Desires of a
Perfect Lady
Victoria Alexander
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
By Victoria Alexander
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
London, 1867
“We aren’t supposed to be up here,” Sterling Harrington said in his best I-will-be-the-Earl-of-Wyldewood-one-day voice. Even at age eleven he was well aware of what his future held. Not that his younger brothers paid him any heed whatsoever.
“I daresay, it won’t be a problem if we don’t get caught.” Quinton Harrington, two years younger than Sterling, pushed past the future earl, candle in hand and ventured farther into the attic.
“It’s rather too dark to see anything.” Nathanial, the youngest of the three hesitated. A year younger than Quinton, Nathanial was often hard-pressed to keep up with his older brothers, especially Quinton, even if he would never admit it aloud.
In the rest of Harrington House, the sound of the rain that pounded on the roof was not unpleasant. But here in the vast attic that seemed to stretch on into eternal shadows, if one were only eight years of age, one might feel a certain apprehension. Sterling resisted the urge to take his brother’s hand but Nathanial was not fond of any reminder that he was the youngest and might still need his hand to be held. Instead, Sterling laid a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, telling him without words that Sterling would always be there for him. It was who he was and who he was expected to be.
Miss Thompson, their governess, had always said Sterling had a fine sense of responsibility, as befitted the future Earl of Wyldewood, who would bear a great many responsibilities. Nathanial, she said, had the heart of a poet. And Quinton had the curse of an adventurous soul which, no doubt, Miss Thompson did not mean as a compliment; but Quinton nonetheless took it as such. Every now and again, Sterling would quite envy his younger brother and wonder what it would be like to have an adventurous soul rather than a fine sense of responsibility. Regardless, it was his duty in life to inherit the title and become the head of the family. Most of the time, aside from the nasty fact that his father would have to die first, Sterling was not dismayed at the prospect.
“So.” Quinton held the candle high and glanced around the attic. “Where should we begin?”
“The trunks,” Sterling said firmly. As they were looking for pirate clothes, this seemed the logical place to start. “There will be pirate clothes in the trunks.” He started toward the far recesses of the attic, under the eaves, and its darker, deeper shadows. If truth were told, Sterling might have felt the tiniest twinge of apprehension, which he promptly ignored. The earls of Wyldewood were expected to have courage in the face of adversity, even if adversity took the form of unknown shadows in an attic on a rainy day, and one was still only a boy.
He did wish they’d get on with it, though. Every minute spent in the attic was another minute closer to discovery. To chastisement and possibly punishment. While it was usually Quinton’s fertile mind that came up with whatever adventure the boys embarked upon, it was Sterling who accepted leadership of the exploit and Sterling who stepped forward and took the blame when their transgression was discovered. Be it something as enormous as evading the watchful eye of whichever governess was in residence to slip off the grounds and explore the streets of London in violation of all the rules or something as relatively insignificant as borrowing every umbrella in the house to fashion a tent.
They wouldn’t be up there at all had it not been for the rain and Miss Thompson. The usually placid governess had not responded with her typical calm to finding a frog in her desk drawer. Perhaps that was attributable to three days of rain and three days of her charges being more boisterous than normal. She had sent them off to read and retired to her private sitting room, something she did on occasion. Often when it rained.
Sterling stopped before trunks that looked very much like treasure chests if one discounted the fact that their original owners might well have been maiden aunts or spinster cousins. “Which one?”
“The biggest, of course.” Quinton grinned at Nathanial as if he was imparting excellent advice from an older, wiser brother to a younger. “The biggest always has the best treasure.”
“Very well.” Sterling resisted the urge to point out that the biggest was not always the best and lifted the lid on the largest trunk. Almost as one, the boys leaned forward to peer into the trunk.
“There’s only clothes in there.” Disappointment rang in Nathanial’s voice. No doubt he was hoping for real treasure although surely treasure was not so easy to find.
“These aren’t just clothes.” Quinton handed Nathanial the candle, then reached into the trunk and pulled out a red uniform coat, exactly like those on their painted tin soldiers. “These are clothes for pirates and knights.”
“And adventurers.” Sterling nodded. “And explorers.”
“I want to be an explorer,” Nathanial said eagerly. “Or an adventurer.”
Sterling spotted a book amidst the jumble of laces and old wools and pulled it out. “Look at this.”
Quinton grimaced. “It’s a book.”
“It’s a journal.” Sterling moved closer to the candle and flipped through the journal. “It’s Great-grandmother’s.”
“It’s still just a book,” Quinton said.
“I know.” Sterling turned the pages and studied the old-fashioned, feminine hand. Here and there a word caught his attention. Goods . . . France . . . ships. “But it might be a good book.”
Quinton scoffed. “How good can a book be?”
“You like books about pirates,” Nathanial said in a helpful manner.
Sterling paged through the journal, an odd sort of excitement growing with every turn of the page. “This one is about smugglers.”
Quinton brightened. “Great-grandmother knew smugglers?”
Sterling glanced from one brother to the next and adopted a serious tone as befitting his discovery. “I think Great-grandmother might have been a smuggler.”
