Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Letter from a Rake
For Julie
CHAPTER ONE
I dream of the hours when you and I can finally be alone.
Softly sharing whispered words of love.
London, Midsummer, 1817
As the carriage slowly snaked its way up Park Lane, Clarice picked at a loose piece of thread on her gown. No matter how hard she pulled, it refused to come free.
She sighed, dreading that this was a sign of things to come. Tonight was going to be a trial, no matter what.
And I have no-one to blame but myself. You could have done it all in private, but no, you had to go and make a huge public scene. Well done, Clarice. Well done.
‘At this rate we shall have to get out and walk if we are to arrive at the dinner on time,’ Lord Langham grumbled.
Stirred from her thoughts, Clarice looked across the carriage to her father. Everyone, it would appear, was headed to Strathmore House for the wedding celebrations of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brooke. It had taken them nearly an hour to get this far in the slow-crawling line of carriages.
‘We could turn the horses around and go home,’ she offered.
He shook his head. Reaching out, he took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘We have to do this, my dear. We must show the rest of society that you are not crushed by the unfortunate event of your failed betrothal to the groom,’ he replied.
She mustered a hopeful smile for him. Her father was right, of course. If she stayed away from the wedding celebrations it would only confirm what the rest of the ton no doubt thought of her. She was Lord Langham’s poor little broken bird. An object of pity.
‘Yes, of course, Papa,’ she replied.
The truth was, she didn’t particularly mind what the rest of London thought of her. In fact, she rather preferred they didn’t think of her at all. Being unremarkable was at times a blessing.
She shifted in her seat and forced herself to sit upright. As she straightened her back, the tight garments under her gown shifted and eased. She took in a shallow breath. The discomfort meant little. For her father’s sake she would endure far worse.
Tonight she would stoically bear all the whispers and sly looks that came her way. This evening was for her father. London’s elite would know Henry Langham was a man capable of forgiveness. But Clarice knew there was a limit to her father’s magnanimity.
She knew she could never confess her terrible crime against him; he could never know she had stolen the person he held most dear. Earl Langham might forgive others for their sins against him, but Clarice knew there could be no forgiveness for what she had done.
Her wish to remain invisible for the evening was not to be granted. Within minutes of their arrival at Strathmore House, she had been discovered.
‘Clarice!’
A mass of hair and a smiling face filled her field of vision and she was caught up in a warm embrace. Lucy Radley.
‘We were so worried you would cry off,’ Lucy exclaimed, when she finally released Clarice from the heartfelt hug. She stepped back, and Clarice could see the smile that stretched across Lucy’s face.
‘Yes, Papa and I were delighted to accept your parents’ invitation; it just took a little longer than expected to get here,’ she replied.
Lucy looked at the earl. ‘Lord Langham, I’m so pleased you came,’ she said, dipping into an elegant curtsy.
‘Lady Lucy,’ he replied, with a formal bow.
Lucy looked at the other guests mingling around them in the enormous entrance to Strathmore House. She wrinkled her nose and leaned in close.
‘Lord Langham, would it be acceptable for me to take Clarice away at this moment? I am sure there are plenty of your friends and business associates here tonight whom you would like to greet. I promise to take good care of her.’
Clarice looked at her father, and breathed an audible sigh of relief when he nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered as Lucy took hold of her hand and quickly spirited her away. Lucy made a beeline for the nearest footman bearing a drinks tray and returned to Clarice’s side with a glass of champagne in either hand.
‘I hope it didn’t take too long for you to travel here tonight. From what I hear all streets west of Grosvenor Square are at a standstill,’ Lucy remarked.
Clarice gave a gentle shake of her head. She was going to be anything but disagreeable this evening. Besides, it wasn’t every day that the heir to one of the most important titles in England got married. A crush of carriages was to be expected.
‘Tonight is a night for champagne. Here’s to a wonderful dinner and a magnificent ball,’ Lucy said, raising her glass.
Clarice took a sip of her champagne, holding the bubbles in her mouth for a moment as she savoured the excellent French wine.
‘Good evening, Lady Clarice,’ a deep male voice murmured.
She turned and her gaze fell upon him. David Radley.
Tall. Dark. When had he become so handsome?
Author of a passionate love letter, which had recently gone astray and accidentally fallen into Clarice’s hands. Hour after hour she had spent poring over the words. Words she knew had been written with her in mind. Words that meant she could never marry his brother. His declaration of love burned deeply within her soul.
‘Mr Radley,’ she replied, willing herself to remain calm.
He stepped forward and as he did, the light from the chandelier overhead reflected in his eyes. The blue and green hues turned momentarily to a dazzling emerald, forcing her to blink.
He bowed deeply.
