COPYRIGHT VIRGINIA TAYLOR
COVER BY LANA PECHERCZYCH
WITH THANKS TO HEATHER HEISTAND
AND
KATE WHITE
BEAUTIFULLY RECKLESS
Virginia Taylor
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
A snow storm, a grumpy cat, a war hero, and a reckless beauty
Nineteen year-old debutant, Rose Darnell, plans to compromise the man she loves, war hero Sir Ian Temple, when he escorts her back to the country for Christmas.
Ten years her senior, Sir Ian, an ambitious politician, has no intention of falling for the wilful charmer.
However, perhaps a snowstorm, two cardsharps, and a grumpy cat, can divert Sir Ian’s path from a suitably staid wife to a reckless beauty he can’t resist.
Biography
Virginia Taylor trained to be an artist before switching over to gain a diploma as a nurse/midwife. She veered again, and worked as a theatre set painter and designer while following the tortuous path to be published as a writer of contemporary and historical romance novels.
CHAPTER ONE
1820
Watching Papa’s study door from the window at the side of the house, Rose Darnell saw Lord Marsh step out. He walked through the garden toward the arbor, placing his hat precisely on his head.
After receiving the expected summons, she made her way quickly to her father’s retreat, rapped on the door, and entered. “He’s gone to the arbor. I’m assuming you told him to speak to me,” she said, moving toward her father’s desk. The wintry weather put a haze of frost on the French doors behind him.
Mr. Andrew Darnell, her mild-mannered father, raised his patient gaze from the stack of correspondence in front of him. “He’s not unsuitable.”
“I tried so hard to put him off.” She huddled her shawl tighter around her bodice, placing her cold hands under her arms.
He heaved a sigh. “Love makes men foolish.”
“Lord Marsh doesn’t love me.” She knew Papa wanted to get on with his paperwork, but she meant to deal with the subject of men asking for her hand-in-marriage once and for all. “Aside from the fact that I have refused him twice, he must have noticed that I evade him whenever possible.”
“What’s a hapless father meant to do when he is the parent of a daughter who receives more than ten proposals a year?” Papa’s expression was one of dour humor.
“Refuse them all.”
“Am I never to be rid of you?”
“I should have known better than to expect any sympathy. Even my friends know how I feel about being sought because of my looks. If I had pox scars, do you think a single one of the those so-called gentlemen would glance at me twice?”
“You do have assets other than your beauty, my dear.”
“Not according to the men who propose to me.” Men who proposed to Rose enumerated her physical assets like her nose, or her mouth, or her hair, or her eyes, without once mentioning that she was sociable, nicely behaved, could sing in tune, and that she could force tears on demand, though the last asset wasn’t well known, for obvious reasons. “I don’t plan to marry any of them.” The lump in her throat stopped any further speech. Her mind qualified her words. She didn’t plan to marry anyone but Sir Ian Temple, KC, who hadn’t asked her, and possibly never would. He’d had many a chance to speak to her alone, but he appeared to be silently judging her rather than worshipping at her feet.
Papa looked mildly sympathetic. “Lord Marsh is waiting in the arbor for your third and final answer.”
Her shoulders sagged. Clutching her shawl tightly, she trudged outside and scrunched over the fallen leaves to the arbor. Late autumn clouds hung heavy in the sky. She made her speech in the same words she had said to him before—so flattered—cannot accept your offer—don’t plan to marry yet. Then she went straight to her bedroom, and sat in front of the mirror, wishing away her misery. Her face was her curse, with a padded mouth that tended to curl up at the corners. Even when she was at her lowest ebb, people thought she was cheerful, but she really wasn’t. She was in a hopeless decline.
She could love no man other than Sir Ian, who, after being knighted a year ago for his participation in the battle of Waterloo, had resigned his commission in the British army and taken his place in parliament. He was a familiar presence since his parliamentary association with her father meant that he often made the fifteen-minute ride to her ancestral home in the country[.1]. Her mother esteemed him and treated him like part of the family. Her friends enjoyed his company, too, though he was a little senior to them.
She tried her hardest not to glow with happiness when he was present, or to show him any preference, certain that he joined her group of suitors simply because he had become used to his young subalterns, and likely missed the company of all the young soldiers he had lost. The war had shattered him, and doubtless the company of her light-hearted friends eased his soul.
Although she had sighed over him for a full year, he had never shown, by word or deed, a preference for her. Her musicality also hadn’t impressed him either, not that he left the room when she began to sing, her very worst addiction, but he didn’t hover fondly like her suitors. She had no idea how to attract him, when the least of her assets had other men falling at her feet begging to be noticed.
At first, she had tried ignoring him, but he hadn’t noticed being ignored. Although she had remained on the shelf for the past year waiting for him to see her, he still didn’t. This year’s season promised to be as degrading for her as the last.
Disconsolate, she wandered downstairs, just in time to see one of her dearest friends being escorted to the drawing room. She hastened after Winsome Carsten, who had more to occupy her mind than trying to devise a trap for her chosen husband. Win was an artist who spent her days with paint on her elbows, her face, her hair, and sometimes even her calico painting apron.
