A Chance to Dream

by Lynne Connolly

  Seeing Lady Perdita’s appalled gaze, first to her mother, then to La Perla, Lady Taversall snapped, “Oh don’t be a fool, Perdita! Violetta only came to you because I confided my worries in her mother. We’ve known each other for years!”

  Perdita subsided. Violetta gave her a small smile. “She really is my godmother. I really am the daughter of the Conte d’Oro. I was also La Perla Perfetta for some years.”

  Perdita met her gaze. “Yes. Did you have much to say about it?”

  Violetta smiled again and shrugged. “We play the cards we are dealt.”

  For the first time Perdita smiled. “You have the right of that.”

  They laid their plans carefully.

  The following evening Lord Blyth and his new countess made their first appearance in society since their marriage in the summer. He took her to the opera. Violetta was exquisite in lavender silk and ivory lace, her dark hair gleaming and unpowdered. Outwardly calm, she was a bundle of nerves inside. Orlando gave her a reassuring smile. “What can go wrong, if those ladies are on to it?”

  Lady Taversall and Perdita sat behind, symbols of the family acceptance. Corin had promised to join them for the next act, when he was clear of an unavoidable engagement.

  No one took any notice of the action on the stage. The performers did their best, but there was a far better performance in the Blyth box. Violetta sat proudly, knowing everyone was assessing her, judging her. She would have had a better chance in the courts, except that everything they were thinking was true. She saw Lady Judith and her mother in their box and knew she didn’t imagine the malicious smile on their faces. Revenge for mother and daughter.

  Violetta knew she would not be able to take much more, but she must. For Orlando’s sake, for the sake of her new family, she must go through with this. “After this,” she murmured to Orlando, “I want to leave London.”

  “So do I,” he replied, his calm face not revealing the turmoil she knew he felt inside. “Forever, if I had my way.”

  “Not before you attend our ball next week, after Violetta’s presentation,” his mother said from behind them. “That will set the seal on it. After that, you may go where you wish.”

  Orlando heaved a sigh. “I want her cared for, without worry, especially at this time.”

  “Then be patient, my son. Not a trait you are famous for, but perhaps you can try to develop it now.”

  A light came on in the box opposite. A footman lit the candles in the sconces. Everyone knew whom that box belonged to, and everybody waited.

  Into the box stepped La Perla, Lord Ripley close behind her. Neither gave the Blyth box a glance. After them stepped a masked figure in white. The mask was a confection of white peacock feathers, the gown a froth of white brilliants and shining satin. Behind the younger woman, a male figure entered the box.

  “The crafty—!” Orlando exclaimed. Corin, Viscount Elston, entered the box and settled the vision in white. Lady Taversall’s rich chuckle could only be heard in the box. “A nice touch,” she murmured.

  Elston looked straight at Blyth and tipped his hat to him. Blyth, as was only proper, didn’t return the salute.

  “I thought La Perla Perfetta had unmasked?” he said.

  “She may choose only to unmask for her lovers,” Violetta said. “It’s what I would do. Keep the mystery going as long as I could.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You do, my love. You don’t need a mask for that.”

  The tenor of the gossip changed, like a tide turning. It was almost tangible. The murmurs almost drowned out the action onstage. The actors raised their voices to compensate, but it was to no avail. Chatter turned to laughter, not orchestrated, as it might have been by a skilled performer, but sporadic, turned onto the Ripley box. Lady Ripley and her daughter sat as though they had pokers strapped to their backs. Red hot ones from the way they were shifting. Suddenly they became interested in the play.

  Violetta almost slumped with relief. It had worked, just as Lady Taversall and La Perla had said it would. The simultaneous appearance of La Perla Perfetta and the new Lady Blyth at the same function, one of the few places where they could be seen together, had succeeded. The ton, loath to believe the worst of one of its favourite sons, but thirsty for gossip, had turned its speculation to the Ripleys. It was obvious why they had spread such wicked gossip. It had been well known that Lady Judith had determinedly set her cap at Lord Blyth until he had met, courted and married Violetta Palagio in a breathtakingly short time. Lord Ripley had been devoted to the notorious courtesan La Perla forever. The attempt at gossip was scotched.

  The next morning Violetta received an entirely unexpected missive. It was brought up to her where she sat, luxuriating in bed over chocolate and hot buttered toast, morning sickness having never reared its ugly head in her pregnancy.

  Orlando found her ten minutes later. Freshly washed and shaved, but not yet dressed, he slipped off his robe and got into bed beside her, after putting aside her tray. He knew, from her expression that she needed him. “What is it, love?”

  Wordlessly she handed him the letter. Spreading it out he began to read.

  “My dearest daughter.

  “We have not told anyone until now, so you are the first to know. Lord Ripley has persuaded me to retire. He has made preparations carefully, and after our triumph of last night there is nothing more I can do. Nothing more I wish to do.

  “We are leaving. We will live in Lombardy, near enough to my family to be able to visit, not close enough to embarrass them. It is too much to hope that we are not recognized but we are together and it is more than either of us needs. You will be safe with Lord Blyth. He loves you dearly and will care for you now.

