"Steamy, romantic, scheming and totally enjoyable Regency romance."
Reviewed by Tammie Ard
Posted June 13, 2006
Romance Historical
Beautiful Lady Fayre has truly been compromised; surely
she'll be married to her lover, Lord Standish, before long.
At least, that is Fayre's opinion until she finds her lover
in the arms of Lady Hipgrave, plotting her ruination due to
something her father had done. Determined not to let their
plot get her down, Fayre faces the ton with her head
held high. Mister Maccus Brawley may have grown up a smuggler, but
after some smart investing, he's now a rich man. Once he
lays eyes on Lady Fayre, he knows she's the woman to help
ease his way into society. Fayre is attracted to Maccus, but his arrogance is
extremely maddening. However, he does promise to help her
get revenge on Lord Standish and Lady Hipgrave in return
for a few pointers and introductions. Maccus finds Fayre
more beautiful every time he encounters her. When their
relationship turns physical, his feelings and thoughts
become even more confused. Fayre knows she's in love with
Maccus, but he's made it clear he wants a perfect wife, and
she would not be his choice. So Fayre accepts whatever she
can get from Maccus for as longs as it lasts. The revenge Maccus plans for Lord Standish and Lady
Hipgrave takes an unexpected turn and Maccus decides it's
best for Fayre if he withdraws from their relationship.
What he doesn't expect is that he's fallen in love with
Fayre. When she sees Maccus kissing Lady Hipgrave, any hope
Maccus may have had for marriage to Fayre is stomped out.
Maccus will have to do a lot of convincing to prove he
doesn't want to be Lady Hipgrave's lover, but husband to
the lovely Lady Fayre. WICKED UNDER THE COVERS is steamy, romantic and scheming.
The characters are great together and it's lovely when the
wicked couple get what they deserve. This is an excellent
weekend story; one I'm sure you'll thoroughly enjoy.
SUMMARY
A WICKED BARGAIN… Handsome, ambitious, and newly wealthy, Maccus Brawley has
severed ties with his dangerous past and is close to
securing his place in polite society. All he requires is
some guidance in fashionable manners—and who better to
instruct him than a young lady with breeding, brains,
wealth…and a scandalous reputation? Lady Fayre Carlisle
needs his help as much as he needs hers, but their scheme
soon gives way to unbridled bliss. And although Maccus is
known for his daring, dallying with the fiery, vulnerable
beauty might be his riskiest venture yet. LEADS TO A WILD DESIRE With one false step, Fayre lost both her honor and her
heart, thanks to her father’s scheming ex-mistress. Others
might retreat in shame from the ton’s gossipmongers, but
Fayre is determined to pay back those who humiliated her,
and Maccus Brawley is proving to be an unexpected and
seductive ally. With all that Fayre has learned about
temptation, how can she risk her heart a second time? Yet
with every illicit encounter reaching new heights of
passion, how can she resist?
ExcerptMiddlesex, England—March 1807 Lady Fayre Eloisa Carlisle was ruined. The notion did not exactly strike terror in Fayre’s
besotted heart. Not while her body still thrummed from
the lingering aftereffects of arduous lovemaking she had
experienced in the arms of her lover an hour earlier. If
someone had told her three months ago that she was
destined to meet a gentleman who would seduce her away
from her world of protocol and decorum, she would have
boldly called that person a liar. With her eyes still closed, she expelled a soft sigh of
contentment, thinking of the man who slept beside her.
