Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress

by Theresa Romain

  “Who have you here, Caro?” said the new arrival, a haughty expression sitting oddly on his rounded cheeks. “Another of your little friends?”

  Michael lifted his chin. “You may refer to me as the Duke of Wyverne.”

  Caroline smiled. “Your Grace, might I present the Earl of Stratton? My late husband’s great-nephew.”

  Late husband, she said.

  Before Michael could tease out more meaning from her words, the earl was bowing to him. “Earl of Stratton, Your Grace, as Caro said. Well, well. This is a pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” He smirked his way upright again. “You have just arrived in Town, I think?”

  Michael acknowledged the bow with a tilt of his head. “Very recently. Yes.”

  Stratton seemed unsure whether this was a snub or not. After a pause, his smirk folded into a fair approximation of good cheer. “Well, society stands ready to offer you a welcome. No doubt we will all enjoy your stay. Caro, come inside with me.”

  “I think not.” Caroline fired a gleaming smile at the earl. “Wyverne and I might not dance after all; it is so pleasant out here. I am inclined to stay on the terrace for quite some time. But there is no need for you to wait for me, Stratton. Do go inside and find someone to dance with.”

  Unmistakable dismissal. Though he glared, the earl had no choice but to slither away. Michael fixed his eyes on the cleverly chased buttons of his own coat sleeve but monitored the sounds of Stratton’s retreat. Footsteps decreased in volume as he crossed the terrace; then a burble of voices spilled through the French doors from the ballroom and was muffled when the doors clicked shut again.

  At once, Michael shook his arm free from Caroline’s grasp.

  “What was that ridiculous lie about a dance, madam?” He should not bark at a woman, he knew, but the prickling tension in his arm was about to drive him mad.

  No. Not mad. It was just… uncomfortable.

  She folded her hands, serene as a saint. “Ought I to apologize for that? I suppose it wasn’t well done of me to put you in such a position, but I needed an excuse to escape Stratton. You needn’t worry that I expect you to dance with me. In fact, now that Stratton is gone, you can be on your way as well.”

  She turned away from him, dismissing him.

  And he realized where they stood: on Lady Applewood’s terrace, mere feet away from where, as a fool of twenty-one, he had allowed her to tear him so beautifully apart.

  “So.” His jaw clenched. “You use me as an excuse, then walk away. I see that nothing much has changed about you, Lady Stratton.” He laid his heaviest stress on these final words.

  “As a widow of advanced years, I shall take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it as you like.”

  “Oh, I shall. I am accustomed to doing what I like.” Slowly, she turned back and met his eye. “But I cannot say you have remained unchanged, Wyverne. I remember you as being much more pleasant.”

  This startled a laugh from him. “Do you? I wasn’t aware I had ever been known for being pleasant.” Brusque, yes. Mad, undoubtedly. Pleasant? Never.

  “I did not say you had been pleasant, only more pleasant. But if you are capable of laughter, perhaps there is hope for you yet.” She smiled, this time without the flinty look. “And I do thank you for your help in disposing of Lord Stratton. He is extremely tiresome about trying to convince me to marry him—as if persistence alone would ever change my mind.”

  “Persistence?” He had not considered this tool for capturing a wife.

  “More than persistence, sadly. He’s not above using threats. But then again, neither am I. Last time Stratton proposed, I accidentally hit him in a sensitive area with my knee.”

  Michael winced.

  “Exactly. He did not soon forget that, but it hasn’t kept him from proposing again. He wants the fortune left to me by my late husband. This time, he knew enough to shield his sensitive area when he asked, though my answer was no different. Men can be so single-minded when it comes to retrieving property they regard as rightfully theirs.”

  He managed a clipped, disinterested voice. “I suppose.”

  When he had said she hadn’t changed at all, that had been untrue. The planes of her face were stronger than he remembered, or maybe memory had softened the hard edges. Now her features were as beautifully constructed as a draftsman’s plans—the arc of her brow over tilted eyes, a straight nose, and high cheekbones.

  At the age of nineteen, she had been fresh-faced and turbulent, the diamond of her debut season. In her way, as brilliant an engineer as any pioneer of steam power: balancing friendships between the wealthy, the notorious, and the bright. Maintaining a clockwork-perfect state of checks and balances.

  Such brilliance had always tugged Michael like a lodestone. But he could not afford to become distracted by fleshly desires. He kept such urges soldered up, for they were ready to vaporize him if given the slightest weakness.

  Caroline tossed him a grin, and he felt a rivet pop.

  “You suppose,” she repeated. “For my part, I suppose that you are also seeking a bit of property. If the scandal sheets are to be believed, which they sometimes are, you are in London to find a wife. Perhaps you and Stratton can share ideas, not that he has any that are worthwhile.”

  “That makes two of us.” Ah, he could have bitten his tongue.

