Excerpt of Pretty Persuasion by Olivia Kingsley

CHAPTER ONE

"Dreadful news! Lord Sheffield broke his neck in a fall from his horse, and perish'd Instantly. Mamma and Aunt Arabella have been beside themselves since they heard. I also grieve for him, for he was a kind and amiable man, but I cannot help but wonder if this means the Rat shall finally come away from the West Indies, now that he is Earl. I have yet to decide whether I should like to see him again.""

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 19

The party was a damned crush. Robert Balfour, sixth Earl of Sheffield, sighed inwardly as he surveyed the sun-filled parlor's chattering and eminently fashionable inhabitants. If he had known Lady Mansell's garden party would be so crowded, he'd have spared himself the drive to Kensington; he could have waited another day to reacquaint himself with his prospective wife.

But it was too late to turn back now. And there was a sense of rightness about it, too. Familiarity settled over him like a threadbare but warm coat as he negotiated his way through the throng of gossip-hungry guests. Flimsy muslin dresses brushed against him, and with each sight of a tall, starched cravat, he could almost feel his shorter, softer one dig into his own neck, choking him to death with his conscious ignorance of high fashion.

He cursed his commitment to good manners while accepting tea and cake, tea and scones, tea and more tea, until he was hard-pressed to remember why he had missed England in the first place. Moving from one set of guests to another, he tried not to appear impatient as he answered the same questions again and again.

"Can it be...? Holcroft, by Jove! Though it's Sheffield now, is it not? So sorry about your loss, old chap. Fine fellow, the old earl. And such a tragic end. It grieved us deeply."

Condolences sounded rather trivial when one was on the receiving end. Yet he knew that if his acquaintances were to ignore his father's death, he'd think them rude and inconsiderate. So he expressed his gratitude and tried not to appear impatient.

"Lord Sheffield! What a wonderful surprise! Didn't know you had returned from the West Indies. Dare say you must be pleased to be back in civilization, eh?"

They had no idea just how pleased he was. He murmured a polite response—and tried not to appear impatient.

"Are you acquainted with my daughter, Lord Sheffield? You must permit me to introduce you to her..."

There were limits to how much he could endure. When he was presented with the fifth simpering young thing he set his good manners aside and escaped to the terrace. He found the Duchess of Southwell near the entrance, immersed in subdued conversation with a half dozen other society matrons.

She looked not a day older than the last time he had seen her. Her auburn tresses shone with no hint of gray, and middle age had treated her figure kindly. She was still one of the most elegant ladies in society, and the sight of her brought him out of the daze that an hour's mindless chitchat had produced.

He looked at her and remembered Georgie. At thirteen, she'd been a tall and gangly girl whose face was sprinkled with freckles. It was seven years since he had laid eyes on her. Had she changed? Of course she had. But how much?

He quickened his step toward her mother. As he drew near, the cluster of women parted to let him into their midst. Elizabeth Southwell offered her hand and he bowed over it. "Your grace."

"Lord Sheffield," she said with apparent surprise. "You have taken us quite unawares. I had not heard word of your return to England."

"I tried to make my arrival as unremarkable as possible," he replied. "I spent two weeks at Holcroft Park and came up to London only three days past."

"I see," said the duchess with a slight frown. "Do tell me: how is your mother?"

"As well as can be expected. She chose not to accompany me at present but might come up later in the season."

The duchess sighed. "Our correspondence has been regrettably sporadic of late. It must be a comfort to her that you have finally returned."

Robert murmured in agreement, even though he knew that any consolation his presence gave his mother was soon undone by his brother's antics.

"Have you seen Lady Georgiana yet, Lord Sheffield?"

Georgiana. Of course. The reason he was here. Clenching his hand, Robert turned toward the question and recognized Lady Ashcombe, the duchess's sister.

"Not yet." He glanced about the terrace, searching for... a raven head, he supposed. Surely the color of her hair hadn't changed. "The duke assured me she would be in attendance, and I arrived with hopes of meeting her."

"You have spoken with Southwell?" the duchess asked sharply.

"Ah, yes—yes, he called on me yesterday."

"Well!" Her lips thinned. "He said not a word about it to me."

The other ladies clucked in sympathy, and because it was not a topic he wanted to pursue, Robert said, "Is Georgiana nearby?"

"Why, yes." The duchess half turned to peruse the grass-covered terrace. "She was strolling about with Lady Louisa. I believe they disappeared into the garden."

Though he had little interest at present, courtesy forced him to ask, "Lady Louisa?"

"Wentworth," the duchess replied, gesturing at the woman by her side. "Lady Albermarle's daughter."

"One of them, anyhow," Lady Albermarle added with a titter. She was a tiny woman with a large... presence. Though fashionably dressed, she sported a hat she must have owned since the previous century—a monstrous thing, its brim ringed with something furry. He hoped it was dead.

"But you mustn't stand around here with us," the lady said, cheerfully shooing him. "Go on. Join the young people. Find your Lady Georgiana."