Her Enemy At the Altar

by Virginia Heath

  An unexpected end to the Wincanton–Stuart feud...?

  Scandal broke last night when Lady Constance Stuart was discovered in the arms of Aaron Wincanton, the son of her family’s greatest enemy! But now we can reveal an even more shocking development. Our sources say a special license was obtained and the two were married before sunrise!

  It’s been confirmed that Aaron has stolen his new bride away to the country to begin their unexpected marriage. We’ll be watching closely to see exactly what happens when a gentleman invites his enemy into his bed...

  Kissing Aaron Wincanton was nothing like she’d expected kissing to be.

  Not only did she feel it on her lips, she felt it in her legs, as well. They were oddly unsteady. Connie did not notice the passing of time, nor exactly when the kiss changed into something more visceral, but one moment she was standing in his arms, upset, and the next she was almost reclining on the sofa, with her hands fisted in his dark hair and his large, warm palm sliding over the silk of her stockings until it rested scandalously on the bare skin above her garter. It felt glorious to be wanted this way, and by a man who had no interest in her dowry or her prospects.

  He was kissing her.

  Connie.

  And she could tell by the way his breathing was ragged and the way his heart hammered against his ribs that he was as lost in the kiss as she. Finally she was attractive and desirable to someone. She felt beautiful and womanly and alive.

  Author Note

  Shortly after my daughter started school she came home worried. When I asked her what had happened, she held up her hands and said that she thought there was something wrong with her. “My hands and feet are too big.”

  This had all come about because her teacher had innocently thought that it might be a good idea to measure all the new students, take handprints and footprints and create a graph in the classroom showing their varying sizes. While I’m sure she meant well, it served to enlighten my daughter to the fact that she was different—she was tall—and it took years for that self-consciousness to go away.

  Any normal person would not dream of walking up to a complete stranger and saying, “You’re fat, aren’t you?” Or, “You’re ugly.” Or, “You’re bald.” However, the majority of the population think it is perfectly acceptable to say, “You’re tall, aren’t you?” As if the person they are speaking to is somehow not aware of that fact!

  My heroine, Constance, is also tall. In a world where the ideal woman is supposed to be delicate and fragile, she stands out—and desperately wishes that she didn’t. She is convinced that no man will ever want her, so behaves in a way that actively discourages any potential suitor in an attempt to guard her heart. Fortunately Aaron Wincanton is not the slightest bit afraid of her, something Connie finds most disconcerting...

  HER ENEMY AT THE ALTAR

  Virginia Heath

  www.millsandboon.com.au

  When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older, the stories became more complicated, sometimes taking weeks to get to the happy ending. One day, she decided to embrace the insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, England, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her forever to fall asleep.

  Books by Virginia Heath

  Harlequin Historical

  That Despicable Rogue

  Her Enemy at the Altar

  Visit the Author Profile page at www.millsandboon.com.au.

  For Katie.

  And all of the other beautiful tall girls out there.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Excerpt from Her Sheriff Bodyguard by Lynna Banning

  Chapter One

  A London ballroom—November 1815

  He was surrounded by the usual gaggle of giggling girls who found him charming. Fortunately, mused Lady Constance Stuart as she watched him from the opposite side of the ballroom, she was not one of them. Like his father, Aaron Wincanton had hair as dark as night and a heart as black as sin, and Constance was predisposed to hate him with a vengeance. But there was something about Aaron Wincanton that had always grated. Perhaps it was his cocky arrogance, or perhaps it was the way he constantly flirted with any woman in possession of a pulse, or maybe it was simply the fact that he was the most irritatingly handsome man in the room, but whatever it was she had developed a deep well of loathing reserved especially for him.

  The gaggle of silly girls all stepped back at his command and Constance watched in reluctant fascination as Aaron Wincanton held an unopened champagne bottle upright in his palm. He had obviously procured a sword from someone and held it aloft in his right hand with far more flourish than was necessary. The blade glinted in the light of the chandeliers above, attracting even more attention to the exciting spectacle at the edge of the dance floor. He lay the flat of the blade against the side of the bottle and his mewling disciples began to count out loud in squeaking excitement. ‘One... Two...’

  On three he slid the blade swiftly upwards against the glass, slicing off the cork and the neck of the bottle in one, deadly clean cut. Foaming champagne spilled from the top of the bottle like a fountain and the audience all held out their wine glasses for him to fill or clapped at the audaciousness of the trick.

  As if he knew that she would be watching him, his eyes languidly lifted and locked on hers. Before she could look away, he was already smiling smugly and winked at her in that oh-so-arrogant way of his that suggested that he just knew she had been staring at him again. It was galling.

