Read the book: «Regency Marriages: A Compromised Lady / Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride»

About the Author

Award-winning author ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia, in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two smallish sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession, and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking, and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at books@elizabethrolls.com.

Don’t miss these other Regency delights from Mills & Boon^® Historical romance’s bestselling authors!

REGENCY PLEASURES

Louise Allen

REGENCY SECRETS

Julia Justiss

REGENCY RUMOURS

Juliet Landon

REGENCY REDEMPTION

Christine Merrill

REGENCY DEBUTANTES

Margaret McPhee

REGENCY IMPROPRIETIES

Diane Gaston

REGENCY MISTRESSES

Mary Brendan

REGENCY REBELS

Deb Marlowe

REGENCY SCANDALS

Sophia James

REGENCY MARRIAGES

Elizabeth Rolls

REGENCY INNOCENTS

Annie Burrows

REGENCY SINS

Bronwyn Scott

Regency

Marriages

A Compromised Lady

Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride

Elizabeth Rolls

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Compromised Lady

Elizabeth Rolls

For Linda.

Who waited. And waited.

And then waited some more.

She even gave me another contract!

And for all the readers who kept asking about Richard.

Thank you.

Chapter One

‘David—he can’t be serious! Why does he suddenly wish me to return after all this time? Nothing has changed! Nothing!’ Thea dragged in a breath. ‘I am still—’ At the sight of her brother’s taut mouth, the sudden tension in his clenched fists, she changed what she had been about to say. ‘I am still of the same mind—I have no desire to return. What has changed Papa’s stance?’

David’s mouth opened and then closed, as though he too had thought the better of something. Then, ‘I don’t know, Thea. Not definitely. I have a suspicion, but since he didn’t tell me anything beyond that I was to bring you back to town with me, I’d prefer not to say.’

Exasperated, Miss Dorothea Winslow stared at her brother across the confined gloom of their aunt Maria’s parlour. If David’s unannounced arrival in North Yorkshire from London had been unexpected, the news he bore was doubly so. She clutched the warm shawl closer, shivering despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the grate. Twenty minutes ago she had been knitting socks, a pot of tea beside her, quietly content and perfectly warm. Now the chill of the bitter rain gusting against the windows had seeped into her bones and the old panic stirred restlessly.

‘Papa was more than happy for me to stay out of the way for the past eight years.’ She added, ‘He wouldn’t even let me journey south to attend Mama’s funeral. Why now, David? Don’t tell me he wants me to be a comfort to him in his old age!’

David snorted. ‘Hardly.’ He stared into the fire for a moment. ‘He is talking of a match for you, Thea.’

Her blood congealed, along with her forgotten cup of tea. ‘What?’ Her breath came raggedly. ‘But—’

David said, ‘At Mama’s funeral eighteen months ago, several people asked where you were. Remarked upon your long seclusion. Thea—burying your heart in the grave with your betrothed does not constitute a sufficient reason for not marrying. If people ask enough questions—’ He broke off.

She steadied her breathing. ‘I see.’ If people asked enough questions, someone might hit on the truth …

He stood up abruptly and said, ‘Our father fears the gossip. Which is at least part of the reason that he is essentially compelling you to come to London for the Season.’

‘Compelling me?’

David nodded. ‘He has instructed me to inform you that if you do not, you will receive no allowance at all.’ His expression was grim.

Thea bit her lip. And then she gritted her teeth. ‘I can still remain here with Aunt Maria.’

‘He has already written to her—telling her that you are to come to London. Do you imagine she will defy him? She depends on his support.’

‘But why? If I remain here—’

His grey eyes were flinty. ‘As far as our father is concerned you have had ample time to recover from your …’ He hesitated and then said, with an edge of violence, ‘Your disappointment.’

Thea made a sharp movement and the now gelid cup of tea beside her crashed to ruin on the floor.

She ignored it.

‘I see. Of course, eight years is ample time to recover from a disappointment.’ She laid her hands carefully in her lap to prevent them clenching into fists. ‘Especially a disappointment that never happened, according to one’s point of view.’

He returned no answer to that.

‘David, can’t you—?’

‘Damn it, Thea! Do you think I didn’t try to talk him out of it?’ David surged to his feet and prowled about the parlour, his movements jerky. ‘I know this is not what you want, and if what I suspect is true, then in part it is my fault, but nothing would sway him.’

‘And you aren’t going to tell me?’

He shook his head. ‘Better not.’

She shivered. There would be compensations. To hear good music again, visit Hatchards … and apparently she had no choice. But living in her father’s house again …

‘I suppose a chaperon has been arranged?’ she said with forced calm.

David’s mouth twisted. ‘It is arranged that you should stay with Lady Arnsworth for the Season, and that she will chaperon you.’

Thea let out a sigh of relief, but said nothing; she merely knelt down and began carefully picking up the shattered porcelain. Aunt Maria was going to be most annoyed at the desecration of her best tea service.

Aunt Maria sat in a chair by the rarely lit fire as Thea packed later that evening. ‘Certainly not, Dorothea!’ she snapped, diligently folding handkerchiefs. ‘Aberfield,’ she continued, ‘is obviously lost to all sense of decency and propriety!’ She shot a hard glance at her great-niece. ‘However, it is not for me to gainsay him; so, no, Dorothea, I will not attempt to change his mind.’

Along with her back, her lips were ramrod straight. ‘Let us hope that your sense of duty to your family has increased in the past eight years. I say no more than that I have done my best to ensure that it should be so.’ Her tone suggested that she doubted her best had been anywhere near good enough.

‘But, Aunt—’

Miss Maria Winslow flung up her hand. ‘No, Dorothea. Aberfield,’ she proclaimed in the tones of one invoking a deity, ‘is your father, and Head of the Family. It is not for me to argue with him. You will do as you are bid.’

No choice at all. With no money and no refuge, she was going to London. Thea laid her best gown, the dove-grey silk reserved for expected visitors, carefully layered in tissue paper, in the open trunk on her bed. She doubted very much that she would wear it again more than once or twice. What was adequate for the depths of rural Yorkshire would be despised in London. Thea stared at the gown. Three years she had been wearing it. Only yesterday when she had changed to greet the rector’s wife, she had put it on with loathing, longing for something pretty, something pink, instead of the never-ending grey. Now it looked safe, secure. Anonymous. All of which were about to be torn from her.

In the corner of the post-chaise rocking its way down the Great North Road towards London, Thea sat straight and stiff, a book open and forgotten on her lap. David lounged in the opposite corner reading a newspaper. Outside, northern England fell away behind them, every mile, every hoofbeat taking her closer to London …

‘I have been thinking, David.’

He looked up from the newspaper. ‘I assumed there was a reason you hadn’t spoken or turned a page in half an hour.’

She gave him a rueful smile. ‘Was I being rude?’

He grinned comfortably and laid the paper aside. ‘No. I’m your brother. It’s not technically possible for you to be rude to me.’

Despite the roiling tension, she chuckled. ‘Oh? You were used to be rude enough to me!’

‘That,’ he informed her, ‘is different. Brothers exist only to be rude to and, on occasion about, their sisters. What were you thinking?’

Slowly, she said, ‘Papa cannot want me quartered on him in London for ever—even at Arnsworth House.’

‘No,’ said David. ‘He doesn’t. He’s counting on your marriage.’

She twisted her battered old gloves between her hands. ‘It won’t happen,’ she said shortly. ‘He may force me to London, but he still can’t force me into marriage. If I do not marry by the end of the Season—surely once he realises—’

‘Do you think,’ asked David, his voice diffident, ‘that you might, our father’s machinations aside, find some fellow to care for? One who will care for you?’

Leaning forward, he reached out and covered her hand with his.

She couldn’t help it—instinctively, she jerked back, every nerve jangling at the unexpected touch.

Very slowly David sat back, his eyes shuttered.

Silence grew and stretched. When Thea spoke it was as though the words dropped into an abyss. ‘I hope to God that I don’t.’

‘Really, Richard! What were you thinking? Seventy thousand pounds! Of course it was snapped up! And after all my efforts to cultivate the connection, where were you? In Kent!’

With forced patience, Richard Blakehurst listened to the continuation of his aunt Almeria Arnsworth’s tirade. He had heard most of the countess’s diatribe before and this particular version had been running—with minor variations upon the original theme—for the past several months.

‘I wrote to you, explaining the urgency! And now the wretched girl is betrothed! To someone else.’

With a silent prayer of thanks to a benevolent deity for this circumstance, Richard settled himself as comfortably as possible in an Egyptian-style gilt chair built for a female form rather than a six-foot male and cast a considering glance at the decanters gracing a console table supported by a pair of sphinxes. His cup of tea wasn’t quite hitting the mark under these circumstances. It was weak to start with and Almeria had put sugar and what tasted like half a cup of cream in it.

No. It would be extremely bad form to dump the tea and stalk across the Dowager Countess of Arnsworth’s drawing room for the brandy. Even if she was his aunt and godmother.

Sweet, weak tea and good manners were not much to fortify a fellow against a determined assault on his bachelor status. It had been bad enough before, but the betrothal last week of a major heiress to someone other than himself, appeared to have escalated the crisis in Almeria’s view.

‘After all, Richard,’ she went on, ‘if you are not to inherit the earldom, due to Max’s selfish marriage, then you must be established in some other way and how better than—’

‘No.’ Before she could get into her stride again, he said, ‘Almeria—I do not lack for money, so I have no need to marry a fortune.’ The jibe about his twin’s marriage stung. He added, ‘And no one could be more delighted about Max’s marriage than I am. He’s happy. You must see that.’

His godmother’s glare consigned that hope to Hades and beyond.

‘He hasn’t even come up to town this year!’ she snapped.

