Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

by Sara MacLean

  SARAH

  MACLEAN

  Ten

  Ways to Be

  Adored

  When Landing a

  Lord

  For Chiara,

  who went off to college

  and didn’t mind that

  I stole her books.

  And her cat.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  By Sarah MacLean

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “Why were you hiding from me?”

  “I should think that would be rather clear.” When Nicholas did not respond, Isabel continued, eager to fill the silence. “I was surprised by our … moment. I had not expected to be so …”

  Nicholas was suddenly aware of their location—in the darkened attic, the rain outside muffling all sounds, the warm, small space closing in around them. It was the perfect place for a clandestine tryst.

  He took a step closer; they were scant inches from one another. “So … ?”

  She sighed, resigned. “So … drawn to you.”

  He watched embarrassment flood her cheeks, fierce and red. She spoke, the words coming fast. “I am sure it is just a passing phase. I think it is best for you to leave. I shall find another way—”

  He reached out, his touch stemming the flow of her words.

  He should not kiss her. He knew it.

  But she was like no woman he had ever known—and he wanted to discover her secrets. More than that, he wanted her.

  He settled his lips to hers, and she was his.

  Prologue

  * * *

  It cannot be denied that there is a veritable epidemic spreading among the young ladies of London—a tragic reality that ends in nothing but the very worst possible scenario.

  We refer, of course, to spinsterhood.

  With so many unmarried ladies in our fair city so unfortunately shaded from the brilliant sunshine of wedded bliss, ‘tis nothing short of criminal that these promising young buds might never have the opportunity to blossom! And so, Dear Reader, it is in the interest of public service that we have compiled a list of time-tested solutions, oft proven to simplify the most daunting of tasks—that of securing a husband.

  We humbly present, Lessons in Landing a Lord.

  Pearls and Pelisses

  June 1823

  Townsend Park'

  Dunscroft, Yorkshire

  Lady Isabel Townsend stood in the shabby receiving room of the only home she had ever known, and willed the roaring in her ears to subside. She narrowed her gaze on the pale, reedy man standing before her.

  “My father sent you.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And would you mind repeating that last bit?” Surely she had misunderstood the words that had tripped from the tongue of this most unwelcome visitor.

  He smiled, the expression empty and unattractive. Isabel’s stomach flipped. “Indeed,” he drawled, the word coiling between them in the suddenly too-small room. “We are betrothed.”

  “And by we … I take it that you mean …”

  “You. And I. Are to be married.”

  Isabel shook her head. “I am sorry, you are … ?”

  He paused, clearly unhappy with the idea that she had not been paying attention. “Asperton. Lionel Asperton.”

  Isabel made a mental note to savor the unfortunate name at a later time. For now, she must deal with the man. Who did not appear to be very clever. Of course, she had learned long ago that the men of her father’s acquaintance were rarely men of intellect.

  “And how is it that we became betrothed, Mr. Asperton?”

  “I won you.”

  Isabel closed her eyes, willing herself to remain steady. To hide the anger and hurt that surged at the words. That always surged at the words. She met his pale gaze once more. “You won me.”

  He did not even have the grace to feign embarrassment. “Yes. Your father wagered you.”

  “Of course he did.” Isabel exhaled her frustration on a little puff of breath. “Against? ”

  “One hundred pounds.”

  “Well. That’s more than usual.”

  Asperton waved off the cryptic words, taking a step closer to her. His smile was cocksure. “I won the round. You are mine. By rights.” He reached out a hand, tracing one finger down her cheek. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think we shall both enjoy it.”

  She remained still, sheer will keeping the shudder that threatened at bay. “I am not so sure.”

  He leaned in, and Isabel became transfixed by the man’s lips—red and waxy. She edged away, desperate to maintain a distance, as he said, “Then I shall have to convince you otherwise.”

  She twisted from beneath his touch and their uncomfortable proximity, placing an old, fraying chair between them. A gleam flashed in the man’s eyes as he followed her, moving closer.

  He liked the chase.

  Isabel was going to have to end this. Now.

  “I am afraid you have traveled a very long way for nothing, Mr. Asperton. You see, I am well past the age of majority. My father”—she paused, the word foul-tasting—“should have known better than to wager me. It has never worked before. It certainly will not work now.”

  He stopped his stalking, eyes widening. “He has done this before?”

  Too many times. “I see that gambling away one’s only daughter once is fair play, but to do it multiple times, that somehow offends your sensibilities? ”

  Asperton gaped. “Of course!”

  Isabel narrowed her gaze on her would-be betrothed. “Why?”

  “Because he knew he would ultimately renege on the wager!”

  The man was most definitely an acquaintance of her father.