  “The woman Isabella, who appeared as La Perla Perfetta last night, will claim that title permanently. She posed as you earlier in the year as a favour to me, but the lord who had her in his keeping has now passed on to someone else, leaving her with a comfortable annuity to spend. I have sold her the London house, and she may do as she wishes with it. She says she is honoured to be given such an opportunity and will continue as I would wish. I wish her luck. She is a talented woman and will go far.

  “I will send you my address when I know it. I trust him, I love him and finally he has me all to himself. He has done enough and so have I. We wish only for peace and each other.

  “I may allow myself a small visit to England after your happy event, next spring. Until then, cara, keep safe. I shall write.”

  She had signed it with a flourish. “Donata Palagio.”

  No more La Perla.

  Orlando put the letter aside safely on the nightstand. He knew she would treasure this note. “At last.”

  “It’s what they wanted. To be alone, together. I could almost feel sorry for Lady Ripley and her daughter.”

  He covered her hand with his own, brought it up to his mouth for a kiss. “Don’t. They’ll manage.” He didn’t say it served them right, although the words hung heavily between them. He moved closer to her, wrapped his arms about her lightly clad body. “No more masks, my love.”

  “Yes.” She could show him everything she was, without stint and he would still love her. “No more masks.”

  His smile warmed her heart. “I think you need to rest today. I want to take you to my home soon. My real home in the country.”

  “Home.” She breathed the word. “I’ve never had one of those before. It sounds good.”

  He rolled over her and took her mouth in a heated kiss before drawing back. “It is good. It will be better.”

  About the Author

  To learn more about Lynne Connolly, please visit www.lynneconnolly.com. Send an email to Lynne Connolly at lynne_connolly@yahoo.co.uk or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers as well as Lynne! http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lynneconnolly

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  Last Chance, My Love

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  Isobel’s Secret

  An inconvenient proposal.

  Annabelle’s Courtship

  © 2007 Lucy Monroe

  Ian MacKay, Laird of Graenfrae, has no use for love or marriage. However, his stepfather's will mandates that marriage is what he must have…to an Englishwoman.

  A sensible man, Ian develops a list of requirements in a wife: Plain, moderately dowered, older and practical. He thinks he has found the perfect candidate in Lady Annabelle.

  Labeled The Ordinary her first season, Annabelle longs for a man who will see her as beautiful and love her as her father loved her mother. When she meets Ian, she thinks she has at last found that man. Until his proposal, in which he has the audacity to list his "requirements."

  She refuses his proposal. He informs her that she will marry him at the end of the season.

  The battle of wills is on.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Annabelle’s Courtship:

  She must have misunderstood. “Did you just say I would make a perfect wife?” Her voice squeaked on the word wife.

  “Aye.”

  Air whooshed from her lungs. “Why, please?”

  He smiled. “You fit my requirements.”

  “Requirements?” She must stop squeaking.

  “Your looks are not too grand and you are well past the age for marrying. You do not wear expensive jewels or gowns, which bodes well for future demands on my purse.”

  Annabelle’s elation vanished. She stared at him, her cheeks growing hotter with each sentence he uttered. He listed her particulars as if he were buying a horse at Tattersall’s. Although the Marriage Mart was in many ways mercenary, she had never known any gentleman to be quite so blunt about it.

  Her eyes smarted and she blinked at the tears, unwilling to make a spectacle of herself. She had finally met a man that stirred passion in her and he looked at her as nothing more than a dowdy spinster conveniently on hand when he decided to find a wife.

  Ian gently squeezed her, the troubled concern in his eyes small comfort in the face of his words. “Dinna be distressed. You have all the qualities I’m looking for in a wife.”

  “You already said that and it’s not a compliment.”

  Thoughts kaleidoscoped in her brain like bits of glass crushed and tossed in the air, left to fall where they may. Just like the rest of the ton, Ian saw only her plain looks. He did not see the heart that beat beneath her breast, the mind that longed to share thoughts and ideas with a kindred spirit.

  “I’m not looking for a long engagement. Would you be ready to take up residence in Scotland in a month or so?”

  The words stung her bruised heart like a thousand embroidery needles pricking the message that he did not love her, would never love her. He found her so unremarkable that Ian had no doubt of his success. Resolve beat against her bleeding heart. Ian would soon learn that not all things were as they seemed. Not all bluestocking spinsters longed for wedlock, especially those who had read Wollstonecraft.

  She straightened, pulling as far away as his restraining arms would allow. “I am not interested in marriage. If I were, it would not be to an arrogant Scotsman who believes my lack of face and fortune make me willing to marry on such short acquaintance.”

  “I dinna need a long acquaintance to determine that you are all that I could wish for in a wife. I will make you a proper husband.” He gave her an engaging smile. “We will deal well together.”

  So angry she could not speak, she glared at him.

  “Surely you can see the benefits of marriage to me,” he cajoled her.

  She felt an unladylike urge to box his ears. “On the contrary. I am a modern woman and I do not see the benefits of marriage at all, particularly to you.”

  Ian’s grasp on her waist tightened. His eyes darkened. “’Tis no my intention to upset you.”