Richard gritted his teeth. ‘No,’ he said patiently, ‘because Verity is increasing. He wanted to stay with her. Braybrook promised to keep him abreast of all that takes place in the House. He will come up if he is needed.’

Apparently knowing that her other nephew, Earl Blakehurst, was not completely neglecting his parliamentary duties didn’t help at all. Almeria’s nostrils flared.

‘Richard—you must marry. It is your duty!’

His duty? To whom? To what? Duty was reserved for heirs. He’d only just purchased his own small estate. Surely it wasn’t quite that desperate!

He voiced the question. ‘Er, Almeria—to whom do I owe this—?’

‘The earldom!’ she said, replacing her teacup in its saucer with a decided click.

Richard felt his jaw sag. The earldom? That was a bit much to swallow. With two brothers originally between himself and the blasted earldom, he’d never expected to inherit. Or wanted to. Especially not since it would mean the deaths of his brothers. Abandoning the tepid cup of syrupy tea, he limped over to the decanters and poured himself a glass of brandy. He ignored Almeria’s obvious disapproval. A little early, but with Almeria in this frame of mind he needed more fortification than a cup of tea would provide, if he were not to deal her a resounding set-down.

Reseating himself, he sipped the brandy, and said mildly, ‘Almeria, Frederick’s death was a stroke of misfortune.’ He resisted the temptation to emphasise mis. ‘You can hardly fear the same sort of accident happening to Max! Besides, he is married. And Verity is on the point of giving birth to their first child. How the devil can it be my duty to marry?’

‘It might be a girl,’ said Almeria hopefully. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t put it past that … that hussy to present him with a score of daughters!’

‘Verity,’ said Richard between clenched teeth, ‘is not a hussy.’

Almeria had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘Oh, very well, but even so, Richard—there is no guarantee there will be an heir!’

No, there was no guarantee. Indeed, given his twin’s current state of terror over his adored countess’s perfectly normal pregnancy, it was entirely possible that he’d already sworn an oath of eternal celibacy. Not that one should dismiss the risks. Childbirth was childbirth. Risky. But still …

As if reading his thoughts, Almeria continued. ‘And childbirth—why, you never know what might happen!’ she said hopefully. ‘Really, Richard! You are being most unreasonable about this.’

Forbearance crashed into smoking ruin. He nearly spat out the brandy. ‘Max is my twin, ma’am,’ he grated. ‘I have a considerable affection for both him and Verity. You can hardly expect me to be reasonable about a suggestion that I ought to be counting on her death in childbed!’

He noted Almeria’s flush with grim satisfaction.

She recovered and rattled in again. ‘But, Richard—’

He flung up a hand. ‘Enough, ma’am! I’ve every intention of marrying.’

She blinked. ‘But who? There were several eligible girls out this year, and they are, each and every one, snapped up, while you sat in Kent!’ She counted the eligibles off on her dainty fingertips. ‘Lady Sarah Wilding, Miss Creighton, the Scantlebury chit—’ Her lip curled slightly. ‘Trade, to be sure, but one hundred thousand! I suppose one can make allowances.’ She glared at Richard. ‘All betrothed! So whom do you have in mind?’

‘How in Hades should I know?’ he answered with forced calm. Trust Almeria to take him literally! ‘All I can tell you is that I am not on the catch for an heiress!’ Then, with fell intent to end the conversation once and for all, ‘Besides, you know Max. He’ll probably give Verity a dozen strapping sons in his image.’ He watched, fascinated, as Almeria’s colour rose. Judging by the peculiar sounds emanating from her, it was entirely possible that she was actually choking. His baser self stirred. ‘I mean, it didn’t take him long this time. They’ll barely have been married nine months.’

She favoured him with a look that would have felled a dragon and said, ‘I do not consider this a suitable topic of conversation. And if you had the slightest regard for one who has only your well-being in mind—’ She halted mid-flight and drew a deep breath. ‘Well, that is neither here nor there. Now tell me, you arrived yesterday; where are you staying?’

At the sudden change of tack, the back of his neck developed a most unpleasant prickling sensation.

‘With Braybrook, just for the moment,’ he said. ‘I mean to be up for a few weeks though, so I’ll probably take lodgings.’ No need to tell Almeria that in addition to the small estate he had bought the previous year, he was in the process of purchasing a small town house—she was likely to go into convulsions when she did find out. Bloomsbury was not on her list of eligible addresses for a gentleman.

‘And you mean to take part in the Season?’ She sounded as though she held out little hope in this direction.

‘Actually, yes,’ he confessed.

She blinked. ‘Really? Well, then—you must stay here.’

Richard stiffened. ‘Here?’

‘But of course!’ she said. ‘Lodgings!’ She shuddered in distaste. ‘Quite ineligible. Of course you must stay here!’

He thought about it. He preferred lodgings. Much safer. He knew the signs. Almeria was up to something. Something that involved him.

Oh, for God’s sake! As if he couldn’t dodge yet another of Almeria’s matchmaking attempts! Even if it was compounded by his own intent to seek a bride this year. Besides which, staying with Almeria, he might be able to give her thoughts about Max and Verity a happier turn. If she could see that he really didn’t mind, had never considered the earldom his, then perhaps she would become reconciled to the match. Spending a few weeks at Arnsworth House would be a small price to pay for healing the breach in the family.

Taking a deep breath, he said with a tolerable assumption of pleasure, ‘That is really very kind of you, Almeria, if I won’t be in your way.’

She waved that aside. ‘Of course not, Richard. Shall you be in for dinner this evening?’

Richard shook his head. ‘No. I’m promised to Braybrook for the evening. I’ll stroll back to Brook Street shortly and have my man bring my things over, if that’s convenient.’

Lady Arnsworth looked like a cat drowning in cream. ‘Perfectly. Myles will give you a latch key.’

Suspicions redoubled, Richard simply nodded. ‘Thank you.’

She waved his thanks aside. ‘Oh, nonsense, Richard. And you must not be thinking that I will for ever be expecting you to dance attendance. You may not have realised, but I will be chaperoning Dorothea Winslow this season.’

Richard stared. ‘Chaperoning Thea? But … didn’t she—surely she must have married years ago?’

Almeria’s eyes opened wide. ‘Dorothea marry? Dear me, no. Such a sad story … I dare say you will recall she was betrothed to one of Chasewater’s younger sons?’

Richard remembered that only too well. At not quite seventeen, Thea Winslow had been betrothed to the Honourable Nigel Lallerton, third son of the late Earl of Chasewater. As a gentleman set for a career in Parliament, naturally he required a well-dowered bride. Thea had been it.

But Lallerton had died in a shooting accident.

‘I assumed she’d recovered from her disappointment and married,’ he said. He had been abroad himself for some years after that and had heard nothing more.

Almeria’s metaphorical whiskers positively dripped cream. ‘Sadly, no, Richard. Such affecting loyalty! Naturally one sympathises with her, but, goodness! It must be several years since poor Nigel Lallerton died.’

Richard stared. He remembered that Thea had retired from society after Lallerton’s death. Understandable if her affections had been engaged. But never to marry? Had she then cared for Nigel Lallerton so deeply that she had retired completely from society after he had died? He’d not had much time for Lallerton, himself … a bully, as he remembered. He stepped back from the thought. The man was dead after all. And perhaps Thea had seen a different side of him … Still, never to marry …

Almeria spoke again. ‘She cannot mourn for ever and I dare say Aberfield considers the time right …’

The sentence remained unfinished, but Richard had no difficulty filling the blanks: Thea Winslow could not be permitted to inter her heart or, more accurately, her hand in marriage, permanently in the grave. She must take a husband. Her father’s political ambition required it.

‘Of course she must marry,’ said Almeria, echoing his cynical thoughts. ‘Probably Aberfield would have brought her to town last year, had they not been in mourning for poor dear Lady Aberfield. ‘Tis positively unnatural for Dorothea to waste her life because her first choice met an untimely end!’

Something about Almeria’s airy tone of voice sent awareness prickling through him, like a hare scenting the hounds.

‘Oh?’

She sighed. The sort of sigh that would have reached to the back seats in Drury Lane. ‘Naturally Aberfield wishes her to make an advantageous match. Of course, Dorothea is not a beauty. She was used to be well enough, but at twenty-four she really is past marriageable age, and one must expect that the bloom has faded. Still, I dare say she will attract some offers.’

The prickle intensified. ‘You are not envisaging me as an eligible suitor here, are you, Almeria?’ he asked bluntly.

Almeria’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, no, Richard!’ she exclaimed. ‘Partial though I am, I cannot persuade myself that Aberfield would look on your suit at all favourably.’

‘My suit?’ Richard wondered if he had misheard. ‘My suit, did you say, Almeria? I wasn’t aware that I had one.’ Under the circumstances he considered the even tone he achieved did him great credit.

‘Of course not,’ said Almeria crossly. ‘How you do take one up! Naturally when Aberfield wrote to ask if I would chaperon Thea, I thought of you. After all, you were used to be fond enough of her.’

‘She was a child, Almeria,’ said Richard, striving to maintain his calm. ‘I wasn’t thinking of her in terms of a bride!’ In fact, he’d been disgusted at the announcement of the betrothal.

Almeria waved dismissively. ‘Oh, well. No matter. I understand Aberfield has already put out feelers. He is looking for a political alliance to a man of far greater substance, you may be sure.’

‘How very sensible of him,’ he murmured, tamping down a sudden flicker of anger at the thought of Thea being used as the glue in a political union. Again.

Apparently oblivious to the edge in his voice, Almeria went on to enumerate all the eligible men of rank and fortune who might reasonably be expected to have a chance of securing the daughter of an influential viscount. ‘For you know, she will arrive in town this afternoon, and I must be prepared,’ she said.

