The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  “Eleanor…”

  She turned her head. Slowly. As if it took all her effort of will to force her body to obey. To focus on the man who stood before her.

  “Eleanor. I presume that you had no suspicion of this terrible débâcle. Not the slightest hint that Thomas might have had a liaison elsewhere.”

  “No. How should I? I cannot believe it….”

  “Nor I. It does not sound like Thomas.” Henry watched her carefully, aware of the white shade around her mouth as she skimmed the brink of control. Every instinct urged him to take her in his arms and let her cry out her frozen misery against his chest. But he could not, dared not, too unsure of her reaction to him if he made any intimate gesture. Too unsure of his feelings toward her. There was no place for pity here. And yet the bitter anger at her coldhearted betrayal of his own love for her no longer seemed to weigh in the balance. A very masculine urge to protect took precedence.

  AUTHOR NOTE

  In The Disgraced Marchioness I have recounted the intense but dangerous love affair between Lord Henry Faringdon and Eleanor, Marchioness of Burford—the widow of Henry’s older brother. The possibilities in their relationship fascinated me. A tale of mistaken rejection and betrayal, but above all a family saga of searing passion and undying love.

  The desire to write this first volume in THE FARINGDON SCANDALS miniseries was born out of an interest in marriage in Regency England—particularly in the circumstances that might prevent marriage between members of one family. Love decrees that Henry and Eleanor be together. The severe rulings of the law seem destined to keep the lovers apart.

  Henry, with his dark good looks, must assuredly attract the interest and admiration of any woman, but he is strong willed, with more than a hint of the Faringdon pride. Beautiful Eleanor, spirited and headstrong, finds it difficult to hide a fragility that would stir the protective instincts of a lesser man than Henry. And with an intimate history between them, from which neither has emerged unscathed, Henry cannot turn his back on her.

  Just how will their relationship fare when scandal erupts, to threaten Eleanor with disgrace and cause the Faringdons to be snubbed by the contemptuous haut ton?

  The history of the Faringdon brothers doesn’t stop with this book, but is continued with Nick’s story in The Outrageous Debutante, coming in December 2005.

  I hope that this dynamic, vivacious but remarkably devoted family will delight you as much as they did me!

  ANNE O’BRIEN

  The Disgraced Marchioness

  The Faringdon Scandals

  Available from Harlequin Historical and

  ANNE O’BRIEN

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  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 One

  The gentleman was apparently not expected by the inhabitants of Burford Hall. In no way discouraged by the silence, the lack of activity and the shuttered windows, he leapt down from the curricle with unhurried grace to stand on the gravel carriageway, as his groom ascended the shallow sweep of steps and rang the bell. With his back to the house, the visitor allowed his gaze to take in the familiar vista, noting little change over past months. Expertly and fashionably designed gardens with paved pathways and shaded walks. A rose terrace where fragrant blooms were just being tempted to open in the warm sunshine. Rolling parkland made enticing by groupings of trees, which had been planted at least a century ago for impact and perspective. All prosperous and well tended with the glaze of extreme wealth. The stables off to his left had been recently re-roofed and he could see the grazing herd of cattle, placid and fat, in one of the distant pastures beyond home farm.

  He did not need to turn to face the house to appreciate every inch of the elegant façade in intimate and well-loved detail. Every pillar, portico and decorated frieze, from balustraded terrace to dominant central pediment, all constructed in glowing local stone or faced with more fashionable brick. It was a beautiful house and home, gracious and welcoming, mellow with the happy memories of a shared childhood.

  Two years previously he had chosen to turn his back on it, to leave the guarantee of wealth and privilege, and social acceptance by the haut ton. Two years ago he had wanted to create for himself a quite different lifestyle. And nothing had given him cause to regret his choice. But now, by a mischievous and malicious quirk of fate, his life had been turned upside down.

  He supposed it was all his now: house, land, title and all they could bring in terms of comfort and consequence. His brother’s untimely death had, overnight, created him Marquis of Burford.

  The thought gave him no pleasure. I don’t want it. I would never have wanted it. Indeed, the deliberate rejection of his birthright screamed through his mind as he climbed the steps with outward calm to his ancestral home.

  The door was flung open at the insistent ringing to allow entry to the unexpected guest. The footman, a young man in neat black, casting an envious and knowing eye over the stylish equipage and well-bred bays drawn up on the gravel, bowed the gentleman in without a flicker of recognition, but accepting of his quality and his right to be desiring entrance unannounced to Burford Hall.

  ‘If I could take your coat, sir, I will inform Lord Nicholas of your arrival.’

  The guest looked at the young footman. A new acquisition to the staff since his last visit. He smiled in courteous recognition of the offered service. ‘Of course.’ He handed over his tall-crowned hat and shrugged out of an eye-catching caped greatcoat.

  ‘What name shall I give, sir?’

  Before he could give a reply, hesitant footsteps echoed on the marble tiles of the entrance hall and an elderly man emerged from the servants’ quarters. He hesitated on an intake of breath, blinked as if he did not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes, and then immediately quickened his steps.

