Seducing the wallflower…
Over the years, Lydia Field has perfected the art of being a wallflower. It’s the only way to avoid the attention of unwanted suitors – and the perils of a convenient, loveless marriage! Instead, she dreams of the day she can leave London’s high society behind her, trading the glamorous balls and afternoon teas for a quiet life in the country.
But in an unguarded moment, she finds herself catching the eye of notorious rake ‘Handsome Harry’, Lord Birnham. Now that he’s glimpsed the wildness and fire that lurks beneath Lydia’s demure exterior, he will not rest until he has unleashed the full extent of her passion!
For if there’s one skill that Lord Birnham is known for, it’s the art of persuasion…
The next exquisite Regency romance from Raven McAllan, The Lord’s Persuasion of Lady Lydia will whisk you off your feet and sweep you into an opulent world of scandal, secrets, and desire!
Also by Raven McAllan
The Scandalous Proposal of Lord Bennett
The Rake’s Unveiling of Lady Belle
The Duke's Seduction of Lady M
The Scottish Lord’s Secret Bride
The Lord’s Persuasion of Lady Lydia
Raven McAllan
www.CarinaUK.com
RAVEN McALLAN
lives in Scotland, the land of lochs, glens, mountains, haggis, men in kilts (sometimes), and midges. She enjoys all of them – except midges. They're not known as the scourge of Scotland for nothing. Her long-suffering husband has learned how to work the Aga, ignore the dust bunnies who share their lives, and pour the wine when necessary. Raven loves history, which is just as well, considering she writes Regency romance, and often gets so involved in her research she forgets the time. She loves to travel, and says she and her hubby are doing their gap year in three-week stints. All in the name of research, of course.
She loves to hear from her readers and you can contact her on twitter: @RavenMcAllan or via her website: ravenmcallan.com
Thanks to my Editor Extraordinaire, the fabulous Charlotte Mursell.
The Cover Artist, Anna Sikorska.
All the HQ Digital team.
Doris O'Connor, wielder of the 'red pen', who is chief nagger when I need it.
The RavDor Chicks, (Doris and my) fantastic Facebook group for all their encouragement.
The Carina authors Facebook group ditto.
Paul my long suffering husband, who is still ignoring the dust bunnies, and providing the wine.
Everyone who is so kind to buy and read my books and have made my dream of being a published (and read) author come true.
To my long gone, never forgotten mum and dad, who would be so pleased I'd achieved my dream.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt
End page
Copyright
Prologue
‘I have a headache.’ It was almost true, Lydia thought, as she glanced up at her mama from under her lashes. If she were forced to fall in with her parents’ intentions it would no longer be a white lie. Even thinking about the evening’s so-called entertainment made her tense. ‘Can I not give the ball a miss and you make my apologies to our hostess?’ After all, she’d spend most of the night as a wallflower – not that she minded that at all; it was the fact that she would be forced to dance with whomsoever her hostess foisted upon her that she hated. Supper would be agony, as whichever gentleman had been coerced into escorting her attended to her for the bare minimum of time politeness dictated and then disappeared. ‘Seriously, Mama, let me have a night off. I am not interested and you know it.’
Her mama, the Countess of Ibstock, sighed, frowned and felt Lydia’s forehead. ‘You’re not heated and your complexion is normal. I’m sure you’ll be fine once you are there.’ There was a note of finality in her voice that hinted Lydia should take heed. ‘You never know, you might even catch the attention of…’ She broke off and reddened. ‘You will be fine,’ she said again lamely.
Poor mama. She was, Lydia thought with a surge of amusement, ever optimistic. In this case it was sadly misplaced. In her younger days, her vivacious mama had been considered an incomparable, and even now, in her fifties, showed the beauty she had once radiated. If she had been married to anyone other than Lydia’s papa her mama would, Lydia thought, have been a much sought after, leading hostess. Sadly, her papa, the Earl, was somewhat of an eccentric and eschewed most tonnish entertainments and his wife. To the Countess, fancy gowns, parties and balls were the spice of life and she couldn’t understand how her daughter hated them. Without those frivolities, Lydia suspected, her poor mama would be lonely and alone. Even Lydia couldn’t fill the void her papa deliberately left in his wife’s life. It was incomprehensible how he could be so unfeeling or how her mama managed to put on a stiff upper lip and rarely showed how hurt she was by her husband’s attitude. It might be the way of most of the ton, but it would never be Lydia’s way.
It would not ever do for her. If nothing else, it showed her she could not and would not be subjected to such a life of anguish and lack of respect as a person in her own right. Her mama loved her papa dearly, and look how he repaid her?