Again an odd flicker. This time of interest. Aberfield House was just across Grosvenor Square. Perhaps Thea would call. It would be good to see her again …

Aberfield House had not changed in the slightest in the eight years since Thea had seen it. Carnely the butler had a few more wrinkles, but otherwise she might have been stepping back in time. Thea checked her appearance in a pier glass in the hall as David knocked on the door of the library, reflecting on the futility of this even as she straightened her bonnet and tried to tuck a curl back into it. She was tired and travel stained, dusty from the journey. She wished that she could have gone to Arnsworth House first to change and wash, but apparently her father insisted on seeing her first. Perhaps it was better to get it over and done with. Besides, Lord Aberfield would find fault with her appearance, or, failing that, with her very existence no matter what she did. Grimly she reminded herself that even if Aberfield House had not altered, she had. The despairing young girl who had left here eight years earlier was gone.

David’s light knock on the door was answered by a loud injunction to enter. She did so, reminding herself to keep her face blank, her eyes downcast.

A swift glance located Lord Aberfield seated before the fire, one foot heavily bandaged, resting on a footstool. Thea uttered a mental curse: gout. He’d be in a foul mood.

David escorted her over to a chair. He smiled at her and cast a warning sort of glance at their father.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Aberfield shot a glare at David. ‘Took your damn time, didn’t you?’

David looked amused. ‘Next time I’ll arrange winged horses, sir.’

Aberfield scowled and turned his gaze to Thea. ‘Sit down. Hurry up. I’ve not got all day to waste on this. As for you, sirrah—’ he turned to his son ‘—you may wait outside to take her over to Almeria Arnsworth. You’ve no more to do here.’

‘I think not, sir,’ said David calmly. ‘I’ll stay.’ Grey eyes snapped fire.

‘The devil you will,’ said Aberfield. ‘You’ve interfered quite enough. Writing your lying letters.’

A satisfied look of understanding came into David’s face. ‘So that’s it. He did receive my letters before he died!’

‘Out.’ The softness of Aberfield’s voice did not disguise his fury.

‘Go to hell, sir.’

Thea blinked as she sat down. David’s tones were as polite as they had been when he bid their father good day, and she didn’t understand in the least what they were talking about. To whom had David written and what did it have to do with her coming to London?

Unable to quell his only son and heir’s outright defiance, Aberfield snapped his attention back to Thea. ‘Get that mealy mouthed look off your face,’ he shot at her. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I know what you—’

‘Enough!’ said David sharply.

Aberfield’s eyes bulged, but he said only, ‘Suppose he’s told you already why I sent for you? Eh? Interfering cub!’

‘No,’ said Thea.

‘No?’ His colour rose. ‘If I say he’s an interfering—’

‘I’ve no idea why you sent for me,’ she interrupted him.

‘Don’t speak over me!’ he snarled. ‘Surrounded by worthless fools!’ He caught David’s eye and took a deep breath, evidently attempting to control himself. He continued in bitter tones, ‘Well, he’ll have told you that you are to go to Almeria Arnsworth for the Season?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but I don’t understand why.’

He snorted. ‘Aye. And well you might not! God knows what I did to be saddled with you!’ He caught David’s eye again and said, ‘Everything’s different now.’ He swept up a sheaf of papers from a wine table beside him and thrust them at her. ‘Read those—if you can! What a damned mess! Thought I’d made things plain to the fool; but a few fairy tales, spun by—’

‘I did what I thought right, sir,’ said David.

An extraordinary noise burst from Aberfield, but he controlled himself and said to Thea, ‘David must needs meddle, blast his eyes! I’ve no choice; but by God, if you’re to marry, you’ll marry as I say!’

Again she met David’s eyes. This time he shook his head, his expression faintly apologetic.

‘Read them, Thea,’ he said gently.

What had he done?

Leaning forward, Thea took the papers from her father, forcing her expression to utter stillness, her hands to steadiness, despite the shaking of her insides.

The first paper was straightforward enough—a letter from a firm of London solicitors, assuring Lord Aberfield of their humble duty and informing him that it was their sad task to apprise him of the death in Bombay, some months earlier, of his brother-in-law, Theodore James Kirkcudbright. Thea bit her lip. Uncle Theo had been her godfather. She had been his heiress. Once.

She continued reading. The lawyers drew Lord Aberfield’s attention to the enclosed copy of Mr Kirkcudbright’s Last Will and Testament, which they believed to be rather different from the previous one. There were also two letters from the late Mr Kirkcudbright: one to his esteemed brother-in-law, the fifth Viscount Aberfield, and one to his goddaughter, Dorothea Sophie Winslow, only daughter of the said Viscount Aberfield. They believed the letters would sufficiently explicate Mr Kirkcudbright’s intentions and remained his humble servants, et cetera, et cetera.

Puzzled, Thea turned to the letter addressed to herself. Her godfather had not written to her in several years … not since he had written to express his shame and disappointment in her.

My dear Dorothea,

I shall be dead and buried before you read this, and can only pray that your brother has not been misled by his Partiality into overstating your comparative Innocence in the Affair your father related to me several years ago. You will understand that in reinstating you in my Will I have placed the strictest controls upon your inheritance, so that you are not placed in the road of Temptation again. It is not my intention to reward any Transgression, but to show my Good Faith, and give you the opportunity to redress the situation by making a good marriage.

I remain your affectionate godfather and uncle,

Theodore Kirkcudbright

David had persuaded him to reinstate her.

Her stomach churning, she turned to the letter addressed to her father—then hesitated. ‘This one is addressed to you, sir—’

‘Read the lot!’ he said savagely. ‘Damn fool! I told him! Warned him what you were—and he does this!’

Sick and shaking, Thea looked at the letter to her father. And frowned. She was to have two hundred a year? From her twenty-fifth to thirtieth birthday, unless she married with her father’s approval in the meantime, after which she would have the rest of the income … that Mr Kirkcudbright understood from his nephew that not all the blame could attach to Thea … that Aberfield’s foolish attitude … She risked a glance at her father over the letter. No wonder he looked apoplectic.

Her world spun and reshaped itself. Two hundred a year—her twenty-fifth birthday was less than three months away … she would be free. Independent. What happened after her thirtieth birthday?

She turned to the will. Apart from various minor bequests, the major one was to herself. And after her thirtieth birthday she received the entire income from the bequest.

Dazed, she looked up and met her father’s bitter gaze.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘God, what a coil! I told him what had happened! And he does this! Now there’s no help for it—you’ll have to marry! Almeria Arnsworth will find you a husband.’

‘Only if that’s what Thea wants,’ interrupted David.

Aberfield ignored that. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard with fifty thousand to sweeten the deal.’

Thea dropped the papers. ‘Fifty thousand?’

Lord Aberfield snorted. ‘That’s about the figure. In trust, of course. Thank God Theodore retained that much sense, despite David’s meddling. And believe me, I’ll see that you never get more than the two hundred a year if you don’t marry with my permission!’

Two hundred a year until her thirtieth birthday. Thea said nothing, retrieving the papers from the floor. It was wealth. An independence. And it would be hers in less than three months. All she had to do was to avoid her father’s matrimonial plans until then. An odd crunching noise distracted her. She looked up. Aberfield was grinding his teeth.

‘Don’t get any ideas about setting up your own establishment after your birthday,’ he warned her. ‘You’ll be married long before then. In fact,’ he said, ‘you’ll be married by the end of the Season!’ He looked triumphant. ‘Dunhaven—he’ll have you.’

‘What!’

This exploded from David. ‘Dunhaven? For God’s sake, sir! Are you insane?’

Aberfield banged the arm of his chair. ‘Who else would have her?’ He cast a contemptuous glance at his daughter. ‘No point being fussy at this stage. Thing is to get her married off.’

‘Thea,’ began David, ‘you don’t have to—’

She waved him to silence and lifted her chin a notch and considered Aberfield from an entirely new perspective—that of having a choice.

Playing for time, she said, ‘I assume, then, that Lord Dunhaven is now a widower?’

‘Just out of mourning,’ confirmed Aberfield. ‘And looking for a bride.’

Her mind worked furiously. Appearing to fall in with his plans would be far safer. Safer than outright defiance anyway. He had shown once before that there was little he would not do to force her compliance … If she allowed him to think that she would toe the line …

Calmly she rose to her feet. ‘I shall look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Lord Dunhaven then. I won’t keep you any longer, sir. I have no doubt that I shall be perfectly safe under Lady Arnsworth’s roof.’

David’s sharply indrawn breath told her that he had understood her meaning perfectly.

Aberfield’s face was mottled. ‘Just remember: this time, you’ll do as you’re bid. Don’t expect me to protect you if you play fast and loose with another suitor!’

Her temper slipped its leash very slightly. ‘Nothing, sir,’ she said, ‘could possibly lead me to expect anything of the sort.’

‘Miss Winslow and Mr Winslow, my lady,’ Myles announced. His eyes flickered briefly to Richard, with what Richard would have sworn was a look of amused sympathy.

So he’d been right. A trap. And Myles knew all about it. He wouldn’t have been surprised had the dainty gilt chair he sat in suddenly sprouted shackles as Almeria rose and swept forward to greet her visitors.

Richard rose automatically as Thea Winslow and her brother came forward. Then he blinked in frowning disbelief. Could this be Thea? Dressed all in grey, not a scrap of colour, not a frill nor flounce relieved the drab, functional appearance of her pelisse and bonnet. She looked more like a governess or companion than an heiress.

Almeria said, ‘Welcome, my dears.’ She took Thea by the hand and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘Dear Dorothea, do come and sit down.’ She led her to a chair, still patting her hand affectionately. ‘I am sure you are exhausted after your journey. Shall I ring for some tea?’

