by Hatch, Donna
As Cole gazed into Alicia Palmer’s face, he knew of a surety she was worth any risk. She touched him in a place he’d thought long dead.
A younger gentleman wearing an insolent grin approached Miss Palmer. “Evening, Lissie. Did you save me a dance?”
Cole frowned in disapproval at the man’s cheekiness but it faded to puzzlement. He knew that young man from somewhere. A vague unease arose.
When the newcomer’s gaze moved to Cole next to her, he paled visibly. “You!”
Miss Palmer gasped. “Robert Palmer, where are your manners?”
Of course. Robert Palmer. From London. Cold dread trickled across his heart as he considered the ramifications.
Maintaining his cool demeanor, Cole inclined his head. “Good evening, Mr. Palmer.”
“What are you doing here?” Palmer demanded.
Cole raised a brow. “Dancing. And you?”
Palmer took Alicia’s arm. “Come with me, Lissie. We are leaving.”
“Now see here—” Cole began, but Palmer pinned him with a dangerous glare.
“Stay away from my cousin. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Your cousin?” Cole’s gaze darted to Miss Palmer and understanding dawned. He cursed under his breath. He hadn’t been aware Armand Palmer had a sister. Not that he’d bothered to find out. He glanced at Alicia Palmer. The ramifications he’d considered a moment ago took a more serious turn.
Palmer shot Cole a venomous glare and took the girl by the arm. Anger rolled off his body as he led her out of the ballroom. Wanting desperately to explain, Cole followed them out into the foyer, away from the others.
After sending Cole a look of apology, Miss Palmer dug in her heels. “Robert, explain yourself.”
Palmer trembled in rage. “That’s Cole Amesbury.”
“Yes, we’ve been introduced.” She shook her head, searching Robert Palmer’s face for an explanation.
In a cold sweat, Cole remained rooted to the floor and waited for the young man’s condemning words, and Miss Palmer’s condemning stare.
Palmer trembled in rage. He spoke quietly, but every word shot through Cole like bullets fired at close range. “He’s the scoundrel who shot your twin.”
The Stranger She Married
By Donna Hatch
Copyright 2013 Donna Hatch
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Publishing History:
First English Tea Rose Edition, The Wild Rose Press 2008 Print ISBN 1-60154-334-4
Second Edition, Mirror Lake Press 2013 ISBN 9781301182848
The Stranger She Married originally copyright © 2008 by Donna Hatch
Second Copyright© 2013 Donna Hatch
Cover artist: Lex Valentine
Published in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
To Liz Roehr, Julie Moody, Cindy Hatch, and the rest of my family who have always been my best cheerleaders, Jennifer Griffith for gentle suggestions, Rhonda Woodward for her tough love critique that forced me deeper into research, Jennifer Ashley for her patience, encouragement, and help, and all my Desert Rose RWA friends who mentored me along. Also to Joyce DiPastena, Anna Arnett, and all my sister writers at ANWA. A very special thank you to all the members of The Beau Monde chapter RWA who continue to unselfishly share their knowledge of the magical and mysterious Regency Era.
But most of all, to my husband, who is the inspiration for the best parts of all my heroes, and who continues to prove that there really is a happily ever after.
CHAPTER 1
England, 1818
Alicia Palmer stepped down from the coach with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner about to meet the executioner. She glanced up at the starry summer sky, seeking courage. Liveried servants lined the front steps like guards to the gallows. All she needed was a crowd with an appetite for the macabre; a role, no doubt, the guests would fill.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Elizabeth squeezed Alicia’s arm as they mounted the front steps of the Sinclair’s country manor. Alicia’s younger friend still retained her debutante excitement from her first Season in London from which she’d just returned home, and she shone in anticipation.
Alicia managed a rather wobbly smile for her friend’s sake. “It will be good to dance again.”
“Of course it will, Alicia, dear.” Elizabeth’s mother, Mrs. Hancock, put a comforting arm around her. “A young lady such as you should be enjoying herself, not sequestered away at home.” Mrs. Hancock’s perfume embraced her, a blend of roses and sweet spices. The familiar fragrance buoyed Alicia as much as the dear lady’s touch.
Light spilled out of the open doorway guiding them inside the manor as footmen hurried to assist them. Alicia steeled her resolve and forced her feet to keep moving forward when she wanted to flee. She smoothed her gown with damp, trembling hands. Shedding her mourning attire for a ball gown had seemed irreverent, but Uncle Willard had insisted she attend the ball to seek a husband who might rescue them from debtor’s prison, a possibility that loomed closer each day.
Alicia’s footsteps faltered. “I haven’t set foot on a dance floor in over a year.”
