"And What I Needed to Read, A Captivating Regency Romance"
Reviewed by Ande Flanagan
Posted April 30, 2014
Romance Historical
Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, returns home to
prevent the sale of his beloved childhood home, Sommerall,
where his mother is buried, but his father has other plans.
If Colin wants the house then he must marry and give up his
rakish ways. As his very last resort, Colin turns to Lady
Angeline Brenham for help maneuvering around his father.
Colin and Angeline are like oil and water, incompatible in
every way. As long as they have known each other, they have
clashed despite their families matchmaking. After a foolish
engagement to a wastrel, Angeline is on the the defensive.
She is unwilling to trust any man, especially not a known
rake, but she eventually gives in to Colin and helps him.
Will budding desire get in the way of their plans?
WHAT A RECKLESS ROGUE NEEDS by Vicky Dreiling is the much
anticipated second novel in her Sinful Scoundrels
series. WHAT A RECKLESS ROGUE NEEDS flows off the page with
ease. Vicky Dreiling's writing catches you up, and before
you know it you are five, six, seven chapters into one of
the best historical romances so far this year.
The tension is palpable and emotion leaps off the page in
WHAT A RECKLESS ROGUE NEEDS. Colin's frustration is
my frustration. Angeline's insecurities are my
insecurities. Vicky Dreiling paints a vivid illustration
with her words. When Colin storms out of his father's office
in a rage, I'm just as mad. I want to yell "keep going and
never look back!" When Angeline's father turns away from her
in disappointment, I wonder what did I do wrong.
WHAT A RECKLESS ROGUE NEEDS by Vicky Dreiling is what good
storytelling is all about. It sweeps you up into another
land, another place, another time, and you forget you were
ever part of a separate place.
SUMMARY
WILL THE ROGUE'S PERFECT PLAN . . . Colin Brockhurst, Earl
of Ravenshire, has no desire to wed, this season or any
other. So when his father demands he give up his wild ways
and take a wife, Colin refuses. But his father raises the
stakes and threatens to sell the ancestral home if Colin
doesn't comply. Now Colin has no choice but to find a wife.
Unfortunately, the only woman he wants is the one whose
heart he broke years ago. LEAD TO THE PERFECT SEDUCTION? Regardless of the ton's whispers, Lady Angeline Brenham
won't settle for anything less than true love. After
rejecting more than her share of suitable suitors,
spinsterhood looms before her-until the devilishly handsome
Colin reappears in her life with a proposition. Angeline
vows to keep her feet on the ground and her heart in check.
That is, until one searing kiss melts her resolve and
reignites a burning desire for more . .
ExcerptLondon, 1821, The AlbanyColin awoke with an aching head and his tongue as dry as the
Arabian Desert. He must’ve drunk enough claret last night to
fill the bloody Thames. He sat up on the edge of the mattress, only to realize he’d
slept in his boots. A ray of sunshine speared through the
drapes, blinding him. He shaded his eyes and turned away.
The remnants of his drunken spree sat on a chest: two
glasses and three bottles. For a disoriented moment, his woolly brain refused to
cooperate. He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his
face. Two glasses? In the bedchamber? Had someone else been
here? When the door opened, he stood to face it. A redheaded woman
in a rumpled green gown entered. He vaguely recalled meeting
her backstage in the actress’s dressing room at the theater
the previous night. “What happened?” he asked, his voice
croaking. She huffed. “I should think it bloody obvious.” Oh, Lord. “Did we . . . ?” “Are you daft? You were so foxed I couldn’t wake you,” she
said. “I had no one to help me undress.” Relieved, he blew out his breath. Given his inebriated state
last night, he doubted he would have been sensible enough to
use a French letter. “Sorry, Lila,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “My name is Lottie.” “Of course. How could I forget?” “You were drunk as a sailor,” she said. “That’s how.” He felt as if a carriage had run over him. “I must beg your
pardon, but the landlord doesn’t allow women in the rooms.” “That didn’t trouble you last night.” Someone banged on the door, startling him. He met Lottie’s
gaze. “Stay here and be silent,” he said. She scowled. “What? You mean to hide me?” “Well, yes. Please be quiet,” he said under his breath. “The landlord will fine me if he discovers you here.” The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent.
Colin’s temples throbbed as he walked to the door. “I’m
coming,” he called out. “Not likely,” Lottie said, snickering. He halted at the ridiculous double entendre and glanced over
his shoulder. “Go back into the bedchamber. You can’t be
seen here.” She leaned against the door and grinned. “Tell the landlord
I’m your sister.” He huffed. “I’m sure he’s heard that before.” Her raspy laughter grated on his nerves. In a thoroughly bad
mood, Colin strode across the small parlor and yanked the
door open. His oldest friend, Harry, stood there. “Sorry to wake you,
old boy, but it is almost noon.” “Thank God,” Colin said, ushering his friend inside. “I
thought it was the landlord.” Harry blinked as he clapped eyes on the actress. “Oh, I say,
bad timing.” “Don’t worry,” Colin said. “Lila is just leaving.” “Lottie,” she said in an exasperated tone. Then she turned
her attention to Harry. “You’re a looker.” Harry took her hand and bowed over it as if she were a grand
lady at a ton ball. “Enchanté.” Colin located his purse and handed her a shilling. “This
should cover the cost of a hack.” She scowled. “You wish to be rid of me?” “Not at all, madame,” Harry said, ogling her décolletage. Colin released a loud sigh, rummaged in the purse, and
produced another shilling. She lifted her brows. “Is this all I can expect after
staying the entire night?” “You had the use of a soft bed,” Colin said. She put her
hands on her hips. “I had to keep my gown on.” Harry eyed the voluptuous actress’s charms. “I suppose it’s
more expedient that way.” “He left his boots on,” Lottie said with a sniff. Harry shook his head. “Bad form, old boy.” Colin gave Harry a pointed look. “Is there something you
wanted?” “Yes.” Harry took a letter out of his pocket. “This was
mistakenly delivered to my rooms earlier this morning.” Colin took the letter and regarded Lottie. “I wish you many
standing ovations.” She donned her cloak. “I certainly didn’t get one last
night.” With that riposte, she marched out the door. Harry burst out laughing and collapsed on the cast-off sofa. “Stubble it,” Colin said. He walked over to the table and
broke the seal on the letter. “How much do I owe you for the
post?” “Nothing. You paid mine the last time,” Harry said. “Who
sent you a letter?” “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” “Aren’t you a slow top today,” Harry said. “I’ve got the bottle ache.” He set the letter aside and
rubbed his temples. He’d suffered a lot of bottle aches
lately. “Where’s your man servant? He could make you a concoction.” “It’s his half day.” Colin added coals to the dying fire.
Afterward, he walked to the kitchen, pumped water into a
kettle, and returned to the parlor. He measured leaves in
the teapot and set the kettle on the hob. While he waited
for the water to heat, he opened the letter and scowled. “Well?” Harry asked. His nostrils flared. “It’s from my father.” “What does he say?” “He requests my presence at Deerfield Park.” Colin rose,
slapped the letter on the table, and started pacing.