For the first time in the many years she had known him, Clarice was at a loss as to what she should say to him. At such proximity, she found herself decidedly uncomfortable.
How does one react to a long-time friend who has unexpectedly and most passionately declared that he loves you?
You have me at sixes and sevens.
Lucy cleared her throat. ‘So how are the dinner preparations, David? Did you spend the last hour polishing silver? I hear the downstairs servants were beginning to complain.’
He shot his sister a sideways glance and growled. Clarice spied the edge of a grin on his lips.
Lucy chuckled. ‘Such an easy target, it’s almost unsportsmanlike.’
‘Ignore my darling sister, would you please, Clarice; she is determined to make me a laughing-stock this evening,’ David replied.
A gasp escaped Lucy’s lips and she placed a hand on his arm.
‘Oh, no, I would never do that to you. Especially not in present company.’
Clarice smiled, suppressing the familiar twinge of envy that came from being an only child. A gong sounded and dinner was announced.
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‘Saved by the bell,’ David replied. He shot a forgiving smile in Lucy’s direction.
How she managed it, Clarice was not entirely sure, but Lucy vanished into the crowd of other dinner guests, leaving her and David standing facing one another. As the other guests found partners for the procession into the dining room, the reason for her friend’s disappearance soon became apparent.
‘Since I suspect your father may have been waylaid by my sister in order for you and I to spend a brief moment together, Lady Clarice, would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you into dinner?’ David said.
She hesitated briefly before taking his arm. Lucy’s less than subtle attempt at playing Cupid was the last thing she needed this evening.
Strathmore House, home of the Radley family, was one of the largest private residences in the whole of London. Over fifty people were seated on either side of the two tables that lined the length of the dining room. A head table seated another dozen guests, as well as the hosts.
Enormous chandeliers hung overhead from the ornate ceiling. At intervals along the long, elegantly carved oak tables, towering three-armed silver candelabra were set, giving enough light for the guests to see each other clearly.
Clarice’s gaze followed the seemingly never-ending line of huge, food-laden platters and dishes that covered the tables. All manner of delicacies beckoned to her.
‘How many are coming for the wedding ball?’ she asked as David escorted her through the room.
‘I understand it’s somewhere in the vicinity of a thousand. Mama sealed the guest list at eight hundred, but my father kept inviting more. You should have seen her face when he told her he had invited another thirty guests only yesterday’.
As they reached her chair, he stopped. ‘Since it is unlikely that I will get an opportunity to speak with you privately later, Clarice, may I say now how delighted I am that you are here tonight.’
She gave him a noncommittal nod of the head. With her father present, it seemed unwise to offer him any further sign of encouragement. Earl Langham did not approve of David Radley.
At dinner, she was seated across from David. While he remained standing, she could see him clearly, but as soon as he took his seat, only the top of his black hair remained in view. He picked up the silver candelabra that sat in the middle of the table and moved it to one side.
He raised a single eyebrow and a titter escaped Clarice’s lips. She briefly closed her eyes. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘True, but now I have an uninterrupted view,’ he replied. A wolfish smile appeared on his face.
Clarice was pleased to see that whoever had devised the seating plan had managed to put most of the younger members of the gathering at one end of the table. They were far enough away from the senior members to be able to relax and share the latest on dit.
Lucy, having slipped away from Lord Langham, took a seat to the left of Clarice. Close by, newlyweds Millie and Alex sat across the table from one another. Every so often they would share a love-struck glance.
‘You should have heard the row Mama and Alex had when he said he wasn’t going to sit at the head table. I tell you she was fit to be tied,’ Lucy said.
‘Yes, I did think it rather odd that they did not sit in the place of honour,’ Clarice replied, picking up her wine glass and taking a sip. She leaned forward in her chair and peered down the long table, smiling with pride when she saw her father was many seats further down the line of guests, almost at the head of the table.
She sat back in her seat, sensing that his presence tonight was more than just a last-minute change of heart. He had flatly refused to attend the wedding. Now it would appear that the rift caused between the two families over Clarice and Alex’s failed betrothal was being publicly smoothed over.
Thank you, Papa.
The dinner was far more enjoyable than she had expected. It was full of laughter and friendly banter. Her earlier concerns that she would feel awkward in the presence of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brooke were quickly swept from her mind. At one point she and Alex shared a knowing smile. All was right between them once more.
She made a point not to stare long at the still-healing scars that dotted Alex’s face. They were reputedly from a pre-wedding horseriding accident, but Clarice had her doubts. Her father had sworn retribution against the Marquess and she could only pray he had not followed through with his threat.
