“You did indeed mention it,” admitted Gray, who planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead and touched the downy head of his newborn daughter.
“We have selected a name, Tess.” He gazed proudly at mother and daughter. “We shall call her Grace.”
“Grace?” Olivia smiled. “Of course, after your mother!”
Gray nodded, gazing down at his wife and infant daughter. “After my mother.”
Maggie thought her heart would burst with happiness. They were a family. She and Gray and Sean and Grace. And all those they loved were present in them. She reached for Gray’s hand. He lifted it to plant a kiss on her fingers.
She returned the love in his eyes. “Do you remember?” she whispered. Her thoughts flew back to the other time he’d placed a newborn baby in her arms. How desperate and alone she had been, but this man changed everything. Because of him she had a home, a family, a son, and now a daughter.
His eyes shimmered with moisture. “Maggie,” he murmured. One corner of his mouth lifted in the kind of half smile that always set her heart aflutter. “Will you next be asking for meat pasties and ale?”
About the Author
When Diane Perkins was a little girl she thought everyone had stories filling their heads. It never occurred to her to write down her stories, even though she loved reading, especially reading Historical Romance. Instead she spent a career as a county mental health therapist helping other people craft real happy endings. It took a lull in Diane’s busy life for her to finally put fingers to the keyboard and bring her stories to life. Once started she never looked back, even going on to win the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart Award, the Royal Ascot, and other romance writing prizes. She now writes Regency Historical Romance full-time. Happily married and the mother of a grown daughter and son, she and her husband live in Northern Virginia with three very ordinary house cats. Diane would love to hear from you. Contact her through her web site at www.dianeperkins.us
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THE MARRIAGE BARGAIN
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Chapter ONE
Spring, 1816
Mist still clung to the grass in a field on the outskirts of London, near the Uxbridge Road. Only the barest peek of dawn glimmered on the horizon. Spencer Keegan paced the length of the field and back, mist swirling around his feet like smoke above a cauldron.
“This is utter nonsense, Spence.” His friend Blake’s voice sounded crisp and clear in the damp air. It was also filled with exasperation.
Spence turned to him. “Nonsense it may be, sir, but the idiot accused me of cheating. What else was I to do but call him out?” He gave a wry grin. “You are my second. You were supposed to avoid settling the matter on the field of honor.”
Blake shook his head. “Damnedest thing, Spence. There was no reasoning with these fellows.”
As the heavy dew clinging to the blades of grass seeped into his boots, Spence crossed over to where Blake waited with their other friend Wolfe. Who else but these two men would have stood by him through this foolishness? At this ungodly hour as well.
Spence looked at them, Blake rocking on his heels, hands in his coat pockets, Wolfe pacing back and forth at the edge of the road, checking every two seconds to see if a coach was coming. Spence saw not the tall, imposing ex-soldiers they were, but the young, skinny lads he’d befriended at Eton. He grinned again, this time at the memory of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with these two against larger, older bullies. And of sitting in the dark, risking discovery from the matron for not being abed, naming themselves The Ternion, one plus one plus one, stronger together than apart. Even Napoleon, the biggest bully of them all, had been unable to vanquish them.
Wolfe, still searching the fog-filled road, walked up to where Spence and Blake stood. Spence glanced from one to the other. Theobold Blakewell, Viscount Blakewell, with his impeccable breeding and handsome good looks that never failed to make the ladies swoon. Gideon Wolfe, as dark as Blake was fair, the son of an East India Company nabob and a half-Indian mother, always ready to fight anyone who dared take issue with that fact. And finally Spence himself, the reluctant Earl of Kellworth, resisting the use of his title ever since the reckless accident that caused his brother’s death eight years before.
Spence laughed out loud. The Ternion stood shoulder to shoulder this day because of one foolish young cub who dared accuse Spence of cheating at cards. That night, the whole of White’s game room had pleaded with young Lord Esmund to render an apology to Spence. Blake and Wolfe had demanded it. But Esmund, looking as frightened as a cornered fox, with hair every bit as red, had shaken his head like a willful child, refusing to retract his ill-conceived words. And Spence, feeling a leaden dismay, had been left with no other choice but to call Esmund out to this duel at dawn.
Wolfe turned to Spence with a furrowed brow. “The youngling cannot have any skill with the pistol.”
Spence, on the other hand, had had almost a decade of war during in which to hone his skill, but that need not be said.
“As we all well know,” agreed Spence.
Blake slapped Spence on the shoulder. “You might actually hit the fellow and kill him, you know. Then what? We all dash off to the Continent before you are hung for murder?” Blake gave him a teasing expression. “I have had my fill of France, Spence, old fellow. I pray you will delope.”
“Shoot into the air?” Spence pretended to bristle. “I cannot so dishonor myself. I shall simply have to miss my target.”
For all his levity, Spence’s gut twisted painfully at the unlikely prospect that he might draw the blood of that foolish pup. Spence had spilled the life’s blood of many an enemy, but this mere boy was not that. Esmund was nothing to him. Still, he did not desire the burden of ending a young life merely for the preservation of his good name.
