want a wife. Not Miss Mary Ayers. Not Lady Caroline Kirk. Not -- good God! Not anyone. Stop bedeviling me!"

Jonet tossed her paper down with a huff, slid one hand beneath her stomach, and eased herself gingerly down into the chair opposite. With a resigned sigh, she settled one hand atop the baby to feel it kick. Arabella, Davinia, and Baby Fiona were already in the nursery, and this one certainly seemed eager to join them. She did not remember ever having been so tired. And now, her brother meant to drive her mad.

"David, my dear," she began, her voice exasperated, "Lady Delacourt is seven-and-sixty! She wishes to see her grandchildren before she dies! If you cannot marry out of choice -- out of love -- as I have done, then marry for her, and for the sake of the title."

David tossed off the rest of his glass, eyeing her swollen belly and weary countenance. "You look as if you've had a shade too much love in your life, my dear," he said dryly. "Moreover, I do not give one bloody damn about the title, Jonet. And you know why."

Jonet refused to be baited. "Perhaps, but what of your sister Charlotte? Someone must retain the viscountcy and take care of her."

"I have provided for Charlotte," he insisted hotly. "And not out of the Delacourt coffers, but with my own money. I do have a little, you know!"

Jonet shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Yes, I know. You're rich as Croesus. But that does not make a man happy."

David looked at her derisively. "Oh? And you and Mama -- with your damned lists and smuggled missives and your Miss Marys and Lady Carolines -- that will make me happy? I swear, I wish I'd never introduced you two meddling women."

Jonet's angular brows snapped together. "Lady Delacourt wants what's best for you, yes. And Cole says that a man cannot be truly fulfilled until -- "

"Oh, no!" David cut her off at once. "No, no, no, Jonet! You'll not drag your husband into this! Cole does not concern himself with my affairs, nor I with his. Men, my dear, do not meddle. Which is as it should be."

Jonet threw back her head with laughter. "Oh, David! For such a clever man, you can be shockingly naive! Do you really imagine men do not meddle?"

"Indeed not! They have better things to do."

Again, she laughed. "Oh, my dear! Women are cast utterly into the shade by men when it comes to manipulation. Indeed, do not men always think they know best?"

"And they often do!"

"Yes, sometimes," she graciously admitted. "But I know my husband. And of the two of us, he's by far the more devious."

David let his eyes drift down her length. "Really, Jonet. You say the most outlandish things when you're increasing."

Smugly, Jonet smiled. "What you need, David, are children of your own. I see the desire in those wicked green eyes of yours every time one of my girls crawls into your lap. You'll get nowhere playing the hardened rake with me."

David cast her a disparaging glance and bent forward to refill his snifter from the round crystal decanter. "Come, darling! Have done tormenting me. Let us speak of something else."

"Very well," said Jonet silkily.

Her voice settled over David with an uncomfortable chill. It was frightening when his sister feigned surrender. Absently, he picked a bit of imaginary lint from his fine wool trousers. "Speaking of the girls, how do they go on? Has my Bella stopped biting her governess?"

Jonet's gaze was drifting aimlessly about the room. "Oh, yes. Almost."

"Good! Good! And by the by, I wish to give Davinia a pony for her birthday. I trust you have no objection?"

"No, no. None whatsoever." Jonet made an impatient little gesture with her hands, then clasped them tightly in her lap.

David lifted his brows inquiringly. "And what of you, my dear? How do you feel?"

"Fine, David, I feel fine." Nervously, her thumbs began to play with each other.

"And Cole? The...the Daughters of Nazareth Society -- he is pleased?"

"Oh, yes! Donations are picking up."

"Ah! Capital. Just capital."

The hands twitched again. Jonet could obviously bear no more. "Listen, David -- just tell me this. Are you happy? Truly happy? That is all I wish to know. I wish only for you to be content, as I am content. I know it makes no sense, but I cannot bear thinking that you might be lonely or sad."

Jonet watched as her brother pushed his glass disdainfully away and jerked from his chair. "You simply cannot leave it, can you, Jonet?" he answered, striding toward the window. With one hand sliding through his thick, dark hair, he pulled open the underdrapes with the other and stared out into the cold winter night.

"You've already cast off that red-haired dasher I saw you with in Bond Street last week, have you not?" she said softly.

"I'll likely find another soon enough," he returned, speaking to the windowpanes.

"Will she again possess masses of red-gold curls?"

"Perhaps," he lightly admitted. "I hope you do not worry, dear sister, that I lack for feminine attention."

"Not at all," agreed Jonet easily. "Indeed, there seems to be an overabundance of it. She was the second you've broken with this year, and it is but February."

"Your point?" he sharply returned. "I'm not sure I take it."

"And there were eight last year. Darling, that's a new mistress every six weeks."

"Not quite -- but what of it? I see to their every comfort whilst they're under my protection, Jonet. And I provide for them well enough when it is over. No one suffers." He laughed a little bitterly. "Indeed, many have profited quite handsomely."

"And what of you, my dear?" she asked softly. "What have you profited? Have you gained the whole world yet lost a little bit of your soul?"

Jonet had risen from her chair to join him at the window, and she shivered at the chill which pervaded the glass. She leaned closer to David's warmth, and in the murky light of a street lamp below, she could see that a silvery fog had settled over Mayfair, riming the cobblestones with a dull sheen of ice and shrouding the scene in a cold, depthless beauty. It made her think of her brother's heart, and for a moment, she wanted to cry.