“Damn him.” Harry lifted his brows. “Is something wrong?” “There definitely is something bloody damned wrong. My father wants to sell Sommerall.” Colin gritted his teeth
at the thought of strangers taking possession. “What about the entail?” Harry said. “Sommerall was intentionally left out. My grandfather
intended the property for a younger son, but my father was
the only male issue.” His parents had lived there until his
mother’s death, and then his father had abruptly moved to
his grandfather’s nearby estate, Deerfield. Colin walked to the window and pushed the draperies aside.
Sommerall had been his boyhood home for six years. No one
had occupied it since then. He’d always assumed his father
would grant him the property. “When do you leave?” Harry asked. He gave his friend a wry look. “At my earliest convenience.” “Sorry about the property. Perhaps you could persuade the
marquess not to sell.” “Right,” he said, the one word full of sarcasm. “How long will you stay?” Harry asked. He shrugged. “Long enough to find out what prompted my
father’s decision.” He meant to change his father’s mind,
and he had just cause. When the kettle started shrieking, he rescued it and poured
the hot water. “Will the Duke of Wycoff and his family visit for the house
party as usual?” Harry asked. “I doubt it. For all I know, the duchess and her eldest
daughter are still in Paris.” “They returned six months ago.” He poured tea over a strainer into two cups and handed one
to Harry. “How do you know this? Oh, never mind, your mother
and female cousins would have told you.” Harry sipped his tea. “You know my mother’s drawing room is
famous for scandal broth. My cousins know everything about
everybody. You do know Lady Angeline jilted Brentmoor over a
year ago.” “I heard.” That was all he knew of her situation, although
he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten tangled up with that
roué. He didn’t want to know. Their families were close, but
he’d had a falling out with Angeline years ago. His father
had blamed him for supposedly breaking her heart at her
come-out ball, but it was the exact opposite. When he’d
requested a dance, she’d turned him down flat and accepted
an offer from someone else. To be fair, he’d been nipping
from a flask with friends and she’d been disgusted. Ever
since they’d been like oil and water. They didn’t mix well. Harry set his cup aside. “Supposedly the broken engagement
is the reason she fled to Paris last year.” He wasn’t surprised. Crying off an engagement was serious
business. The scandal sheets had reported it, albeit with
poorly disguised names. He’d never understood why her father
had approved the marriage in the first place. Brentmoor’s
sorry reputation was well known, after all. Harry frowned. “Why would the marquess sell Sommerall?” “That’s the thousand-pound question.” Colin clenched his
jaw. He considered his father’s decision an insult, but he
wouldn’t voice the words. “The marquess will come around,” Harry said. “This is no idle inclination on my father’s part.” “Do you think he’s bluffing?” “No, he’s serious, but so am I.” “What are you planning?” Harry said. Colin lifted his chin. “An offer he can’t refuse.” * * * Suffolk, Sommerall House, two days later The carriage slowed six miles from Deerfield Manor and
rounded the circular drive of Sommerall. Mercifully, the
weather had held. When the vehicle rolled to a halt, Colin
collected his hat and stepped out. The crisp autumn breeze
chilled his face as he inhaled the fresh country air. It was
invigorating after the filthy, choked skies of London. He directed the driver to wait and strode off. His boots
crunched in the gravel as he walked toward the sandstone
house built in the early part of the eighteenth century. The
darker blue hues in the sky signaled impending twilight. He
was glad he’d arrived before all the light waned, as he
wanted to inspect the condition of the property. When he met
with his father, he intended to report any initial needed
repairs. If he expected his father to consider his request,
he must show that he had made a preliminary investigation. He felt above the lintel for the key, but it wasn’t there.
Frowning, he tried the door, but it was locked tighter than
a virgin’s legs. There was nothing for it except to question
his father about the missing key. Colin tramped through the grass to the back of the house.
The lower windows might have afforded him a view inside, but
he couldn’t see much from this vantage point. Colin gritted
his teeth, but frustration wouldn’t change a damned thing. He walked west along a path that had probably once been well
worn, but he couldn’t be certain. His father’s house was a
mere six miles down good road, but there were reasons he
seldom returned to Deerfield.
In the distance, a swing hung from a tall oak. Perhaps his
late mother or father had given him a push, but he would
never know, for he recalled very little of his childhood. The papery autumn leaves crackled beneath his boots as he
strode onward. Long shadows reached out from the barren
birch trees. The property was far smaller than Deerfield
Park, but it was excellent land. He envisioned workers in
the now-fallow fields, but there was no rush. He was thirty-one years old and not ready to settle down. The capes of his greatcoat snapped in the biting wind, but
he was determined. In the distance, he saw the marble domed
roof and the four Ionic columns of the mausoleum. When he
reached it, he gripped the rail of the balustrade and looked
down the flight of steps. Twenty-four years had elapsed, but
all he had left of her was her grave and vague snatches of
childhood memories. His chest tightened. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d
visited his mother’s grave, and it shamed him. He had no
eloquent prayers, no memorabilia of his mother. Only a
hollow place inside that had remained empty. “You will not
be abandoned or forgotten,” he said in a hoarse voice. Colin turned and strode away. He’d be damned before he let
his father sell the property where his mother was laid to
rest. By the time he reached Deerfield Park, the sun had set and
the Tudor house that had belonged to his family since the
sixteenth century was shrouded in darkness, save for the
lanterns that the servants carried. When he stepped out of
the carriage, a blast of freezing wind chafed his face. A
footman with a lantern led the way to the horseshoe steps
while the others unloaded his trunks. When he entered the foyer, he handed over his hat, coat, and
gloves to Ames, the butler who had been with the family all
of Colin’s life. “My lord, may I be permitted to welcome you home?” Ames
said. “Yes, of course, Ames,” he said, handing over his greatcoat.
Then he smiled and retrieved a small snuffbox from his inner
coat pocket. “For me, my lord?” Ames said. “I happened upon it and know you like to collect them. This
one was made in India.” “I could not accept it, my lord. I’m sure it is quite
valuable.” “Of course you can. I would be disappointed if you did not
accept it.” “Very well,” Ames said. “Thank you for the gift, my lord. I
shall put it in a special place where it will remind me of
you. Now, your room is prepared, and your valet will unpack
your trunk as soon as possible. The marquess, marchioness,
and all of the other guests are in the blue drawing room.” He paused at the mention of other guests, but of course, he
would not question the butler. “Thank you, Ames.” He’d hoped
to speak privately with his father straightaway, but
obviously he’d have to wait until tomorrow. His boots
clipped on the marble floor as he strode across the great
hall. Feminine shrieks startled him. “Colin!” Bianca and Bernadette, his twin half sisters, ran down the
stairs. When they threw their arms around him, he frowned.