Fayre had never experienced such a visceral reaction to a
man. Lord Thatcher Standish was simply extraordinary. At
five and twenty, he represented both beauty and good
breeding. A veritable tower of masculinity when compared
to her smaller stature, Lord Standish, with his straight,
dark blond locks, soulful brown eyes, and subtle wit, had
caused quite a curious buzz with the unmarried ladies of
the ton. He was the Marquess of Pennefeather’s second
son, but this had not diminished his popularity with the
royal court. His circle of roguish friends and amusements
was vastly different from Fayre’s staid sphere. It was
not surprising they had not encountered each other last
season. Our chance meeting at Brighton three months ago
has sealed your fate, my lord, Fayre thought with a trace
of smugness. It was later that Lord Standish had
confessed that he had fallen in love with her from afar as
he had observed her chatting with one of the Prince of
Wales’s cousins. Too familiar with ambitious suitors,
Fayre had initially dismissed his favorable opinion as
false flattery. However, Lord Standish had been determined to prove
himself honorable in her eyes. An evening had not passed
when she could not pick his handsome face out of the
crowd, those soulful eyes focused wholly on her. To her
delight, he composed poetry praising her beauty, the
warmth of her smile. One night before she retired, he had
surprised her by appearing outside her window and
serenading her with touching songs of unrequited love. He sent her gifts. Hothouse flowers had arrived by the
basket each afternoon and also small tokens of affection
such as handkerchiefs with her initials stitched on them
and perfume that reminded Fayre of a meadow covered in
wild flowers. No gentleman had ever pursued her with such
earnest and romantic fervor. Fayre had been charmed by his devotion. Smiling at her memories, Fayre rolled onto her back and
her hand reached for the man who occupied her pleasant
thoughts. Her eyes snapped open when her hand connected
with the cool surface of a pillow. Bewildered, she sat up
and searched the room. She was alone. Where had he gone? Lord Standish had boldly expressed a desire to sleep in
her arms throughout the night. Everything had been
arranged in advance. They had both accepted Lord and Lady
Mewe’s invitation to join the festivities at their country
house specifically for their tryst. The party at Mewe
Manor had been vastly appealing, because Fayre knew her
family had chosen not to attend. This was a matter of
discretion, rather than fear of what her father, the Duke
of Solitea, might do to Lord Standish if he had learned
she had taken him as her lover. If one considered the
countless affairs both he and her mother engaged in, they
might, in fact, heartily approve that she had finally
begun acting like a true Carlisle. Where had he gone? Fayre pondered the question while she quickly dressed.
Lord Standish had been so pleased they had managed this
time together. They still had hours before the servants
would begin their early morning tasks. Considering the
risks they had taken, she could not imagine why he had not
remained to enjoy the benefits. The predawn air was frigid so Fayre picked up her shawl
and wrapped it around her shoulders. She did not take a
candle, trusting she could make the quick trip down the
hall to Lord Standish’s bedchamber without breaking her
toe on a stick of furniture. Fayre was dressed only in
her nightclothes; however, she had no intention of
encountering anyone but her lover. The very least she
could do, if he was determined to keep her honor intact by
leaving early, was to tuck him into his bed and kiss him
sweetly on the lips. If he wanted more, Fayre thought
wickedly, she was willing to grant it. Slowly opening her door, she winced at the mournful groan
the hinges made. She froze, hoping the sound had not
alerted anyone. Perhaps she should make a casual remark
to the viscountess at breakfast that her staff had been
neglectful of their duties. No one could possibly conduct
a discreet affair with a house filled with squeaky doors.
Fayre held her breath and listened. The task was almost
impossible with her heart pounding and her jangling
nerves. Perhaps she did not possess the Carlisle spirit
after all. The notion brought her up short. Just because she
appreciated rules and had actually paid attention to the
lessons she was taught, unlike her brother Tem, it did not
mean she lacked spirit! Fayre was eighteen and
enlightened in the ways of the jaded ton. She could walk
down a dark passageway to her lover’s bedchamber without
inducing a fit of vapors. Drawing in a determined breath, she jerked the door open.
Surprisingly, the action made little sound. Encouraged,
she walked through the door. Using the wall as her guide,
Fayre headed for Lord Standish’s chamber. She mentally
counted off the doors as she shuffled past them. The
situation would turn rather awkward if she knocked on the
wrong door. She was sweating despite the cold air, but
she viewed the entire affair was an exciting adventure. Or she had, until she heard the sound of someone fumbling
with a doorknob. Eyes wide, Fayre almost knocked over a
table in her haste to press herself closer to the wall.
She managed to keep the table upright, but her right knee
collided with one of the table legs. Muttering an oath
and clutching the injured knee, she gaped in horror as the
door opened and a sliver of candlelight illuminated a
section of the passageway. Fayre hobbled behind the long,
narrow rectangular table and crouched down. She prayed it
would conceal her. To her dismay, even in the darkness
her nightgown seemed to glow. She cursed herself for
wearing a white gown. What had she been thinking? There
was nothing stealthy about the color white! Her mind
raced with possible explanations of why she was walking in
the middle of the night half dressed and without the
benefit of a candle. Sleepwalking. The word surfaced
from the chaos in her head. Yes, she was walking in her
sleep, she reasoned frantically as she watched the shadow
on the floor shift and expand. It made perfect sense.
