Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can visit. Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It’s been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their families, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors Sundays through Fridays from April to October.
Hawkridge Hall was modeled on Ham House, a National Trust property located just outside of London. Known as the most well-preserved Stuart home in England, Ham House was built in 1610 and remodeled in the 1670s. The building has survived virtually unchanged since then, and it still retains most of the furniture from that period. The house and gardens are open Saturdays through Wednesdays from April to October.
To see pictures and learn more about the real places in Alexandra, please visit our website at LaurenandDevonRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest and find modern versions of all the recipes in this book. Alexandra particularly seemed to like puffs, didn’t she? She made three different flavors!
For a chance to revisit Alexandra and Tristan, look for the second book in this series, Juliana. You’ll find an excerpt in the back of this book. And are you wondering if Griffin and Rachael might get together? Their story is included in the third book of this series, Corinna—it’s a double romance!
To hear about our upcoming releases and other news, please sign up for our newsletter, join our Chase Family Readers Group on Facebook, or follow us on Instagram. We love to keep up with our readers!
I hope you enjoyed Alexandra—thank you for reading!
Till next time,
The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne
Elisa Braden
Copyright 2015 by Elisa Braden
Cover design by Kim Killion
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information about the author, visit www.elisabraden.com.
Dedication
This one is for Mom and Dad:
Because when I said I wanted to write books for a living, you didn’t so much as snicker.
Because Mom volunteered to be my first reader, and Dad volunteered to pose for the cover.
Because you still look at each other as though happy-ever-after is the obvious conclusion.
Because you are my very best friends.
I thank God every day that I was born your daughter.
~~*
Prologue
June 12, 1815
London
As the heat of her bath soaked into Marissa Wyatt’s skin, a single thought drifted through her mind, the words like acid dripping a constant stream.
He never loved me.
She should have known when he didn’t respond to her letters, four in the past two weeks, each more urgent than the last. Her fifth and final letter she’d written not to him, but to her brothers. It lay on the bureau next to a vase of roses she had cut from the garden the day before. Still tightly furled buds, nothing more than promises of later beauty, really. The weather of late had been oddly cold, hostile for full blooms.
She glanced toward the open window where the curtain fluttered helplessly in the light breeze.
Why could he not love me?
But then, perhaps the reasons did not matter, only the truth of it. In fact, one might be forgiven for thinking none of it mattered at all. Not the day they met, when his blue eyes had seized upon hers as though charged with some strange magic. Not the heat of his mouth the first time she had let him inside. Not the squeeze of her heart when he had smiled as though he saw the same future she did.
No. It meant nothing.
The tinkling drip of liquid sounded loud in the hushed room.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Powdery blue sky and wispy white clouds were all she could see from where she lay in the tub. Soon, even that faded and glowed in an iridescent mist. Such a lovely day, she thought dreamily, a tear tickling her cheek as it slid down, down, down.
A lovely day. It made her want to fly like a sparrow out that window and into the yellow sun, let it burn away this unbearable, bottomless pain. Let it burn away her flesh until not even ashes remained. All she had to do was let go. Sighing, she allowed her eyelids to fall.
Yes. Just let go.
On the heels of her whispered thought, the gentle lap of the water grew dimmer, the roar of the wind rose up to carry her, and Marissa Wyatt spread her wings and flew.
~~*
June 18, 1815
Hampstead Heath
The pistol dropped from the Duke of Blackmore’s hand with a thud on the grassy ground, smoking from the shot that still echoed in his head.
This should not have happened. How had this happened?
“You—you shot him, your grace. I do believe …” stuttered his second, Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston, his dark eyes wide in the pink, pre-dawn light. They both approached the body lying in the grass a dozen or so yards away. “Harrison, I believe he may be dead.”
“I only meant to wing the man,” Harrison uttered hoarsely as he eyed the haphazardly splayed form of Gregory Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne. “He moved suddenly to his left. I haven’t a clue as to why.”
Lord Tannenbrook, a strapping blond man with blunt features and a grim demeanor, whom Atherbourne had introduced as his second, looked up at Harrison from where he knelt next to the viscount’s sprawled, bleeding form. “Indeed, he is dead,” he said tightly. “A heart shot.”
The words reached Harrison from a great distance. He stepped back slowly and stared at the vile pool of dark blood growing beneath Atherbourne’s torso. It was nearly black. Strange, that, he thought distantly. When there is so much blood all at once, it appears black instead of red.
Harrison had never killed a man—in a duel or otherwise—before this day. This awful, bloody day. He scraped a hand over his face and shook his head to clear it. He had taken a life. He, the eighth Duke of Blackmore, was … a murderer.
Bile rising in his throat threatened to spew forth in violent rebellion against his control. He turned instinctively from the sight of the other man’s body, staggering several paces away to where brambles grew between looming trees. Great, heaving breaths filled his lungs with the smell of crushed grass and moist earth, a respite from the metallic tang of blood, the foul odor of death.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Henry’s mellow voice muttered reassuringly, “Not to worry, old friend. Atherbourne challenged you, and all was conducted properly. Prosecutions for this sort of thing are rare as virgins at Madame DeChatte’s. Which is to say, quite.”