“What brings you out of seclusion?” she asked Win on entering the room on her heels.
“The need for your mother’s macaroons,” Win said promptly.
Rose’s mother stood and kissed Win on the cheek. “I hope you will accept dry bread and water instead.”
“No, Mrs. Darnell. A macaroon and tea or nothing.” Win grinned, safe in the knowledge that Rose’s mother adored her and would have Cook prepare macaroons instantly, if need be.
“Cheeky squirrel,” Mama said, ringing the bell.
“You look frazzled.” Win’s gray eyes twinkled at Rose.
“Another proposal. Honestly, why can’t men take clear hints?”
“Deliberate blindness. I feel for you, dear Rose. It must be quite horrid being adored by so many men.”
“They can adore me forever, as long as they don’t put me through the test of having to give another rejection. I swear I will hit the next man who asks me to marry him.”
Mama’s gaze lifted heavenward. “Please don’t, Rose. You must maintain the family dignity.”
“What a shame you can’t give referrals for other single women.”
“Win! You surely don’t want Lord Marsh.”
Win sighed. “If you could get Lord Langsdene to propose to you and then refer him to me ...”
Rose actually blushed although she knew Win wasn’t interested in John, who had proposed to Rose two years ago. “If he does ...”
“Tell him I’m going back to Kent. I am tired of this weather and I can paint better in my studio at home. I came to say goodbye.”
“I will miss you,”
Rose said with complete sincerity. Her friends made her London seasons possible. Without Win’s gorgeous sense of humor, and even better sense of style, winter would be so drab. “Can I offer you anything to make you stay?”
Win pretended to consider. “I’m sorry, but if a macaroon can’t bribe me, nothing can. Have you heard Della’s latest composition?”
“She gave me a preview a few weeks ago.”
“Poor you.”
Rose and Win laughed. Win always said that Della’s playing, Hebe’s nonsense, and Rose’s singing lost her any suitors she might have, and they said not to worry because her drawing would be the death of them, but the truth was they would support each other until their last breath. “I’m afraid she might be a genius,” Rose said seriously.
“Which impresses you and me. Not Hebe, of course, because she can’t hold a tune. I still haven’t seen Hebe ...”
Neither had Rose. Hebe had married a few months ago, and hadn’t yet called on anyone. “I might have to call on her whether she leaves a card or not.” Her gaze met Win’s. They both knew Hebe meant to drop out of society, but they couldn’t let her go, not yet.
Macaroons and tea arrived, and a few other callers, and the day turned into the same as the day before, except that Rose couldn’t look forward to Win calling again for the next few months. She could only hope that Hebe would give in, soon.
During the following weeks, she attended balls and soirees and supper dances and musical recitals and assemblies, and she had another proposal.
Her life was wretched.
* * * *
Sir Ian Temple scratched at the scar on the back of his shoulder, beneath his snowy-white, perfectly starched, cravat. Damned thing. Scratching was at least satisfying one of Sir Ian’s itches. The bullet had missed a major artery but the reminder that life was short was ever present. Although he[KW2] was dedicated to his parliamentary duties, he couldn’t concentrate on the current speaker in the chamber, who droned on. The mild weather had taken a turn for the worse, and everyone sat on the padded benches rugged up to the eyeballs. Even now, before winter had hit, the place smelled like a combination of camphorated oil, garlic, and sweaty mustard plasters.
The itch persisted and his mind kept wandering to his greatest itch, the need to marry and begin a family. His mother, in her late thirties before she had produced him, wasn’t getting any younger. The dowager duchess had refused to move to London anyway, her priority being the children of his[.3][.4][.5] older brother, the current duke of Templeton. Ian couldn’t keep relying on Mrs. Darnell’s dinners and receptions to manage his social life, which in turn ran his parliamentary life. As a prominent so-called war hero, his major job was finding work for army veterans. The country offered pensions to officers, but the common soldiers still stood limbless on street corners, begging.
He had been fighting for constitutional change and decent wages for all, but the task seemed never-ending. Underemployment [KW6]was rife. The rich grew richer and the war-disabled starved. He heaved a sigh and rubbed where he had scratched. Perhaps he should leave early for the Christmas break and go back home, now. The Darnells had decided to stay and he didn’t care to watch beautiful Rose willfully teasing her suitors any longer.
He left the chamber, morose and tired, and took a cab to his rooms on Clarges Street. His valet came out of the dressing room, holding a boot and a polishing cloth. He inclined his head. “Sir.”
“As you so rightly infer, I’ve had enough politics for the time being. In fact, for the next month. You can begin packing. I’m going home for the Christmas break, and I will be leaving tomorrow.”
“I will begin packing instantly.” His ex-military valet clicked his heels, which never failed to confound Ian. He had the urge to say ‘at ease, soldier.’
“I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be driving my curricle so you will need to travel in the coach. In the meantime, I plan to see Darnell.”
In fact, he planned to take his last long glimpse of vain and shallow Rose. After that, he would make a concerted effort to find a more suitable bride for a man who was determined to rise in governmental ranks the way he had arisen in the army ranks, by sheer determination and hard work. Staying alive was also useful.