She only wished it were true. Her breath caught in her throat as a man stepped through
the doorway. Good grief, it was Lord Standish. The
relief she experienced was a watershed. What providence
that it was the man she sought! Fayre started to rise
from her crouched position, pleased that he was returning
to her bedchamber. She opened her mouth to call out to
him, but hesitated. Perhaps it was a trick of the light,
but his expression seemed menacing as he glanced down the
hall. Fayre held her breath and crouched lower. Lord Standish peered at the darkness cloaking her, and
sniffed the air like an animal. He then raised his left
arm and sniffed. Had he left her to bathe? Feeling a
rising sense of alarm, Fayre wondered if she was the one
who was odorous? She tugged on the bodice of her
nightgown and tentatively sniffed. There was nothing
offensive about the garment. Relieved, she smoothed the
fabric back in place. From his furtive glances at the
dark passageway, Fayre assumed the candle was blinding him
from seeing beyond the small circle of dim light it
created. Once he was satisfied with his scent and the
passageway, Lord Standish gave one final glance in her
direction before heading off in the opposite direction. Fayre’s eyes narrowed at this unexpected development.
Using the surface of the table for support, she stiffly
stood up. If he was not returning to her bedchamber,
where the devil was he going at this hour, or more
importantly, to whom? The Carlisle clan had been called many things. However,
no one had ever accused them of being cowardly. Fayre was
no exception. She waited until enough distance would
muffle her footsteps, and then she followed her lover.
The candle Lord Standish carried benefited her twofold.
Not only did it allow her to keep track of the errant Lord
Standish at a discreet distance, his light also revealed
hidden obstacles, making her progress less treacherous. Fayre followed him down two floors and through a part of
the large house she had not visited in the light of day.
Or had she? This house was so confusing in the dark.
They both jumped, visibly startled by the roaring laughter
that abruptly boomed from behind one of the closed doors
to what Fayre assumed was the music room. It appeared not
everyone had sought their beds for the night. Lord
Standish seemed equally perplexed by this discovery. He
stared at the door, listening to the conversation within
for a few minutes before continuing through a side door. The next corridor was so narrow Fayre assumed it was used
by the servants and not the family. It was also messy.
She barely avoided tripping over several canvas-covered
chairs that had been stacked on top of each other. She
could not fathom where Lord Standish was going. He seemed
to know his way and now only rarely checked behind him to
see if anyone was observing him. At times, she thought
she could hear him whistling faintly. The narrow passage opened to a long gallery. Fayre
slipped behind one of the huge marble pillars that lined
the gallery, accenting the full-length portraits of Lord
Mewe’s ancestors. Lord Standish sauntered down the long
gallery without gazing at the pictures and turned left.
At Arianrod, the Duke of Solitea’s country estate, their
gallery had no exit at the end. It was possible the
viscount’s gallery was designed in the same manner.
Cautiously, Fayre moved silently from pillar to pillar,
hoping she would not come face-to-face with Lord Standish
should he circle around without her knowledge. Fayre noticed the light that had been her wavering beacon
had stilled. Lord Standish had reached his destination.
As she moved closer, she heard the soft murmur of voices.
Fayre ignored the sickening dread bubbling in her stomach
and peered around the left corner. It took merely a
glimpse to confirm her suspicions. Biting her lower lip,
she retreated slowly until she was hidden behind one of
the pillars framing the entrance to the small alcove.
Fayre doubted that Lord Standish had seen her. He was too
busy devouring the woman he had pushed against the wall. “There is time for this later, Thatcher. What of the
girl?” the woman asked when Lord Standish moved to her
neck. “I left her blissfully snoring in her bed.” Forgetting herself for just one second, Fayre’s lips
parted as if to challenge the fiend’s outrageous lie. By
God, I do not snore! She clapped her hand over her mouth,
finding it ludicrous that she was fretting over a tiny
insult when the duplicitous fraud was breaking her heart. The woman pushed him away. “The deed is done?” Frustrated by her resistance, Lord Standish expelled a
harsh breath. He braced his hand against the wall above
the woman’s right shoulder. “Yes. Lady Fayre Carlisle
surrendered her virginity with the carelessness of a
Covent Garden whore.” He grabbed her breast with his
other hand and squeezed. “I did my part, Othilia. Now I
want my reward.” Part? Reward? Fayre had forgotten that she had her hand
clamped over her mouth until she felt the warm splash of
tears on her hand. Carefully, she lowered her hand. Her
fingers curled and unfurled at her side, betraying her
agitation. She risked another peek. “Seducing the little paragon of virtue is only the first
act of our little drama.” The woman panted, and tilted
her head back so he could feast on her succulent mouth.