  “Yes. That is obviously the reason for this situation’s untenable offense,” Isabel said wryly, turning abruptly and opening the door to the room wide. “I am afraid, Mr. Asperton, that you are the seventh man who has come to claim me as his bride.” She could not help a smile at his surprise.

  "And, as it is, you shall also be the seventh man who shall leave Townsend Park unmarried.”

  Asperton’s mouth opened and closed in quick succession—his fleshy lips reminding Isabel of a codfish.

  She counted to five.

  They always exploded before she could reach five.

  “This will not stand! I was promised a wife! The daughter of an earl!” His voice had gone high and nasal—the tone that Isabel had always associated with the idle unpleasants who fraternized with her father.

  Not that she had seen her father in half a dozen years.

  She crossed her arms, bestowing the man with her best sympathetic look. “I imagine he hinted at a substantial dowry, as well? ”

  His eyes lit as though he was finally understood. “Precisely.”

  She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “Well, I am afraid that there isn’t one of those, either.” His brow furrowed. “Would you care for tea? ”

  Isabel watched as the slow-moving wheel of Asperton’s brain completed its rotation and he announced, “No! I do not care for tea! I came for a wife and by God I shall
leave with one! With you!”

  Attempting to retain an air of calm, she sighed and said, “I had very much hoped that it would not come to this.”

  His chest puffed out at the words, misunderstanding her meaning. “I am sure that you did. But I will not be leaving this house without the wife I was promised! You belong to me! By rights!”

  He lunged for her then. They always did. She stepped to the side, and he plunged through the open doorway and into the entryway beyond.

  Where the women were waiting.

  Isabel followed him into the foyer, watching as he straightened, as he took in the three women standing there like well-trained soldiers, a wall of defense between him and the door to the house. Certainly he’d never seen any women like this before.

  Of course, he would never realize that he was looking at three women.

  Isabel had always found that men tended to see only what they wanted to see.

  She watched as his gaze shifted from the cook, to the stable master, to the butler.

  He turned on Isabel. “What’s this, then?”

  The stable master slapped her coiled horsewhip against one thigh, the thwack of the leather causing Asperton to flinch. “We do not like you raising your voice to a lady, sir.”

  Isabel watched as the angled notch at his thin throat quivered. “I—I am …”

  “Well, one thing you are not is a gentleman, if the way you came lunging out of that room is any indication.” The cook indicated the receiving room with her large, heavy rolling pin.

  He looked to Isabel again, and she gave a little feminine shrug.

  “Surely you were not lunging after Lady Isabel in such a manner.” This from the butler, who, perfectly pressed and cravatted, lazily investigated the edge of the sabre she held. Isabel did her best not to look at the empty spot on the wall from which the ancient—and likely very dull, indeed—sword had come.

  They really did have a flair for the dramatic.

  “I—no!”

  There was a long moment of silence as Isabel waited for a sheen of perspiration to take up residence on Mr. Asperton’s brow. She watched as the rise and fall of his chest quickened, and only then decided to intervene.

  “Mr. Asperton was just leaving,” she said, her tone infused with helpfulness. “Were you not, sir?”

  He nodded nervously, mesmerized by Kate’s horsewhip, moving in slow, threatening circles. “I—I was.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be returning. Will you, sir?”

  He did not reply for a long moment. Kate dropped the soft leather of the whip to the ground, and the sudden movement shook him from his trance. He snapped to attention and shook his head firmly. “No. I shouldn’t think so.”

  The tip of Jane’s sabre hit the marble floor, sending a powerful clang through the large, empty space.

  Isabel’s eyes widened, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I should think you would want to know such a thing, sir.”

  He cleared his throat quickly, “Yes. Of course. I mean—no. I shan’t be back.”

  Isabel smiled then, wide and friendly. “Excellent. I shall bid you adieu, then. I feel confident that you are able to find your own way out?” She indicated the door, now flanked by the three women. “Farewell.”

  She returned to the receiving room then, closing the door firmly behind her and moving to the window just in time to see the maypole of a man hurry down the steps of the Park and clamber onto his horse, riding away as though the hounds of hell were upon him.

  She released a long breath.

  Only then did she allow the tears to come.

  Her father had wagered her away.

  Again.

  The first time had hurt the most. One would think she would be used to such treatment by now, but the truth of it surprised her, nonetheless.

  As though, someday, it all might be different. As though, someday, he might be other than the Wastrearl.

  As though, someday, he might care for her.

  As though, someday, anyone might care for her.

  For a moment, she allowed herself to consider her father. The Wastrearl. A man who had left his children and his wife tucked away in the country and returned to London to live a profligate, scandalous life. A man who had never cared: not when his wife had died; not when his servants, unwilling to go another day without pay, had left their positions en masse; not when his daughter had sent letter after letter asking for him to return to Townsend Park and restore the country house to some semblance of its former glory—if not for her, then for his heir.