Even her cheeks looked grey. A pang went through him. Did she still mourn Lallerton?

For an instant their eyes met, and shock hit him as her gaze blanked. She hadn’t recognised him.

But would he have recognised her? The soft tawny curls were doubtless still there, hidden beneath the bonnet and cap. And her eyes—perhaps it was the grey of her gown, but he remembered them as more blue than grey. He remembered her face as vivid, expressive—not this blank mask with shuttered eyes. And she was thinner than he remembered.

He could have passed her in the street, even spoken to her, and not realised who she was. Yet now that he looked closely, in some strange way he did recognise her—as one sees the likeness between a waxwork doll and a friend.

The ache inside deepened. Had grief done this to her?

Thea’s breath jerked in as she realised that Lady Arnsworth had a gentleman with her.

The gentleman had risen and regarded her with a friendly smile on his face. She lifted her chin a little. Surely he was familiar … tall, a spare frame, dark brown hair, his face lined a little … no, it couldn’t be—

‘I am sure you both remember my nephew, Mr Richard Blakehurst.’

It was. Richard Blakehurst. Lady Arnsworth’s nephew and other godchild. Richard with his broken leg. As a boy he’d spent months here at Arnsworth House recovering after a riding accident that left it doubtful if he would ever walk again without the aid of crutches.

David was the first to speak, his voice coldly biting. ‘Blakehurst. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

Richard’s eyes narrowed at this chilly acknowledgement. ‘A mutual feeling, Winslow. How do you do?’

Eyes glittering, David strode forward and took the proffered hand.

‘Servant, Blakehurst.’ His tone suggested anything but cordiality.

Thea felt her cheeks burn. For heaven’s sake! Surely David did not imagine that Richard could possibly have joined the ranks of fortune hunters? Or that he could pose the least danger to her?

Seemingly unconcerned, Richard turned to her.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. ‘I … yes. I remember Mr Blakehurst. You are well, sir?’

The dark brows shot up. His eyes. She had forgotten how expressive they were. And she did not remember him as being quite so tall. Or the planes of his face to be so … so hard.

He inclined his head. ‘Very well, I thank you, Miss Winslow. Delighted to meet you again.’

Panic flooded her as he came towards her, hand outstretched. He was going to take her hand. He would touch her. And she had stripped off her gloves in the hall …

Richard. This is Richard … you knew him as a boy … She forced herself to stillness. But Richard Blakehurst was no longer a boy. Tall, broad-shouldered—despite the remaining halt in his stride, Richard was a man …

Deliberately she lifted her chin. She knew Richard; he had been her friend—it wouldn’t be too bad … Braced to withstand her usual panic, she held out her hand. A gentle vice gripped it. Her breath jerked in and caught as tingling warmth laced every nerve.

Their eyes met, his suddenly intent, even startled. She was wildly conscious of the strength of his long fingers. They tightened very slightly, as though staking a claim, and an instant later released her.

The sudden silence seemed to hum with awareness as she struggled to understand what had happened.

Lady Arnsworth bustled up. ‘Do sit down, dear Dorothea,’ she said. ‘How nice that Richard was here to meet you. It must be several years since you met.’

‘Eight, or … or thereabouts,’ Thea temporised, as she sat down. He had attended her come-out ball. Eight years ago, though his touch hadn’t seared her.

‘Of course,’ said Lady Arnsworth. She turned to her nephew. ‘Although I dare say, Richard, that you see Mr Winslow from time to time?’

‘Not often of late years,’ said Richard, resuming his seat.

Thea tried to listen, nodding occasionally, as Lady Arnsworth outlined all her plans for the Season, which were comprehensive to say the least.

Richard must be … two and thirty now, surely. He was about eight years older than she. He couldn’t really be any taller than she remembered. It just seemed that way for some reason. She flickered sideways glances at him, trying to understand what it was about him that was so different to her.

Lady Arnsworth continued to expound her campaign. Almack’s, of course. There could be not the least trouble in the world gaining vouchers …

Perhaps it was just that he was broader. Yes. That was it. He was a long way removed from the rather slight young man she remembered. She wondered if he still enjoyed chess … He had been a formidable opponent and she did not doubt that he was even more formidable now. Something about the calm self-contained gaze told her that. Still waters …

Only none of that explained why her whole body had seemed to shimmer and leap to life when he took her hand …

Lady Arnsworth preened a little as she listed the invitations they were likely to receive. Once people knew that dear Dorothea was at Arnsworth House, there would be invitations aplenty. And Lord Dunhaven had already left his card.

An odd choking noise came from Richard, and, glancing at him, Thea had the distinct impression that something had struck a jarring note with Mr Richard Blakehurst. His jaw bore a startling resemblance to solid stone.

A glance at David revealed his jaw in much the same condition, which was no surprise at all after what he had said about Lord Dunhaven as they crossed the Square.

Lady Arnsworth sailed on, listing all the more influential hostesses who would be aux anges to receive the Honourable Miss Winslow.

The Honourable, wealthy Miss Winslow. Lady Arnsworth didn’t bother to spell that out.

Mr Blakehurst’s fathomless gaze met hers over the rim of his glass. Thea forced herself not to look away, to keep her own expression blank … Richard had … had grown up. That was all. It had been surprise, nothing more. Nothing deeper.

Lady Arnsworth finished, ‘I don’t doubt we will be invited everywhere. Everyone will wish to make Dorothea’s acquaintance, you may be sure.’

‘Oh, without a doubt,’ said Mr Blakehurst. ‘How could it possibly be otherwise?’

Thea’s gaze narrowed at the faintly ironic tone, as a spurt of annoyance flared, swiftly suppressed. Control. She could not afford to betray anything.

Lady Arnsworth shot Richard a quelling glare and turned back to Thea.

‘Now, my dear,’ she said, ‘should you like to go up to your bedchamber and rest? Dinner will not be for some time, but perhaps some tea on a tray?’

Another strangled noise came from Richard, but, ignoring this, Lady Arnsworth smiled graciously at David. ‘And I am sure, Mr Winslow, that you will wish to inform Lord Aberfield that Dorothea is safely with me. My nephew will see you out. I shall bid you farewell now.’

Chapter Two

There was something distinctly strained about Richard’s voice as he assured Lady Arnsworth that he would not be in the least put out, but Thea had no time to ponder on it as she bid David farewell, and Lady Arnsworth led her from the room.

All along the upper hallway, Lady Arnsworth waxed lyrical about the joys of London. Especially for ‘ … a young lady as well-dowered as you, dear Dorothea!’

Thea could not repress a chill, remembering how people clustered around heiresses. Gentlemen, smiling, pretending affection, while all the time … She pushed the thought away. She would manage perfectly well once she was accustomed.

Except—’I … ma’am, I would really rather not have dozens of suitors tripping over themselves. After all—’

After all, what? What can you possibly tell her that would convince her you don’t want a husband?

Lady Arnsworth opened the door to the bedchamber, an arrested expression on her face. ‘Dozens of suitors?’

It was as though the idea had never occurred to her.

Thea flushed. Was she that much of an antidote these days? ‘Well, fortune hunters,’ she said, following her godmother across the threshold.

A maidservant was already putting her belongings away.

‘Fortune hunters? Oh, dear me, no! There will be nothing like that.’

And the sun might rise in the west. ‘There won’t?’

‘Oh, no … now I am sure you will be perfectly comfortable in this chamber. And don’t worry about fortune hunters. You may trust me to see to that. Why, the very idea! The maid will have your things unpacked in no time,’ she said. ‘And if there is anything you require, of course you must tell me.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Thea politely. ‘Er, you seem very certain about the fortune hunters.’

‘Ah, the girl has finished.’ Lady Arnsworth flipped her hand at the maid. ‘That will be all.’

The maid dropped a curtsy and left. Lady Arnsworth turned back to Thea.

‘My dear, what a sensible girl you are!’ Her ladyship was all smiles as she took Thea’s hand. ‘While naturally your circumstances will attract a certain amount of attention, you may rest assured that as your sponsor and chaperon, I shall be most careful to ensure that only the most eligible suitors are brought to your notice. Two, perhaps three at the most should be quite sufficient.’

Thea blinked as Lady Arnsworth patted her hand and repressed a shiver at even that simple touch. Two or three? What would her ladyship think if she knew that Thea didn’t want any suitors?

She tried. ‘As to that, ma’am, I have no thought of marriage. I … I find the whole idea … that is—’ Her throat tightened.

Lady Arnsworth looked away and fiddled with her rings, turning them to better display the stones. ‘Ah, yes. Your father did mention that—

‘Of course, such things are not quite unknown.’ There was something very odd in her voice, not quite distaste … She met Thea’s puzzled gaze. ‘Generally one does not approve, but under the circumstances—and your fortune is considerable. I am sure you need not worry.’ She fussed with her cuffs, still avoiding Thea’s shocked gaze.

Thea said nothing to this, but gripped her underlip hard between her teeth.

‘Naturally your years of, er, mourning have given you ample time for reflection.’

‘They certainly have,’ said Thea, finding her voice.

Looking far more at ease, Lady Arnsworth said carefully, ‘Indeed your feelings are quite understandable. I found the marriage act most unpleasant myself. But it is our duty. And once you have done your duty and provided the heir—and a spare, of course—if you wish it, most gentlemen will respect a lady’s natural modesty and seek their pleasures elsewhere for the most part. Men, of course, are different. Very different. Now, I must change. I will be out this evening, but tomorrow we will have to do some shopping.’ She cast a pained glance at Thea’s travelling dress. ‘Yes. A new wardrobe is of the first importance! I venture to suggest that you will feel very different when properly gowned!’