She evaded his next foray and wickedly smiled. “Oh, how I
wish I could have arranged for Solitea to come upon you
just as you deflowered his precious daughter. His
devastation might have kept me smiling for years.” The man Fayre had believed she had fallen in love with
snorted with laughter. “Though not very practical, my
love, when the duke gelds me.” He ground his pelvis
against her. “I know you would miss my rod almost as much
as I.” The woman pulled his face to her breasts, while
his hand curled possessively over her rounded hip. Fayre pressed her cheek against the chilled marble and
silently wept. Her slender frame shook with repressed
grief. She was so distracted by Lord Standish’s betrayal,
it had taken her several minutes before she recalled the
woman’s name. Othilia, he had called her. She only knew
of one lady who bore the first name Othilia, and that was
Lady Hipgrave. She was also her father’s mistress. Or had been. Fayre rubbed her brow, feeling the stirrings
of a headache. She would be the first to admit that she
had stopped paying attention to her sire’s current
companions years ago. “Not here,” the countess huskily murmured, though she was
hardly discouraging him. “We might be discovered.” “That did not stop us from enjoying Mewe’s conservatory
last evening.” He had been steadily working his hand down
to the hem of her skirt. A good portion of her leg was
exposed. “We have plans to make, Thatcher,” Lady Hipgrave
explained, widening her legs slightly to accommodate his
exploring hand. “Despoiling the little virgin was just
the prelude. Now the ton must learn what naughty games
the Carlisle chit has been playing in your bed.” Standish stopped nibbling on the woman’s shoulder.
Lifting his head, he said, “Is that necessary? As it
stands, her brother will be issuing challenges every time
I step out of my house.” Fayre ground her teeth at the countess’s trill of
laughter. Wiping her eyes with her fingers, she hugged
the marble pillar and listened. “Not likely. Lord Temmes is almost as depraved as his
father with regard to his liaisons. It would be rather
hypocritical of him to accuse a gentleman of debauchery
when he has seduced his fair share of innocents.” Lord Standish shook his head, unconvinced. “Not when that
innocent is his sister,” he countered. “Darling, there is no such creature as an innocent
Carlisle,” Lady Hipgrave purred. “Lady Fayre’s downfall
was sadly inevitable. I should know. His Grace has
shared my bed off and on for eight years.” The countess had only been twenty when Fayre’s father had
seduced her. Even if Lady Hipgrave had been a virgin when
she climbed into the duke’s bed, no one could ever
convince Fayre that she had not been there willingly.
Fayre knew enough about the young countess to form an
unflattering opinion of her character. There had been
rumors when she was younger that she had been the Prince
of Wales’s mistress first. How she had gained the duke’s
attentions was a favorite tale of the gossips. Fayre had
heard several versions. One version ended with the prince
growing bored with her and discarding her for another.
The countess, in retaliation, had set her sights on the
duke as a means of slighting the heir to the throne. The
other version was more dramatic. It pitted both gentlemen
against each other for the lady’s affections. If one
believed the gossip, there had been a very public
argument, the details of which varied with each
storyteller. In the end, she had chosen the duke over the
Prince of Wales. Even eight years ago, at the tender age of ten and tucked
away with her governess at Arianrod, Fayre had heard the
servants talk about her father and his beautiful
mistress. The lady’s machinations had even roused her
mother’s ire, Fayre recalled, and she knew of no other
woman who was more tolerant of her husband’s infidelities. For generations the Carlisle males had been notorious for
two things: their illicit love affairs and their equally
dramatic deaths. With the exception of her father, Fayre
could not think of one male ancestor who had inherited the
title who had not died before his fortieth birthday. As a
child, she had worried about what the servants had
referred to as the Solitea curse. Nevertheless, her
father had lived past his fortieth birthday and beyond.
Considering his choice in mistresses, Fayre decided this
feat was nothing short of a miracle. The sound of Lord Standish’s voice brought Fayre back to
the present. “I regret telling you about Jinny and Solitea. You think
of nothing else these days,” he complained. “Even if you had not told me that the duke had invited
that bitch to his bed, someone else would have been
pleased to share the good news with me.” Lady Hipgrave
stroked his face in a soothing gesture. There was a wealth of bitterness in the countess’s voice.