“Wait, who are you? What have you done with my little
sisters?” Bernadette rolled her eyes. “You’re silly, Colin.” “I’m afraid to blink,” he said. “You might get even taller
right before my eyes.” Until this moment, he’d not realized how much he’d missed
them. They were mirror images of one another, something that
often took others aback. Early on, he’d learned to
distinguish them by a small beauty mark. Bernadette had one
on her left cheek, while Bianca’s was on her right cheek. Bianca looked up at him. “How long will you stay?” “A thousand years,” he said, making his sisters laugh. “We have a dog now,” Bianca said. “We’re supposed to keep
Hercules in the kitchen with the servants.” “Hercules? He must be a big dog.” “No, he’s not very big,” Bernadette said. Bianca giggled. “Papa said he’s ugly.” Colin laughed. “Are you still speaking twin gibberish?” “We gave that up ages ago,” Bernadette said. “Next spring,
we’ll be sixteen and ready for our come-out.” His chest tightened yet again, this time with guilt. He
would know about their upcoming debut if he’d made the
effort to see them more often. God only knew what else he’d
missed in their lives. Regardless of how difficult his
relationship was with his father, he shouldn’t ignore his
sisters. “We’re not nearly as tall as Penny,” Bianca said. “Here she
comes now.” Penelope was here? He looked up at the landing where a thin,
tall girl with reddish blond hair stood. She lowered her
eyes and turned toward the corridor. “Come with us,” Bianca said, taking his arm. When they
gained the landing, he saw the back of a tall brunette in a
brilliant green gown. His appreciative gaze slid down to the
woman’s rounded bottom. When the brunette turned, she looked
somewhat familiar, but the candlelight in the corridor was
dim. As he drew nearer, recognition dawned. The candlelight
burnished her brunette hair and shed a mellow glow over her
stunning creamy complexion. He felt as if she’d knocked the
breath out of him. Hell, she’d literally done it when he’d
tried to give her a chaste kiss beneath the Christmas
mistletoe a few years ago. She’d always had a sharp tongue,
and he’d remained wary of her with good reason. Angeline curtsied and regarded him with a shrewd smile.
“Bonsoir, mon ami.” Their relationship had always been closer to adversary than
friend, but he’d not seen her in a long time. There was no question that she’d grown even more beautiful. Angeline offered her gloved hand, and he bowed over it. He
flicked his eyes quickly over her generous bosom. Colin
mentally reminded himself to keep his gaze a very safe
distance above her low neckline. “I suspect you’ve had more
than a few Parisian admirers.” Her one-shoulder shrug was all Gallic. “The French have a
proverb: ‘Beautiful grapes often make poor wine.’” A sly
expression flitted through her green eyes. “So I avoid the
grapes and drink the wine.” “Clever,” he said. Angeline clapped her hands twice. “Girls, repair to the
drawing room. The marchioness is expecting us.” He offered his arm to her. “Shall we?” “I don’t know. You look as if you’re facing a prison cell
rather than a drawing room.” He said nothing, but he’d always dreaded visits to his
father’s home. He’d been at Eton when his father remarried,
and on his infrequent stays at Deerfield, he’d never felt he
belonged. It wasn’t as if they were estranged; it was just
circumstances. He’d always felt a bit awkward here, and as a
result, he didn’t visit often. They entered the drawing room to the delighted exclamations
of Angeline’s mother—the Duchess of Wycoff—and his
stepmother, Margaret, the marchioness. He noted the
proliferation of gray in the duchess’s hair, and the fine
hair on his neck stiffened. The scandal must have created a
great deal of vexation. “I daresay they make a handsome pair,” the duchess said. Colin winced. When they were children, their deluded
families had concocted the idea of a match between them, all
because they were born only a week apart. But that had
happened when they were mere babes, before his mother’s
death and his father’s second marriage. “Unfortunately, Colin and Angeline are about as compatible
as two spitting cats,” the marquess said. “Chadwick, please mind your words,” Margaret said. “Oh, look what you’ve started. The girls are hissing at each
other. Bianca, Bernadette, you will cease.” His father had spoken the truth. Beyond the annual house
party and the spring season, Colin and Angeline had done
their best to avoid each other over the years, though they
had not been entirely successful. Despite her outward
civility this evening, he knew her capacity for causing
trouble, and he could not afford to be distracted. The fate
of Sommerall hung in the balance. He escorted Angeline to a chair and headed for the
sideboard. Five minutes in her presence had been enough to
send him to the brandy decanter. Admittedly, a goodly
portion had to do with her womanly figure. A shrew she might
be, but she was also the sort of woman men mentally
undressed. At that thought, he poured himself two fingers,
and then his gaze veered to his father. Show him you’re
confident and unconcerned. The Marquess of Chadwick returned his look with an
inscrutable expression. “Welcome, Colin,” the Marchioness of Chadwick said. He bowed. “You look well, Margaret.” “I’m very glad you came.” For a moment, she looked as if she
would say more and then seemed to reconsider. Her abrupt
silence didn’t surprise him. They had always been ill at
ease with each other, although unfailingly polite. Her late
father had been in trade, but she’d been educated as a lady.
Colin assumed his father had married her for her wealth, but
he did not know for certain, and he most certainly would
never ask. Margaret faced Angeline. “Thank you for bringing the girls
to the drawing room. Left to their own devices, I fear they
would spend all of their time in their room engaged in idle
gossip.” “What gossip could they possibly know?” the marquess said in
a gruff voice. “They aren’t even out in society yet.” The twins immediately adopted cherubic expressions. Colin
bit his lip to keep from laughing. Margaret regarded her husband with lifted brows. “You seem
to have forgotten the letter they wrote to the king six
months ago.” Colin regarded his sisters with mock gravity. “Why did you
write to the king?” The marquess released a loud sigh. “Your sisters advised him
to adopt a slimming regimen.” Colin’s shoulders shook with laughter. The poor king’s girth
was the subject of many caricatures. “Thank goodness Ames intercepted the letter before it went
out with the post,” Margaret said. Colin leaned against the sideboard. So his sisters were
still scamps. He found himself glad, perhaps because soon
they would be entering the adult world, before he’d even
gotten a chance to catch up on their burgeoning adolescence.
The fault was his, and he’d meant to do better, but somehow
intention led to procrastination. In London, it was all too
easy to get caught up in the clubs, the races, the fencing
matches, and the loose women who pursued him. The Duke of Wycoff approached and clapped Colin on the
shoulder. “I wasn’t certain you would attend.” He wouldn’t have done so if not for his father’s letter.
From the corner of his eye, Colin saw his father watching
and retrieved the decanter. “Brandy?” he asked the duke. “Don’t mind if I do,” the duke said. “It’s been an age since
we last met.” “White’s last spring, if memory serves me right.” Colin
handed him a brandy and sipped his own drink. His father
always stocked the finest brandy and port. “I take it
Landale could not attend?” Colin said. “My son did not wish to travel, given that his wife is in a
delicate condition.” Colin smiled a little at Wycoff’s old-fashioned reference to
his daughter-in-law’s impending childbirth.
