Lord Hackwell slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Shall I stay? Do you not think she should lie down, Mrs. Dawes? Can all of this walking be good for her?” He ran his free hand through his hair.
His trembling free hand.
Ameline glanced around the room. Mary stood nearby wringing her own shaking hands.
Husbands generally made everyone more nervous and got in the way.
Ameline infused her smile with confidence. “Yes, I shall have you lie down now, my lady, so I can examine you. Mary, I will need your help with that. Lord Hackwell, if you could but just have Alton see that the kitchen has started the kettles boiling?”
He tugged his wife to him and kissed her tenderly. Ameline’s eyes clouded and she turned away, setting out her instruments, trying to ignore his whispered endearments.
A new mother was blessed to have a man who cared so.
She heard Lady Hackwell’s sharp intake of breath and turned to see her clutching her husband’s arm.
His jaw tightened and his face paled. “I’m staying, love.”
“Mary.” Ameline signaled the maid, who hurried over. “My lord, the pain is quite normal. It is merely the body pushing the baby out, and it takes quite a bit of it to accomplish the task. Did not Mrs. Crawford explain? There now, my lady, Mary will help you to the bed, and I’ll have a look at this wee one.”
When Hackwell stayed frozen, she leaned closer. “Sir.”
His gaze tracked the maid leading his wife to the big tester bed.
“My lord.” Ameline edged even closer. “Your nerves will make this harder for her,” she whispered.
“Ameline is right,” Lady Hackwell called, her voice surprisingly strong. “I shall be fine. Don’t worry, Steven. Go and chat with Lord Wallenford.”
Wallenford. The room around went as grey, as if the fog had been sucked in through the fireplace. Ameline blinked away black spots and clutched the edge of a nearby table, her heart pounding wildly.
When she’d recovered her breath, Lord Hackwell was gone, and two pairs of eyes watched her, startled and round.
Heat rose in her, and she forced her hands to unclench. She must pull herself together. Her nerves would make everything harder. Beastly Wallenford didn’t matter. Only Lady Hackwell and her babe mattered.
Wallenford was a guest of the Hackwells—a friend of the Hackwells. Oh, yes, he was very good at making friends, very personable, very kind. She must do her job, and then she and her girls would leave, as quickly and quietly as possible.
Available in paperback and Kindle from Amazon
Liliana’s Letter
Finalist, 2015 National Reader’s Choice Award
Havenlock Press
The Matchmaker Meets the Matchbreaker
Liliana Ashford’s future as a professional chaperone depends on her wealthy charge’s successful marriage, but her own close encounter with a scoundrel years ago makes her determined to save the girl from the same kind of rogue.
Chapter One
Miss Liliana Ashford understood duty, and so did her seventeen-year-old charge, Katherine Mercer.
Out of duty, Liliana would put herself out of this quite comfortable, quite respectable situation. Worse, though, she would usher Katie into the life Mr. Mercer was arranging for her, a life that only love could make bearable.
Whether love would appear was, as yet, still very much in question.
Blasted duty. She hurried Katie to the liveried groom waiting beside the girl's tasteful town coach and climbed in behind her, grateful for their escape from Lady Warefield’s chattering. The scrubbed steps and polished knocker of the Warefield's Portland stone townhouse had welcomed many a fashionable visitor to Berkeley Square. Just not on this day. Today, it had been Liliana and Katie receiving the hostess’s undivided attention.
The horses stepped out and pulled them past several ornate doorways before Katie spoke. "I thought Lady Warefield would never let us go." She settled against the coach's burgundy-upholstered squab. "Whatever could she have been thinking? And we, her only callers. I was ever so amazed that no one else paid a visit. Is she not one of the hautest of the haut ton?"
She giggled into her hand then raised her eyebrows in the shocked look Liliana had been trying to discourage. Her job was to make Katie socially acceptable to her betters, as bland as the rest of this season's crop of debutantes.
