“After three seasons of waiting for you to bring even one gentleman up to snuff, I accepted I had set my sights too high.” He drained the last of his brandy, his gaze sliding from her too-pale face to study the tips of his boots. “Just like when I wished to sell that chestnut nag this past spring. A man has to bear the occasional loss when he’s bartering.”
She flinched. Her father was always willing to trample her pride as well as her feelings to force her to do his bidding, but he was rarely so cruel.
“I’m not a nag to be bartered.”
His jaw tightened with determination. “Nay, you are a young lady who has a great deal too many sensibilities considering you’re close to being put on the shelf.”
“Would that be such a tragedy?” she asked softly.
“Don’t be daft, Talia,” he barked, lifting his gaze with an expression of impatience. “I have not acquired a fortune only to have it end up in the hands of some nitwitted nephew when I cock up my toes.” Stepping from the desk, he stabbed a finger toward her. “You will do your duty and provide me with a grandson who will be the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. He will attend Oxford and, in time, become a member of parliament. Perhaps he will even become prime minister.” A smile of smug anticipation curled his lips. “Not bad for the son of a butcher.”
“I am surprised that you do not demand a throne,” she muttered before she could cut off the words.
“I might have if you hadn’t proven to be such a disappointment.” Silas turned to stomp toward the door, clearly finished with the conversation. He had made his decision and now he expected Talia to meekly obey his command. “The wedding will be held the end of June.”
“Father—”
“And Talia, you will make certain that it is the social event of the season,” he said, overriding her soft plea and glancing over his shoulder to offer a warning glower. “Or you will pack your bags and join your Aunt Penelope in Yorkshire.”
Talia’s stomach clenched at her father’s stark threat.
Penelope Dobson was her father’s eldest sister. A bitter spinster who devoted her life to her incessant prayers and causing others misery.
After her mother’s death, Talia had spent nearly a year in her aunt’s decrepit cottage, treated little better than an unpaid servant and rarely allowed to leave her cramped rooms. That might have been bearable if the horrid woman had not taken pleasure in striking Talia with a horsewhip for the tiniest infraction of her rigid rules.
Her father was well aware that she would toss herself in the Thames before she would once again be imprisoned in Yorkshire.
Heaven help her.
CHAPTER TWO
MUCH TO TALIA’S astonishment, her wedding day dawned with a glorious sunrise that painted the cloudless sky in shades of pink and gold. It promised to be a perfect summer day. She had expected a gray, dismal morning that would have matched the impending sense of doom that had haunted her for weeks.
Even more astonishing, she appeared almost pretty in her ivory silk gown overlaid with silver gauze and sprinkled with diamonds along the low-cut bodice and the hem that stopped just above her ivory satin slippers. Her dark curls were carefully arranged in a complicated knot on top of her head and held in place by a large diamond tiara that matched the heavy necklace draped around her neck and shimmering earrings.
Gifts from her father, of course.
He was determined that her wedding would be the talk of the season, impervious to Talia’s pleas that a lavish wedding would be in poor taste considering that all of society knew that the bridegroom had been purchased with Talia’s vast dowry.
So far as Silas Dobson was concerned, discretion was for those who could not afford to toss about their money in gaudy displays of extravagance.
Reluctantly accepting that the earth was not going to open up and swallow her whole, Talia silently entered the glossy black carriage and allowed herself to be driven to the small church where the private ceremony was to take place. After the ceremony they were scheduled to return to Sloane Square for an elegant wedding breakfast with two hundred guests.
It was only when she was standing at the altar that the disaster she had been anticipating the entire day at last struck.
The rector was attired in his finest robes with a somber expression on his round face. Talia’s father was standing at her side wearing his finest black jacket and silver waistcoat. And on the other side was Talia’s only friend, Hannah Lansing, the daughter of a baronet who shared Talia’s miserable fate as a wallflower.
But there was one notable absence.
Mr. Harry Richardson was nowhere to be found.
For nearly two hours they waited for the missing bridegroom to make his appearance, while the increasingly bleak silence that had filled the church echoed in Talia’s heart.
She felt…numb. As if the humiliation of being abandoned at the altar was happening to some other unfortunate lady.
It was a sensation that refused to be dismissed even when her father had stormed from the church, swearing that the bastard would suffer for having made a fool of Silas Dobson. And when she had been forced to return to the house and announce to the two hundred avid, twittering guests that the wedding had been regrettably postponed.
Or now, as she sat in her private sitting room decorated in soothing shades of lavender and ivory.
Perched on the edge of the window seat that overlooked the rose garden filled with guests still reveling at being in attendance at the greatest scandal of the season, Talia understood she should feel something.
Anger, humiliation, heartbreak…
Anything but the awful emptiness.
Absently she watched as Hannah paced across the Persian carpet, the swish of her rose satin gown the only sound to break the thick silence. The poor girl was clearly at a loss as to how to handle the awkward situation.