  ‘My lord, my lord. Thank God you are here. We were not expecting you.’ The old man shuffled forward, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, to take the garment from the footman, and search the face of the gentleman with eyes suddenly moist with powerful emotion. ‘We did not know if the letters had reached you—perhaps you might not yet even be aware of the tragic events here.’

  ‘They did. About two months ago.’ The gentleman stripped off his leather driving gloves with brisk efficiency. ‘But there have been difficulties in travelling—chiefly the vagaries of the weather—so it took me longer than I expected.’

  ‘We are so glad to see you again, my lord. So relieved. If I may say, you have not changed in all the time you have been away.’

  ‘Only two years, Marcle. Not so very long.’ The accompanying smile was understanding but designed not to encourage further comment.

  ‘Long enough, my lord. You have been missed here.’

  ‘But what about you, Marcle?’ The gentleman began to walk in the direction of the library, sure of his direction. ‘You look well. I see that you still hold the reins, in spite of your threats to leave to live in retirement with your sister.’

  ‘Not so bad, sir. I would not wish to leave the Hall. And certainly not now… But wh
at a terrible occasion this is. I cannot tell you… An accident that no one could have foreseen…’

  ‘I know.’ The guest, clearly a very close and knowledgeable one, intimate with the family circumstances, touched the old man’s arm in a brief gesture of comfort, at the same time hoping against hope to dam the flood of painful detail and the threat of overt sympathy. ‘So Mr Hoskins informed me. And my brother. Both letters eventually found me.’

  ‘What a terrible homecoming, my lord…’

  His attempts, it appeared, had been futile. He really could not take any more.

  ‘I will deal with it, Marcle,’ his tone now a little brusque but not unkind. ‘I presume Lord Nicholas is here?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler concentrated on the more practical direction given less than subtly to his thoughts. ‘He has spent some time in London, particularly with the lawyers, being a trustee, as you will be aware—but he returned last week. He is in the gun room, I believe. I will send a message that you have arrived.’ He motioned with a rheumatic hand to the young footman. ‘Silas…’

  ‘No. There is no need to trouble yourself, Marcle. I will go to the gun room.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. I would just wish to say that…’ But he was already bowing to an empty hall as the gentleman made good his escape.

  Chapter Two

  The door to the gunroom at Burford Hall, deep in the west wing, opened on to a familiar and industrious scene. A young man in shirt sleeves, corduroy breeches and high-topped boots, all well suited to country life, presented his back to the visitor. A black spaniel at his feet, Lord Nicholas Faringdon leaned with hip propped against a bench on which were all the accoutrements necessary for oiling and cleaning the impressive array of sporting firearms. Head bent, he was intent on freeing the firing mechanism on a particularly fine but unreliable duck gun. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth.

  ‘So this is how you are spending your time. I might have known it. Planning a day’s rough shooting when you should be overlooking the acres!’

  The young man’s head snapped up and turned at the sound of the soft voice. He stopped whistling. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then he abandoned the gun on top of the rest of the detritus on the bench and pushed himself to his feet, a grin warming his features.

  ‘Hal! I had no idea.’ He approached the gentleman, hand outstretched in formal greeting, and then thought better of it and seized his brother in a warm hug, all the time firing questions. ‘How long it has been! When did you arrive? Have you been back in England long? How long will you stay?’

  Returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm, Henry—Hal to those who knew him best—pushed back and the brothers, Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas Faringdon, stood at arm’s length to assess each other. The family resemblance was strong. Both were true Faringdons. Dark hair, almost black and dense with little reflected light. A straight nose, lean cheeks, a decided chin and well-marked brows, they were a handsome pair. But whereas Hal’s eyes were more grey than blue, stern and frequently on the edge of cynical, Nicholas, some three years younger, viewed the world through a bright optimistic gaze of intense blue. Their smiles on this occasion were also very similar, but Nicholas’s mouth lacked the lines of experience, of ambition and sardonic humour that were engraved on Hal’s features.

  ‘You look well, for all your travels.’ Nicholas gave his brother a friendly smack on his shoulder. ‘Have you made your fortune yet? Is that why you are here, to brag of your exploits?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Hal shook his head, well used to the ribbing.

  ‘Ha! I wager you are too fine to have anything to do with a mere landowner now. Faringdon and Bridges, is it not? Should I ask who is in charge of the business? Are you controlling New York yet?’

  ‘No—and, no, you should not ask! Nat Bridges and I have equal shares and investment in this company. I see you haven’t changed, Nick.’ Henry looked at his brother, noting the faint lines of strain beside his mouth, until his attention was demanded by a nudge against his boot. ‘And who is this?’ He bent to pull the ears of the spaniel who had come to sit at his feet in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Bess. She’s young, but she’s hopeful. As soon as she stops chasing and scattering the birds rather than collecting them.’

  The dog sneezed as if knowing she was under discussion. The two men laughed.

  ‘Hal. I don’t know what to say to you about all this…’ Nicholas was suddenly sober, as a cloud covering the sun, the smile wiped from mouth and eyes by a depth of sorrow.