“Read it,” Nathanial demanded.
“Very well.” Sterling nodded, and they all settled down, cross-legged, on the floor.
Sterling took the candle from Nathanial, positioned it to cast the best light on the pages, and began to read to his brothers of the adventures of their great-grandmother, who apparently had indeed been a smuggler. And was pursued by a government agent—a previous Earl of Wyldewood he noted with pride. He read of clandestine meetings and dangerous encounters and harrowing escapes until the rain stopped. Finally, he closed the journal and considered their discovery. “I don’t think we should tell Mother about this.”
“Because we’d have to tell her we were in the attic?” Nathanial asked.
“No.” Quinton cast a superior look at his younger brother. “Because she might not like having a smuggler in the family.”
“Oh.” Nathanial thought for a moment, then his eyes widened
with excitement. “Let’s be smugglers instead of pirates.”
“We can’t today.” Sterling shook his head. “Miss Thompson will be wondering what became of us. But we can come up here again and read and play smuggler perhaps.”
“Can we have smuggler names as well?” Nathanial said eagerly.
Quinton laughed. “Smuggler names? What are smuggler names?”
“They’re like pirate names only for smugglers,” Nathanial said in a lofty manner. “And I shall be Black Jack Harrington.”
Sterling and Quinton traded glances. Sterling chose his words with care. “We don’t think that’s quite right for you.”
Nathanial frowned. “Why not?”
“Because your real name isn’t Jack for one thing. We’re not just playing, you know,” Quinton said firmly. “It’s quite a serious thing to have new names. Even smuggler names. Your smuggler name has to make sense with your real name.”
“Nate,” Sterling announced. “Sounds like a smuggler.” He nodded at Quinton. “And you can be Quint.”
“It’s not very exciting,” Quinton—now Quint—muttered, then brightened. “What about Peg Leg Quint or Quint the Wicked?”
“More likely Quint the Scamp.” Sterling smirked.
“And who will you be?” Nathanial—now Nate—looked at his older brother. “What will your smuggler name be?”
”I shall remain Sterling,” he said in a lofty manner, not that having a smuggler name wouldn’t be rather enjoyable.
Quint scoffed. “Not much of a name for a smuggler.”
“Oh, I shan’t be a smuggler.” Sterling cast them a superior smile. “I shall be the intrepid Earl of Wyldewood, agent of the crown, fearless hunter of smugglers.” Just as his ancestor had been. After all, it was his heritage as well as his fate. “And I shall be the rescuer of the fair maiden, her hero.”
“Girls can’t play,” Nate said with a shake of his head. “They’re girls.”
“Then I shall be Quint.” Quint planted his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Daring, bold King of the Smugglers.”
“Who am I to be?” Nate looked from the intrepid earl to the King of the Smugglers.
“Very well.” Sterling heaved a long-suffering sigh. The things one did for one’s family. “I shall give up fearless. You may be the Fearless Smuggler Nate.”
“I’d rather like to keep daring, but I shall give you bold.” Quint grinned. “You are now the Fearless Smuggler, Nate the Bold.”
Nate grinned.
“We shall have a grand time playing smuggler and smuggler hunter,” Sterling said, ignoring the touch of longing that stabbed him. In this day and age, Earls of Wyldewood were more likely to study accounts than pursue smugglers. “And we shall amass great treasures and have grand adventures and rescue fair maidens.”
“And wander the world and discover new places.” Quint nodded.
“And . . . and . . .” Nate shrugged.
“We need a pact, I think.” Sterling thought for a moment. “A smugglers’ pact.”
Nate’s brows drew together in suspicion. “Do smugglers have pacts?”
“I don’t know.” Quint shrugged. “You mean like musketeers? One for all and all for one?”
“That’s a motto.” Sterling rolled his gaze toward the rafters. Surely even Quint realized there was a difference between a motto and a pact. “Besides, we’re brothers. We’ll always be one for all and all for one.”
Nate narrowed his eyes. “Forever and ever?”
“As we ever have and ever will be,” Sterling said solemnly as befitting such a pledge. Indeed, this was a promise that would last forever. “Brothers one for the other.”
“One for the other,” Quint agreed.
“One for the other.” Nate grinned.
It was a very good pact, an excellent vow, and a promise he would keep always. Sterling knew that whatever paths his brothers might take in the future, whatever life might hold for the next Earl of Wyldewood, they would always be one for the other. He would see to it. It was, after all, his responsibility, his duty.
And he would not fail to live up to it.
One
There was no doubt as to the significance of his title. He wore it about him with an air of confidence known only to those born and bred to position. His appearance was at once handsome and aloof although there was no lack of warmth. And a woman knew, the first time he kissed her hand, that here was a man one could depend on. Only those especially astute would sense that in many ways his lordship was wound as taut as a tightly turned spring. And only the most daring would wonder what might happen when the spring snapped.
Reflection of an astute female upon observation of Sterling Harrington, the Earl of Wyldewood
London, 1885
“And I want you, sir”—Lord Newbury raised his cane and aimed it at Sterling Harrington, the Earl of Wyldewood—“to rescue my daughter.”