"My gloves, Liliana! What will Lady Warefield think of me? Oh, how could I have forgotten them? The footman handed me my pelisse, but not my gloves. Mama sent all the way to Paris for those gloves."
Lady Warefield had gabbed and chattered and bent their ears, reeling them repeatedly back from a graceful exit. If the footman forgot Katie's gloves, it was probably by instruction.
"Katherine Mercer." Liliana smiled, softening the scold. "We must have no tears, else your eyes will be puffy and red for the rout at Lady Sheffield's tonight." Tears would be evidence of feelings.
The girl squeezed her lips together and nodded. Another bad habit Liliana should remind her of, but not today.
Liliana rapped for the coach to stop. "I'll retrieve the errant gloves and walk home. You will continue directly there in the charge of your coachman and groom, and then you must have a lie-down so you are well-rested for tonight."
Katie's face lit. "I shall stretch out with Mama and nap with her."
She patted the girl's delicate cheek, so pale in comparison to her dark hair and vivid blue eyes. Her coloring was all the fashion. She would be one of this season’s Incomparables, if Liliana had any say in the matter. "That is an excellent plan."
Katie's lips curved up in the smile that always sparked a light in her eyes and turned her face aglow. Her fine porcelain beauty, her good nature, and that smile—limited to private moments, of course—would, Liliana fervently hoped, win her future husband's love.
Not that she needed beauty to win the husband. Her marriage portion, and her father's indomitable will, would settle that matter. What Katie didn't have—a title and perpetual membership among the hautest of the haut ton—that, her husband would provide.
Katie was beautiful, and biddable, and rich. Liliana had seen immediately, the task of bringing the girl out into society would take almost no effort at all.
Liliana spoke with the groom, and sent the coach on. They'd gone but a few blocks, and it was a fine day, on this fine street in Mayfair, not so far from the Mercer's townhouse. She could roam for a few moments in blessed freedom, not something she’d had much of in the past ten years.
In minutes, she was back at Lady Warefield's door, and with the smallest of vails drawn from her own purse, she persuaded the footman to return Katie's gloves. The deduction from her meager bank account would not be reimbursed, but to have the girl return, as her ladyship had no doubt connived, was out of the question.
She rolled her shoulders back and stood taller. One had to set limits on careless suitors. Cousin Alice had drummed that standard into Liliana during her daily lectures.
Not that Katie had been expecting to meet a suitor today. The girl was being shielded from the plans for her future.
Such secrecy wasn't right. The matter was becoming a weight on Liliana's conscience. She herself would tell Katie the name of her intended, if only she knew it.
As Lady Warefield's front door closed behind her, Liliana noticed a coach drawn up in front, its gleaming panels crested with an unfamiliar coat of arms. A gentleman stepped out and moved along the horses to the front of the team.
Her stomach knotted, and an ache started between her shoulders. This must be the titled man Katie was supposed to meet all unexpectedly today. His height, his broad shoulders, his fair hair under the tall beaver hat, all sent warning bells clanging.
A man that handsome would be trouble. A man that handsome had been trouble for her once.
She eased in a breath. This was not Colin. Colin was long gone.
The gentleman loomed over a servant who gripped the halter of the exquisite wheele
r. "By God, Johnson, you knew your instructions. I'll have none of your excuses." He clenched his gloved hands.
His voice carried all the way to the townhouse steps. Liliana bristled, grasping the strings of her reticule tighter. Not even Mr. Mercer, a man made by trade, would upbraid a servant so audibly on the street like this.
"Aye, my lord."
The laconic voice held no alarm, and wasn't that worse? His servants did not respect him.
As she came down the steps, the gentleman turned. Blue eyes, of a startlingly bright shade, speared her.
That knot in her stomach danced, and she sucked a breath into her tightening chest. She'd expected—well, what had she expected? This lord was much older than Katie—that was not unusual. But Liliana had expected him to be more like the other aristocrats of his age—balding, portly, and full of himself.
Indeed, he had that last attribute. Otherwise, he was still very fit in his well-cut clothes, and quite handsome.