Wycoff inhaled the brandy’s fragrance. “It has been two
years since the last house party. I confess I missed the
shooting with Chadwick.” There was a reserved air about Wycoff that had never been
there before. He didn’t mention Angeline’s broken engagement
and subsequent journey to Paris with her mother. It wasn’t
the sort of topic one spoke of openly, but Colin felt it
simmering beneath the surface. One thing he noticed was that
Wycoff avoided looking at his eldest daughter. Colin found
it odd and told himself he was imagining undercurrents. Deep
down, he suspected there was something brewing beneath the
surface, but he’d no idea what it was. Perhaps that was for
the best. Wycoff drew in a breath. “Still chasing the lightskirts?” Am I supposed to answer that?” The duke laughed. “Sounds like an affirmative to me.” He cleared his throat. “I try to be discreet.” The duke raised his brows. “It’s not working.” In an effort to change the topic, Colin said, “May I freshen
your drink?” “No, thank you,” Wycoff said. “I’ll join your father on a
comfortable chair and try not to doze as I’m wont to do.” Colin bowed and watched the duke walk away. Angeline
attempted to intercept him, but he ignored her. Colin
frowned. It seemed odd to him, but he shrugged it off. He meant to remain at the sideboard, but Margaret sought him
out. “Angeline has agreed to play the pianoforte,” she said.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to turn the pages for her.” Short of claiming a sudden case of the ague, he could hardly
refuse. “Yes, of course,” he said, and strode over to the
instrument where Angeline removed one of her gloves. He’d
forgotten her long slender fingers. Then again, why should
he remember them? He shook off the odd thought and stood
there waiting for her to begin playing. “Will you set up the sheet music?” she said, fumbling with
the other glove. “Yes, I will.” He frowned. “Are you vexed?” “Of course not,” she said. He suspected she was lying. “What will you play?” “Grimstock,” she said, handing the sheets to him. He leaned over her shoulder and placed the pages side by
side. “How appropriate considering you are looking rather
grim,” he said under his breath. “I haven’t played in ages. I fear this will be excruciating
for me and everyone listening.” “It’s a bit late to decline now.” “I will play when I am ready,” she said in a testy voice. “As you please, but there’s no need to snap at me. I might
add that the sooner you play, the quicker the misery will be
over.” “I do not play that badly,” she said. He clasped his hands behind his back and said nothing. “I am competent,” she said. “Of course you are,” he said, trying very hard not to laugh. “You are perfectly horrid and so is my playing,” she said. “At long last, something we agree upon.” He’d forgotten the
ease with which they sparred with one another. It was like
verbal chess. “Do not torment me,” she said. “I might avenge myself by
playing more than one piece.” “In that case, I am overwhelmed by your talent—at least for
the duration of this one exhibition.” She pressed the ivory keys lightly. “I must concentrate.” When he turned the page, she leaned forward a bit and
pressed a discordant note, but she managed to recover. After a few moments, he said, “I saw you speaking to my
stepmother.” Angeline kept her eyes on the sheet music. “The marchioness
enumerated your many positive qualities.” He smiled. “Did she now? What did she say?” “Hmmm. She said you drink like a fish and have a string of
previous lovers who are permanently heartbroken over losing
your affections.” “Margaret would never disparage me.” “So you deny you’re a rake?” Angeline said, her tone
challenging. “My reputation is somewhat embellished.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I rather
doubt it.” “Why should you doubt me? You’ve no proof.” “I’m well acquainted with the type,” she said. “I imagine
you’ve heard.” He leaned over her again and straightened the sheet music.
“I’m not Brentmoor.” She played a wrong note and grimaced. “Sorry.” He shouldn’t have said that. It had probably been a
painful experience for her. “You’re fine, keep playing.” “That’s rich. Encouragement from a rake.” He was tempted to defend himself, but it wouldn’t change the
truth. Good God, he’d gotten so foxed in his rooms he’d
passed out with his boots on and forgotten the actress he’d
taken home. But in the world of London, there were rakes and
there were disgusting scoundrels. He’d never sunk so low as
the latter. The duchess raised her voice. “Angeline, you must focus.” Angeline’s mouth thinned as if she were struggling with her
reaction. The duchess was a formidable woman, with a very
strict interpretation of the proprieties. That brought to
mind Brentmoor. Colin could not fathom how Angeline had gotten involved with
that roué. He wondered why Wycoff hadn’t put his foot down
with his daughter. Why hadn’t he forbidden her to have
anything to do with a known libertine? It made no sense. Granted, he was a rake, but he kept his distance from
virtuous ladies, mostly because he prized his bachelorhood.
Angeline faltered again. Colin marked the way she winced and figured her mother’s
reproof had rattled her. But he found it odd. Angeline had
never been a wilting flower. When she played another wrong
note, he leaned closer and said, “Relax, my stepmother is
distracting the duchess as we speak.” Angeline was more than a little flustered, and Colin’s
presence did not help. “I do not need your reassurance.”
“I’m merely practicing being a dull, respectable fellow.” She continued playing. “Is that like putting on an old coat
to see if it still fits?” “I’m simply wanting for temporary amusement.” “Then I must be boring you,” she said. “There is a dearth of
real amusement tonight.” “One thing about you hasn’t changed,” he said. “What is that?” “You never want for a clever retort.” Or a strategic defense. She regarded him with a cynical
smile. Truthfully, she had dreaded encountering Colin, but
it was foolish of her. He’d likely heard plenty of rumors
about her misbegotten and short-lived engagement, but she
had a low opinion of dissipated rakes like him and cared nothing for his opinion, good or bad. Liar. You hate that he knows you were brought down low. She had hoped to avoid attending the annual house party, but
her mother had insisted that she begin entering English
society again in order to “repair” her reputation, though
this gathering hardly counted as such. The notion of repair
was laughable. The only way she could redeem her reputation
would be to make a respectable marriage, and that was highly
unlikely. Even though she yearned to start over, to change what had
happened, there was no going back. She couldn’t retrieve her
youth. Time had marched on like an obedient soldier, until
one day she’d awakened to discover she was thirty years old
and on the proverbial shelf. That had played a large part in
her foolhardy courtship with Brentmoor. Angeline played the last notes and reached for the sheet
music, but Colin gathered the pages in a neat stack. When he
turned to her, she was struck anew by his dark curly hair
and brown eyes with amber hues that could melt butter in
freezing temperatures—or more likely, a lady’s objections. Any lady but her. Why was so much beauty wrapped up in a she-devil package?
Perhaps he wasn’t being fair. They had not spoken in ages,
but given her acerbic remarks tonight, he doubted she’d
changed. She snatched her gloves. In her haste, she dropped one. He retrieved it. “You seem a bit flustered. I hope I did not
make you vexatious.” “You flatter yourself.” “There you are wrong. I have my faults, but excessive vanity
is not one of them.” She covered an obviously feigned yawn. “I shall refrain from
asking about your other excesses.” “Angeline,” the duchess said, “will you play again or do you
intend to dawdle?” The rosy flush staining Angeline’s face spoke volumes, but
she recovered quickly and popped up from the bench. “I shall
dawdle. I do it so well.” The twins marched over to the pianoforte and set up their
sheets. Colin took the opportunity to escape Angeline.
“Pardon me while I turn the pages for my sisters.” “How very charming of Ravenshire to turn the pages for the
twins,” the duchess said. “He shows his care for his
sisters.” Angeline made a concerted effort not to roll her eyes. She’d
always struggled to keep her thoughts from showing on her
face, but it was particularly difficult when her mother made
a big to-do over the simple act of turning pages. The duchess had obviously chosen to forget Colin’s
dissipated reputation, but Angeline had not. She turned her attention away and spotted Penny hunching her
shoulders in the window seat. “Excuse me, Mama,” she said,
and hurried off before her mother could detain her further.
Penny smiled a little when she sat beside her. “Are you enjoying seeing the twins again?” Angeline asked. “Oh, yes. They are quite vivacious,” Penny said. “Unlike
me.” Angeline squeezed her sister’s hand. “You have many talents,
Penny. You play very well and your watercolors are
beautiful.” “Thank you,” Penny said, “but I wish I had the gift of
conversing easily. I always think of something clever to say
after I’m alone.” “Better to think before you speak,” Angeline said. “I
learned that the hard way, but let us not dwell on our
faults. The grounds at Deerfield are beautiful. Perhaps we
could go for a walk this week if the weather holds.” “I would like that very much.” Penny bit her lip. “What troubles you?” Angeline said. “It is of no consequence,” she said. “You know that you can tell me anything.” She worried that
her mother might have inadvertently let something slip about
her broken betrothal in front of Penny this evening.