  Hal shook his head and turned away to run his hand along the polished stocks and barrels of the guns in their racks. It was all so familiar. But now it was changed for ever and he could do nothing about it. ‘Any problems with the estate?’ He kept his back turned.

  ‘No.’ Nicholas was relieved to return to plain reporting of facts. Emotions at the Hall were still too stark to allow for casual airing. ‘All neatly tied up. The entail stands. There are no inheritance problems and Hoskins had finished his affairs when I was last in London. Thomas always was thorough, of course. He left everything as it should be.’

  At that, Hal spun on his heel, his voice and expression harsh with pain. ‘How the hell did it happen, Nick? A riding accident? I have never seen anyone sit a horse better or more securely than Thomas. And he was not even out hunting, if the letters speak the truth.’

  ‘No.’ Nick frowned at the problem that had faced him for the past few months. ‘He went out across the estate to meet the new agent, Whitcliffe. He never arrived. His horse returned here riderless. Thomas was found later that morning on the edge of the east wood, no obvious injuries, but his neck broken. The horse was unharmed too. It must have shied—a loose pheasant, perhaps—and thrown him. His mind must have been preoccupied and…well, you know the rest.’

  ‘Yes. Such a tragic waste of a life.’

  ‘I still can’t believe that he will not walk through that door and ask me if I wish to go…’ Nick’s words dried in his throat as the memories became too intense.

  Hal saw and understood. He grasped his brother’s shoulder, with a little shake. ‘I know. Come to the library and tell me about everything. And a brandy would not come amiss, I think.’

  ‘Yes—of course. And I would wish to know what you have been about.’ Once more in command, Nicholas shrugged into his jacket and followed his brother from the room. As he turned to lock the door to the gunroom, the spaniel fussing round his feet, a thought came to him

  ‘By the by…have you spoken with Lady Faringdon yet?’

  Hal came to a halt and turned, brows arched.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lady Faringdon. The Marchioness.’

  ‘You mean Thomas married?’ Hal asked in amazement. ‘I did not know…I had no idea…’

  ‘Why, yes. And he has a son. Tom—a splendid child. Just a little more than a year old.’

  ‘Well, now!’ Hal leaned his shoulders back against the panelled wall of the passageway and let his breath seep slowly from his lungs as he felt a ridiculous sense of relief begin to surge through his body. ‘So the child will inherit. He will be Marquis of Burford.’

  ‘Of course. What else?’ Nicholas eyed his brother quizzically and then his face cleared, became touched with sardonic humour as he realised. ‘You didn’t know! The letters after Thomas’s marriage never reached you. You thought it had all come to you, the title and the inheritance, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hal closed his eyes at the enormous sense of release from an existence that had taken on the weight of a life sentence. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And are mightily relieved that it does not.’ Nicholas took Hal’s arm in a sympathetic grasp to urge him in the direction of the library and the brandy.

  ‘More than mightily. It is something I would never wish for. I will happily be a trustee for the infant, but Marquis of Burford? Not to my taste at all. In America I am now used to being Mr Faringdon. And I like it.’

  ‘Still the Republi
can, I see.’ Nick’s tone was dry, with more than a hint of amusement. ‘But you are safe from the inheritance. We sent to tell you of the marriage, of course, not so long after you left. The letters must have gone astray.’

  ‘Easy enough to do. They never reached me. I had no idea.’ Hal was still half-inclined not to believe this stroke of fortune. ‘Why did Thomas not tell me of his intentions before I left? I thought we were close enough. If he took a bride so soon after I took ship, surely he had already met the lady!’

  Nick grinned. ‘I think not, from what I remember. It must have been love at first sight. Or at least a sufficiently strong attraction. Not that you would have noticed particularly—our brother was never one to wallow in sentiment, as you know—but Thomas would have a quick betrothal and carried it all off with high-handed determination.’

  ‘It must have been a shattering experience for him, to have fallen in love so completely.’ Hal frowned a little. The picture did not quite fit with his knowledge of Thomas, his brother’s overriding interest in sport and hunting to the exclusion of almost everything else.

  ‘I know it does not sound like the Thomas we knew.’ Nick shrugged in agreement, reading his brother’s thoughts with unnerving accuracy. ‘But come. We will postpone the brandy and I will introduce you to the Widow. I warn you, she is taking Thomas’s death hard, but she is very resilient and will come about. I expect that she will be in the blue withdrawing-room with her mother and the baby at this time of day.’

  ‘Then lead on.’

  They walked through the house in close accord, Hal’s lightness of spirit, in spite of the untimely death of his brother, a shining bright strand woven through the dark skein of grief. He would not have to inherit the estates and the title. Thank God! He could return to his dealings in America with a clear conscience, leaving the care of the property with his fellow trustee Nicholas, who had no objection to rural life. The direction of his life had suddenly come back into clear focus, an enormous weight lifted from his mind. He was all set to be appreciative of and everlastingly thankful to his new sister-in-law who had produced so timely an heir.