Fayre might have sympathized if the lady had not
maliciously sent one of her lovers to Fayre as an emissary
of revenge for her father’s misdeeds. Fayre wrapped her
arms around herself in a comforting gesture. Everything
Lord Standish had said to her was a lie. Their courtship
had never been about love. He had never felt anything for
her. Fayre faced the truth unflinchingly, letting the
pain wash through her. She needed to be using her head,
not mourning the loss of an illusion. Fayre suspected she knew this Jinny of whom Lord Standish
spoke, though she knew the woman as Lady Talemon. Four
years younger than Lady Hipgrave, the ambitious young lady
had married her earl when she was sixteen. She had buried
him when she was nineteen. The widow had grieved for her
husband and then gone on to make the most of her title and
money. She moved within the high echelon of the ton,
spending her time dallying with the royal princes and
their friends. Her beauty and liaisons had garnered her
many enemies, including Lady Hipgrave. It must have galled the countess when the Duke of Solitea
had chosen a younger, prettier rival as his latest
companion. A predator in the truest sense, the countess
had attacked what she had perceived as the weakest
Carlisle. Fayre wiped away the tears she could not will
away. Oh, she could not fault Lady Hipgrave for her
viewing as a means to hurt the duke. However, the lady
had underestimated her prey. Fayre was far from helpless
and she was liable to strike back if provoked. There was no doubt she had stepped beyond feeling
provoked. She felt murderous. Unlike her family, she had
never permitted herself to be caught up in the illusion of
love. It was for that fact alone that had made Lord
Standish unique. The feelings she had felt for him now
shamed her. She could not decide who she despised more,
the two people who were trying to ruin her, or herself for
allowing them to do so. “It must be public,” Lady Hipgrave murmured. Lord Standish swore aloud. “My God, woman, you are
fondling my balls in front of Mewe’s ugly ancestors. How
public must it be before you let me have you?” “Not us,” the countess protested with a laugh. “The
Carlisle chit. When you cast her aside, I want you to do
it in front of witnesses. I suppose the young fool
fancies herself in love with you?” “Completely.” His firm assurance was a knife in Fayre’s
heart. He shoved the countess’s skirt higher. “There are
few women who can resist my, ah, charms.” There was an unspoken challenge in the countess’s
eyes. “Except me.” “Oh, I think I have something here that will persuade you,
sweet Othilia.” Lord Standish had his back to Fayre, but
there was little doubt of his intentions. Lady Hipgrave squirmed in his arms in an effort to hold
him off. “In public, Thatcher.” “Yes, in public. I promise. Now let me have you,” he
entreated. “I want her devastated. She will be both mocked and
pitied by the ton for her fall from grace. I will settle
for nothing less.” “Lady Fayre’s tears will taste of wormwood,” he vowed,
kissing her harshly on the mouth. “She will embrace
sorrow as a lover, and take no other man to her bed for
the rest of her life.” “Is there no limit to your arrogance?” the countess
marveled with approval twinkling in her eyes. “Absolutely none. Permit me to demonstrate.” Lord
Standish shoved the countess against the wall. She made a
startled sound, which turned into a moan as he thrust into
her. Fayre watched the rutting couple dispassionately. The
coldness of the night seeped into her bones. She told
herself to slip away quietly while they were preoccupied.