And with that, Lady Arnsworth whisked herself out of the room.

Staring at the closed door, Thea faced the fact that her father had told Lady Arnsworth the truth. Or at least the truth as he saw it. And she had the oddest notion that it had not been the fifty thousand pounds that had tipped the balance for Almeria Arnsworth … although that would certainly be the case with most of society. She felt sick to her stomach, thinking of the next couple of months to be spent in the full glare of society and its crowding, jostling throng … all of whom would turn on her if they knew the truth … From nowhere panic ambushed her, sinking familiar claws deep. Her stomach clenched, warding off the striking terror. She forced her body to relax, her lungs to draw breath steadily, blanking her mind. And as suddenly it was gone, a chill warning, leaving her cold and shaking, but free and rational. Free to wonder if she had been completely insane to imagine that she could do this.

As the drawing room door clicked behind Almeria and her houseguest, Richard throttled the urge to swear resoundingly. He could only marvel at the neatness of the trap, as he sat down. A trap compounded of his own good manners. The same good manners that would keep him from strangling his godmother when she returned. Very well, he was fond of Almeria too, and she was family.

‘Quite a coincidence that you are here to greet my sister, Blakehurst,’ remarked David in biting accents.

Richard’s normally even temper flickered. ‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Do take a seat again, Winslow.’

Perhaps he would strangle Almeria. Affectionately, of course. If he lived long enough. Judging by Winslow’s narrowed gaze, there was every chance he might not.

‘You are staying in town?’ David asked, in deceptively casual tones. He remained standing.

Not deceived in the slightest, Richard said, ‘I am. Here, as a matter of fact.’

The silence that followed this admission seethed.

Richard sat back and waited. Winslow’s grey eyes resembled nothing more than twin blades.

‘How very … convenient.’

Richard’s temper did a great deal more than flicker. It smoked and curled at the edges. Winslow’s attitude reeked of protective elder brother, although why he would imagine that Thea required protection from himself was beyond Richard’s comprehension. And there was something else in Winslow’s level gaze: scorn.

‘Can I pour you a brandy?’ he offered politely, damping down his temper.

Winslow declined. ‘Thank you. No. I will take my leave of you.’

Richard smiled. ‘Then no doubt I shall see you again. You will be calling on Miss Winslow, I dare say.’

‘Most definitely,’ her brother replied in clipped tones. ‘If only to keep an eye on all the scaff and raff who cluster around heiresses.’

Richard blinked. Then anger welled up—it was a very long time since anyone had accused him of being a fortune hunter. And even then, at least he had been well aware of the chit’s fortune! This time …

‘No need to summon the butler. I’ll find my own way out.’ David executed a perfunctory bow and left.

Left alone, Richard said several things he had suppressed when Almeria left the room—and a few more for good measure. While he’d known that Thea must at least be respectably dowered, the term heiress suggested a great deal more. And while Almeria’s penchant for dropping stray heiresses in his path had caused him considerable embarrassment on occasion, he couldn’t recall that it had ever put him in danger of his life before. There had been a definite glint of gun metal in Winslow’s eyes.

He took a deep breath. And then there was Thea herself. Something had wrought a change in her that went far beyond years. Far beyond the change from a young girl on the eve of her come-out to a young woman. Thea-the-girl had been exuberant, bubbling over with mischief. Thea-the-woman seemed half-lost in shadow … only there had been that flash of light when their hands met—as though something had awakened inside her.

And as for her blasted, hitherto unsuspected fortune—Winslow was right; it would have the fortune hunters out in force.

By the time Almeria returned to the drawing room, he had managed to reduce the situation to its proper proportion. Almeria was matchmaking. No more. No less. He rose as she sailed into the room, saying airily, ‘I must have forgot to make clear to you that Dorothea will be my guest for the Season! ‘Tis positively shocking how forgetful one becomes as the years advance!’

Despite himself, Richard nearly grinned. ‘Quite shocking,’ he said gravely. Not that he, nor anyone else, would dare suggest to Almeria that she was advanced in years. Although she must be slipping if she expected him to believe that all this had not been carefully prearranged.

Occasionally a little unsubtlety was called for.

He settled for being extremely unsubtle.

‘Almeria—what the deuce are you up to?’

‘Up to?’ she said with a lift of her brows. ‘Why should you imagine I am up to anything? Really, Richard!’

‘Fudge,’ he said bluntly. ‘Don’t waste your breath, Almeria. Instead, tell me precisely what is the extent of Thea’s fortune. I was not aware she had one.’

Almeria looked a little conscious. ‘Her godfather’s fortune. Not the sort of thing one counts on, although he always intended to leave it to her, but after all, he might have married. And it is not a terribly big fortune as these things go, of course.’

The prickle at the back of his neck escalated into outright alarm bells.

‘Just how not-terribly-big are we talking about here?’ he pressed.

‘Only fifty thousand,’ said Almeria with an airy wave. ‘And derived from trade, of course!’ This last with a faint grimace.

Fifty thousand? Only fifty thousand? Hell and damnation! With that much at stake, it wouldn’t surprise him to hear that Almeria already had the special licence in her reticule and a tame bishop in the back parlour.

The suspicion that he had stepped into a well-laid and very sticky trap was unavoidable.

But he could make one or two things plain.

‘Almeria—let us be quite clear. Although I intend to marry, I am not in the market for an heiress, and—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Almeria settled her skirts with a swish as she sat down. ‘Naturally when Aberfield asked that I chaperon Dorothea, I thought of you—since you were going to visit me anyway …’ She looked more than a trifle evasive.

‘Was I?’

Richard couldn’t recall his plans including anything of the sort. Almeria’s summons to visit her as soon as he reached town had arrived several days ago quite unheralded. However, that wasn’t to say that Almeria’s plans …

She glared at him. ‘Since I was intending to invite you—’

The moment she had an heiress staying with her—that went without saying.

‘Richard, you must marry sensibly!’ she said crossly. ‘You need a wife, the right wife. Especially now that you have bought that property in Kent. One assumes you intend to get an heir!’

Wisely, Richard held his counsel. There was nothing to gain from encouraging Almeria. No matter how right she happened to be.

‘And as for leaving these things to take care of themselves,’ she said, returning to an earlier theme, ‘I would have thought the danger of that was made plain by the appalling mess Max has—’

‘Enough!’ He controlled himself with an effort and said in a gentler tone, ‘Almeria, I cannot possibly remain here if you are to criticise Max and Verity. He is happy. Does that count for nothing?’

Goaded, Almeria snapped, ‘And how long can it last before she does something disgraceful?’

Enough was enough. ‘Like what? Cuckold him? Is that what you mean?’

Her colour rose. ‘Exactly!’

He shrugged. ‘Then he would have to cope with it. In his own way.’ Seeing Almeria’s mouth open, he added, ‘Just as our father did, in fact.’

Her mouth closed.

‘Did you think I never realised? That summer I broke my leg and stayed with you here, I knew then.’

Almeria was scarlet. ‘At least my sister was discreet!’ she said furiously. ‘I do not say that I approved of her behaviour, but she did not bring any disgrace upon the family!’ With which she rose, swept past him and left the drawing room again. The door shut with the sort of controlled click that was a well-bred woman’s alternative to slamming it. Settling back in his chair, he took a measured sip of brandy and muttered a few things that it was as well Almeria couldn’t hear. What the devil was he to do now?

He had to wonder if every god in the pantheon had conspired against him. His laudable plan of reconciling Almeria to Max’s marriage was clearly misfiring. Instead of accepting his own delight in the match, the mere sight of him was enough to stir up all her outrage at the ruin of his supposed expectations. Worse, she was now about to fling fifty thousand pounds’ worth of heiress at his head. Although probably not with Aberfield’s blessing.

In fact, Aberfield would probably succumb to apoplexy if he knew what Almeria was up to. A viscount, and a wealthy one at that, Aberfield didn’t have a seat in the cabinet any more, but he wielded a fair amount of influence with those who did.

Almeria was howling at the moon. Aberfield would never accept a match to a younger son, remarkable only for living within his means, his fortune respectable but no more, and about as much interested in a political career as he was interested in succeeding to his twin’s title—to wit, not at all. All Richard wanted was a quiet, private life improving his recently purchased acres and reading his books.

Nigel Lallerton was a younger son. He dismissed that as irrelevant. Lallerton had been set for a safe seat in parliament, supporting his father’s interest. Not to mention Aberfield’s interest. Lallerton’s father, Lord Chasewater, had been an old political crony. No doubt the match was stitched up between them as mutually beneficial. It had probably been sheer luck that Thea had cared so deeply for Lallerton.

Stretching out his stiff leg, he considered his options.

If he returned to the country, Almeria would think it was because of what she’d said about Verity. Richard frowned. Max could look after Verity, but even so, he hesitated to expose his sister-in-law to any more of Almeria’s rancour. Nor did he wish the rift between Max and Almeria to widen.

Besides, Almeria would be hurt if he left. She was actually fond of him, he reminded himself firmly. When he’d broken his leg, she had come up to town and had him to stay as soon as the doctors said his leg had healed enough for him to travel. Not that a twelve-year-old with a broken leg, wondering if he would ever walk again, had been precisely grateful for that, but nevertheless she had been kind to him. Buying him as many books as he could read, insisting that the kitchen made his favourite cake at least once a day. She had even put up with his dog, although she hated dogs in the house.