Harrison had always enjoyed his friend’s droll sense of humor, but found nothing amusing about these circumstances. “He is—” His jaw clenched as he stared at the ground. “He was a viscount. You think his death will be so easily dismissed?”
“Yes, he was a viscount. And you are a duke. Privileges of rank and all that.”
A hiss left his lungs and he jerked away in disgust. Henry caught his arm. While the man was smaller than Harrison, both shorter and slighter, his grip was oddly strong, urgent. “I wouldn’t have thought you harbored such n
aiveté, Blackmore. This distasteful situation has come to a natural, albeit unexpected, conclusion. I suggest you accept what has happened and consider the cause of honor as having been satisfied.”
Rarely had he heard the affable Earl of Dunston use such a forceful tone. His friend obviously feared Harrison would follow his conscience into self-destruction. But that would be reckless. And if there was one thing Harrison was not, it was reckless.
In point of fact, he was generally regarded as rather emotionless—a cold fish, and a stuffy one at that. His brother, Colin, had told him on numerous occasions his mere presence in a room lowered the temperature to below freezing. While that was something of an exaggeration, Harrison knew his personal standards of control and strict adherence to propriety could be intimidating to some. Stuffy he might be, and yes, perhaps others would see him as cold. But that was because they knew nothing of what true coldness was.
Reluctantly, he turned to where Atherbourne lay, still and lifeless. Tannenbrook stood over the man, looking bleak as the surgeon knelt next to the body, nodding in confirmation. It settled in then, the truth of what he’d done. Dunston was right. The law would probably never come for him, but a man could not kill without consequences.
He felt a wave of ice unfurl and spread through his insides.
It might take months, or even years. But one day, he thought, pivoting toward the rising sun. One day, the devil would come to claim his due.
~~*
Chapter One
“Bah! The London season has become little more than an exhibition of vapidness. One may choose to tolerate such a display, but only a halfwit enjoys it.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham at her weekly luncheon, a mere five days after arriving in town.
April 20, 1816
Mayfair
If it were possible to swoon from boredom, Victoria Lacey expected she would now be lying on the gray marble floor of Lady Gattingford’s ballroom, succumbed to a fit of the vapors.
“My dear, we will have to arrange a visit at Lord Gattingford’s country estate after the wedding. Capital fellow. Has a pair of hounds he assures me are the finest in all England. Well, I can tell you I simply must see that for myself.”
Victoria gazed at her fiancé’s handsome features—light brown hair with a bit of charming curl, sweet blue eyes with long lashes, and nice, even teeth revealed when he smiled, which was frequently. She so wished she felt something more than mild affection. A single, solitary tingle, dash it all. Perhaps even two or three. But no. He was comfortable. Much like a wash-worn dress, the fabric dulled in color but soft and familiar.
“Since we will be in the area, Dunston invited us to join him at Fairfield Park. His annual hunt is in November, I believe.”
She murmured agreement and glanced toward the whirling dancers at the center of the room. A quadrille. The sight made her smile. The ladies in their pastel dresses, the gentlemen in their dark evening finery. Perhaps she should have accepted Sir Barnabus Malby’s invitation to dance this round. He was a portly gentleman with the unfortunate tendency to emit offensive odors when moving vigorously. Still, it would have been more enjoyable than standing here discussing hounds and hunting, of all things.
“… lemonade, my dear?”
Again, she nodded absently. Over the past month as her engagement wore on, she had adopted a strategy of compliance—just nod, murmur, or in some way indicate agreement, and actual listening was (thankfully) all but unnecessary. Feeling a twinge of guilt at her unkind thoughts, she nevertheless found the Marquess of Stickley—Timothy; she must remember to call him Timothy—a dreadful bore. She sighed. And he was hers for a lifetime. Handsome, tedious, considerate, bland, gentle, boring Timothy.
He’d been her brother’s favorite of all her suitors. And who could disagree with Harrison’s assessment? As a man whose greatest passions in life revolved around horses, hounds, and hunting, Stickley was unlikely to spend his fortune on gambling, drink, and other nefarious pursuits. He was dependable. Much like a well-bred hound. And very nearly as stimulating.
Absently watching a young woman miss a step in the dance and turn red as a strawberry, she sighed again. First she compared him to an old, faded frock then to a dog. Truly, she was dwelling on his shortcomings in a most unbecoming fashion. How improper for the “Flower of Blackmore,” she thought.
She straightened her spine and watched Sir Barnabus give a shallow bow to his partner—shallow because his girth did not allow much more. Unquestionably, Stickley was a prime catch, and her reasons for agreeing to become his wife were still as valid today as they had been a month ago. One: He was young, fit, and handsome. Two: He was a marquess in his own right and heir to a relatively new but certainly respectable dukedom. Three … oh, what was the third reason, again? She occasionally lost track after point number two.