Angeline knew she couldn’t protect her sister forever, but
she did not want to reveal the circumstances while they were
away from home. Penny clasped her hands in her lap. “Bianca and Bernadette
were speaking about our come-outs next spring, and all of a
sudden I realized that I would be among an enormous crowd. I
just know that I’ll be a wallflower.” She hugged Penny. “Sweet sister, you will do very well.” “You will be there,” Penny said. “I could not possibly make
my debut without you.” “You mustn’t worry.” But even as Angeline spoke, she wasn’t
entirely certain she would be able to attend. While a few of
her mother’s steadfast friends had called upon them in
Paris, there were more than a few English ladies who had cut
their acquaintance. She dreaded broaching the topic. Her
sister was sensitive, and Angeline saw no reason to worry
Penny months ahead of time, but Angeline was concerned. She
prayed her scandal would not touch Penny, because that would
hurt far more than Brentmoor’s duplicity. Colin bid the guests good night as they retired for the
evening. The marquess had not moved from his spot on the
sofa. As usual, Margaret was straightening the cushions,
something she ought to leave for the servants. Then she
pulled a stool over to her husband. “Margaret,” the marquess said in a warning tone. She hesitated. “I thought you might wish to put your feet up
now that the guests are gone.” Colin sat in a winged chair and leaned forward. “If you
don’t want it, I’ll take it.” “I’ll keep it,” the marquess said. Good Lord. His father was like a child. He hadn’t wanted the
stool until he realized someone else did. Margaret curtsied. “Well, I’ll leave you to your
discussion.” “You may expect me in half an hour, Margaret.” Colin brushed at the nonexistent lint on his trousers. Did
his father have to announce his intention to bed his wife in
front of him? After she left, the marquess polished off a brandy and
regarded him with amusement. “Did you think I’ve become so
ancient that I’ve lost my virility?” He turned his head aside. “I don’t want to know your
intimate business.” “Are you blushing?” Of course he wasn’t, but damnation, no
man wanted to know about his father’s marital relations.
“I’m here because you requested my presence to discuss the
sale of Sommerall.” The marquess clasped his hands over his slight paunch. “You
are curt this evening. Perhaps you have forgotten who
supports your lavish lifestyle.” His quarterly funds hardly counted as a “lavish” lifestyle,
but Colin refused to be distracted. “I stopped at Sommerall
earlier today. Are you aware the key is missing?” “It is not missing,” the marquess said. “I retrieved it some
time ago to keep vagrants out.” Colin nodded. “I’ll come to the point. I want Sommerall.” The marquess huffed. “For what? You spend all of your time
in London. The property has remained unoccupied for years.
The furnishings and paintings are covered with sheets. God
only knows what sort of nests are in the chimney. The place
needs to be occupied. I see no reason to let it rot when I
have an offer.” Colin clenched his jaw and reminded himself to hold his
temper. A row would serve no purpose. “I have a plan—” “Not tonight.” The marquess groaned after he moved his feet
off the stool and stood. Colin’s eyes widened. “Are you unwell?” “Of course not,” the marquess said. “Go on now. I’ll meet
you in my study after breakfast.” “If you will listen—” “Tomorrow,” the marquess said. “I only want a few minutes of your—” “You will meet me as directed,” the marquess said. His father had always insisted upon having control of
everything, including the last word. Colin gritted his
teeth, stood, and bowed. “Good night,” he said. After Colin left, the marquess winced when his knees
creaked. Little wonder. He’d tramped all over the property
with Wycoff earlier today. He’d always been active, either
riding or walking along the property. He personally
inspected repairs and drainage issues. Only a fool would
allow others to make the decisions, and he was no fool. He was doubly glad that he was as fit as ever, as he didn’t
want anything to interfere with the shooting. Every autumn,
he and Wycoff had a fine time shooting birds—or rather
attempting. Aiming their guns at birds was a better
description. They rarely ever bagged one, but that didn’t
matter. He enjoyed spending time with his oldest friend. He
thought about inviting Colin, but the marquess knew it was
time to teach his son a lesson. That was the reason he’d
requested his reckless son’s presence at the house party. The marquess sighed. He had heard more stories than he could
count about his son’s debauchery, gaming, and dissipation.
He should not be surprised. After all, he’d been quite the
rakehell in his day, but he had decided it was past time
that Colin settled down. Once the marquess made a decision,
he stood by it. He’d known his threat to sell Sommerall would infuriate his
son, but he’d been fairly certain that Colin would have made
excuses to avoid the house party and Angeline. The pair had
never gotten along since her come-out. Margaret had told him
in confidence that Colin had reserved the first dance, but
there had been a dustup when he’d shown up late and foxed.
That was years ago, but they had remained estranged all
these years. Seemed ridiculous to him, but what was he to do
about it? But now his old friend Wycoff was worried about his eldest
daughter. She’d gotten herself in a tangle over jilting a
beau, and Wycoff worried about her future. The marquess
sympathized, as he had his own problems with Colin.
Reason told him that Colin wanted Sommerall because his
mother was buried there, God rest her soul. The marquess
assumed his son wanted the property badly or he would have
stayed in London to continue his typical rakehell pursuits. His son had a plan. No doubt it was quite inventive. Colin,
for all of his reckless ways, was shrewd. The marquess was
interested to see exactly what his son had devised in such a
short period of time. Of course, he would not make matters
easy on Colin. In truth, matters could take a wrong turn,
but he figured he had a decent chance of succeeding. He chuckled softly, remembering how his own father had given
him a blistering lecture many years ago. God knew he’d been
as wild as the proverbial March hare in his day, but like
his father before him, the marquess intended to force his
son to leave behind his raking for good.London, 1821, The
Albany Colin awoke with an aching head and his tongue as dry as the
Arabian Desert. He must’ve drunk enough claret last night to
fill the bloody Thames. He sat up on the edge of the mattress, only to realize he’d
slept in his boots. A ray of sunshine speared through the
drapes, blinding him. He shaded his eyes and turned away.
The remnants of his drunken spree sat on a chest: two
glasses and three bottles. For a disoriented moment, his woolly brain refused to
cooperate. He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his
face. Two glasses? In the bedchamber? Had someone else been
here? When the door opened, he stood to face it. A redheaded woman
in a rumpled green gown entered. He vaguely recalled meeting
her backstage in the actress’s dressing room at the theater
the previous night. “What happened?” he asked, his voice
croaking. She huffed. “I should think it bloody obvious.” Oh, Lord. “Did we . . . ?” “Are you daft? You were so foxed I couldn’t wake you,” she
said. “I had no one to help me undress.” Relieved, he blew out his breath. Given his inebriated state
last night, he doubted he would have been sensible enough to
use a French letter. “Sorry, Lila,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “My name is Lottie.” “Of course. How could I forget?” “You were drunk as a sailor,” she said. “That’s how.” He felt as if a carriage had run over him. “I must beg your
pardon, but the landlord doesn’t allow women in the rooms.” “That didn’t trouble you last night.” Someone banged on the door, startling him. He met Lottie’s
gaze. “Stay here and be silent,” he said.