Besides, he no more relished fleeing to the Continent than Blake did. Why, the Ternion had just begun to sample London’s delights. There were sport, gambling, drink, and women aplenty left to enjoy.
Spence set his chin in resolve. He would simply use his skill to make it appear as if he aimed directly at Esmund’s vitals. With any luck, the pistol ball would not go wayward and accidentally kill the fellow.
“You could kill him, Spence.” Wolfe’s voice was as serious as Blake’s had been jesting.
Spence almost smiled. How like Wolfe to read his thoughts and perceive his worry.
“I shall try my best to miss him.” Spence patted his friend’s arm.
The Ternion were still young and unfettered, Spence thought. At least Blake and Wolfe were unfettered, and Spence had arranged his responsibilities in a way that very nearly demanded no attention at all. It was only a matter of time before they must change. Eventually Blake and Wolfe would marry and set up their nurseries.
Oftentimes Spence considered telling Blake and Wolfe about his own wife, residing safely at Kellworth Hall, but his friends had never understood his decisions about his inheritance, his title or his property. His friends would never understand the bargain he and Emma had made.
“I have examined the pistols.” Blake’s voice cut through the sad turn of Spence’s thoughts like his boots had split the mist. “An extremely fine set. Made by Manton.”
Blake, as any good second ought, had negotiated all aspects of the duel, especially the pistols. He lifted a finger and shook it at Spence. “What foxes me is where a nodcock like Esmund would acquire such a pair.”
Spence goodnaturedly pushed Blake’s arm aside. “Devil if I know.”
“I insisted upon firing them both,” Blake went on. Blake had been meticulous about the duel, as meticulous as he was about the tailoring of his coat or the cleanliness of his linen. Blake tugged at the snow white cuffs of his shirt. “Seems to me both pistols pulled to the left.”
Perhaps Blake was succumbing to a fit of nerves, Spence thought, because this must have been the fifth time
he’d mentioned the pistols pulling to the left. Spence bit down the impulse to tease his friend about turning soft after only a month of civilian life.
As in all else, the Ternion had together sold their commissions, all agreeing they’d enough of war after Waterloo, when their regiment, the 28th Regiment of Foot, bore the onslaught of wave after wave of French cavalry.
Wolfe gazed toward the road for the hundredth time. “Where do you suppose Esmund found a surgeon willing to risk attendance at a duel?”
Blake shrugged. “His brother located the man.” He gave a soft laugh. “Can you imagine what sort of surgeon would take the risk? I pray he is not needed.”
So did Spence, who wheeled around and trod into the field again, busying himself in judging distances, searching for a tree branch or rooftop or something in the distance that would make a good place to aim.
The mist thinned as the sky grew lighter, but the morning’s unseasonable chill gave Spence a shiver. The plain brown coat Blake and Wolfe insisted he wear had no buttons. “Nothing to give Esmund a place to aim,” Blake had told him. “Stand sideways,” he’d also instructed. “But turn your head toward him.” Spence had listened, nodding agreeably, going along with the instructions as if he did not already know this trick to make himself as small a target as possible.
“I hear a carriage.” Wolfe stepped into the road to check.
The dark chaise clattered into view, rumbling to a stop not far from where Wolfe stood. Two men stepped out. Lord Esmund was hatless, and his shock of red hair glowed in the early morning light. Spence studied him. The fool was in debt to his ears from gambling, and naught but a boy—eight years younger than Spence himself, and as unfledged as a bird just pecking out of its shell. He played at a man’s game, however, and Spence figured Esmund was too green to even know it.
Blake and a young man who, judging from his bright shock of hair must, be Esmund’s brother Lord John, bent their heads together in conference. A third man stumbled out of the carriage, a bulbous creature with an unkempt coat and a weave to his step.
Wolfe strolled up to Spence. “The surgeon looks as if he’s been dipping deep into his medicine.”
“His brandy, more like,” laughed Spence.
“Precisely.” Wolfe looked grim.
Spence and Wolfe tried to hear the discussion between the two seconds.
“I’ll be glad when this is over and we might get some breakfast,” Spence whispered.
“It still makes no sense why that boy carried things this far.” Wolfe frowned.
“Spence?” Blake called to him as casually as if asking him to gaze upon some interesting shard of antiquity.
He walked over.
Blake’s handsome features looked chiseled in stone, as Blake always looked before battle. “The pistols are loaded.”
Spence nodded as Wolfe joined them, a deep line between his eyebrows. “I dislike this whole matter, Spence. It smells rank.”
Wolfe always smelled trouble, but at the moment Spence did not care what drove Esmund to make his false accusation. He merely wanted to get the business over with, so the three of them could set off toward that fine inn they’d passed on the way.
He glanced at his offender, who shook like a wagon rolling down a stony road. God help the lad. Esmund would be lucky not to shoot himself in the foot.
Spence gave Wolfe a wry smile. “Do you seriously think that fellow capable of some intrigue?” He cocked his head toward Esmund. “In any event, there’s nothing to be done but see it through.”
