Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the
banister to watch her aunt's butler admit a handsome cavalry
officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently
assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member
of her dear father's regiment. Of course, this officer was
probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future,
she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with
whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the
main prerequisite for marriage,' Mamma always claimed.
According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more
important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only
reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant.
"Who is he?"
"Don't you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert,
Lieutenant Tarrant."
"Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw
him five years ago. He is taller."
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her,
Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she
could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick,
sun–kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne's waist. "If you are
not careful, you will fall."
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak
banister while she straightened.
"Look at your gown. It's crushed. You're such a...a hoyden."
She stamped her foot. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. My mamma says you are."
"Well, she is wrong." In spite of her denial, rueful, she
looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would
her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once
again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine
from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert's
scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an
officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of
seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and
rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne's
heart–shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery
frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of
the colours of half–mourning. A sympathetic sigh
escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her
father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of
Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw
Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the
storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned
six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father's
estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley,
at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught
himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with
long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones.
Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth
forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever
seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and
bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. "My condolences."
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older
half–brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. "I
trust you have everything you require, my lord?"
Langley bowed. "Yes, thank you."
"My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss
Whitley."
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour
to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. "Ladies, please excuse us, we
must see to our horses."
Sarah shook her head at him. "See to your horses? The
grooms can do so."
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. "Ah, Sarah, have you
forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?"
"Excuse us."
* * * *
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her
cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to
the family's persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to
his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her
mamma's unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief
over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to
visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after
the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she
reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern
outskirts of Cousin Stanton's Hertfordshire parish—lay
a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
"Are you daydreaming, Cousin?"
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand
of embroidery thread. "No."
"Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the
army now he is Papa's heir?" Sarah's needle flashed in and
out of her work.
"Yes, several times." Georgianne shivered, stretched her
hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the
draughts in the old vicarage.
"Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?"
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a
military man. However, after the loss of her father and
brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch
him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of
wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering
the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last
saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most
of the time, she lived cloistered at home in
reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She
spent her life in an endless round of mending and
embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from
this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or
reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the
tedium of her days at home.
"You have not answered my question."
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. "Yes, Sarah, I am
interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each
other since we were in the nursery."
"Good, but what are you thinking about? You are
neglecting your sewing."
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out
of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches.
Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
"Papa wants Tarrant to marry," Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and
wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they
died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration
for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon
a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major
Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime
consideration for marriage, but novels and poems
contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love
with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available:
maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley, provided he
was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma
would regard the Viscount favourably. His lordship was
wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad
shoulders equalled Major Tarrant's. However, although she
found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the
Viscount's skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from
exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair
and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard's. Her
spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with
two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here,
despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah's voice ended her musing. "Have you heard Tarrant
inherited his godfather's estate and fortune? Besides his
pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year."
Georgianne nodded. "Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is
exceptionally fortunate." Sarah blinked. "Why are you smiling?"
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the
window. "I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and
Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so
many lives and affected everyone in some way or another."
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died
eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she
could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her
presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many
engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time,
she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her
thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the
parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and
lavender–scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back
to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. "Mrs Stanton, my
uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and
is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his
friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb
yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle's
behalf."
Cousin Stanton's lips parted in a smile revealing
yellowed teeth. "Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have
you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible
members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be
eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay
all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him."
"Indeed," Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Accustomed to taking long walks every day, Georgianne
fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah's
sedentary habits.
"Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor
is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he
encourages gentle exercise to improve your health." She
stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and
sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown
and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and
noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone
peering at her through the small, diamond–shaped
panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it
be Cousin Stanton's uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm
around her waist. "Come, it is time to change our clothes
before we dine."