He took his curricle[KW7] and his groom, another former soldier, Marty Martin, to the Darnells’ house on Park Street, a four-storied red brick with a columned portico. After asking his groom to collect him in an hour, he let himself be ushered into the empty drawing room. Comforting warmth spread from the coal that crackled and sparked in the large stone fireplace. Paintings of rural scenes decorated three walls, and the place exuded calm. An inviting soft green velvet couch stood beneath the window.
“I’ll find Mr. Darnell for you, sir,” said the young footman. “I think he may be in the hothouse.”
Darnell loved his flowers. He grew them as others grew wheat, almost as a crop. About to seat himself, Ian heard the strains of “Queen of the Night,” one of Rose’s favorite challenges to her incredible voice. Ian thought she had won the battle years previously, but apparently she needed to keep testing.
He’d thought she was rather sweet when he had first met her, but her looks brought her unwarranted attention. Her conceit expanded in the same proportion as the numbers of her suitors grew. She was utterly determined to be noticed. But when she began to sing, the sound and the fury, and the highs and lows echoed the sorrow of a voice used for no purpose but to call attention to herself. At times he had wanted to grab her up and kiss her until he silenced her. For reasons known only to the fool he was, he visited this damned house at least three times per week, but he didn’t always see her. That was his punishment to himself, for wanting the shallow beauty so much that the craving had become almost unbearable.
“Ian.” Mrs. Mary Darnell, gray-haired, slim, and elegant, hastened into the room. “Andrew won’t be long. One of his climbers blew off the trellis last night, and apparently he is the only person who can replace the branch. I told him he is too old to be climbing ladders, but he takes that as a challenge,” she said bitterly. “Men!”
“Men,” he repeated sagely. “If we have a hill to climb, we search for a mountain.”
“If only Rose would stop that everlasting caterwauling. She is giving me a headache.”
“Perhaps I could interrupt her. I can’t have my favorite Darnell in pain.”
She smiled. “I’m just a little prickly, cooped up here all week when it’s almost Christmas and I would rather be at home in the country. Yes, do interrupt Rose. I’ll go outside and ease my temper by telling Andrew for the hundredth time not to fall off the ladder. It has worked so far. He never has.” She disappeared in a flutter of delicate skirts and a trail of her fine woolen shawl.
Ian heaved a strengthening breath, and made his way to the music room. He opened the door to the sight Rose‘s perfect face while in the middle of one of the ha-ha notes. Not a singer, nor interested in music, he didn’t know any musical terms. She stopped mid ‘ha.’ Her shoulders slumped as she let the air out of her chest. “Mama is somewhere about,” she said in a breathless voice. She cleared her throat.
“She’s just gone outside to save your father’s life.”
The light from the window emphasized the perfection of her facial structure. “What is he interfering with now?”
“He’s on a ladder. Your mother feels he is not safe on ladders.” He watched her questioning expression change to amusement.
“You would never imagine that not only do we have a gardener but we have many young and healthy footmen who could climb ladders if need be.”
“Your father isn’t one to let life pass him by.”
“If he isn’t careful, his interfering will cause life to give up on him.” She raised her eyebrows. “Did you want me?”
“Not you in particular, but I might not see your family for a few months and thought I should take my leave.”
“Win’s gone, too. Soon I’ll be the only person left in London.” Her be
autiful lips pouted.
He had the urge to put his arm around her shoulders and comfort her, but he wouldn’t fall for her precious wiles. Which would make him the only man in London who wouldn’t. “Except for your many suitors.”
“Suitors! Oh, spare me. None are serious. If I had a bag over my head, no one would propose.”
He laughed.
Her face relaxed, her eyes sparkled, and she offered a casual shrug. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be easy to propose to a hessian bag. I admit to a tendency to overdramatize myself.”
He offered his arm to escort her to the drawing room, and she returned a smile calculated to break his heart. He steeled himself yet again to her wiles. Apparently, she would allow no man to escape her toils.
He, however, was no longer twenty years-old and prone to suffering a cock-stand at inconvenient times, but he still had a stirring that he could hide under the bunch of his breeches when he sat. If he grew too uncomfortable, he could always cross his legs. He had noticed many crossed legs when gentlemen sat beside Rose, which only said that gentlemen were far too impressionable.
An ambitious man, and he was one, should want a woman who could run his house quietly and efficiently, act as his hostess, and have his children. Instead he had an insatiable ache for this spoilt young woman who would make him her slave if she could. An ex-colonel in the British Army should not be a slave to a precocious flirt.
“So, you’re going back to Kent, Ian?” Mr. Andrew Darnell, her hapless father said as he appeared in the doorway. He settled the tails of his coat into his usual chair, the one farthest from the fire. He preferred to have his loved ones sit in comfort.
A good man, Andrew was. His wife was also a delight, supportive, patient, and good humored. Ian hoped for an alliance as comfortable. “The gardener on my estate has prepared a Yule log for when I arrive back in my country house. My brother, Templeton, and his wife will be bringing the dowager duchess as well to spend Christmas with me this year.”
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