“There is something I need to say to you, Richard, and I am not accustomed to being in such close proximity to a gentleman.”
Ridiculous pleasure coursed through Richard at her words. He did not seem able to help himself. But the nervousness in her eyes puzzled him. He wanted to draw her into his arms and comfort her. He wanted to kiss her. Richard tried to concentrate.
“Deborah,” he said. “If you are wanting to change your mind because you still do not trust me, then I must remind you that I promised to do nothing that you did not desire, and I will keep to that.” His voice came out more roughly than he had intended and her eyes flew to his.
Her gaze touched his face and skittered away. “You do not understand,” she said. “I have been trying to pluck up the courage to tell you. When I said that I wished to change the terms of our betrothal you misunderstood me—I want you to make love to me. For the duration of our betrothal, I want you to be my lover.”
One Night of Scandal
Harlequin Historical
Dear Reader,
It is 1803, and along the coast of Suffolk the threat of French invasion is at its highest. Smugglers, pirates, treasure seekers and spies are all drawn to the quiet Midwinter villages, where the comfortable surface of village life conceals treason and danger as well as romance and excitement….
This is the world that I have inhabited for the past year whilst I wrote the BLUESTOCKING BRIDES trilogy. It has been a wonderful experience. I have always loved the county of Suffolk for its remoteness, the peace of the woods, the wind in the reeds at the water’s edge and the sunset over the sea. It is one of the most atmospheric and inspiring places for a storyteller.
About a year ago I was reading a book about “The Great Terror,” the years between 1801 and 1805, when Britain was permanently on the alert against the threat of Napoleonic invasion. It made me wonder what life would have been like in the coastal villages of Britain, where there was always the chance that the business of everyday living would conceal something more dangerous. I thought about a group of gentlemen dedicated to hunting down a spy—gentlemen for whom romance was no part of the plan, but who found that the ladies of Midwinter were more than a match for them! And so the idea of the BLUESTOCKING BRIDES trilogy was born….
I hope that you enjoy these stories of love and romance in the Midwinter villages! It has been a real pleasure to write this trilogy.
Nicola Cornick
ONE NIGHT OF SCANDAL
Available from Harlequin Historical and
NICOLA CORNICK
The Virtuous Cyprian #566
Lady Polly #574
The Love Match #599
“The Rake’s Bride”
Miss Verey’s Proposal #604
The Blanchland Secret #630
Lady Allerton’s Wager #651
The Notorious Marriage #659
The Earl’s Prize #684
The Chaperon Bride #692
Wayward Widow #700
The Penniless Bride #725
*The Notorious Lord #759
*One Night of Scandal #763
Look for
The Rake’s Mistress
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
September 1803
She had overplayed her hand.
Deborah Stratton drummed her fingers impatiently on the letter that was resting on the top of the walnut desk. She knew exactly what it contained, but she read it for a third time, just so that it could annoy her all over again.
Her father, Lord Walton, wrote in a deceptively pleasant manner. It was the underlying message that troubled Deborah.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal…
That sounded kind, but Deb knew that it was laced with sarcasm.
However, your suitor seems somewhat dilatory in asking my permission to pay his addresses to you…
Deborah winced. There was no denying that. Her suitor had been very remiss indeed.
The imminent occasion of your brother’s marriage seems the ideal opportunity to introduce the gentleman to your family so that he can secure my approval, albeit belatedly…
Deb frowned. She was obliged to agree that it would be the perfect occasion—except that there was one small problem. There could be no introduction, for her suitor did not exist. He was a figment of her imagination. He had been invented with the express intention of persuading her father to cease interfering in her business.
Lord Walton had been pressing his younger daughter to return home to Bath for some time. His letters had become ever more urgent. He wrote that it was inappropriate for a young widow in Deborah’s situation to live alone but for a female companion. Far better to return to the family seat where she could resume her place in Bath society and he would be spared the expense of financing a separate household for her.
It was, in fact, a request that Lord Walton could enforce easily whenever he chose by the simple expedient of withdrawing her allowance. Deb knew this and she had written back in desperation, explaining that she had recently contracted a betrothal to a Suffolk gentleman and wished to remain in Midwinter Mallow. This, her father’s reply, had arrived by return of post.
We shall look forward to seeing both of you in two months’ time for Guy’s wedding…
Deb pushed the letter aside and sat back in the walnut chair. Her ruse had backfired spectacularly, just as her companion, Mrs Aintree, had warned her that it would. She knew that it was all her own fault. She had got herself into a tangle, as she was wont to do, and now she would have to get herself out again.
Deb got to her feet and marched into the breakfast room where Clarissa Aintree was still at the table, reading the local newspaper. Mrs Aintree, a practical lady of indeterminate age who had once been Deborah’s governess, was accustomed to her former charge’s impulsive nature. Sometimes her warnings were heeded and sometimes they were not. This had been one of the latter occasions.
Mrs Aintree put the paper aside and took a sip of tea, her blue eyes regarding Deborah’s stormy face with mild amusement.