Handsome, and ill-mannered, and perhaps under that hat, a bald spot was lurking.
His eyes lit with interest and his hand went to the brim of his hat. She sent him a curt nod and hurried on, his gaze burning her back. She dare not turn and look.
A shiver went through her. Had she been rude? No one must know she was a fraud, an impulsive Ashford masquerading as the staid, refined spinster crafted by Cousin Alice. Years of determined mentoring had tempered her rashness, but she still felt a reckless twinge now and again, especially where a young woman’s happiness was at stake.
She must see Katie well-married, and then find another suitable position for herself. At nine and twenty, even putting aside her poverty, she was too old for marriage. And God knew her only living relative would be of no help.
She traced her way down the street, thinking. No, she hadn't been rude. He’d tipped his hat to her, but heavens, it would have been forward to speak, since they'd not had a proper introduction. If this handsome brute was Katie's suitor, they would have that introduction in two days, at the Kirchford Ball, where, Mr. Mercer had hinted an announcement would be made.
Or, perhaps this lord would appear at the rout tonight, anxious to lay eyes on his future bride—his sweet, delicate, and very, very rich future bride.
Dear Katie. That man would bully her dreadfully, just like he'd done to his servant.
Dodging puddles from the recent rain, she walked on. In the park, early spring bulbs had poked through the ground, preparing to burst into bloom. Her only hope was the promise Mrs. Mercer had extracted from her husband—Katie must approve the man fixed for her.
And before Katie approved, she, Liliana Ashford, would make sure he was worthy. London was full of titled bachelors and widowers with pockets to let. Someone else would do for this Smithfield Bargain Mr. Mercer was negotiating.
Though likely, if she used her influence with Katie to challenge Mr. Mercer’s choice, she'd be packing her trunk and heading for some heathen outpost in Scotland. Or perhaps Jersey. Cousin Alice had once threatened to send her to Jersey.
As she neared the end of the square, she heard the rattle of a coach and turned to look. The same beautiful bays swung their heads proudly, and the man called Johnson, perched on the back, lifted his hat to her.
A leering, bleary-eyed face reared up in the coach window. "Ho, lovey, let me give you a ride." He pounded for the driver to stop, but the coachman did not so much as slow down. His shout became fierce, the bellow carrying across the square. The horses picked up their feet, and the coach darted into the next street.
Heart pounding, she stopped dead, prickles of anger crawling up her legs. That roaring fool in the escutcheoned carriage was as fair-haired and blue-eyed as the angry man she’d seen on the street. They were related. And if that drunken oaf was the man they were pairing with Katie, well, she would...she would...
Her whole body stiffened. Bugger her future—she would see to Katie's happiness.
George Tilden, Baron Grigsby, doffed his hat to the woman who'd just exited Lady Warefield's. Dark-haired and pretty, she met the description of the future bride.
She was no green girl, though, and not as petite as he'd been led to believe. That was probably a good thing. In the life being planned for her, strength and maturity would be a plus. Perhaps she could introduce some good sense into the Hackwell line. His own sister had certainly not succeeded in doing so.
He watched her move down the street, quick and graceful, and quite eager to be away from him. A quiet curse escaped him. This duty was one he couldn't help but hate.
"Was that her, milord?" Johnson moved up next to him.
"You are too forward, man." He muttered another curse. Her tense nod had held an excess of courtesy and a good dose of disapproval. Perhaps she'd heard him chastise Johnson, or else...
He turned. No, Thomas had passed out in the coach, his head thrown back, his mouth open like a flycatcher's. Grigsby had seen the lady just in time to move between her and a possible insult. Pulling Thomas out of yet another vile hell had caused this tardiness.
"I apologize, Johnson. I suspect you did your best with his lordship."
"Begging your pardon, milord, his men—”
"I know." The Earl of Hackwell's coachman and footman had themselves been thumping drunk. "Get him home. I'll manage without my coach."