She scowled. “What? You mean to hide me?” “Well, yes. Please be quiet,” he said under his breath. “The landlord will fine me if he discovers you here.” The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent.
Colin’s temples throbbed as he walked to the door. “I’m
coming,” he called out. “Not likely,” Lottie said, snickering. He halted at the ridiculous double entendre and glanced over
his shoulder. “Go back into the bedchamber. You can’t be
seen here.” She leaned against the door and grinned. “Tell the landlord
I’m your sister.” He huffed. “I’m sure he’s heard that before.” Her raspy laughter grated on his nerves. In a thoroughly bad
mood, Colin strode across the small parlor and yanked the
door open. His oldest friend, Harry, stood there. “Sorry to wake you,
old boy, but it is almost noon.” “Thank God,” Colin said, ushering his friend inside. “I
thought it was the landlord.” Harry blinked as he clapped eyes on the actress. “Oh, I say,
bad timing.” “Don’t worry,” Colin said. “Lila is just leaving.” “Lottie,” she said in an exasperated tone. Then she turned
her attention to Harry. “You’re a looker.” Harry took her hand and bowed over it as if she were a grand
lady at a ton ball. “Enchanté.” Colin located his purse and handed her a shilling. “This
should cover the cost of a hack.” She scowled. “You wish to be rid of me?” “Not at all, madame,” Harry said, ogling her décolletage. Colin released a loud sigh, rummaged in the purse, and
produced another shilling. She lifted her brows. “Is this all I can expect after
staying the entire night?” “You had the use of a soft bed,” Colin said. She put her
hands on her hips. “I had to keep my gown on.” Harry eyed the voluptuous actress’s charms. “I suppose it’s
more expedient that way.” “He left his boots on,” Lottie said with a sniff. Harry shook his head. “Bad form, old boy.” Colin gave Harry a pointed look. “Is there something you
wanted?” “Yes.” Harry took a letter out of his pocket. “This was
mistakenly delivered to my rooms earlier this morning.” Colin took the letter and regarded Lottie. “I wish you many
standing ovations.” She donned her cloak. “I certainly didn’t get one last
night.” With that riposte, she marched out the door. Harry burst out laughing and collapsed on the cast-off sofa. “Stubble it,” Colin said. He walked over to the table and
broke the seal on the letter. “How much do I owe you for the
post?” “Nothing. You paid mine the last time,” Harry said. “Who
sent you a letter?” “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.” “Aren’t you a slow top today,” Harry said. “I’ve got the bottle ache.” He set the letter aside and
rubbed his temples. He’d suffered a lot of bottle aches
lately. “Where’s your man servant? He could make you a concoction.” “It’s his half day.” Colin added coals to the dying fire.
Afterward, he walked to the kitchen, pumped water into a
kettle, and returned to the parlor. He measured leaves in
the teapot and set the kettle on the hob. While he waited
for the water to heat, he opened the letter and scowled. “Well?” Harry asked. His nostrils flared. “It’s from my father.” “What does he say?” “He requests my presence at Deerfield Park.” Colin rose,
slapped the letter on the table, and started pacing. “Damn him.” Harry lifted his brows. “Is something wrong?” “There definitely is something bloody damned wrong. My father wants to sell Sommerall.” Colin gritted his teeth
at the thought of strangers taking possession. “What about the entail?” Harry said. “Sommerall was intentionally left out. My grandfather
intended the property for a younger son, but my father was
the only male issue.” His parents had lived there until his
mother’s death, and then his father had abruptly moved to
his grandfather’s nearby estate, Deerfield. Colin walked to the window and pushed the draperies aside.
Sommerall had been his boyhood home for six years. No one
had occupied it since then. He’d always assumed his father
would grant him the property. “When do you leave?” Harry asked. He gave his friend a wry look. “At my earliest convenience.” “Sorry about the property. Perhaps you could persuade the
marquess not to sell.” “Right,” he said, the one word full of sarcasm. “How long will you stay?” Harry asked. He shrugged. “Long enough to find out what prompted my
father’s decision.” He meant to change his father’s mind,
and he had just cause. When the kettle started shrieking, he rescued it and poured
the hot water. “Will the Duke of Wycoff and his family visit for the house
party as usual?” Harry asked. “I doubt it. For all I know, the duchess and her eldest
daughter are still in Paris.” “They returned six months ago.” He poured tea over a strainer into two cups and handed one
to Harry. “How do you know this? Oh, never mind, your mother
and female cousins would have told you.” Harry sipped his tea. “You know my mother’s drawing room is
famous for scandal broth. My cousins know everything about
everybody. You do know Lady Angeline jilted Brentmoor over a
year ago.” “I heard.” That was all he knew of her situation, although
he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten tangled up with that
roué. He didn’t want to know. Their families were close, but
he’d had a falling out with Angeline years ago. His father
had blamed him for supposedly breaking her heart at her
come-out ball, but it was the exact opposite. When he’d
requested a dance, she’d turned him down flat and accepted
an offer from someone else. To be fair, he’d been nipping
from a flask with friends and she’d been disgusted. Ever
since they’d been like oil and water. They didn’t mix well. Harry set his cup aside. “Supposedly the broken engagement
is the reason she fled to Paris last year.” He wasn’t surprised. Crying off an engagement was serious
business. The scandal sheets had reported it, albeit with
poorly disguised names. He’d never understood why her father
had approved the marriage in the first place. Brentmoor’s
sorry reputation was well known, after all. Harry frowned. “Why would the marquess sell Sommerall?” “That’s the thousand-pound question.” Colin clenched his
jaw. He considered his father’s decision an insult, but he
wouldn’t voice the words. “The marquess will come around,” Harry said. “This is no idle inclination on my father’s part.” “Do you think he’s bluffing?” “No, he’s serious, but so am I.” “What are you planning?” Harry said. Colin lifted his chin. “An offer he can’t refuse.” * * * Suffolk, Sommerall House, two days later The carriage slowed six miles from Deerfield Manor and
rounded the circular drive of Sommerall. Mercifully, the
weather had held. When the vehicle rolled to a halt, Colin
collected his hat and stepped out. The crisp autumn breeze
chilled his face as he inhaled the fresh country air. It was
invigorating after the filthy, choked skies of London. He directed the driver to wait and strode off. His boots
crunched in the gravel as he walked toward the sandstone
house built in the early part of the eighteenth century. The
darker blue hues in the sky signaled impending twilight. He
was glad he’d arrived before all the light waned, as he
wanted to inspect the condition of the property. When he met
with his father, he intended to report any initial needed
repairs. If he expected his father to consider his request,
he must show that he had made a preliminary investigation. He felt above the lintel for the key, but it wasn’t there.
Frowning, he tried the door, but it was locked tighter than
a virgin’s legs. There was nothing for it except to question
his father about the missing key. Colin tramped through the grass to the back of the house.