He grimaced. His own mother, while professing to be utterly devoted to her sons, had attended a succession of house parties that summer. He hadn’t understood why at first … Almeria had taken over. Brisk, no-nonsense and frequently acerbic on the subject of his idiocy in trying to ride that damned hunter in the first place, but she had been there, while his own mother wafted through London several times between gatherings and recommended laudanum when she thought he looked out of sorts. She had invariably been accompanied by Lord Ketterley—he grimaced. Ketterley had seemed such a decent fellow … it had been Max, cynical, rebellious Max, who had worked it all out …

Almeria hadn’t even complained when she discovered that he had inveigled Myles into playing chess with him. Her face when she caught them, though! Three days later she had appeared triumphantly with her other godchild, five-year-old Thea Winslow, announcing that Dear Dorothea is come to stay as well, and she is most interested in learning to play chess … The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked back his disgust at having dear, little Dorothea foisted upon him. He’d taught her to play chess in sheer self-defence.

He found himself smiling as he remembered the little girl who had pored over the chess board, chewing her bottom lip with her untidy curls for ever falling into her eyes. Even at sixteen when she had made her come-out, her unruly curls had tended to escape their bonds. He’d teased her for it … He frowned as something occurred to him; there hadn’t been a wisp in sight today. For all he knew, she might be bald under that ghastly bonnet. Not that he understood anything about fashion, but he could recognise an ugly bonnet when he saw one.

An odd thought came to him—could he help Thea?

Help Thea? An heiress?

Even an heiress needs a friend.

He grimaced. Almeria would be looking for every opportunity to throw them together. Was he really going to be so foolish as to assist her? A memory of grey eyes that should have been blue suggested that he was.

He sighed. It would probably be polite to inform Braybrook in person that he no longer had a houseguest.

Julian, Lord Braybrook, received the news that his guest of twenty-four hours would be departing, with a suspicious degree of sangfroid.

He laid down his pen, leaned back in his desk chair and said merely, ‘Ah.’ Not at all as though the news came as a surprise.

Richard eyed him warily.

‘Food not up to standard, old chap?’ enquired Braybrook in tones of polite interest. ‘Bed unaired?’

Richard grinned. ‘Indigestible. And damned chilly. How the devil did you find out so fast?’

‘Thanks,’ said Braybrook drily. ‘For God’s sake, Ricky! Are you mad? As for how I found out—I have just sustained a visit from the outraged brother!’

‘Winslow?’

‘She’s only got the one,’ said Braybrook.

Richard nodded slowly. ‘I’d forgotten you were friendly. He’s not been in town much the last few years.’

‘No,’ said Braybrook. ‘But he recalled that I was also acquainted with you. You may imagine my surprise when he informed me that you were staying with Lady Arnsworth.’ He shot Richard an odd glance. ‘I was under the impression you planned to seek out lodgings.’

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ said Richard, rather shocked to realise that his teeth were gritted.

‘Of course not. And I do hope you will appreciate my discretion in not informing Winslow that your sojourn with Lady Arnsworth is of such recent date.’

‘Dammit, Julian! I didn’t even know Miss Winslow was expected when Almeria persuaded me to stay!’

‘Then what did persuade you?’ He flung up a hand as Richard glared at him. ‘Oh, don’t be a gudgeon! I know you aren’t the sort to dangle after heiresses! I even did my best to reassure Winslow on that head; but I will admit to a very human curiosity about what possible cause you could have for staying with Lady Arnsworth!’ He grinned. ‘Apart from my unaired beds and the indigestible food.’

Despite his annoyance, Richard laughed. Damn. Telling Julian that in some odd way he was worried about Thea would have the fellow leaping to all sorts of unwarranted conclusions. Instead he fell back on his original reason for accepting. ‘Almeria is still very bitter about Max’s marriage, you know,’ he said.

Braybrook looked rather self-conscious. ‘So I hear.’

Something about his voice alerted Richard. ‘Yes?’

‘I had a letter from Serena,’ said Braybrook.

Richard nodded. Serena, Lady Braybrook, was the previous Lord Braybrook’s widow. Julian’s stepmother. Almeria had long considered it her duty to keep the invalid Lady Braybrook fully apprised of her stepson’s indiscretions.

‘Yes?’

‘Lady Arnsworth had written to her.’

Richard suppressed a grin at the irritation in his voice. ‘Ah. Giving her advice on how to marry you off?’

Braybrook snorted. ‘Precisely. Citing Max as a fearful example of what happens when a man is left to his own devices in the matter.’

‘Annoying,’ replied Richard, ‘but there’s nothing new in that. She said as much to me this afternoon. She’s doubly furious because of the expected baby.’

The blue eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe. Did she also express doubts about the child’s paternity?’

‘What?’

‘No. I didn’t think she’d have said that to you. Obviously you don’t have to worry about it going any further, but she hinted at it in her letter to Serena.’

Richard swore. ‘Is she still harping on that? She said something to that effect last year.’

‘To you?’

‘And Max,’ said Richard grimly.

Braybrook’s jaw dropped. ‘That would explain why Max is at outs with her.’

‘Exactly,’ said Richard. ‘Which is why I agreed to stay with her,’ he went on. ‘To try to convince her that Max’s marriage has not consigned me to poverty, before she says something to create a permanent breach between herself and Max!’

A sceptical brow lifted. ‘And questioning the child’s paternity to his face hasn’t done that already?’

Richard grimaced. ‘Not quite. Max doesn’t want a breach any more than I do, but if it comes to a choice between Almeria or protecting Verity—’ He broke off. ‘You know what he will do.’

Braybrook made a rude noise. ‘Slight understatement there, Ricky. If it came to a choice between the entire world and protecting Lady Blakehurst, Max would consign the lot of us to perdition!’

Richard smiled. ‘True.’

Braybrook looked curious. ‘You know, Ricky—I’ve never quite understood just why Lady Arnsworth was so fixated on Max remaining single?’

Richard frowned. ‘Max never told you?’

‘I never asked.’

He nodded. ‘It was my accident that started it. Mama and Almeria blamed Max for daring me to ride the cursed horse. Never mind that I was perfectly capable of saying no to him, he’d suggested it and therefore it was all his fault. Later, I was supposed to go into the army—Mama insisted that my leg made that unsuitable, and that Max should be bought a commission instead.’

‘What else did they have in mind for him?’ asked Julian.

‘The church, if you can believe it.’

A most peculiar choking sound came from Lord Braybrook.

‘Quite,’ said Richard. ‘I think he preferred the army on the whole. He was a damn sight better suited to it than I was.’ He sighed. ‘And then Freddy died not long after our father. And suddenly Max was the earl. But instead of demanding that he settle down and secure the succession, both Mama and Almeria decided between them that he owed it to me to remain single!’

‘How very melodramatic of them,’ observed Julian.

Richard snorted. ‘I didn’t take it seriously, but Max did. He always blamed himself for my accident anyway and Mama and Almeria had rubbed it in with a vengeance over the years.’

Braybrook’s mouth twitched. ‘And, of course, it’s plain to the meanest intelligence that you yourself are bitterly disappointed in being cut out of an earldom,’ he said drily.

‘Bitterly,’ said Richard, yawning. ‘I’ve enough money for my wants.’

‘And if you don’t,’ said Braybrook, ‘you could always marry Miss Winslow.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘No point cutting off your nose to spite your face, you know. After all, she might be your perfect bride!’

‘As long as her brother doesn’t shoot me first,’ said Richard sarcastically.

Unholy amusement gleamed in bright blue eyes. ‘A risk, of course. Mind you, it would certainly calm Lady Arnsworth down to see you safely legshackled to an heiress!’ He grinned. ‘Proof positive that your game leg and Max’s marriage have not combined to blight your life.’

‘Oh, go to the devil, Julian,’ recommended Richard.

All the same, the flippant advice niggled at him as he blew out his bedside lamp later that night, after walking back to Arnsworth House, as it had done all through dinner and numerous hands of piquet afterwards. A circumstance that had led to Julian relieving him of a vast, if imaginary, fortune.

In the best spare bedchamber, Thea Winslow was probably sound asleep … a thought that had made him very, very edgy as he’d tiptoed past to his own room … It had been a distinct shock to find a sleepy footman waiting up for him. He’d forgotten to keep his voice down as he told the man never to do such a thing again. He hoped it hadn’t disturbed Thea … He pushed the recurring thought of Thea away. Thea Winslow, sleeping peacefully just down the hallway, was no concern of his. Or she ought not to be.

No point cutting off your nose to spite your face … she might be your perfect bride …

Leaving perfect out of it, he had always intended to marry. Marriage had always made complete sense—at some dim, unspecified future time. Apparently the future had arrived. With the purchase of an estate and a London house, marriage was becoming, if not imperative, then at least desirable. All he needed to do was choose the right woman—and of course persuade her that he was the right man. Yes, a sensible, intelligent woman with a sense of humour. She didn’t need to be wealthy, just someone he liked and respected … His stomach clenched—someone who wouldn’t view a child’s broken leg as an interruption to her own life. Someone who wouldn’t mind that her husband had absolutely no ambition to figure in society, but preferred a quiet life in the country with his books and acres, and was happy to remain there with him for the most part. Happy to remain, not self-sacrificing … not complaining that she had nothing to amuse her, and flitting off to yet another house party with her lover—he slammed a lid down on that; there was no point being bitter about the past, but you could learn from it. He added another criterion: honour. He wanted a woman to whom honour was more important than discretion.

Common sense firmly in place, he permitted his thoughts to turn to Thea. He liked her. He always had. She had always been blazingly honest as a child, and young girl, sometimes when it might have been wiser to dissemble a little. And she was loyal—if she had mourned Nigel Lallerton so deeply, he needed no further proof of that. What if she were the right choice for him? The sensible, logical choice … folly to discount her simply because of Almeria’s entirely predictable matchmaking.