  The one time he had returned…

  No. She would not think on it.

  Her father. The man who stole her mother’s sprit. Who had robbed her brother, an infant, of a father.

  Had he not deserted them, Isabel would never have taken responsibility for the estate. She had risen to the challenge, doing her best to keep the house standing and food on the table. While not fruitful, the estate had been able to just barely sustain its inhabitants and tenants while her father had spent every last penny of the income from its lands on his scandalous activities.

  There had been enough to eat, and the Wastrearl’s black reputation had kept curious visitors from arriving on the steps of Townsend Park, allowing Isabel to populate the house and its servants’ quarters however she wished, away from the prying eyes of the ton.

  But it did not stop her from wishing that it had all been different.

  Wishing that she had had the chance to be everything daughters of earls were born to be. Wishing that she’d been raised without a care in the world. Without a doubt in her head that it would someday be her day to sparkle; that she would one day be courted properly—by a man who wanted her for her, not as a spoil from a game of chance.

  Wishing that she were not so very alone.

  Not that wishing had ever helped.

  The door to the room opened and shut quietly, and Isabel gave a little self-deprecating laugh, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Finally, she turned, meeting Jane’s knowing, serious gaze.

  “You should not have threatened him.”

  “He deserved it,” the butler said.

  Isabel nodded. Asperton had taken the place of her father in those final minutes. Tears pricked once more; she kept them at bay. “I hate him,” she whispered.

  “I know,” the butler said, not moving from her place in the doorway.

  “If he were here, I would happily kill him.”

  Jane nodded once. “Well, it seems that such a thing will not be necessary.” She lifted one hand, revealing a square of parchment. “Isabel. The earl … he is dead.”

  One

  * * *

  And what would these lessons be, Dear Reader, without a prospective lord to land? The gentleman for whom you have so diligently studied? The answer, of course, is that they would be nigh on useless.

  Are we not, then, the very luckiest of ladies, that our fair city boasts the best and the brightest, the charmed and the charming, a veritable treasure trove of bachelors—wealthy, willing, and wandering lonely through our streets, wanting only for a wife!

  Finding these paragons of gentlemanliness is a daunting task, but never fear, Dear Reader! We have assumed the job for you—scoured the city for the lords most worthy of your invaluable, unbridled attention.

  Consider, if you will, the first on our list of eminently landable lords …

  Pearls and Pelisses

  June 1823

  When the blonde by the door winked at him, it was the very last straw.

  Lord Nicholas St. John sank further into his seat, cursing under his breath. Who would have imagined that a superlative doled out by an inane ladies’ magazine was enough to transform London’s female population into clamoring fools?

  At first, he’d found it amusing—a welcome entertainment. Then the invitations had begun to arrive. And when the clock in his St. James town house had barely struck two, Lady Ponsonby had joined them, claiming to have business to discuss—something to
do with a statue she had recently acquired from Southern Italy. Nick knew better. There was only one reason for a viper like Lady Ponsonby to come calling at a bachelor’s home—a reason Nick was certain Lord Ponsonby would not find at all reasonable.

  So he had escaped, first to the Royal Society of Antiquities, where he had sequestered himself in the library, far from anyone who had ever heard of ladies’ magazines, let alone read one. Unfortunately, the journalist—Nick flinched at the liberal use of the term—had done his research, and within the hour, the head footman had announced the arrival of four separate women, ranging in age and station, all in dire need of a consultation regarding their marbles—all of whom insisted that none but Lord Nicholas would do.

  Nick snorted into his drink at the memory. Marbles, indeed.

  He had paid the footman handsomely for his discretion and fled once more, this time with little dignity, through the rear entrance to the Society and into a narrow, sordid alleyway that did little to enliven his disposition. Tilting the brim of his hat down to shield his identity, he’d made his way to sanctuary—to the Dog and Dove, where he had been ensconced in a dark corner for the last several hours.

  Well and truly trapped.

  Ordinarily, when a voluptuous barmaid made eyes at him, he was more than willing to consider her ample charms. But this particular woman was the fourteenth of her sex to have overtly considered his charms that day, and he had had quite enough. He scowled, first at the girl, then into his ale, feeling darker and more irritated by the minute. “I’ve got to get out of this damned city.”

  The deep, rumbling laugh from across the table did not improve his mood.

  “Do not doubt for one moment that I could have you shipped back to Turkey,” Nick said, his voice a low growl.

  “I do hope you will not. I should hate to miss the conclusion of this entertaining theatre.” His companion, Durukhan, turned and looked over his shoulder, dark eyes passing lazily over the comely young woman. “Pity. She will not even consider me.”