Sterling sipped his brandy and studied the older man. He’d agreed to allow Newbury to meet with him at Harrington House, the scene of their last meeting a decade ago. That had not gone well. This looked to go no better. “I fear you have me confused with my brothers. They are the adventurous members of the family, prone to rescue and that sort of thing. I am not.”
“Your brothers do not interest me.”
“My brothers interest everyone.” Sterling considered Newbury for a moment. “I confess, I granted you this meeting out of an absurd sense of curiosity. Now that I have heard what you have to say . . .” Sterling rose to his feet.
“Sit down, boy,” the old man snapped. “You have heard nothing yet.”
Sterling narrowed his eyes. “Still, my curiosity has been assuaged.”
“You loved her once.”
Sterling nodded. “Once.”
“Then do me, do her, the courtesy of listening to the rest of it.” The old man paused, then drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I beg you.”
Lord Newbury was not the sort to beg. Sterling studied him coolly. It was obviously difficult for him and equally obvious the man was not in good health. It would do no harm to hear what he wished to say. Sterling retook his seat. “Very well, go on.”
“You are aware that Olivia’s husband, Lord Rathbourne died a fortnight ago.”
“I am.”
“And I assume you are aware, as well, of the nature of his death.”
“Nasty business,” Sterling murmured.
Viscount Rathbourne had been found by Sterling’s soon-to-be sister-in-law in the garden of his London home with his throat slit. Gabriella Montini was to wed Sterling’s youngest brother Nathanial in a few months. Highly educated, brilliant, and lovely, Gabriella was the sister of a man who had made his living as Sterling’s own brothers did. Nathanial and Quinton were—at best—archeologists. At worst—treasure hunters. Gabriella had briefly worked for Lord Rathbourne cataloguing some of his vast collection of artifacts and antiquities.
Newbury leaned forward and pinned Sterling with his beady gaze. “As you may or may not know, nothing was taken from the house. I fear whoever killed Rathbourne did not find what he was after and will return. The manner of Rathbourne’s death was cold and callous. Such a fiend would not hesitate to dispatch anyone in his way. Including Rathbourne’s wife.”
Sterling ignored an unexpected stab of fear. Olivia was not his concern and had not been his concern for the last decade. As was her choice. “Perhaps you should take matters in hand then.”
Newbury shook his head. “She would never accept anything from me. She has not spoken to me in nearly ten years.” His gaze met Sterling’s. “Nor, in truth, can I blame her.”
“I daresay she would not welcome my interference.”
“Not at first, perhaps. But her life may be at stake.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “And you owe her this.”
“I owe her nothing.” The words were sharper than he’d intended. He drew a soothing sip of his brandy and willed himself to remain calm. “If you recall, and you sh
ould as you were the one who delivered the news to me, Olivia severed our relationship and chose to marry Rathbourne. It was her decision, not mine. I feel no obligation toward her.”
“Would you feel differently . . .” Newbury paused for a long moment. “. . . if you discovered that what you thought was true was not?”
Sterling’s heart twisted in spite of himself. “What do you mean?”
“I made her marry Rathbourne.” The old man passed a weary hand over his face. “I have not lived a good life, Wyldewood. I have secrets Rathbourne threatened to reveal if I did not give him Olivia. I would have been ruined. She would have been ruined. She married him to save me, but she has never forgiven me.”
Sterling’s mind reeled, and at once he was swept back to the darkest days of his life.
Sterling had known Olivia in a casual manner for much of his life. Her family’s country estate bordered his own. But he’d never really noticed her until she was out in society, and they met anew at a ball in London. She was bright and beautiful and clever, and he’d fallen in love with her with an intensity and a passion he’d never dreamed possible. She was a scant two years younger than he, and for a few short months, she had held his heart in her hands. And he had thought he held hers as well. They’d met frequently at public events and privately whenever possible, slipping away from a ball to share a kiss on a terrace or arranging a chance encounter during a morning ride in the park. He’d planned to marry her, and she’d agreed, but they’d yet to make their intentions public even though their feelings were apparent to anyone who chanced to look.
Until one day Lord Newbury arrived to tell him she was to marry Rathbourne. Newbury said Olivia had realized Rathbourne could offer her a better future, and she would be a fool to refuse him. He said she wished never to see him again. Sterling had been stunned by the news and hurt beyond comprehension. Everything happened quickly after that. Two days later, Olivia was wed. Within a week, his father had abruptly fallen ill and wished to see his heir settled before he died. Sterling had turned to Alice, whose family had long been friends with his own and who had loved him since childhood. Dear Alice who was good and kind and far too fragile for this world. When Olivia had sent him a note the day after her father’s visit and the day before her hasty marriage, he hadn’t so much as opened it. What was the point? Olivia had made her decision. And weeks later, when his father was breathing his last, Olivia had sent him two more notes, and again he failed to open them. There were weightier matters on his mind, and Olivia no longer had any part in his life. She was his past and was best left in the past. His father passed on shortly thereafter, and Alice succumbed to a fever within a year and died as well.
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