  Irritated beyond measure at the man, and at her own stupidity at being caught gawping at him yet again, Constance forced her eyes to another part of the ballroom. The part that she had been deftly avoiding. For the third time this evening she spied her new fiancé, the Marquis of Deal, leering down Penelope Rothman’s ample cleavage. Despite the fact that her father had already instructed her to ignore it, explaining that a good wife understands that a husband might—from time to time—seek the company of other women, Constance still struggled to do so. She and the marquis had been engaged less than a fortnight. And he had chosen her over Penelope. Surely he could keep his urges under control for such a short period of time out of respect for his future wife?

  Unless this was a bitter taste of the life she was destined to have with the man? Despite the fact that the marriage had been arranged, Constance had hoped that they might find some sort of happiness together. Secretly, she had nurtured the belief that he might, one day, actually fall in love with her. That the Marquis of Deal would see beyond the hard exterior she had always prese
nted to the world as a defence mechanism, find some beauty in the unruly, unsubtle, red hair that did its own thing and the tall, gangly, unimpressive figure, and uncover the real woman who lay beneath. The one who felt things a little too deeply and worried constantly that she was not quite good enough. What an idiotic, hopeless fool she was to have such a ludicrous dream!

  Deal would never love her. It was no secret that her father had increased her dowry as a sweetener to lure him and Penelope Rothman was considered to be the diamond of the Season. It was humbling to realise that the Marquis of Deal had chosen his future bride pragmatically and solely for economic reasons. That is where his attraction to Constance started and stopped. Connie’s vivid appearance could never tempt him in the same way that Penelope’s golden hair and ethereal beauty did. She was merely a better financial prospect. It was still Penelope he really wanted and no amount of money would change that. Her eyes flicked back towards Aaron Wincanton and she saw him watching Deal and Penelope briefly before his gaze locked with hers again. She could tell by his bland expression that he also knew that her fiancé preferred petite blondes to gangly redheads. Everybody preferred petite blondes to gangly redheads.

  The surge of disappointment was so sudden that tears threatened to form and hell would have to freeze over before she allowed anyone see her cry. Constance quietly disentangled herself from her mother’s group and slipped away to an empty alcove. Once she was composed she would give Deal the sharp end of her tongue and remind him of the behaviour expected of a gentleman. She might well be able to overlook his indiscretions in time, a very long amount of time, but that did not mean that she wanted to witness them as well. Besides, she reasoned as she watched festivities from a distance, nobody was likely to miss her—least of all her devoted marquis. As always, her dance card was woefully empty, aside from the occasional polite invitation issued from older family friends and the first waltz that she had already danced with her indifferent fiancé. She was now doomed to spend the rest of the evening with the matrons and the wallflowers. As usual.

  It had always been that way. Ever since her come out six years ago, she had been doomed to watch every ball from the far side of the room. A situation that had been made much worse by the unfortunate, but incredibly apt, nickname that she had been given by Aaron Wincanton on the night she had been introduced at Almack’s. Of course, it had caught on almost immediately and Connie had learnt of it when she had overheard another group of debutantes laughing about it in the retiring room. Thanks to Aaron Wincanton, from that moment on she had been referred to scathingly as the Ginger Amazonian.

  The first year had been mortifying. Only her pride had got her through it as she had stoically ignored all of the whispers and giggles, and tried to be grateful for the pathetic trickle of fortune-hunting suitors that still tried their luck. She knew that she looked ridiculous and ungainly up against the other girls. Nobody knew better than she how very unappealing she was. There had never been another debutante who had the audacity to grow to six feet. Nor was there one with feet so enormous that the cobbler had once bragged that he made the biggest slippers in London. The debutante pastels further washed out her already pale complexion and she positively towered over all of the other women—and most of the gentlemen as well. She endured every feeble joke about her height by laughing politely, even though she wanted to smash her fist in the face of the next person who asked her what the weather was like up there or suggested that she slept in a greenhouse.

  In an attempt to blend into the background, for a few months she had even took to standing with her knees bent at all times. While this served to make her appear shorter when stationary, the effect was spoiled the moment she had to move because she found it far too painful to attempt to walk, or heaven forbid dance, in a crouch. Besides, as her younger brother had laughingly pointed out, her crouched gait was oddly reminiscent of that of the apes at the Royal Menagerie. She gave up squatting after that. It was bad enough being compared to a giant female warrior. She did not want to ever have to endure a simian nickname and would not put it past Aaron Wincanton to come up with something even more insulting, like the Giant Ginger Gorilla. Heaven forbid!