“I am certain there must have been an accident,” Hannah at last muttered, her round face flushed and her frizz of brown curls escaping from silver combs.
Talia shrugged, unable to stir an interest in why Harry had failed to appear at his own wedding.
“Are you?” she asked, her voice dull.
“Yes, indeed.” Hannah’s dark eyes held a sympathy she couldn’t entirely disguise. “No doubt the carriage overturned and Mr. Richardson and his family were knocked unconscious.”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh.” Hannah pressed a hand to her plump breasts. “Not that I would wish for the passengers to be injured.”
“No. Of course not.”
“But it would explain…”
“Explain why I was left at the altar?”
Hannah grimaced in embarrassment. “Yes.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the sitting room, and with an effort, Talia searched her mind for a means to be rid of her companion.
It was not that she didn’t appreciate Hannah’s attempts to offer comfort, but for the moment she desperately wished to be alone.
Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the door. “Has my father returned?”
“Do you wish me to discover if he is here?”
“If it is no trouble.”
Hannah gratefully latched onto the small task, obviously pleased to be of service.
“Not at all. And I shall bring you a tea tray.”
Talia shuddered at the mere thought of food. “I am not hungry.”
“Perhaps not, but you are very pale.” Hannah’s soft brown gaze lingered on Talia’s face with obvious concern. “You should try to eat something.”
“If you insist.” Talia managed a smile. “You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense. I am your friend.”
Hannah left the room and softly closed the door behind her. Talia heaved a sigh of relief. Later she would appreciate Hannah’s staunch loyalty. After all, the young lady could easily have used her position in the center of the brewing scandal to elevate her status among the gossipmongers still cluttering the rose garden.
Instead she had stayed at Talia’s side, anxious to provide comfort.
It was not her fault that Talia was incapable of weeping and wailing and wringing her hands like a proper bride who had just been publicly jilted.
With a frown, Talia reached to push the window open, hoping for a breeze to stir the air. The room felt…stifling. Too late, she realized that two of the unwelcome guests had strayed from the banquet tables and were currently standing just below her window.
“Good heavens, Lucille, you appear quite flustered,” one of the ladies was exclaiming.
“Have you heard the latest?” the second woman demanded.
Talia froze on the point of sliding shut the window.
It was absurd. What did she care what rumors were swirling about society? The gossip could be no more humiliating than the truth.
Still, she found herself unable to curb the destructive urge to know what was being said.
“Tell me,” the first woman breathed, her voice vaguely familiar.
“Lord Eddings is said to have been with the missing bridegroom last eve at some horrid gambling establishment.”
“That is hardly news. It is Harry’s fondness for the cards that forced him to become engaged to Dowdy Dobson in the first place.”
Talia’s hands clenched in her lap. Dowdy Dobson. It was an insult she had endured since her first season.
“Yes, well, last eve he was heavily in his cups and he confessed that he never intended to wed the vulgar chit.”
“Never?” There was a malicious giggle. “But why become engaged at all? Surely it was not just a cruel hoax?”
“According to Eddings, the naughty boy insisted on a portion of the dowry to purchase a suitable townhouse he discovered in Mayfair.” There was a dramatic pause. “Instead he intends to take his windfall and disappear.”
The first woman sucked in a scandalized breath. “Good…heavens.”
“Precisely.”
Talia knew she should have been equally scandalized.
Despite the fact that Harry had all but ignored her since the announcement of their engagement, he had appeared resigned to the notion of taking a wife. Certainly she’d had no warning that he intended to deceive her father into handing over a small fortune and using it to flee from London.
And from her.
“A daring scheme, but Harry cannot possibly imagine that he can hide from a man such as Silas Dobson,” the first lady said, her tone edged with revulsion at the mention of Talia’s father. “The brute no doubt has a dozen cutthroats on his payroll.”
“True enough.”
“Besides, think of the scandal. Lord Ashcombe will have his head on a platter.” Would he?
Talia was not nearly so confident.
From the whispers that had circulated throughout society, the earl had washed his hands of his younger brother when he had announced his intention to wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.
“Not if Harry escapes to the Continent,” the unknown Lucille insisted.
“In the midst of a war?”
The woman’s sudden laugh drifted on the breeze. “Obviously the danger of being shot by a Napoleon is preferable to marrying Dowdy Dobson.”
“And who could blame him?” her companion swiftly agreed. “Still, he cannot intend to remain exiled forever?”
“Certainly not. In a year or so the scandal will have faded and Harry will make his glorious return.”
“And be welcomed as the prodigal son?” There was the sound of a fan being snapped open. “You have a very odd notion of the earl if you believe he will forgive and forget. The man terrifies me.”
“He may be terrifying, but he is so wickedly handsome.” Her soft sigh was filled with the feminine appreciation shared by most women. “Such a pity he has so little interest in society.”
“Well, at least polite society.”
“I would be as improper as he desires if only he would glance in my direction.”
The two shared a giggle. “Shocking, my dear.”