She was here in the house. It was the perfect opportunity to find out if she really would suit him. He caught himself—if they would suit. For all he knew, his bookish habits might drive her to distraction. Or his tendency to leave curls of shaved wood everywhere from his whittling. If their old childhood friendship could become an adult friendship and the basis for a successful marriage … an irritatingly rational voice suggested that perhaps he was being a little bit too rational about this, that perhaps he might look for a woman to love … after all, love wasn’t ruining Max’s life. Quite the opposite.

He rolled over and punched the pillow. That was all very well, but if he hadn’t fallen in love in thirty-two years, what were the odds of it happening now? A sensible marriage would be far more … sensible. Logical.

Safe.

His father had loved—and look what that had led to … a totally unsuitable choice. Max had been lucky. Damned lucky.

There could be no harm in spending time with Thea, and renewing their friendship. He liked that idea. What he didn’t like was the memory of Thea as he had seen her that afternoon, all the old laughter and liveliness quenched. A feeling that was not in the least sensible stole over him … whatever had been responsible for the grey shadow in eyes that ought to have been blue—he wanted to remove it.

Hours after going to bed Thea lay waiting for sleep. Perhaps she should light a lamp and read for a while. The strange bed unnerved her … but it was so late. Surely she would sleep if she closed her eyes and emptied her mind. She had become very good at that over the years—keeping her mind utterly blank, refusing to allow emotion to creep in.

But now, back in London, among people who had known her as a child, a young girl—even though her body ached with tiredness, the thoughts and feelings held sleep at bay.

A little spark of anger flared in a dark corner of her heart, a corner she never looked into. From her father’s point of view, her marriage now was an unquestioned necessity. She rolled over and thumped the pillow. She would not, under any circumstances, acquiesce to any match proposed by her father.

The little spark had caught, lighting up the corner. Thea shut her eyes to it, dousing it. She wouldn’t look there. She mustn’t. Better that it remained shadowed. Hidden from the light. If she permitted herself to feel anything again … anger, hurt … even love, she pushed them all away. Safer to remain calm. Unmoved. As untouched as she could ever be.

The news would be all over London that Miss Winslow, only daughter of Viscount Aberfield and heiress to fifty thousand pounds, was residing in Grosvenor Square with Lady Arnsworth. She would be sought out. Courted, flattered, every social distinction pressed upon her.

The thought sickened her.

Money bought acceptance; with fifty thousand pounds, as long as the truth remained a whisper, the past would be ignored by many. Not by all, but many including her own father.

She gritted her teeth. She didn’t want that sort of acceptance anyway. Especially not from Aberfield. Uncle James had shown more understanding and affection for her than her own father. He had been prepared to believe her innocence and reverse his decision to disinherit her. Aberfield had reinstated her only because of the money. It was easier somehow to think of him as Aberfield, not Papa. It wasn’t as though he wanted her as his daughter. All he wanted was for her money to secure a husband of benefit to himself.

A queer thought came to her—she doubted that her money would buy Richard’s good opinion if ever he knew the truth. She could count on his honesty. She shivered, and drew the blankets closer. Why was she thinking of Richard anyway? How could she know what he had become? She hadn’t seen him since her come-out ball.

The memory slipped past her defences. He had danced with her that night, laughing because her wretched hair was escaping, enjoying the ball as much as she, although he rarely danced because of his leg. He had danced with her twice, and then she hadn’t seen him again until today.

She pushed the memory away. Richard would be revolted if he knew the truth; at best he would feel sorry for her.

She didn’t want pity. She wanted nothing of anyone. She didn’t need anyone—she could stand by herself. And in less than three months she would be free. Only … what on earth would she do with her freedom once she had it? She would enjoy it, that was what. And in the meantime she would enjoy herself now. Here. In London. She was not going to permit her fears to rule her life—she would not wait for her twenty-fifth birthday to release her, she would begin now. Tomorrow—no, it was tomorrow already. Today. She would begin today. She had put off enough tomorrows.

Thea arose early the following morning and dressed without summoning a maid—she could manage her short wraparound stays herself. Unsurprisingly when she went downstairs, she found the breakfast parlour empty. Having been out the previous evening, Lady Arnsworth would probably not arise until noon. Fully expecting to have to ring for tea and toast, she was startled to find a varied selection of food set out in chafing dishes on the sideboard, including, to her great surprise, sirloin.

Puzzled at this very masculine inclusion, Thea helped herself to toast, poached eggs and ham, and made a pot of tea from the urn steaming in the corner.

She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and afterwards sipped her tea with lingering enjoyment, wondering what she might do with her day. A day in which she might do precisely as she pleased.

Contemplating this rare treasure, Thea poured another cup of tea. She might take one of the maids and go for a walk. She could visit Hatchards. She might—

Stare at Mr Richard Blakehurst strolling into the breakfast parlour as though he owned it! At this hour! Swallowing her tea with difficulty, she realised that his limp was far less noticeable these days, more a slight halt in the stride than a limp. The harsh lines pain had etched in his face made him look rather forbidding.

Until he smiled his familiar crooked smile.

Which he was doing now, the corners of his eyes creasing in the way she remembered. His whole face lightened. She remembered that too, Richard smiling at her as he clumsily partnered her in a country dance. But he’d always been just Richard. An extra brother. Someone dependable. A dear friend. She didn’t remember that she had ever thought of him as attractive …

‘Good morning, Thea,’ he said pleasantly.

She found herself smiling back.

Attractive? Surely not.

Oh, yes, he was. Even more so as his smile deepened in response to her own.

‘Good morning,’ she returned, confused. ‘Er, Lady Arnsworth is not yet down, sir.’

His brows rose. ‘Just as well,’ he said, strolling to the sideboard. ‘Or you would have to revive me with burnt feathers.’

A giggle escaped her at the image, and with a perfectly straight face Richard added, ‘No proper lady leaves her bedchamber before noon, you know.’

Laughter bubbled up. ‘Are you implying, sir—?’

‘That proper ladies bore me,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s better. You should laugh more often. And stop calling me sir, Thea. It makes my teeth ache. Now, what have we here?’ He lifted the lid of one of the chafing dishes.

She glared at him. ‘A trifle early for morning calls, is it not?’ she enquired. ‘Especially when your aunt is still abed.’ Better to ignore the implication that she didn’t laugh enough.

He looked around, with a sudden frown. ‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

The frown deepened. ‘This isn’t a morning call. I’m staying here too.’

‘What!’ Her teacup clattered into its saucer. ‘Why?’

‘Heiress hunting,’ he said blandly, carving some sirloin.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

‘Absolved,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude.’

Her mouth twitched. She had forgotten his ability to turn the tables so neatly in any verbal sparring.

He helped himself to mustard, sat down and smiled at her again. ‘Don’t blame me. Curse our mutual godmother.’ He took a mouthful.

‘But why are you staying here?’ she asked, refusing to return that annoyingly infectious smile. Smiles like that ought to be outlawed anyway!

He finished his mouthful and said, ‘Because I have business in London and Almeria invited me.’

‘Oh.’ His business was none of her concern. ‘Then—’

‘I am not pursuing you,’ he growled. ‘And so you may tell your fire-eating brother! You could have twice the fortune and I wouldn’t be interested in it! I have a little more pride than that!’

For a moment shocked silence hung between them.

Shame burnt her cheeks, and deep inside, coldness spread, leaching through her, a slow poison welling up. She fought it down, forcing herself to seem untouched, unmoved.

‘I suppose I must thank you for making your sentiments so plain,’ she said stiffly. It didn’t matter. It didn’t! After all, she didn’t want him, or any man, to pursue her. The chill spread further. How had he known? Lady Arnsworth?

Then—’Oh, damn!’ said Richard. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon, Thea. That was not at all how I meant to put it. What I meant is that I am not on the catch for an heiress. Any heiress. Unfortunately for us, Almeria has other ideas.’

Thea took a shaky breath. She had thought—for one dreadful eternal instant—that he knew. ‘I … very well …’ Then his remark about Lady Arnsworth’s plans crashed into her. ‘What do you mean, Lady Arnsworth has other ideas?’

He looked at her in disbelief. ‘Thea—stop wool-gathering. Think—her goddaughter with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds; her godson and favourite nephew, a younger son with no expectations whatsoever—clearly a match made in heaven.’

Her eyes widened as that stabbed home. Oh, God! Why hadn’t she seen it? No wonder Lady Arnsworth had assured her that there would be no swarms of fortune hunters! She took a couple of careful, deep breaths and met Richard’s gaze.

He was looking at her oddly. ‘Are you feeling quite the thing?’

She took a sip of tea. If she looked as shocked as she felt, then he had some cause for asking. ‘Perfectly well, thank you, sir,’ she lied. ‘Er, thank you for your honesty.’ At least he had been honest.

He frowned. ‘Thea, if you think I am going to call you Miss Winslow and stand upon ceremony with you, then think again,’ he said in rising irritation. ‘And stop calling me sir!’

At this inauspicious moment the door opened and the butler came in with a coffee pot.

‘Your coffee, sir.’ His tones oozed reproof.

‘Ah, thank you, Myles. That will be all.’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ Myles placed the coffee pot before Richard and removed himself with all the air of a man removing himself from potential crossfire.

Thea met Richard’s glare head on. ‘Mr Blakehurst, you have been so kind as to make clear your position—mine is similar. I have no interest in marriage to you whatsoever. If you are concerned that your aunt wishes to promote a match between us, you may rest assured she will receive no encouragement or assistance from me. Good day. Sir. If you will take my advice, any familiarity between us will merely encourage any mistaken assumptions! In future I shall request breakfast in my bedchamber. It will be far safer for both of us if we are not alone together!’

She stalked out, leaving Richard contemplating his breakfast, furiously aware that he had displayed all the finesse of a cavalry charge. Nor had he made his position clear. Now that he thought about it, she had always been able to get under his skin with the greatest of ease, deflecting him from what he wished to say. And that knack she had of getting the last word was like to drive him insane.