  But she didn’t laugh; she simply looked at him. “You have had no luck yet?”

  He did not perceive any pity or mockery in the question, and so he answered it. “Very little luck of any sort this year.”

  As if to underline his sentence, a blast of chilly wind slapped their faces, then subsided again.

  She turned to lean against the balustrade next to him, then tilted her head back, faint moonlight limning her profile. In the breeze, wisps of flaxen hair fluttered around her face. A faint floral scent wrapped around Michael like a scarf. Somehow the air seemed lighter, cooler.

  Maybe because, for a few seconds, he had served as Galahad instead of Merlin—though his thoughts were none so pure as those of the fabled knight. He felt Caroline next to him as surely as he’d have felt a fire; heat seemed to prickle up and down his body. His disobedient heart stuttered, speared by a shaft of desire, then resumed pounding all the more quickly.

  “The weather is strange this year,” she said. “So cold, for so long. It has complicated matters for you, has it not?”

  “A man who hangs his fortune on irrigation must have something to irrigate.”

  “Or another fortune with which to build?”

  “Or that.”

  “I should have known that nothing but business and dire need would draw you back to London.” She cut a glance at him, and her lips bowed into a bewitching smile that made him forget his surprise. He forgot everything except the color, plum-dark in the warm lantern light, and their shape. She was a promise and a threat. She gave him a siren’s smile, and he would be crushed on the rocks, gladly, for a taste… the mere possibility of a taste.

  No.

  He would not. He had already been crushed, in the economic sense; that was why he was here in London to begin with. Nothing could come from reckless desire except disaster. Nothing could save him—save his dukedom—except careful thought.

  “Business and dire need are among the most worthwhile reasons for visiting a city.” True, but even to his own ears, he sounded stuffy.

  “I’ve no doubt of it. I didn’t intend to mock you. Those aren’t the only reasons one might visit, though.” She kept her gaze trained on the moon, now almost obscured by a passing cloud. “You know, you never told me good-bye.”

  “If you are referring to the last time I was in London, I bade no one good-bye. As my father was in desperate health, I left in a hurry. I was understandably preoccupied with other matters.” Still stuffy, but now he sounded annoyed too. That was acceptable.
Better she think him annoyed with her than with himself.

  Because his father’s health had been no more than an excuse. The late duke had been dreadfully ill for a long time, and there was no reason to think he would ever improve, nor any reason to expect that he would suddenly die. No, Michael hadn’t left London for his father’s sake, but for his own.

  His time in London had been an escape, a chance to prove the rumors wrong. But in the end, he had proved them right, and Lancashire was not far enough to flee from this dreadful knowledge.

  After a long silence, Caroline spoke. “The reason should hardly signify at this distance in time. I understand that a duke, or even the heir to a dukedom, has many responsibilities. Far too many to grant him space to think of those he leaves behind.”

  “I left no one of significance behind.”

  Too harsh—far too harsh. He realized that even before her head snapped back, almost as though he had slapped her.

  “I see,” she said calmly. “As we are not friends, then, and never were, it only remains for me to thank you for your service tonight in freeing me from Stratton.” She dipped into a curtsy. “I shall return to the ballroom now, Your Grace.”

  Was there a tremor in her voice? Had he wounded her feelings? Michael had no idea how to tell. But he had gone wrong somehow, for she was already walking away.

  “Wait, Caro.” The words burst from deep within him. “Please.”

  She stopped but did not turn to him. Her shoulders were squared, held high and confident. They looked far too small to carry all his burdens.

  This was a mad idea. Or perhaps it was genius. Or perhaps it was nothing but a frail hope.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Thank you for reading!

  We hope you enjoyed Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress by Theresa Romain.

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  The book you’ve just finished is Book 3 in the Matchmaker trilogy. In case you missed them, the first two books in the series are It Takes Two to Tangle and To Charm a Naughty Countess. If you loved Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress, check out our mailing list for updates on new releases and access to exclusive content.

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  Acknowledgments

  With deepest thanks to my husband, for his love and support; to Amanda, for her wonderful critiques; and to Farihah, advisor on all things Anglo-Indian (and, of course, Bengali!).

  As we wrap up the Matchmaker trilogy, my gratitude goes out to the entire Sourcebooks team, who create such beautiful cover art and who guide the production, publicity, and marketing of my books with such savvy. Special thanks to my editor, Deb Werksman, who has an unerring instinct for how to make my books stronger. Thanks too, to my agent, Paige Wheeler, who always offers wonderful insight and guidance.

  And to you, dear readers. My stories are for you; I’m so grateful you found them.

  About the Author

  Historical romance author Theresa Romain pursued an impractical education that allowed her to read everything she could get her hands on. She then worked for universities and libraries, where she got to read even more. Eventually she started writing, too. Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress is the third book in the Regency Matchmaker trilogy. Theresa lives with her family in the Midwest.

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