No, no, and no. It was not for her. She’d much rather be an old maid. Whoever said having a large fortune and a considerable dowry was an asset was sadly mistaken in Lydia’s opinion. The fortune might well be her saving grace one day, but a dowry? She shuddered. How many fortune hunters and men down on their luck had she refused? People who didn’t see her as a person, but as a purse. The number of females who, on discovering who Lydia was, looked startled, then speculative, couldn’t be counted. Friendships were courted and cultivated and ideas on how to spend her pin money – and more – bandied about. It was no wonder, Lydia mused, that she had deliberately gone out of her way to appear dull and bookish and fade into the background. Marriage had never been high on her agenda after she had thought her heart broken by a suitor she imagined loved her. Sadly – or thankfully, she had subsequently decided – she had discovered he loved her money, not her. It had been a bitter blow to come upon him, at what should have been her betrothal ball, bragging to one of his friends that she was boring, had no animation in her, and that nothing about her was interesting.
No doubt, the man had continued with a laugh, she would be rubbish between the sheets, but he would perk himself up by thinking of her fortune. She’d shown him how wrong he was with regards to her personality, stormed in, slapped his face, and told him that he would never find out. Plus, she had said, in such an icy tone he had blanched, to her knowledge she hadn’t actually agreed to the betrothal. When he tried to protest, she had grabbed a carafe of red wine from a nearby table and poured the contents over his head. He had spluttered and sworn, and a large quantity had dripped over his immaculate evening breeches. As he had an affectation for buff, the pale material turned a nice, deep claret.
Needless to say, she hadn’t seen him again. It had been a somewhat difficult
conversation she had with her parents when they discovered her swain gone, but in her mind it had been worth it. To Lydia’s surprise the man didn’t talk about her in a bad way, indeed, the aborted betrothal never saw the light of day in the ton. She decided he was probably too embarrassed.
Happily, within the season he married elsewhere and retired to Wales, out of sight and out of mind.
Even so, the wedded state become less and less attractive over the years. Her erstwhile suitors left a sour taste in her mouth. As for her parents’ marriage? Words failed her.
Perhaps I was swapped with someone else at birth? There seemed to be no other explanation for those views which were so diametrically opposed to those of her parents.
‘Besides,’ the Countess continued, bringing Lydia back to the present with a jolt, ‘though I hate to bring the subject up, how else will you find a…’
‘Mama.’ Lydia held her hand up to stop her mama speaking. ‘Do not dare mention a husband. I am almost six-and-twenty and not interested in the gentlemen who are interested in me.’ Not that there were many these days. Lydia knew she had perfected the art of fading into the furnishings, and dissuaded all but the most persistent. ‘You know I do not suit them, and you also know that I prefer it that way.’ She squeezed her mama’s shoulder in silent sympathy. ‘I’m not you. I really don’t see the benefit of being a wife. After all, where would I find a man as perfect as papa?’ She hoped her sarcasm didn’t show, for her words were such an exaggeration. Lydia wouldn’t hurt her mama for anything, but sometimes it was so very hard to show respect for her father.
She wasn’t quite sure she loved him – for how could you love someone rarely there? However, she supposed she owed the Earl her filial respect for he was most definitely the head of the house and her mama deferred to him in all things. That lady never had an independent thought or idea, unless, Lydia mused wryly, it appertained to the problem of Lydia’s almost old maid status. She was definitely one more reason why Lydia had no intention of becoming a wife. How her mama could put up with the indifference shown to her – kindly or not – Lydia couldn’t comprehend.
Lydia was well aware she did not have the disposition to accept commands meekly without question, nor not to ask why something should be just so, nor to hang on to a man’s every word as if it were the only thing that mattered. Even as a young child she questioned everything. Lydia understood she had a mind of her own and opinions that were just as valid as those of anyone else. Nevertheless, from all she had seen and heard, no man had ever tempted her to change her attitude. She would not be a commodity, or someone to be used as a brood mare and then discarded. That was something she had watched happen all too many times, and sometimes the results were horrendous. In general, though, the ton seemed to think a marriage of convenience was the preferable alliance, advantageous to both parties concerned. Lydia disagreed and preferred her single life. Oh, she accepted some people’s marriages were different – her friend Esther’s was one in question – but how could she be sure her own would be?
Esther opined that miracles did happen; however, Lydia was of the belief that, after Esther and Edward, there were no more to be had. Esther, a friend of Lydia since schooldays, and now the wife of an influential lord who was an MP, had a marriage that was the one successful example, to Lydia’s knowledge, of those arranged for gain.
There had only been two other firm offers. The first was when the man turned out to have feet of clay. It was pure chance Lydia learned – from the lady herself – about his married mistress a few days before he asked her papa for her hand. The said mistress, herself married to a man who ignored her, had, she declared, been assured her liaison would not end after the marriage. Fortuitously, Lydia’s papa had let her refuse the offer. That had surprised her, but she had been grateful. It was only later she understood that her papa thought the man inferior to them and was someone who had once snubbed the Earl at Tattersalls.
Her mama couldn’t comprehend Lydia’s attitude. After all, a mistress was not something uncommon, surely Lydia understood that? When Lydia had asked her whether her papa kept a mistress, her mother had paled and her eyes clouded over until she stuttered and told her daughter it was not a subject to be discussed with innocent, unmarried girls. From that Lydia had inferred he did.