‘I assume that your father did not respond to your letter quite as you intended?’ she enquired.
‘No!’ Deborah slumped into her seat disconsolately and poured herself another cup of chocolate. Then she paused with a sigh, resting her chin on her hand.
‘I thought that Papa might be so pleased to think me safely betrothed that he would agree to my remaining in Midwinter, but instead he says that he wishes to meet my fiancé and that I must bring him to Guy’s wedding!’
Mrs Aintree murmured something that sounded like ‘I told you so’.
Deborah got up again and strode restlessly across to the window. ‘I know you told me so, Clarrie, but I thought—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, I am so cross!’
‘With yourself?’ Mrs Aintree asked shrewdly.
Deb gave her a sharp look. ‘Yes! And with Olivia! She was the one who told Papa in her letters that this is a dangerous neighbourhood in which to live.’
‘It is,’ Mrs Aintree pointed out blandly.
‘I know! But if Olivia had not written thus to h
im, then he would never have summoned me home to Bath.’
Mrs Aintree ate a piece of toast. She ate it thoughtfully and slowly. Then she said, ‘Your papa is not a stupid man, Deborah. I am sure that he is quite well aware of the dangers of French invasion here in Suffolk.’
Deb sighed. She knew that was true and that it was unfair to blame her sister, Olivia Marney, for telling tales. Even so, she felt aggrieved.
‘Yes, but Liv mentioned the increase in smuggling and the rumour that there are spies at work in the neighbourhood and…oh, a hundred and one other things to alarm Papa! She knew that he had been seeking an excuse to summon me home and so she presented him with one…’ Deborah paused. ‘Indeed, if I did not know her better, I might think that she had done it on purpose!’
‘That is unworthy of you,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘Your sister would never deal you Spanish coin, Deborah, as well you know. She has been a tower of strength to you. Not that she cannot have been tempted to get rid of you over the years, given the way that people say you flirt with her husband.’
A hint of colour came into Deborah’s cheeks. ‘I do not flirt with Ross,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘You know that is untrue, Clarrie. It is just that we are very alike and we enjoy each other’s company. Indeed, I wish that Liv and Ross could settle their differences. It is devilishly uncomfortable to spend time with them when they bicker like magpies.’
Mrs Aintree gave her a severe look that put Deborah forcibly in mind of the days when she had been a recalcitrant schoolgirl.
‘No doubt Olivia suffers from it rather more than you do,’ she said.
Deborah gave a gusty sigh. ‘Oh, I know that I am a selfish creature,’ she said, ‘but what am I to do?’ She threw herself down in her chair again, half-heartedly buttered a piece of toast and then pushed it aside. ‘I cannot produce my fiancé for my father’s approval, for he does not exist.’
Mrs Aintree shook her head sadly. ‘I have told you before, Deborah dear, that one deception leads inevitably to another. I suggest that you tell your father the truth.’
Deborah wrinkled up her nose. She could see both the logic and sense of Mrs Aintree’s advice, but matters were not that simple.
‘You know I cannot do that, Clarrie. If I confess that there is no betrothal, Papa will see me removed to Bath before you can say purse strings!’
Mrs Aintree frowned. ‘Would that be so bad? You are often saying that you miss the diversions of a town. I know that at the beginning you thought it best to live quietly, but it is not right for a young lady such as yourself to be immured in the country with nothing to entertain you. And the company in Bath can be very elegant—’ Mrs Aintree stopped, glancing at Deborah’s strained, white face. ‘No, how foolish of me. It would not serve at all.’
Deborah shook her head. ‘If that were all that there was to it, then you know that I would heed your words, Clarrie. But it is not!’ She rubbed her forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘You know that I love my family, but I would run mad within a day if I had to live with them again. Too much has happened for us to try and pretend otherwise, yet my parents behave as though nothing has changed. Mama wants to throw me in the path of any man who has fortune and address, just as she did before I was wed. As for Papa…’ She hesitated. ‘He has an unshakeable belief that he knows what is right for all of us, and he has not given up hope of promoting a match for me with cousin Harry. He wrote to me on the subject not two months since and put me in a dreadful turmoil. That was the reason that I invented my fictitious suitor in the first place!’
Mrs Aintree nodded, her face sympathetic. ‘You know that Lord Walton only wishes to secure your future, Deborah,’ she said, striving to give the balanced view. ‘Most people would consider it a dreadful shame that you would not countenance remarriage when you are young and attractive and have your entire life before you—’
Deb made a sharp movement that sent the remaining chocolate slopping into her saucer in a miniature tidal wave.
‘No! I cannot marry now. Not after Neil…’
Mrs Aintree touched her hand. ‘I know. I understand.’
Deb turned away, her face tense. She seldom spoke of her short marriage to Neil Stratton, if marriage it could be called. The memory was still acutely painful after the passage of three years and she had learned a swift and bitter lesson, one she would never forget. She had been a silly, flighty girl of nineteen when she had eloped, and she had been looking for a means of escape from the stifling restrictions of life at Walton Hall. She had thought that she loved Neil, but it had not been long before she realised that she had been deeply mistaken in him and that his feelings for her were no more than a charade. Her marriage had been a sham and it had left her with an abiding fear of making the same mistakes again.