The lower windows might have afforded him a view inside, but
he couldn’t see much from this vantage point. Colin gritted
his teeth, but frustration wouldn’t change a damned thing. He walked west along a path that had probably once been well
worn, but he couldn’t be certain. His father’s house was a
mere six miles down good road, but there were reasons he
seldom returned to Deerfield. In the distance, a swing hung from a tall oak. Perhaps his
late mother or father had given him a push, but he would
never know, for he recalled very little of his childhood. The papery autumn leaves crackled beneath his boots as he
strode onward. Long shadows reached out from the barren
birch trees. The property was far smaller than Deerfield
Park, but it was excellent land. He envisioned workers in
the now-fallow fields, but there was no rush. He was thirty-one years old and not ready to settle down. The capes of his greatcoat snapped in the biting wind, but
he was determined. In the distance, he saw the marble domed
roof and the four Ionic columns of the mausoleum. When he
reached it, he gripped the rail of the balustrade and looked
down the flight of steps. Twenty-four years had elapsed, but
all he had left of her was her grave and vague snatches of
childhood memories. His chest tightened. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d
visited his mother’s grave, and it shamed him. He had no
eloquent prayers, no memorabilia of his mother. Only a
hollow place inside that had remained empty. “You will not
be abandoned or forgotten,” he said in a hoarse voice. Colin turned and strode away. He’d be damned before he let
his father sell the property where his mother was laid to
rest. By the time he reached Deerfield Park, the sun had set and
the Tudor house that had belonged to his family since the
sixteenth century was shrouded in darkness, save for the
lanterns that the servants carried. When he stepped out of
the carriage, a blast of freezing wind chafed his face. A
footman with a lantern led the way to the horseshoe steps
while the others unloaded his trunks. When he entered the foyer, he handed over his hat, coat, and
gloves to Ames, the butler who had been with the family all
of Colin’s life. “My lord, may I be permitted to welcome you home?” Ames
said. “Yes, of course, Ames,” he said, handing over his greatcoat.
Then he smiled and retrieved a small snuffbox from his inner
coat pocket. “For me, my lord?” Ames said. “I happened upon it and know you like to collect them. This
one was made in India.” “I could not accept it, my lord. I’m sure it is quite
valuable.” “Of course you can. I would be disappointed if you did not
accept it.” “Very well,” Ames said. “Thank you for the gift, my lord. I
shall put it in a special place where it will remind me of
you. Now, your room is prepared, and your valet will unpack
your trunk as soon as possible. The marquess, marchioness,
and all of the other guests are in the blue drawing room.” He paused at the mention of other guests, but of course, he
would not question the butler. “Thank you, Ames.” He’d hoped
to speak privately with his father straightaway, but
obviously he’d have to wait until tomorrow. His boots
clipped on the marble floor as he strode across the great
hall.
Feminine shrieks startled him. “Colin!” Bianca and Bernadette, his twin half sisters, ran down the
stairs. When they threw their arms around him, he frowned.
“Wait, who are you? What have you done with my little
sisters?” Bernadette rolled her eyes. “You’re silly, Colin.” “I’m afraid to blink,” he said. “You might get even taller
right before my eyes.” Until this moment, he’d not realized how much he’d missed
them. They were mirror images of one another, something that
often took others aback. Early on, he’d learned to
distinguish them by a small beauty mark. Bernadette had one
on her left cheek, while Bianca’s was on her right cheek. Bianca looked up at him. “How long will you stay?” “A thousand years,” he said, making his sisters laugh. “We have a dog now,” Bianca said. “We’re supposed to keep
Hercules in the kitchen with the servants.”.“Hercules? He
must be a big dog.”
“No, he’s not very big,” Bernadette said. Bianca giggled. “Papa said he’s ugly.” Colin laughed. “Are you still speaking twin gibberish?” “We gave that up ages ago,” Bernadette said. “Next spring,
we’ll be sixteen and ready for our come-out.” His chest tightened yet again, this time with guilt. He
would know about their upcoming debut if he’d made the
effort to see them more often. God only knew what else he’d
missed in their lives. Regardless of how difficult his
relationship was with his father, he shouldn’t ignore his
sisters. “We’re not nearly as tall as Penny,” Bianca said. “Here she
comes now.” Penelope was here? He looked up at the landing where a thin,
tall girl with reddish blond hair stood. She lowered her
eyes and turned toward the corridor. “Come with us,” Bianca said, taking his arm. When they
gained the landing, he saw the back of a tall brunette in a
brilliant green gown. His appreciative gaze slid down to the
woman’s rounded bottom. When the brunette turned, she looked
somewhat familiar, but the candlelight in the corridor was
dim. As he drew nearer, recognition dawned. The candlelight
burnished her brunette hair and shed a mellow glow over her
stunning creamy complexion. He felt as if she’d knocked the
breath out of him. Hell, she’d literally done it when he’d
tried to give her a chaste kiss beneath the Christmas
mistletoe a few years ago. She’d always had a sharp tongue,
and he’d remained wary of her with good reason. Angeline curtsied and regarded him with a shrewd smile.
“Bonsoir, mon ami.” Their relationship had always been closer to adversary than
friend, but he’d not seen her in a long time. There was no question that she’d grown even more beautiful. Angeline offered her gloved hand, and he bowed over it. He
flicked his eyes quickly over her generous bosom. Colin
mentally reminded himself to keep his gaze a very safe
distance above her low neckline. “I suspect you’ve had more
than a few Parisian admirers.” Her one-shoulder shrug was all Gallic. “The French have a
proverb: ‘Beautiful grapes often make poor wine.’” A sly
expression flitted through her green eyes. “So I avoid the
grapes and drink the wine.” “Clever,” he said. Angeline clapped her hands twice. “Girls, repair to the
drawing room. The marchioness is expecting us.” He offered his arm to her. “Shall we?” “I don’t know. You look as if you’re facing a prison cell
rather than a drawing room.” He said nothing, but he’d always dreaded visits to his
father’s home. He’d been at Eton when his father remarried,
and on his infrequent stays at Deerfield, he’d never felt he
belonged. It wasn’t as if they were estranged; it was just
circumstances. He’d always felt a bit awkward here, and as a
result, he didn’t visit often. They entered the drawing room to the delighted exclamations
of Angeline’s mother—the Duchess of Wycoff—and his
stepmother, Margaret, the marchioness. He noted the
proliferation of gray in the duchess’s hair, and the fine
hair on his neck stiffened. The scandal must have created a
great deal of vexation. “I daresay they make a handsome pair,” the duchess said. Colin winced. When they were children, their deluded
families had concocted the idea of a match between them, all
because they were born only a week apart. But that had
happened when they were mere babes, before his mother’s
death and his father’s second marriage. “Unfortunately, Colin and Angeline are about as compatible
as two spitting cats,” the marquess said. “Chadwick, please mind your words,” Margaret said. “Oh, look what you’ve started. The girls are hissing at each
other. Bianca, Bernadette, you will cease.”
His father had spoken the truth. Beyond the annual house
party and the spring season, Colin and Angeline had done
their best to avoid each other over the years, though they
had not been entirely successful. Despite her outward
civility this evening, he knew her capacity for causing
trouble, and he could not afford to be distracted. The fate
of Sommerall hung in the balance. He escorted Angeline to a chair and headed for the
sideboard. Five minutes in her presence had been enough to
send him to the brandy decanter. Admittedly, a goodly
portion had to do with her womanly figure. A shrew she might
be, but she was also the sort of woman men mentally
undressed. At that thought, he poured himself two fingers,
and then his gaze veered to his father. Show him you’re
confident and unconcerned. The Marquess of Chadwick returned his look with an
inscrutable expression. “Welcome, Colin,” the Marchioness of Chadwick said. He bowed. “You look well, Margaret.” “I’m very glad you came.” For a moment, she looked as if she
would say more and then seemed to reconsider. Her abrupt
silence didn’t surprise him. They had always been ill at
ease with each other, although unfailingly polite. Her late
father had been in trade, but she’d been educated as a lady.