But at least their argument had banished the shadows in her eyes. They’d been positively snapping sparks before she walked out. As though the waxwork doll had come to life or split to let out the old, passionate Thea … She was still too pale—or perhaps it was just the effect of the slightly too big, dull grey gown.

Muttering to himself, he poured a cup of coffee and stirred in several lumps of sugar. What really annoyed him was that in one sense she was right about them avoiding each other. The last thing Almeria needed was encouragement. She would be having a field day, dropping not-so-chance remarks about duty and commenting on all the advantages of the union—he paused, quite unable to think of any arguments Almeria would be able to advance in his cause beyond the purely mercenary ones. He didn’t, however, let that fool him into believing Almeria wouldn’t think of some.

He didn’t want to avoid Thea. Why the hell should he? They were friends, and how the devil could he discover if they would suit if they were avoiding each other?

Chapter Three

Thea stared at the rose-pink gauze evening gown in the arms of the modiste’s assistant. She loved pink and this was, without a doubt, at the very forefront of fashion, but … She gulped—it appeared to be missing its bodice … and the sleeves consisted of the tiniest scraps of gauze … but the way the light shifted on it … as though it were alive. Delicate embroidered flowers decorated the rouleau at the hem. Temptation flickered; involuntarily her fingertips brushed over it. So soft, so fine—there was nothing of it at all … She drew back.

‘N … no. No, I couldn’t possibly wear that,’ she said cravenly.

‘Mais, mademoiselle,’ wailed the modiste, ‘it is of the finest, ze mos’ beautiful—madame!’ She appealed to Lady Arnsworth who had stepped away to examine a dress length in softest blue merino draped over a chair.

Lady Arnsworth looked up. ‘Excellent, Monique. Precisely what she should wear! With proper stays, of course.’

‘But, Lady Arnsworth!’ protested Thea, ignoring the reference to stays. She hadn’t worn long stays in years. They were impossible without a maid. ‘The bodice!’

‘Bodice? What about the bodice?’

‘It doesn’t have one!’ said Thea. The thought of appearing in such a gown, exposed to the gaze of all—her skin crawled at the thought of people, men, staring at her, leering. Touching her. No. It would be unbearable. But the gown really was very pretty …

Lady Arnsworth examined the gown. ‘Dreadful the way some females flaunt their charms,’ she said, subjecting the non-existent bodice to keen scrutiny. ‘If charms one can call them when they are exposed to every vulgar gaze!’

Thea nodded.

‘It is of the first importance that you should not draw attention to yourself,’ continued Lady Arnsworth. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘As an heiress, there will of course be those only too swift to be spiteful, whatever you do! It is a very lovely gown, Dorothea, but if you do not like it …’

Thea remained silent. That was the problem; she did like it. Very much.

The modiste, her mouth primmed in distaste, cast an affronted glance at Thea’s grey dress, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like sackcloth! and issued a stream of voluble instructions to her assistant, along with the pink gown, which was borne away.

Sackcloth? Thea considered her current wardrobe. Her gowns were all grey … or brown. Discreet, modest, and … dull. No doubt any gowns provided by Madame Monique would be beautifully cut, and the material exquisite … but, did she really want them to be grey?

Sackcloth? She swallowed. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her wardrobe. And there were probably some ashes about somewhere as well.

The old, rebellious spark, dimmed for years, flared. After all, she had never meant to dress in grey for the rest of her life. It was just the way it had turned out after … after Lallerton’s death. There had been no money with which to purchase other clothes after her period of official mourning … decreed by her father, and enforced by Aunt Maria … even a pink riband for her hair had been burnt.

The spark ignited. How was shrouding herself in more grey helping her to enjoy herself? She took a very deep breath.

‘If you please, madame—’ she directed what she hoped was a friendly smile at the modiste ‘—that pretty pink gown—I should like to try it on after all.’

Madame’s eyes brightened. ‘Mais oui! But of course.’ Now beaming, the modiste continued, ‘The colour will be ravissement, of course. It will bring out the pretty colour in mademoiselle’s cheeks. We will put away ces robes tristes. One does not wish to cover oneself in sadness. The pink. Oui—the pink. And there are others, mademoiselle!’ She rushed away.

Others? Thea gulped. What had she let loose?

No. She pushed the doubts away. She might feel alive again in the pink gown. A dangerous thing being alive, but the pink gown beckoned. She would enjoy the pink gown. As for the non-existent sleeves—well, she would be wearing long gloves. It would be concealing enough.

Madame came back, bearing the pink evening gown as tenderly as a babe. An assistant trailed behind, a rainbow of silks and satins cascading from her arms. Thea viewed it all with intense satisfaction.

Her gowns. Her choices.

Her life. To enjoy.

Lady Arnsworth gave an approving little nod. ‘Excellent. Very sensible, my dear.’

By the time Thea left the modiste she had ordered an entire new wardrobe from the skin out, and was garbed in a new walking dress and a pelisse of turkey red. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had spent so much money. And she felt completely different—just as Lady Arnsworth had predicted.

‘That bonnet,’ announced the other woman as she settled herself in the barouche, ‘is an abomination. It always was, I dare say, but it is far more noticeable with your new clothes. We shall have to buy you a new one. Several new ones. Now.’ She leaned forward to give directions to the coachman. ‘And afterwards,’ she said, ‘we shall drive in the park.’

Her old bonnet consigned to a dust heap, Thea found herself being driven at a snail’s pace through the leafy green of the park. Fashionable London had returned to life after the festivities of the previous evening and their progress was impeded by the number of times the coachman was obliged to stop so that Lady Arnsworth might exchange greetings with her acquaintances.

Just as Thea had expected, no one seemed terribly surprised to learn the identity of Lady Arnsworth’s companion; most remembered her from her first Season.

The carriageway was crowded, horses ridden by nattily turned-out gentleman and elegant women, weaving between the carriages, chatter and laughter filling the air as society preened itself. A show, she reminded herself. Like a peacock’s tail. Nothing more. And she wasn’t frightened of peacocks after all.

‘Oh!’ Lady Arnsworth’s exclamation pulled her back. ‘Goodness me—’tis Laetitia Chasewater. I dare say given your connection, Dorothea, that she will call. Nothing could be more fortunate.’

Thea’s breath jerked in. The lady in question was seated in her own barouche on the opposite side of the carriageway a little further along. Elegantly gowned in soft grey, tastefully trimmed with black, the lady smiled and inclined her head.

‘There … there is no connection, ma’am,’ said Thea, her stomach churning. ‘I should not like her ladyship to feel obliged—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Arnsworth. ‘Why, ‘tis common knowledge that poor Nigel was by far her favourite child, and that she was very happy about the match between you. There! She is beckoning to you! Of course you must step over to greet her. Edmund …’ she indicated the footman perched up behind them ‘ … will attend you.’

Immediately the footman leapt down from his perch and opened the door. Thea dragged in a breath as she stepped out, bracing herself to greet the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. It would have been quite distressing enough without the awareness that a large portion of fashionable London had stopped in its tracks to view the exchange of greetings. Peafowl, she reminded herself, were harmless.

‘My dear Miss Winslow,’ said Lady Chasewater, with a sad smile, holding out her hand. Hesitantly Thea laid hers in it, and thin gloved fingers tightened like claws. ‘How delightful to see you again,’ said her ladyship. ‘I think I have not seen you since, well …’ The grey eyes became distant for a moment, before she went on. ‘’Tis all a very long time ago. I am glad you have come up to town again.’ She patted Thea’s hand. ‘One cannot mourn for ever, my dear.’

No. One couldn’t. Nor could one jerk one’s hand away from an elderly lady.

Cold and clammy, Thea managed a polite response, her stomach tying itself in knots.

‘And how does Aberfield go on? I understand him to be suffering dreadfully from the gout at the moment.’ She did not pause for a response, but continued, ‘I found some letters from him to Chasewater some time ago.’ Her smile became reminiscent. ‘After Chasewater died. Such memories as they brought back! All our hopes!’

Nothing in Lady Chasewater’s languid voice betokened more than polite interest, but Thea’s heart raced.

‘Did you, ma’am?’ she said with forced calm. ‘I am sorry if it was distressing for you.’ Of course Aberfield had corresponded with Lord Chasewater … it would have been unavoidable.

Lady Chasewater patted her hand again. ‘Oh, no. Why should you regret what is past? I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on Almeria very soon. Now, I must not keep you.’ And she gave Thea’s hand another gentle pat as she released it.

‘Good day, ma’am,’ said Thea, relaxing slightly as she stepped back from the carriageway.

The barouche moved on and Thea breathed a sigh of relief, trying to quell the shivering that persisted despite the warmth of the sun and her new pelisse.

Upon reaching Arnsworth House again, Thea retired to her chamber to remove her gloves, bonnet and pelisse. Several dress boxes were already piled on her bed, having been delivered from the modiste’s in her absence.

Not bothering to summon a maid, Thea set about unpacking them. These were only a fraction of what she had bought. The rest had required alteration, including the dusky pink evening gown which madame had promised would be delivered that same day, assuring Thea that her minions would not rest until it was done.

Thea could only gulp at her expenditure. In one afternoon she had spent ten times more than she had in the preceding eight years. And that was just at the modiste. She had—she was forced to admit—enjoyed it, once she had let herself go. Not that she wanted to fling her money about all the time. After this spree there would be no need. But, oh, it was lovely to know that when she dressed tomorrow morning there would be something pretty to put on. That—

‘Ah. There you are, Dorothea.’ The door had opened and Lady Arnsworth looked in. ‘Do come down when you are ready. I have asked for tea to be brought to the drawing room.’