  She felt the tension in his body and it was matched by an unwelcome sensation in her own. She wanted to melt into his embrace. The feeling infuriated her. She struggled to be released from his hold, not caring now if she caused a scene. “Let me go.”

  “Nay, the music has not ended.” His reasonable tone enraged her all the more.

  She was desperate to break his hold on her before her body betrayed itself. How unfair to experience her first taste of desire with a man who believed her too ordinary to court. “Do you really think I wish to dance with you after your insult?”

  “’Twas no an insult, lass. ’Twas a proposal.”

  “My name is not ‘lass’. It is Lady Annabelle, as Ceddy told you these many days past. Are you hard of hearing? Perhaps you need an ear trumpet.”

  “Nay, ’tis no an ear trumpet I need, but a wife. You’re neither too beautiful, too rich, nor too young to pass on the proposal I’m giving you.”

  She almost choked on her anger. “Must I be subjected to your list of slurs again? You may need a wife, but I do not need a husband.”

  Ian danced toward an unoccupied corner and pulled her into it. “Do not be so foolish as to label virtues insults.”

  “They are only virtues because you believe that by possessing these traits, or rather lack of traits, a woman would willingly marry you without even rudimentary courtship.” She tried to step around Ian. He blocked her path like a marble column. She glared at him. “That, my lord, is not a list of virtues, but an insulting recipe concocted by you to gain a wife without the customary work or effort.”

  At Ian’s look of consternation, she was convinced that she had guessed correctly. “I’m right. You are too indolent to properly court a woman. I can only assume some catastrophe has generated the need for you to take a wife.”

  “’Tis no indolence that causes me to avoid the playacting of courtship, but aversion to the games ladies play.”

  The genuine emotion she heard in his voice confused her. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. It did strange things to her insides. Drat. Now was not the time to become a simpering twit. He would not win this argument.

  “I may not be a beauty, but I do expect to be courted and I will only marry the man that convinces me I cannot live without him.” Her voice vibrated with emotion she wanted to suppress.

  She had to leave before she turned into a watering pot and completely disgraced herself. She could not stand the strain much longer. When she tried to sidestep him again, he placed his hand on her arm. He squeezed gently. Against her will, she found comfort in the gesture.

  Her breath started to come in short gasps as the nearness of his body continued to affect her equilibrium. He looked into her eyes as if searching them for the answer to some question.

  Finally he sighed. “If it’s courting you want, lass, it’s courting you shall get. I’ll give you until the end of the season to reconcile yourself to the idea of our marriage.”

  The man was mad. “Courtship is wooing, not giving me a set time to reconcile myself to your arrogant plans.”

  “If it ’tis wooing you need, then wooing you will have. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

  She couldn’t believe his denseness. “You may call on me until I’m old and gray, but I will never marry a man I do not love and respect.”

  It would have been a wonderful last word had he still not blocked her path. “Please, let me by. The set has ended.” She could not prevent her voice from trembling.

  Thankfully, she was promised for the next set. She watched her partner approach with relief. “I must go.”

  “We are no finished with our discussion.”

  “Please.” She hated that she begged him, but she needed to get away before her devastated emotions slipped her control.

  Mr. Green’s voice came as welcome relief. “Lady Annabelle, I believe our set is forming.”

  Ian turned and gave the younger gentleman an arrogant glance. “’Tis our dance, I believe.”

  Fury overcame Annabelle’s pain. “It most certainly is not.” She wanted to throttle the man.

  Ian just stared at Mr. Green who mumbled an excus
e and retreated. He had deserted her. The coward.

  Yanking her arm from Ian’s, she said, “Regardless, I did not promise this dance to you.” She turned to hurry away.

  “’Twas an oversight, I’m sure.”

  In her haste to get away from Ian, she bumped into another gentleman. “Pray excuse me. I did not realize you were there.”

  The gentleman placed a monocle in his eye and gave her a condescending stare. “It was nothing, I’m sure.”

  Annabelle’s skin grew unbearably warm. Twisting her head, she hissed at Ian, “Do you see what you made me do?”

  His rich laughter stoked her fury. “Dinna let that popinjay upset you, lass. ’Tis of no account.” He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.

  “Release me.”

  He sighed. “Would it no be easier to finish our talk?”

  “It is finished.”

  He shrugged.

  “Your arrogance is only exceeded by your stubbornness.” Conceding defeat, but only for the moment, she said, “Fine.”

  She would convince him to leave off this ridiculous courtship. “Wouldn’t you do better to search among ladies more amenable to marriage for the sake of marriage than myself?”

  Rather than answer her question, he posed one of his own. “Marriage for the sake of marriage? What do you mean, lass?”

  She twisted her fan with her free hand. “There are many ladies of the ton whose greatest desire in life is to be wed.”

  “Yours isn’t?” The words held a hint of mockery.

  “No, it is not.” She spoke forcefully, willing him to believe her.

  “Why come to the season if you dinna wish to be married?”

  If only he knew. She was tempted to tell him and see how quickly he would go looking elsewhere for a wife. She would not betray her secret in a fit of temper, however.

  “I would gladly marry if I knew I would share a union like that of my parents.” The emotion she felt when she thought of her parents’ love spilled over into her words.