  The second year Connie was more prepared. If she was going to be compared to a mythical warrior she might as well act like one. Nobody would ever witness her lack of confidence in her own attractiveness ever again. She had learnt to watch the proceedings with a detached and slightly disdainful air, as if she would never deign to lower herself by courting the interest of the eligible gentlemen in attendance or attempting to make friends with the silly gossiping girls. She was better than that. Lady Constance Stuart never fluttered her eyelashes over her fan, or giggled or swooned or simpered. Lady Constance Stuart proudly loomed over any gentleman who had the audacity to be shorter. She also wore bold colours to set off her copper-coloured curls to best effect. Turquoise, emerald and, if she was feeling particularly unattractive, crimson became her preferred colours of choice. They were no longer merely gowns; now each dress was a statement of defiance. She might well be an ugly wallflower, but that did not mean that she had to be a shrinking violet. Connie had been doomed to stand out wherever she went so she gave the impression that she was comfortable with that by purposefully sticking out wherever she went. But she loathed it nevertheless. Almost as much as she loathed her wild red hair, pale skin and beanpole body.

  Lady Constance Stuart earned the reputation for having a sharp tongue and used it to wound if the need arose, which it did with less frequency as the seasons passed. She was formidable, like a true Amazonian, and the character she had created was now so convincing that sometimes Connie could forget how much it all hurt and how much she hated being relegated to a curiosity rather than a woman.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her fiancé brush his fingers over Penelope Rothman’s perfect cheek and whisper something close to her ear that soon had those perfect cheeks blushing a very pretty shade of pink. Enough was enough. Lady Constance Stuart would never silently condone such insulting behaviour. She was going to talk to her fiancé and lay out some rules.

  Connie regally walked towards the Marquis of Deal, where he was stood still fawning over Penelope. ‘My lord, if I might have a private word?’ She fixed him with a pointed stare and watched him blink in surprise at her icy tone.

  ‘Of course, my dear.’

  Connie headed purposefully towards the French windows that led out to the terrace and heard him follow. Despite the chill in the air, there were several other guests outside so she made sure that they were all well out of earshot before she turned around and faced him. Out of deference for the two inches of difference in their respective heights, Connie crouched until she could stare pointedly in his perfect blue eyes before she spoke. There really was no delicate way of putting it.

  ‘Your behaviour this evening has humiliated me. I am your fiancée. We are newly betrothed. It is insulting that you should continue to flirt with other women in public. If I am going to be your wife, I expect to be treated with some respect.’

  Her comments appeared to startle him. ‘How exactly have I been disrespectful? I danced the first waltz with you. I have spent several minutes in your company. Surely you are not put out by my socialising with my friends? It is the norm for married or engaged couples to not linger in each other’s company at social events. People would talk if we did otherwise.’ The Marquis of Deal gave her one of his benevolent smiles. The one that set off the dimple in his square chin to perfection and made his blue eyes twinkle against his thick, golden hair. The man was far too handsome and far too aware of it. ‘Although I do find your jealousy flattering, it is quite misplaced. I can assure you that Penelope and I were simply having a brief and platonic conversation.’

  ‘It was hardly brief. She has dominated your time for at least the last hour and people are beginning to notice.’ Aaron Wincanton had certainly noticed. ‘In the future I would prefer it i
f you avoided cosy chats alone with Penelope, or any other unattached woman for that matter, out of respect for me.’ Connie had hoped that Deal would feel ashamed of his behaviour. Instead he looked angry.

  ‘It is not your place to tell me what I can and cannot do, madam, and I will thank you to remember it. Do you seriously expect me to avoid all contact with other women? I have already discussed this at great length with your father and he assured me that you understood that our arrangement was more about convenience than convention.’

  Hearing that spew from his mouth was like a slap in the face and Connie balked. ‘Do you have no affection for me whatsoever?’ She had hoped that he had some and that the tiny seed would grow and she hated herself for that as well. Silly, needy fool!

  Deal stared back at her as if she was quite mad. ‘Ours is an arranged marriage, Constance. It is based on an agreement that is mutually beneficial to both of our families. I thought you understood that? I am doing you a huge favour by marrying you! You have been on the shelf for years and nobody else wants you. To be perfectly frank, you should be grateful for that and stop all of this nonsense. I will give you my name, a home of your own and a child or two to keep you company and secure the succession. In return, I have promised your father my support.’

  A home of her own? What exactly did that mean? It certainly did not sound as if he wanted to share it. So much for her hopeful dream of a happy marriage. ‘And then what?’ she asked boldly, although she suspected she already knew the answer. Deal did not want her. He never would.

  ‘And then we will both live our lives exactly how we want to! You will stay with the children in the country, of course, but as long as you are discreet I have no objection to you doing as you please once you have provided me with an heir.’

  Connie was starting to feel a little queasy. Surely her father had not agreed to this? He had sold her off as a brood mare to a man who had no intention of being more than a temporary husband. ‘And I am to accept the fact that you will continue to live the life of a bachelor in town?’