She glanced to her right, expecting to find him there, still rambling on about visiting various country estates during hunting season. Her eyes widened when she found him absent. Now, where had he disappeared to?
“Lady Victoria, I daresay I haven’t yet mentioned how lovely that color is on you! What shade is that, might I ask?” The sunny, familiar voice came from Victoria’s left. “I must tell my modiste to acquire fabric in that precise shade of blue. Why, it quite matches your eyes.”
The bubbly matron who had chaperoned Victoria this evening was round in nearly every aspect: her face, her figure, even her nose was a rounded pug. Shorter than Victoria by several inches—though Victoria was only of average height—Meredith Huxley, the Countess of Berne, resembled a plump, brown wren. But her generous smile and cheerful humor made her one of Victoria’s favorite people.
A childhood friend of Victoria’s mother, the countess had become a surrogate mama after the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore died three years earlier. As soon as Victoria emerged from mourning, Lady Berne eagerly took up the mantle of sponsorship, escorting her to a dizzying number of functions, offering faultless direction through the London swirl. Thrilled by her success as a sponsor, Lady Berne had now turned her full attention toward finding husbands for the two oldest of her five daughters.
“You are too kind, my lady,” Victoria replied warmly, clasping the woman’s outstretched hands and squeezing them affectionately. “I believe the shade is called aquamarine. My new modiste, Mrs. Bowman, is most fond of it, and I quite agree.”
“Mrs. Bowman, you say? Perhaps I shall pay her a visit. Now, where is that handsome gentleman you are soon to marry, hmm?”
Before Victoria had a chance to be embarrassed by the fact that she did not rightly know where her fiancé was, Annabelle Huxley, the countess’s oldest daughter, approached. The perky brunette was accompanied by two spindly, identical blond girls, both wearing a shade of pink far too pale to flatter their sallow complexions. The Aldridge twins. Oh, dear. Stickley might be a less-than-stimulating companion, but she suddenly longed for his return. This husband-hunting pair was focused, relentless, and manipulative—and their quarry was related to her by blood.
All three girls offered pleasant greetings to Victoria, and without further ado, the twins launched their assault. Miss Lucinda Aldridge—the one who always wore ear bobs—struck first. “Lady Victoria, I did not notice the duke in attendance this evening.”
“I am afraid he was unable to attend.”
The girl’s barely-there eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Oh? What a pity.”
Her sister, Margaret, picked up the conversational spear and sallied onward. “I do hope he’s not feeling poorly.” The statement was phrased more as a question. One she was expected to answer.
Resigned to what had become a familiar interrogation, Victoria replied, “No, his grace is in excellent health. With Parliament in session, his time is much in demand.”
Lucinda pressed a gloved hand to her chest and professed, “Only two days ago, we saw Blackmore riding in the park, did we not, Margaret?”
An exaggerated nod of agreement was followed by “He is a m
ost commanding rider.”
“Most commanding.”
“Difficult to imagine anything could bring him low.”
“Of course, when he marries, his wife could care for him properly, should anything untoward occur.”
“Every man should have a wife to care for him.”
“Indeed. Especially one so handsome and distinguished.”
“Deserves someone exemplary, I daresay. Why, I would even go so far as to suggest you might make a fine candidate, dearest Lucinda.”
The girl’s ear bobs flashed in the candlelight as she turned wide eyes to her sister. “Me? I was going to say the same about you.”
Honestly, Victoria thought, inwardly rolling her eyes. I have known four-year-olds with more subtlety. A year ago, when she made her debut, it had taken weeks to realize why dozens of young misses swarmed around her. Landing the Duke of Blackmore would be a coup of enormous proportions. Eventually, she had noticed the threads of all her conversations led back to her brother. What was his favorite color? Did he prefer light or dark hair? What time of day did he prefer to ride?
At first, it had been hurtful to realize her “friends” were more interested in her brother than in her companionship. But once she accepted the truth, it became simply another fact of her life in London, albeit a tedious one. This conversation was a perfect example: The Aldridge twins wanted nothing from her other than a recommendation to her brother that he marry one of them. Which one apparently did not matter.
“To my knowledge, he is not seeking a wife at present,” Victoria answered. “Though, you are correct in saying he deserves someone of exemplary character. Someone genuine.” The small poke was as much as she would allow herself.
“Ooohhh, I was just saying the other day how genuine you are, was I not, Margaret? Utterly without guile.”
“Indeed, dearest. You humbled me with such a description.”
Exhausted by the display, Victoria allowed her mind to drift away from the twins and their ludicrous exchange. All around her, the crowd grew louder, a general buzz of interest moving over them in a wave. Glancing left, she noted Lady Annabelle returning after a brief absence. The girl placed a hand at her mother’s elbow and whispered something close to her ear.
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