Deb’s elopement had been yet another impulsive act in a long line that led back to her days in the schoolroom. In her childhood, her scrapes had generally been of a relatively harmless nature, such as releasing mice down the staircase at Olivia’s come-out ball or putting spiders in Guy’s socks to make him wail. The elopement had had rather more severe consequences for her life. After that, Deb had recognised that she was prone to act on impulse and had tried hard to temper her more rash actions by stopping to think first. It did not come naturally to her. Sometimes she was able to repress her impulses and sometimes she could not.
Deb nibbled the corner of the piece of toast. So the mention of her imminent betrothal had failed to throw her father off the scent. Nevertheless, she could not afford to give in now. She would not admit that she had made it up, return meekly to Bath and to the impossible prospect of being married off to her cousin Harry. She needed a plan.
She watched Mrs Aintree out of the corner of her eye. Clarrie had always had an uncanny knack for spotting when Deb was hatching a plot, but now her companion looked quite serene, as though she thought the matter settled. Deb knew that it was not. Somehow, a temporary fiancé must be found.
If only she could produce a gentleman for her father’s approval, then the whole matter might be dealt with and forgotten quickly. It would not do simply to turn up at Walton Hall and pretend to be an engaged woman. Her father was shrewd and would smell an enormous rat if she arrived without the necessary gentleman in tow. No, she needed a real gentleman to endorse her story. The counterfeit betrothal would buy her time, and once she had returned to Midwinter she could write vaguely to her parents about her wedding plans, finally letting it be known that the engagement had ended with mutual goodwill some twelve months later. No doubt by then the threat of invasion would have receded, cousin Harry would have found another bride, and her father could be persuaded to let her stay in Midwinter Mallow.
The plan seemed sound, but even Deborah could see the huge flaw in the strategy. She did not have a fiancé and, further, she had no idea how to find a suitable gentleman to fill the role.
Deb made a quick inventory of her male acquaintance. It did not take long, for the list was small, society in the Midwinter villages having few eligible gentlemen. It was one of the reasons why she had chosen to live there; she did not wish to be troubled by masculine attention. Most of the men she knew were already married, like her brother-in-law, Ross Marney, or Lord Northcote of Burgh. There was Sir John Norton, of course. He was a bachelor. The drawback there was that she did not like him. And then there was the Duke of Kestrel, who was far too eminent to involve in such a plan, and his brother, Lord Richard Kestrel, who was far too…Deb paused. The first idea that had come into her head when she thought of Richard Kestrel was that he was far too attractive for her to ask him to be her counterfeit fiancé. The thought made her acutely uncomfortable and she shifted on the dining-chair’s embroidered cushion. Richard Kestrel was too attractive, too dangerous, too forceful and too…everything…to be in the least bit suitable. If she were looking to find a lover rather than a husband, then he would be ideal. Deb gave herself a little shake, uncertain where that idea had come from. She wanted neither lover nor
husband and the inevitable trouble that would follow with both.
Her inventory over, Deb sat back with a sigh. The lack of appropriate candidates at least spared her the embarrassment of having to approach a gentleman of her acquaintance and ask him to pose as her temporary suitor. Perhaps it would be easier to make a business arrangement with a stranger instead. She could pay someone to act the part.
Various objections rose in her mind and Deb dealt with them one by one. She had no money other than her allowance, which her father could remove at any moment. That was a practical consideration, but she was sure she could find a way around it. Perhaps she could persuade Ross to fund her. It was not an insuperable problem.
Far more daunting was the thought of pretending to be engaged to a stranger. Yet if she were to hire an actor, for example, it might be quite easy. He would know how to carry off the part. And they would only be visiting Walton Hall for a week at the most.
A feeling of nervousness gnawed at Deb’s stomach. Every instinct that she possessed told her that it was a foolish, ridiculous and even downright dangerous idea to hire herself a husband. She should not even be countenancing it. Ladies simply did not behave in such a manner.
And yet, what alternative did she have? She did not wish to return to Bath and a life she had left behind three years ago. She did not want to marry cousin Harry. She did not want to marry anyone. That was impossible.
The newspaper rustled as Mrs Aintree turned the pages. She was reading the Suffolk Chronicle, which Deborah knew carried advertisements for everything from the efficacious effects of bear’s grease on the hair to Mr Elliston’s patented beaver hats. As she watched her companion skimming each page, an idea slowly began to form in Deborah’s head. Perhaps she could place an advertisement for a fiancé in the newspaper. After all, people were always advertising for servants and this was not so very different. She needed a gentleman to perform a specific task. She was prepared to pay him. The newspaper was a way in which she might find him. She would have to be careful, of course—she would need to make sure that she involved someone else in the interview process and that she took up proper references for the gentleman concerned, but the fundamental idea might just work.
Nicola Cornick - [Bluestocking Brides 02] Page 1