Lord John handed Esmund the pistol. To the young man’s credit, he seemed to garner some backbone. His trembling ceased.
With his customary cocky smile, Blake handed Spence the other pistol. It was a fine weapon with a walnut stock, textured to keep from slipping in a sweating palm. Its barrel was heavy and nearly as thick at the muzzle as at the breech. Sighting would be more accurate. If this pistol contained some of Manton’s secret rifling, it would be more accurate still. All in all it was a fine weapon.
Blake and Lord John consulted their watches. “Stations, gentlemen,” Blake announced.
Spence and Esmund each counted out twelve paces and turned, arms at their sides, pistols pointed to the ground. The scent of new grass and honeysuckle filled Spence’s nostrils. In the distance a cock crowed. The breeze was light but bracing on his cheek. It was like any fine day in the country.
“As agreed, you will fire simultaneously at my signal,” Blake used his best Captain’s voice. Its volume threatened to summon the magistrate from the next county.
Spence drew in a breath, held it, and watched Blake from the corner of his eye.
“Attend!” Blake called, his white handkerchief raised high above his head. “Present!”
Spence’s heart accelerated. He raised his arm, glancing from the church spire just visible over Esmund’s shoulder back to Blake.
Blake’s fingers opened and the handkerchief fluttered from them like a butterfly in flight. Spence fired.
Through the smoke from his pistol, Spence spied Esmund, frozen in place. Unbloodied, thank God. The barrel of Esmund’s pistol swayed up and down, back and forth.
Spence faced him, unflinching. He’d stood fast countless times as French soldiers charged straight for him. Their sabers and pistol balls had not killed him then, and Esmund’s swaying hand was more likely to shoot one of the birds soaring overhead.
Suddenly Esmund’s face contorted and he emitted a sound more like a sob than a battle cry.
Fire and smoke flashed from the barrel, and the crack of the pistol broke through the air. Spence heard the pistol ball zing toward him. He smiled and thought of how cool the ale would feel on his throat.
The ball hit Spence with a dull thud. Its force knocked him backward as it passed through his coat, through his shirt, and, with a sharp, piercing pain, into the flesh of his chest.
He realized with a shock that he was hit and was falling backward. This was not the way the Ternion should end.
Then, as if time stood still, Spence thought of his wife, the only secret he’d kept from Blake and Wolfe. He remembered her fresh unspoiled beauty, her vulnerability, her gratitude when he’d made her his wife—in name only. He opened his mouth to beg Blake and Wolfe to protect to her, because now he could not. The only sound that came out was a moan.
Emma, he thought, as his head seemed to explode against something hard on the ground. Forgive me.
THE EDITOR’S DIARY
Dear Reader,
Some loves are meant to be: Romeo and Juliet, Bogie and Bacall, Beauty and the Beast. But there are always little hiccups along the way to the most destined of love affairs. Just watch what happens in the two Warner Forever titles this November.
Romantic Times calls Amanda Scott a “most gifted storyteller” and Rendezvous raves her “characters jump off the page into your heart.” Well, all ye lads and lassies, prepare to be dazzled by the first in a new pair of novels, HIGHLAND PRINCESS. Lady Mairi, the stunning daughter of the Lord of the Isles, has never had a man come close to claiming her heart—especially the prince she is expected to wed—until she meets Lachlan “the Wily” Maclean. The latest addition to her father’s court and a skilled warrior with a vast network of spies, he knows every secret, and soon, Mairi becomes his heart’s desire. Though she scorns him, everyone can see the desire in her eyes and hear the hunger in her voice. But as their passion draws them closer together, it also inflames the jealousy of an enemy determined to claim the kingdom—and Mairi—for his very own.
Journeying from the lush hills and the intrigue of medieval Scotland to the masterful guises and disguises of Regency England, we present THE IMPROPER WIFE, a heart-wrenching and haunting new novel by Diane Perkins. Maggie Delaney can’t believe her misfortune.
Swept off her feet and hastily married, she’s horrified to learn the husband she thought she knew has lied about his identity, leaving her stranded, penniless, and with an infant son. But she has found the man who
can rightly claim her husband’s false name and with him, hope for survival. For the real Captain John Grayson is a soldier, a hero with an honorable reputation and limitless coffers who would never turn a woman and her infant away. Her plan: to become his “wife” in truth. After all, his family has fallen in love with her and her son and is eager to embrace them both. But can she convince Gray that she is his wife, both in name and deed alike?
To find out more about Warner Forever, these November titles, and the author, visit us at www.warnerforever.com.
With warmest wishes,
Karen Kosztolnyik, Senior Editor
P.S. The holidays are right around the corner so throw another yule log on the fire, grab some eggnog, and relax with these two books: Mary McBride pens a lighthearted story of two childhood sweethearts whose relationship ended in disaster, the strange thefts that bring them together and the undeniable sparks that still fly in SAY IT AGAIN, SAM; and Marliss Melton delivers a thrilling new romantic suspense about a woman grieving for her Navy SEAL husband who has been presumed dead . . . only to discover he’s alive with absolutely no memory of their life together in FORGET ME NOT.
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