Lightly, she laid one hand against his back, feeling the tension which thrummed inside him, and slowly, David turned from the window, his face suddenly stripped of all pretense. For one brief instant, Jonet feared he might truly lash out at her this time. But then, almost reluctantly, he opened his arms and drew her hard against his chest. "Ah, Jonet!" he sighed into her hair. "Have we no secrets from one another?"

"No," she softly admitted. And, indeed, they had not. Few siblings were as close, even those who shared both parents instead of just one dissolute father.

They were much alike, she and David. Too proud, too unyielding, and often far too alone. Before Cole had come to change her life, she and David had had no one but each other. Well, she had had a husband, but that marriage had not been a good one. And of course, David had a widowed mother, as well as his elder sibling, Charlotte -- a sister of the heart but not the blood.

But Jonet was both. For to be coldly precise, David was Jonet's father's bastard. It was the appalling family secret. Her father's blackest sin. The result of an innocent young woman's rape.

In her brother's arms, Jonet shuddered, unable to imagine the horror of rape. Certainly, David thought of it often enough, though he hid it well. His mother, well bred but impoverished, had served the late Lord Delacourt as governess to young Charlotte. During a raucous party at the Delacourt country house, she had been violated by the dissolute Earl of Kildermore when she'd crept innocently down the back stairs to fetch a cup of milk.

Jonet had been but a toddler, living quietly with her mother at Kildermore Castle. The secret had never reached them, or anyone else for that matter. Lord Delacourt, appalled, had seen to that. But when it became apparent that there was to be a child, the elderly Delacourt had married his servant to give the babe a name.

Perhaps he had thought it just restitution for having befriended a scoundrel like the Earl of Kildermore and for allowing him into a home where an innocent young woman lived.

Cole knew it all, of course. And on their fourteenth birthdays, David and Jonet had told each of her two sons in turn. But knowing was not the same as understanding, and Jonet would never understand. And oh, how she wished that David knew nothing of it. She would have given up David's companionship a thousand times over, could she but snatch back her father's deathbed confession.

Had her father believed that God would forgive him if he sent such a letter to his only son? No, Kildermore had helped no one but himself by his actions. He had gone on to his great reward with his conscience unburdened, leaving David with an awful knowledge: that the tainted blood of a dissolute Scottish rogue pulsed through his veins, instead of the noble Norman blood of the man who had raised him.

But life was not fair, and one wasted time grieving over it. Abruptly, she pulled back from her brother's embrace. "Was there ever a time, David, when you felt yourself on the verge of true happiness? What would it take? Can you tell me?"

He jerked her back to his chest and let his chin rest atop her head. It was as if he refused to look her in the eyes. "Ah, Jonet," he said, the words soft and fraught with despair. "I hardly think I know."

For long moments, the book room fell silent as David listened to his sister's low, rhythmic breathing. Against his chest, Jonet felt warm and comforting. But it was not enough. In truth, it never had been.

Why did she torture him so? Jonet knew better than anyone why he ought not wed. His estates, his titles, and yes, even his very blood, felt alien to him. He was not Delacourt. He was nothing. Not noble, not titled, and barely even respectable. Though, admittedly, the latter was his own fault.

Still, how did a man properly explain such an unfortunate bloodline to a prospective bride? What if she then refused him? Or betrayed the confidence? But the alternative was worse. For how could a man wed a woman without being honest about who and what he was?

There had been an extraordinary situation once -- a situation in which he'd been almost compelled to marry because of a dreadful misunderstanding. But as dreadful as that misunderstanding had been, and as shoddily as he had behaved, his actions had not been as intentionally wrong as courting a bride while willfully misrepresenting the blood which coursed through his veins. Not when it was the blood her children would share.

But in the end, he had not been compelled to marry, despite his willingness to make reparation. He had misunderstood, it seemed. They had been victims of a tasteless prank. The lady had not wanted him at all. So he'd silenced Wally Waldron by thrashing him within an inch of his life -- a rare, bare-knuckled brawl it had been -- and continued his efforts to make amends to the girl.

And yet, he'd been a fool, perhaps, to persist when all reason was past. She had turned out to be colder and less forgiving than he had hoped. Arrogant, really. She had insulted him, belittled his efforts, and, ultimately, she'd made him a laughingstock.

But at least he had escaped a leg shackle. And of course, he was grateful. Certainly, he would not now seek another one. It was a risk he had no wish to take.

Oh, he knew -- yes, he knew that something was missing from his life. But it most assuredly wasn't marital bliss. Still, he was thirty-two years old, and the years since Jonet's second marriage had been hard ones, for he'd somehow lost his grounding.

Tucked away in the country with her beloved second husband, Jonet had found true happiness and had begun a wonderful new family. But David, deprived of his best friend -- indeed, his moral compass and the only person whom he'd ever really taken care of -- had found himself painfully alone. David had somehow let himself run to dissolution. And he had done it quite deliberately, too, in some futile hope of outrunning the darkness which chased him ever more intently with every passing year.

He was glad for Jonet. Truly happy. And she was right. It really was time to stop wasting his life. The certainty of it was dawning on him. A man could not spend the whole of his life flitting from one elegant drawing room to the next -- as well as a few less reputable places -- without becoming jaded and useless.

And yet, he felt thwarted, as if an invisible wall had been thrown up in his face by forces he could neither see nor understand. But to whom could he turn for advice? Certainly not Jonet, for she already felt irrationally responsible for the whole bloody mess.

Certainly not his mother; it would crush her to realize the depth and breadth of the hatred he felt for his circumstances. Cole? Perhaps. Though in his more honest moments, David could admit that he was deeply jealous of his brother-in-law.

Yes, he envied the man his quiet confidence and steadfast restraint. And yet, David often found himself aching to talk with Cole -- and about something less mundane than horses,