Confronting the pair served no purpose, and in her present
state, she was likely to do or say something she might
later regret. Leave. It was a sensible notion. Unfortunately, she was not
feeling particularly sensible at the moment. Fayre used the marble pillar for support as she walked out
into the open. “You make the most unusual sounds when you
are in the throes of passion, my lord. It reminds me of a
boar rooting for scraps of garbage in the filthy muck. Do
you not agree, Lady Hipgrave?” “Damn me!” Lord Standish exclaimed, glancing at Fayre in
genuine disbelief. He was completely undone by her sudden
appearance. “W-what the hell are you doing?” He jerked
himself out of the countess and tried to stuff his turgid
member back into his breeches. “I beg your pardon for interrupting. My ears are weary
from listening to the pair of you drone on and on.” Fayre
admired the blasé inflection she managed, while she felt
raw and bleeding inside. There was simply nothing she
could do about either her tear-ravaged face, or the tremor
in her hands. “Regardless, I have been rude for
interrupting. Please carry on, my lord. I know from
personal experience your ardor is regrettably brief.” Lady Hipgrave pulled her bodice up, covering her exposed
breasts. “I have noticed this lamentable problem as well,
Lady Fayre,” she said, shaking out her wrinkled skirt so
that it covered her legs. The countess ignored her
lover’s protest. “Still, a beautiful man like Thatcher
has other uses.” “Like sending him to seduce an innocent woman who has done
nothing to you.” The older woman did not even bother to feign
ignorance. “You should be grateful I chose our Lord
Standish to be your first lover. There are others who
match his beauty, but are not . . .shall we say, as
gentle.” Fayre glared at Lord Standish, wishing she could not
recall that he had been indeed a tender lover. But he had
claimed her innocence and it had been nothing more than a
task for him, like writing a letter or currying his
favorite stallion. “There is a name for gentlemen like
you.” Once he had buttoned the falls on his breeches, Lord
Standish turned to face her. His dark-blond hair was in
damp disarray and there was a slight coloring on his
cheek. Fayre suspected it had more to do with her
interrupting his labors than shame. “And what is it, my lady? Disreputable rake? Liar?” he
defiantly taunted. She stepped closer into the light and searched his face.
Fayre wanted desperately to see some tiny sign that he
regretted the part he had played in hurting her. She
shook her head, saddened that all she saw was outraged
arrogance. “No, my lord. Lady Hipgrave’s trull.” The pinkish hue on his cheeks darkened at her insult. The
corner of his mouth twitched. “You are the one who
behaved no better than a doxy, Lady Fayre. Though
considering who your mother is, I expected no less. Or
should I say, I expected more.” The composure she had managed snapped its tenuous tether.
Blinded by fury, she struck him across the face. The
impact had him staggering into Lady Hipgrave. “Leave my
family out of this!” The countess shoved Lord Standish away. “Oh, I fear I
cannot comply, my dear girl. It will spoil my fun.” Fayre’s hands curled into fists. The voluptuous Lady
Hipgrave was six inches taller and outweighed her by
several stone. Her disadvantage was not going to stop her
from bloodying her pouting lower lip. Fayre took a
menacing step toward the countess. From behind someone seized her roughly by the shoulder.
She whirled and snarled at the offending hand. “Ho, what do we have here?” her host, Lord Mewe, demanded
in a cheerfully slurring voice. He was not alone. The
five gentlemen and three women standing behind him gaped
in undisguised fascination at the scene they had
interrupted. Lord Standish glared at all of them, the imprint of
Fayre’s hand burning on his left cheek. “Mewe, I thought
you passed out hours ago,” he said, visibly struggling to
appear nonchalant. “Balderdash! I never pass out. Besides, you supposedly
retired hours ago so how would you know?” The viscount
gave Standish an exaggerated wink. “Taking `em on in
pairs, are we now?” Fayre deliberately took a deep breath and tried to slow
down her breathing. She pulled her shawl tighter,
suddenly aware of her half-dressed state. “My lord, this
is very awkward.” “Calm yourself, child.” Lord Mewe patted her shoulder and
withdrew his hand. “You are among friends. There is no
need for explanations.” “But my lord, I feel I must. I--” Fayre’s confidence
wavered as she glimpsed Lady Hipgrave’s expression. The
woman did not seem bothered that their host and several
guests had stumbled across them. In fact, the countess’s
eyes gleamed with merriment. One would have thought the
woman had been granted her fondest wish. Perhaps she had. “What we must do is retire,” the countess finished Fayre’s
sentence. “I for one am exhausted.” Her inflection
hinted at a double meaning to her innocuous words.
Several of the gentlemen behind Lord Mewe chuckled behind
their closed fists. Fayre shifted her gaze from one guest to the next,
confirming her worst fears, for their faces were as easy
to read as the Morning Post. They had put the vilest
twist on what had occurred between the threesome. If any
of them had doubts, she was certain Lady Hipgrave and Lord
Standish would serve up enough half-truths to confirm
their suspicions. By breakfast everyone in the household
would know she was involved in some sordid affair with
Lord Standish and her father’s ex-mistress. Fayre
despaired, worrying that the gossip would reach London
before she managed the journey by coach. Fayre cleared her throat, and gave her host an appealing
glance. “I suppose you would not believe I have a problem
with sleepwalking.” Everyone roared with laughter. Oh, God. She was ruined!
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