Chapter One
Battenburn Estate, June 1818
It was their laughter that drew her attention. Elizabeth
Penrose leaned to her left until her vision was
unobstructed by the easel in front of her. The stool
wobbled a bit as she shifted. A paintbrush dangled from
her fingers. She failed to notice the fat droplet of blue-
black watercolor collecting at the tip, gathering size and
weight enough to break free and fall squarely on the one
part of her lavender muslin gown that was unprotected by a
smock.
It was a pure pleasure to hear their laughter.
Unrestrained, it had almost a musical quality. Four
voices, all of them with a slightly different pitch, gave
it a certain harmony. Elizabeth's eyes darted quickly to
some of the other guests and she saw more heads than hers
had turned in the direction of the laughter. She did not
think for a moment the men had meant to call attention to
themselves. Not above a half hour ago they had been
circulating among the baron's guests, slipping in and out
of the small conversational groups that had formed
naturally once everyone had taken their fill of the picnic
repast.
Blankets covered a good portion of the gently sloping
hillside. Like patches of a quilt they were shaped into a
larger whole by the strips of grass and wildflowers
between them. In various states of repose the guests
enjoyed the late afternoon sunshine, the occasional
breeze, and the steady rushing rhythm of the stream
running swiftly between its banks.
Elizabeth blinked as the men laughed again, heads thrown
back, strong throats exposed. Although the tenor was deep,
there was something unmistakably youthful in the sound of
it. Mischievous, she thought. She could not help smiling
herself, feeling not so much an eavesdropper as a co-
conspirator, even though she had no idea what had prompted
their great good humor.
That they knew one another was not surprising, she
supposed. With the exception of Mr. Marchman they were all
members of the peerage and breathed the perfumed air of
the ton. What was interesting was that they appeared to be
fast friends, not rivals, yet until they had slowly
gravitated toward the same unoccupied stretch of blanket,
Elizabeth could not have said for certain that they shared
more than a polite nodding acquaintance.
They dispelled that notion once again as the Earl of
Northam plucked three ripened peaches from the basket
beside him, drew his legs under him tailor-fashion and
began to juggle. Fresh gales of laughter, a little ribald
this time, practically erupted from the others. For
reasons she did not entirely understand, Elizabeth Penrose
felt a certain amount of heat in her cheeks. Though
confident no one had noticed her, she nonetheless sought
protection by ducking behind her easel.
It was only as she began to apply brush to paper that she
realized the Earl of Northam had stolen most of the
subjects of her still life. Brendan David Hampton, the
juggling, thieving sixth Earl of Northam, lost his rhythm
when one of his friends pitched him another peach.
"Devil a bit, East," he said, grinning, "but I could never
get the hang of four." He gathered the peaches before they
rolled off the blanket and lightly tossed one to each of
the others. The one he kept for himself he held up in the
palm of his hand and pretended to study it.
"Tender-skinned. A copse of fine hair covering it. A
delicate blush deepening to ruby at the cleft." Northam
split the peach. "Succulent when parted. Moist. Scented.
And the heart of it is revealed lying nestled at the
center of the sweet delicate flesh."
Quietly, so that his lips barely moved, he
said, "Gentlemen, I give you Madame Fortuna's quim. God
bless her." He paused. "And God bless naive Hambrick boys."
Matthew Forrester, Viscount Southerton, South to his
boyhood friends from Hambrick, almost choked on the bite
he had taken. He coughed hard, torn between opposing
forces of laughter and swallowing. Mr. Marchman leaned
toward him helpfully and pounded the viscount on the back.
Because he used more force than was strictly necessary,
South glared at him meaningfully. The threat of
retaliation went unregarded because it was difficult for
any one of them to take South seriously when his cheeks
were flushed and his eyes were glistening with tears. To
avoid another blow between his shoulders he had to roll
off the blanket entirely.
"It's not dignified," he muttered, brushing himself
off. "Knew this would happen if we got this close. Someone
always brings up Madame Fortuna. It's amusing until
someone's choking and someone else is trying to kill him
by separating his cranium from his spine."
"I believe you were the one to mention her first," Mr.
Marchman pointed out calmly. He bit into his own
peach. "And if I wanted to really separate your head from
your shoulders I'd use my knife."
Gabriel Whitney, Marquess of Eastlyn, glanced
automatically at Marchman's right boot. "You're carrying
your blade, West?"
Marchman's answer held no hint of the humor his friend had
inserted into the question, though whether this absence
was attributable to the question itself or the nickname
attached to it was unclear. "Always," he said. He changed
the subject, his gaze turning to Northam. "You don't
appear to be enjoying the fruits of your labor."
Indeed, Northam was still holding each half of his peach
in his open palms. He was not looking at his comrades but
rather beyond them to where an easel had been set up in a
patch of bluebells. The young woman who had been painting
there had removed her pad and was packing her supplies.