She picked at several of the early courses when they were served, eating little. When a large platter containing a sliced piece of roast beef surrounded by roast potatoes was placed in the centre of the table, she knew her patience was about to be rewarded. While David regaled the gathering with a slightly risqué story, the guests all hanging on his every word, Clarice took the time to savour her favourite meal.
She cut a piece of roast potato in half and put it into her mouth. Cooked long in goose fat, it was delicious. She sat chewing, savouring the caramelised crust while listening to the buzzing conversation that continued unabated around her. Was there anything better than a well-cooked potato?
‘How are you enjoying this evening, Lady Clarice?’ David asked from across the table.
With a mouth full of roasted vegetable she was unable to respond politely. She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip, hoping to quickly wash down the potato and reply.
The instant the potato and the wine met in her throat, she began to choke.
Doing her best not to make a scene, she pulled her napkin from her lap and tried to hide her face. Shudders racked her body as she coughed and struggled to breathe. No matter how hard she tried to dislodge it, the potato remained firmly lodged in the back of her throat.
On her fourth attempt to take a breath, a hard thump landed between her shoulder blades. The offending potato dislodged from her throat and she spat it into her napkin.
Sitting back in her chair, she sucked in air, relieved when she felt the colour return to her face. Lucy handed her a handkerchief and Clarice wiped away the tears in her eyes.
‘Clarice, are you all right?’
The hand that had helped to dislodge the potato now began to gently rub her back. She looked over her shoulder and saw David standing behind her.
In the blink of an eye, he had leapt up from his chair, dashed around the end of the table and gallantly rescued her.
‘Yes, yes, I am fine. I was in too much of a hurry to speak, and failed to chew my food properly. Please forgive my dreadful lack of manners.’
David knelt down next to her chair and his worried gaze searched her face. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I am fine; thank you so much for coming to my aid.’
He smiled. ‘Think nothing of it, Clarice.’
As David stood and walked back to his chair, she brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. She tried not to stare at him.
You are rather lovely. Not only did you just save my life, but you called me Clarice. In public.
A footman quickly replaced her soiled napkin and she calmly reassured the other concerned guests that she was fine.
She politely excused herself from the table and sought refuge in the ladies’ retiring room. Needing a moment alone, she asked the maid to fetch some fresh warm water.
Slipping into one of the small private stalls, she stood with her back against the wall.
‘Breathe slowly and remain calm,’ she whispered to herself.
She had managed to get through dinner mostly intact; now she just had to find a way to endure the wedding ball. To make her father proud.
‘I must stay away from David Radley,’ she vowed.
CHAPTER TWO
An hour or so later, David Radley found himself, whisky glass in hand, watching some of the other guests dancing.
The enormous summer ballroom was replete with with the finest members of London society, all come to celebrate the newly wed Marquess and Marchioness of Brooke.
He looked up and smiled at the ornate gilded ceiling, decorate
d with a series of paintings depicting Aesop’s fables. It had always been with a sense of pride that he heard new visitors to Strathmore House commenting on it. He knew every one of the tales by heart, silently correcting the newcomer who guessed wrong and smiling with satisfaction when they conceded defeat.
In addition to the usual decorations in the two huge ballrooms, a series of imposing gold banners had been hung along the walls. On each of the banners was displayed the Strathmore coat of arms: a large black shield upon which was emblazoned a gold horse rearing up on its hind legs. Above the horse was a crown, while the horse stood over three four-pointed stars.
He had to credit his father: this night was not just a celebration of Alex’s marriage, but a chance to make a statement about the power and wealth of the Radley family. He raised a silent toast to the Strathmore coat of arms.
Standing to one side of the dance floor, he observed the various couples as they danced a quadrille. He was only half-watching the proceedings, as he found to be rather pointless any form of dancing that did not involve him holding a woman in his arms.
He would dearly love to shake the hand of the genius who had invented the waltz, a dance in which a man could actually touch a woman of his social acquaintance and not be in danger of being bound in matrimony to her by the end of it. A dance that allowed time for a couple to exchange words in private, which no-one else could hear. Little wonder it was frowned upon by the stricter mothers of the ton’s unwed misses.
David, along with his brother Alex, had become an accomplished master of the waltz as soon as it was deemed socially acceptable. At every ball and party they attended, they made a point of finding a partner for it. Quadrilles and minuets were only undertaken under sufferance, or if the lady in question was a suitable and willing partner for other nocturnal activities.
Young, unmarried and with the taint of illegitimacy, David Radley was a magnet few ton matrons could resist. Across the room, his gaze fell upon his most recent conquest. He swore before quickly averting his gaze. Tonight of all nights he was keen not to catch that lady’s eye. A three-night encounter in Soho Square earlier in the year with this hard, cold wife of a politician had finally revealed to him the futility of his rakish ways.
An Unsuitable Match Page 1