Colin assumed his father had married her for her wealth, but
he did not know for certain, and he most certainly would
never ask. Margaret faced Angeline. “Thank you for bringing the girls
to the drawing room. Left to their own devices, I fear they
would spend all of their time in their room engaged in idle
gossip.” “What gossip could they possibly know?” the marquess said in
a gruff voice. “They aren’t even out in society yet.” The twins immediately adopted cherubic expressions. Colin
bit his lip to keep from laughing. Margaret regarded her husband with lifted brows. “You seem
to have forgotten the letter they wrote to the king six
months ago.” Colin regarded his sisters with mock gravity. “Why did you
write to the king?” The marquess released a loud sigh. “Your sisters advised him
to adopt a slimming regimen.” Colin’s shoulders shook with laughter. The poor king’s girth
was the subject of many caricatures. “Thank goodness Ames intercepted the letter before it went
out with the post,” Margaret said. Colin leaned against the sideboard. So his sisters were
still scamps. He found himself glad, perhaps because soon
they would be entering the adult world, before he’d even
gotten a chance to catch up on their burgeoning adolescence.
The fault was his, and he’d meant to do better, but somehow
intention led to procrastination. In London, it was all too
easy to get caught up in the clubs, the races, the fencing
matches, and the loose women who pursued him. The Duke of Wycoff approached and clapped Colin on the
shoulder. “I wasn’t certain you would attend.” He wouldn’t have done so if not for his father’s letter.
From the corner of his eye, Colin saw his father watching
and retrieved the decanter. “Brandy?” he asked the duke. “Don’t mind if I do,” the duke said. “It’s been an age since
we last met.” “White’s last spring, if memory serves me right.” Colin
handed him a brandy and sipped his own drink. His father
always stocked the finest brandy and port. “I take it
Landale could not attend?” Colin said. “My son did not wish to travel, given that his wife is in a
delicate condition.” Colin smiled a little at Wycoff’s old-fashioned reference to
his daughter-in-law’s impending childbirth. Wycoff inhaled the brandy’s fragrance. “It has been two
years since the last house party. I confess I missed the
shooting with Chadwick.” There was a reserved air about Wycoff that had never been
there before. He didn’t mention Angeline’s broken engagement
and subsequent journey to Paris with her mother. It wasn’t
the sort of topic one spoke of openly, but Colin felt it
simmering beneath the surface. One thing he noticed was that
Wycoff avoided looking at his eldest daughter. Colin found
it odd and told himself he was imagining undercurrents. Deep
down, he suspected there was something brewing beneath the
surface, but he’d no idea what it was. Perhaps that was for
the best. Wycoff drew in a breath. “Still chasing the lightskirts?” “Am I supposed to answer that?” The duke laughed. “Sounds like an affirmative to me.” He cleared his throat. “I try to be discreet.” The duke raised his brows. “It’s not working.” In an effort to change the topic, Colin said, “May I freshen
your drink?” “No, thank you,” Wycoff said. “I’ll join your father on a
comfortable chair and try not to doze as I’m wont to do.” Colin bowed and watched the duke walk away. Angeline
attempted to intercept him, but he ignored her. Colin
frowned. It seemed odd to him, but he shrugged it off. He meant to remain at the sideboard, but Margaret sought him
out. “Angeline has agreed to play the pianoforte,” she said.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to turn the pages for her.” Short of claiming a sudden case of the ague, he could hardly
refuse. “Yes, of course,” he said, and strode over to the
instrument where Angeline removed one of her gloves. He’d
forgotten her long slender fingers. Then again, why should
he remember them? He shook off the odd thought and stood
there waiting for her to begin playing. “Will you set up the sheet music?” she said, fumbling with
the other glove. “Yes, I will.” He frowned. “Are you vexed?” “Of course not,” she said. He suspected she was lying. “What will you play?” “Grimstock,” she said, handing the sheets to him. He leaned over her shoulder and placed the pages side by
side. “How appropriate considering you are looking rather
grim,” he said under his breath. “I haven’t played in ages. I fear this will be excruciating
for me and everyone listening.” “It’s a bit late to decline now.” “I will play when I am ready,” she said in a testy voice. “As you please, but there’s no need to snap at me. I might
add that the sooner you play, the quicker the misery will be
over.” “I do not play that badly,” she said. He clasped his hands behind his back and said nothing. “I am competent,” she said. “Of course you are,” he said, trying very hard not to laugh. “You are perfectly horrid and so is my playing,” she said “At long last, something we agree upon.” He’d forgotten the
ease with which they sparred with one another. It was like
verbal chess. “Do not torment me,” she said. “I might avenge myself by
playing more than one piece.” “In that case, I am overwhelmed by your talent—at least for
the duration of this one exhibition.” She pressed the ivory keys lightly. “I must concentrate.” When he turned the page, she leaned forward a bit and
pressed a discordant note, but she managed to recover. After a few moments, he said, “I saw you speaking to my
stepmother.” Angeline kept her eyes on the sheet music. “The marchioness
enumerated your many positive qualities.” He smiled. “Did she now? What did she say?” “Hmmm. She said you drink like a fish and have a string of
previous lovers who are permanently heartbroken over losing
your affections.” “Margaret would never disparage me.” “So you deny you’re a rake?” Angeline said, her tone
challenging. “My reputation is somewhat embellished.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I rather
doubt it.” “Why should you doubt me? You’ve no proof.” “I’m well acquainted with the type,” she said. “I imagine
you’ve heard.” He leaned over her again and straightened the sheet music.
“I’m not Brentmoor.” She played a wrong note and grimaced. “Sorry.” He shouldn’t have said that. It had probably been a
painful experience for her. “You’re fine, keep playing.” “That’s rich. Encouragement from a rake.” He was tempted to defend himself, but it wouldn’t change the
truth. Good God, he’d gotten so foxed in his rooms he’d
passed out with his boots on and forgotten the actress he’d
taken home. But in the world of London, there were rakes and
there were disgusting scoundrels. He’d never sunk so low as
the latter. The duchess raised her voice. “Angeline, you must focus.” Angeline’s mouth thinned as if she were struggling with her
reaction. The duchess was a formidable woman, with a very
strict interpretation of the proprieties. That brought to
mind Brentmoor. Colin could not fathom how Angeline had gotten involved with
that roué. He wondered why Wycoff hadn’t put his foot down
with his daughter. Why hadn’t he forbidden her to have
anything to do with a known libertine? It made no sense. Granted, he was a rake, but he kept his distance from
virtuous ladies, mostly because he prized his bachelorhood.
Angeline faltered again. Colin marked the way she winced and figured her mother’s
reproof had rattled her. But he found it odd. Angeline had
never been a wilting flower. When she played another wrong
note, he leaned closer and said, “Relax, my stepmother is
distracting the duchess as we speak.” Angeline was more than a little flustered, and Colin’s
presence did not help. “I do not need your reassurance.” “I’m merely practicing being a dull
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Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: And What I Needed to Read, A Captivating Regency Romance
Thanks for the lovely review!
(Vicky Dreiling 6:10pm May 1, 2014)
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