The lady had almost reached the end of the square. She bore herself like a gentlewoman, but on second glance, he decided her dress was too plain for her to be Mercer’s daughter. Mercer was no Puritan. The wealthy, social-climbing daughter of this industrialist would be drowning in laces and frills. The future bride might still be here, in Lady Warefield's drawing room.
He straightened his hat and went up the stairs.
Chapter Two
"You are late."
Grigsby winced at the reprimand. The Countess of Warefield had never been one to mince words.
"Do you know how difficult these negotiations have been?" she went on.
He studied the tea tray. Three cups had been used. "As I have had three meetings with the father of the bride, yes, I do know. Mr. Mercer is as direct and impatient as you are, cousin."
"Pah. And where was Thomas this time?" Shaking her head, she waved a hand. "No, do not tell me. I will not want to hear it."
Outside, sun lit the square and the walkers taking advantage of the clear afternoon. How he longed to be out there himself. "I found it necessary to send him home. The lady is gone?"
"She just left. She will be at Lady Sheffield's tonight. You will do well to attend."
"Perhaps." He would rather poke out his eye than attend a rout at Lady Sheffield's. Besides, he had a new book on the latest Egyptian discoveries waiting in his library.
"And persuade Thomas to go."
"No." Thomas would need at least twenty-four hours to be human again. "I have extracted his sacred promise as a gentleman to be at the Kirchford Ball tomorrow night."
Thomas's credentials as a gentleman might be questionable, but the Kirchfords smiled upon high stakes in their card room. His nephew would come.
"And while there, he must dance attendance on her. I tell you, Grigsby, her blood may have the scent of the warehouse, but her money can buy a great deal of perfume, and she is a pretty little thing." She lifted an eyebrow and smiled. "If Thomas fails, you might have a go at the match yourself."
His back stiffened. Gad, his cousin was crass. He turned a cold gaze on her, but of course she didn't notice. Once an idea took hold, she could be single-minded.
"It has been a whole year. You have no heir. You must remarry."
Even if Mercer had not made it clear it was Hackwell he wanted, Grigsby would have had no interest in the girl. "Think you that Mercer would look lower than an Earl? Not with the prize he is offering. And besides, the chit is young enough to be my daughter."
She snorted and hovered a hand over the biscuit plate. "Most men would think that a good attribute. Come, you are not still mourning Cora?"
He kept his
face carefully neutral. The death of his wife had been shocking and unexpected, a sudden and powerful bout of influenza felling the quiet woman who, even after a string of miscarriages, had dutifully allowed him into the marriage bed now and then. He had mourned her death as he should, but it had not really touched his heart, much like their marital union.
"She is as still as a potted plant when she is nervous."
His cousin, of course, had not waited for an answer. She had returned to the subject of Katherine Mercer.
"I noticed that about her at the balls. Dances beautifully, in spite of her nerves. After you are married and she produces your heir, you may send her out with her young beaux and retire to your club."
He narrowed his gaze. “Cousin—”
"Do you think Thomas will come up to scratch? I think he shall drink himself into the grave. Or into a duel, and from there into the grave, and you will have to send for his brother to find the rich wife that will save the house of Hackwell. But by that time, mark my word, Katherine Mercer will be taken." She patted his hand. "Hackwell needs an infusion of money."
As did she. He wondered how grateful Mercer would be in the end to her.
"If Thomas will not do his duty, you know you will end up having to help him. You have plenty of money, but why not marry more? And she is young enough for you to beget as many children as the King himself."
After several more minutes of this line of persuasion, he extracted himself and retrieved his hat.
The same footman who had admitted him lingered in the hall to usher him out.
"The lady who left here just before I arrived, do you know her name?"
The man's eyes narrowed, and he colored a bit. "She came for Miss Mercer's gloves."
He lifted an eyebrow. The man was dodging, the cheeky bastard. The Warefields ran a very loose ship. "She was not Miss Mercer?"
"No, milord."
As he mused on this tidbit, he passed the footman a coin.
The servant inclined his head and said in a hushed voice, "Her card said she was Miss Liliana Ashford."
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 29