Northam was not naturally given to expressions of remorse,
but as he glanced at the split peach in his hands, a
shadow of regret briefly darkened his eyes. "I believe,
friends, I must make my apologies to the lady. I fear I
have confiscated the subjects of her work."
Eastlyn glanced over his shoulder. One of his brows kicked
up. "Aaah, yes. Lady Elizabeth Penrose. I escorted her to
dinner last evening. You'd know that, North, if you had
arrived on time. The very same goes for the rest of you."
Northam scowled at him but there was no real heat in
it. "A difference of an opinion with my mother delayed me
until today. She, being of the opinion it is time for me
to take a wife. I, being of the opinion the time has not
yet arrived, nor is it imminently approaching."
Moving back to the blanket, Southerton nodded. "I'm
familiar with that argument. Tell me, do you suspect it is
a daughter-in-law she wishes or grandchildren?"
Northam did not hesitate. "Grandchildren."
"Just so. It is the same with my mother though she never
speaks of it plainly. Why do you suppose that is?"
Eastlyn casually drew back his arm then snapped it
forward, letting his peach pit fly in a long arc toward
the stream where it landed with a satisfying plop. "She
doesn't speak plainly for the same reason no mother speaks
plainly about such things: she doesn't want to believe her
dearest son knows anything about how he might go about
conceiving an heir."
Marchman nodded. "East is right, though it pains me to
admit it." He rested his watchful glance on each of them
in turn. "Does this mean I shall soon be wishing you happy
and kissing your brides? It appeals to me, you know. The
idea of the three of you leg-shackled and me with an open
field."
The Earl of Northam tossed both peach halves at Marchman
who caught them neatly. "I don't think there is a field
you haven't plowed, West." He stood, brushing his hands
lightly together. "I am off to make amends," he
said. "Endeavor not to embarrass me while I am in the
presence of the lady."
"Have a care, North," Eastlyn said. "She's Rosemont's
daughter and a particular favorite of our host and
hostess."
"I don't intend to compromise her," North said
dryly. "Merely want to speak to her."
Eastlyn, Southerton, and Marchman watched him walk off.
Eastlyn leaned back on his elbows and crossed his long
legs at the ankles. Sunlight glancing off his chestnut
hair gave it a streak of fire. A half-smile played
casually across his lips and his dark brown eyes
glinted. "I say he will be married before year's end."
"To Libby Penrose?" Southerton asked
incredulously. "You're daft."
Now Marchman regarded Southerton with interest. "Libby?
That appellation signifies some familiarity. You know her?"
Southerton shrugged. "Never saw her before today. Arriving
late with North has its disadvantages. My sister knows
her, though. They made their debut at the same time. She
wrote me letters filled with the most excruciatingly
painful details of her first Season. Of course it was all
a delight to her, but I can tell you I was almost grateful
to be in the Admiral's service and not in London. Lady
Elizabeth figured prominently in those missives. Emma
found much that she admired about Libby -- as she called
her -- but I can't say that I remember any of the
particulars. I do know that Lady Elizabeth was considered
something of a bluestocking, which endeared her to Emma,
but made her debut rather less than successful. Now that I
think on it, Libby was older than Emma by, oh, two or
three years it seems. Why, that would make her twenty-six
now."
"My God," Marchman said, pretending to be much struck by
this. "I do believe she has one foot planted. Yes, that is
precisely what I noticed about her on first acquaintance.
Her toes are practically curling up in anticipation of her
own imminent demise."
The viscount gave him a sour look. "Make light of me at
your own peril, West. You know perfectly well what I mean.
The blush is off the peach, as it were. The Dowager
Countess Northam won't approve of her."
Eastlyn's deep chuckle drew his friends' attention. "All
the more reason North's interest might be engaged."
"True," Southerton said, more thoughtful now. "Too true.
North's rather predictable in that regard. His mother may
regret getting what she's wished for."
Evan Marchman's head tilted to one side as he regarded his
companions consideringly. "A wager? I believe there is one
in the making. I have a sovereign that says North will
present the Dowager Countess with a daughter-in-law by
year's end."
Viscount Southerton laughed. "A sovereign, eh? Very well,
if I'm to wager an entire sovereign, you'll have to be
more specific. Is it Libby Penrose he'll take to the
altar?"
Marchman glanced back to where Northam was standing beside
Lady Elizabeth. Northam's features were politely fixed and
serenely unpenetrable. He could have been wishing himself
anywhere else or finding himself thoroughly entertained.
If Elizabeth Penrose was in anyway an accomplished woman,
and something of a bluestocking to boot, then Marchman was
of a mind to wager that Northam was entertained.
"Agreed," he said. "It's Lady Elizabeth he'll marry. East,
will you hold our sovereigns?"
"A pleasure." Eastlyn held out his hands and collected one
gold piece from each man.
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