“Oh, there is Katherine. We must tell her what you have discovered.”
There was a rustle of silk as the two women slowly moved away, their conversation muted but still clear enough for Talia to follow.
“Do you know, I almost have it in my heart to pity poor Miss Dobson.”
Talia grimaced. Despite her words, there was a decided lack of pity in the woman’s tone. In fact, it sounded remarkably akin to gloating.
“Yes,” her companion purred. “One thing is for certain, she dare not show her face in society again.”
“She should never have forced her way among her betters to begin with.” Talia detected a sniff of smug disapproval. “Nothing good ever comes of getting above your station.”
Despite the heat, Talia shivered.
She remained safely cocooned in her odd sense of detachment for the moment, but she wasn’t stupid. Eventually the protective shell surrounding her heart would shatter, and she would be laid bare to the endless disgrace of a woman scorned.
She couldn’t even console herself with the thought that her father would have the decency to allow her to withdraw from society until the scandal had passed.
No. Silas Dobson would never comprehend the notion of a dignified retreat. He would insist that she face her tormentors regardless of the pain and embarrassment it might cause her.
She was brooding on her bleak future when the door was opened, and Hannah crossed the threshold carrying a large silver tray.
“Here we are then,” she said in the overly bright tones that people used in a sickroom. “I have brought a small dish of poached trout in cream sauce and fresh asparagus, as well as a few strawberries.”
“Yes, thank you,” Talia softly interrupted, her stomach rebelling at the smell of fish.
Perhaps sensing Talia’s distress, Hannah moved toward the low cherrywood table near the white marble fireplace.
“I’ll just leave it here, shall I?”
Talia managed a weak smile of gratitude. “Did you locate my father?”
“No. It is…” Hannah broke off her words, gnawing on her bottom lip. “What?”
“I was told that Mr. Dobson has not been seen since he left the church.”
Talia shrugged. Her father was stubborn enough to search for Harry Richardson until hell froze over.
“I see.”
Hannah cleared her throat. “No doubt he will soon be returning.”
“No doubt he will,” a dark, sinfully dangerous voice drawled from the open doorway. “Mr. Dobson is rather like a cockroach that scuttles about the shadows and is impossible to be rid of.”
Talia went rigid with horror, as she easily recognized the voice. How could she not? As much as it might embarrass her to admit, there was no denying that she had used her position among the shadows to spy upon the Earl of Ashcombe like a lovelorn schoolgirl.
He had fascinated her with his golden beauty and predatory grace. He was like a cougar she had seen illustrated in a book. Sleek and elegantly lethal.
And of course, his aloof manner of treating society with barely concealed disdain had pleased her battered pride. He obviously had no more regard for the frivolous fools than Talia did.
Now, however, it was not breathless excitement she felt as she turned to regard the stunningly handsome face and the frigid silver gaze.
Instead it was a chill of foreboding that trickled down her spine.
CHAPTER THREE
GABRIEL, THE SIXTH Earl of Ashcombe, made no apology for being a cynical bastard.
His cynicism had been hard earned.
After inheriting his father’s title at the tender age of eighteen, he had shouldered the burdens of several vast estates, hundreds of servants and a mother who refused to leave her bed for weeks at a time.
And then there was Harry.
Six years younger than Gabriel, his brother had always been outrageously spoiled by Lady Ashcombe. Gabriel had done what he could to mitigate the damage, but he wa
s often away at school, and when he did return to Carrick Park, his ancestral home in Devonshire, he’d been expected to devote his time to his father, learning the complex duties of being an earl.
As a result, Harry had been allowed to indulge his worst impulses. He’d been sent down from school for cheating on his exams, he’d gambled away his generous allowance, and he had fought at least two duels. All before traveling to London.
Since his arrival in the city, his wild excesses had become even worse. Gambling and whoring and risking his neck on every ludicrous dare that might be uttered in his hearing.
Gabriel had tried to impose a few limitations, only to be constantly undermined by his mother. In desperation he’d at last warned the countess that he would have her beloved Harry banished to Carrick Park if the boy didn’t learn to live within his allowance.
Christ. He had suspected that Harry would plead, lie and even cheat if necessary to avoid being forced from London, but it had never occurred to him that he would become engaged to an upstart female who could only bring shame to the family.
His mother, of course, had taken to her bed with the vapors, demanding that Gabriel do something to rescue her darling son from the clutches of the evil Dobson chit. Gabriel, however, had grimly refused to interfere. If his brother wanted to toss away his future by wedding a female who was a social embarrassment—and worse, related to Silas Dobson—then Gabriel washed his hands of him.
A grim smile touched his lips as he stepped into the private salon. He should have known Harry would find a means of saving his own damned hide while leaving Gabriel to clean up his mess.
Shrouded in the icy composure he had honed over the years, he cast a quick glance around the room, absently noting a plump female with brown hair before turning his attention to the female perched on the window seat.
Miss Talia Dobson.
Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.
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