So it had been a pleasant surprise when her papa had not pushed her to say yes to that or a subsequent, even less palatable, offer. Agreed, that was more to the elderly peer’s lack of fortune, fondness for inferior port, and Lydia’s father’s fortune the man assumed would go to her on her papa’s death, than her vehement refusal, but it still gave her two more lucky escapes.
Since then she had become more wary of those peers looking actively for a wife. So many seemed to think a mistress was part of any marriage, and so many of those women seemed to be married to someone else. It was not for her.
Luckily, all other potential suitors she had thankfully managed to put off before they got as far as approaching her papa. She thought they might as well have guinea signs etched on their foreheads. It was galling to be seen as a money-well, but if it had done nothing else, it had made her increasingly aware that she was more than that. She had intelligence and wit, even though she chose not to show them but instead court a reputation for unconventionality.
Hence, in a few weeks’ time, she could take charge of her own, not inconsiderable, fortune, and she had plans made. Lydia was going to move to her cottage in Devon and forget all about Almack’s, balls, afternoon teas and gossip. She would be in charge of her life.
It was a fact that she could hardly wait, and Lydia sighed at the thought of what she needed to endure until then. The Countess regarded her daughter steadily and Lydia did her best not to squirm, but her mama had the knack of making her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
‘You really do not enjoy the life of the ton, do you?’ The Countess made it sound as if her daughter came from an alien planet. ‘Sometimes I despair of you. How can anyone not enjoy the parties, the chat, the…’
Lydia rolled her eyes. She felt her mama’s anguish, she really did, but even that couldn’t change her attitude towards the ton. ‘Sorry, mama, I am such a trial, I know, but I could reply with how can anyone enjoy them.’
The Countess pulled a face and shook her head. ‘Somehow I must have failed you.’
Not you, but Papa and your marriage did. And those bone-headed idiots who chose to try and pull the wool over my eyes. They opened my eyes to inequality and injustice. To overhear I am undesirable, but for my fortune he will put up with me, is not something any woman should ever apprehend..
‘Never, mama.’ Lydia patted her mama’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. ‘I just am different. I’m sorry but you know neither of us can change what we are.’
‘Sadly. Even so, my love, you have to attend tonight,’ her mama said earnestly. ‘Her ladyship would be most disgruntled if you pulled out at such a late date. You might not want to go’ – her tone indicated she personally could not comprehend anyone who chose not to attend such a gathering – ‘but do this one thing and I promise you can forgo Almack’s tomorrow.’ She sighed very dramatically. ‘I will think of some excuse that doesn’t offend the patronesses.’
Thank the lord for small mercies. It was a very large concession from her entertainment-loving mama, who thought Almack’s, balls and soirees almost the sole reason for living. ‘Say I have the plague? Oh, all right, the headache. And let me miss the musicale at Lady Bishop’s as well?’ Lydia added hopefully. ‘You know I get no pleasure at those events and it will make the headache all the more plausible.’ The only saving grace, as far as Lydia was concerned, was that if she closed her eyes during each musical piece, people thought she was lost in the music and not snoozing.
The Countess shook her head in sorrow and sighed heavily. ‘You strike a hard bargain. Very well.’
‘I try.’ Lydia stood up and shook out her dress. How could she explain the claustrophobic sensation that fille
d her when in the social situations her mother adored? Or the way her mind went blank and she wanted nothing more than to yawn or find a book to read. ‘It’s difficult, but I really try.’
She waited for her mama to come back smartly with ‘very trying’, but for once she did not, and merely patted her daughter’s cheek. ‘It will be fine,’ she said, not very convincingly.
‘In that case I best go and get ready for another evening in hell,’ Lydia said, ignoring her mother’s tut-tut and muttered admonishment as she left the room. If she had to endure several hours of torture she’d make certain she looked her effacing best. Not that it would make much difference. Whatever she wore she would still be seen as well on the shelf and not worth bothering with. Sometimes it perturbed her – she rather thought she would be a good mother – but after listening to the moaning of several young matrons, bored and ignored by their spouses, those moments were becoming fewer and fewer. Better not a mother than an unloved and unwanted encumbrance. After all, how much mothering would she, as the wife of a member of the ton, be allowed to minister? That thought made her smile wryly. Maybe she needed to find a nice jolly country squire who had no intention of straying, or a vicar who couldn’t afford nursery care and expected his wife to do it all, as well as ministering to whoever of his flock needed it.
Make gruel? Bake bread? Make small talk to all and sundry? That negated the vicar’s wife, then. Lydia had only the haziest idea of how bread or gruel was made and her repertoire of small talk was non-existent. An old maid with a trusty servant it would have to be. Plus, she thought with an inward giggle, cats.
She entered her bedroom and grinned at Millie, her personal maid. ‘I have to go tonight but tomorrow is mine and mine alone. A visit to Hatchards and to Mr Lloyd if we can do it without being observed, I think.’ Mr Lloyd was both her solicitor and her confidant. ‘Sadly, before then I have to pretend not to be bored out of my mind for the next however many hours. I’ll wear the midnight-blue silk.’
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