Mrs. Hancock gave her a motherly smile. “You always comport yourself beautifully, dear girl, and you dance like a fairy. You have nothing to fear.”
Despite Mrs. Hancock’s reassurances, Alicia’s apprehension grew at the thought of subjecting herself to the further inspection of men who only viewed her as a piece of jewelry to be purchased. Very expensive jewelry, without all the glitter.
Alicia paused in the great hall between her companions. Receiving the invitation from the Sinclairs had come as a surprise; her Uncle Willard and Cousin Robert’s behavior and financial misfortunes had become the subject of gossip all over the midlands. Knowing Catherine Sinclair, such gossip should have excluded Alicia from this social event. She wondered why she had been invited at all. Part of her apprehension sprang from the suspicion that Catherine Sinclair might use Alicia’s misfortunes as a stone upon which to whet her wit.
While an attendant took their wraps, Alicia’s gaze traveled upward to crystal chandeliers and sconces hanging from the ceiling. Flower garlands scented the room and adorned the wide marble hall where portraits of the current lord’s proud ancestors hung between the carved columns hanging from tastefully
papered walls.
A liveried footman led them into a nearby room where the ladies could make final adjustments to their appearance before entering the ballroom. Looking into a gilded mirror, Alicia smoothed her hair, wishing it were a prettier color than ordinary brown. At least its length and thickness created a coil large enough to cover the back of her head, but next to Elizabeth’s china doll beauty, Alicia felt dowdier than ever. She was neither tiny nor voluptuous. Brown eyes and regular features created the perfect wallflower. Only the kindness of gentlemen had spared her such a fate during her one Season in London.
The heartless mirror assured her that her looks had not miraculously improved. The only thing to recommend her was her ball gown which was without compare. Uncle Willard had apparently bullied the modiste into extending him additional credit so Alicia could present herself well to any interested gentlemen in attendance. He would do anything to have her make an acceptable match—acceptable, meaning wealthy and willing to help him out of his current straits. Her uncle seemed to have few other requirements for a worthy husband.
Mrs. Hancock changed into her dancing slippers. “We must gain an introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s nephew, Lord Amesbury.”
“Lord Amesbury?” Feigning interest, Alicia glanced over her shoulder at her friend.
Elizabeth nodded, her blond curls bobbing. “I hear he’s kept to himself since his arrival, but that he’s terribly handsome.”
Mrs. Hancock leaned forward. “Lord Amesbury is a viscount of no small means and the eldest son of the highly respected Earl of Tarrington. Lady Sinclair told me he is coming tonight, the first invitation he’s accepted since he arrived here.” She eyed them critically. “You both look lovely. Modest, neat and becoming. Come, ladies.”
After donning her dancing slippers, Alicia squared her shoulders and left the safety of the room. They passed a two-story staircase with intricately carved railings, and continued to the end of the great hall. Ahead stood the grand stairway leading up to the ballroom. Music and laughter floated through the ballroom doors as they climbed the stairs. Yet the joyous notes of the music rang like a death knell.
Forcing her hands to remain still, Alicia waited on the landing with head high until the major domo announced them. Then, with more grace and dignity than her quivering inside should have allowed, she glided down the stairs behind the Hancock ladies to the ballroom below. It seemed ostentatious of the Sinclairs to have their guests first climb and then descend a stairway to reach the ballroom, but a few of the grander homes had been constructed in such a manner. The haute ton loved a grand entrance, and descending a stairway provided a perfect opportunity to parade one’s finery or beauty to the guests below.
The evening’s host and hostess stood below the staircase next to their daughter, Miss Catherine Sinclair.
Catherine spoke in her practiced, contralto voice designed to weaken the knees of any male within earshot. “Mrs. Hancock, always a pleasure. Elizabeth, welcome. And Alicia, you look ... well.”
Alicia smiled woodenly. Catherine, of course, glittered in glorious beauty. She’d been beautiful even as a child. Her meticulously arranged black hair shimmered in lustrous waves, and Catherine’s gown epitomized the latest fashion. Rubies and diamonds sparkled at her throat and ears, a mocking foil against Alicia’s obvious lack of adornment. The Palmer family jewels had been sold months ago to cover Uncle Willard’s most pressing debts. Alicia’s only remaining piece of jewelry was her gold locket.
Finding her voice, Alicia inclined her head. “Thank you, Catherine. What a beautiful gown.” She hoped she sounded more gracious than she felt.
“How kind of you to say.” Catherine affected modesty with believable skill.
Her parents, Lord and Lady Sinclair, smiled and greeted Alicia with perfect civility. Yet an instant before Lord Sinclair bowed, the unmistakable glint of ridicule shone in his eyes. Alicia glanced at Lady Sinclair and found the same mockery. Alicia faltered. Then she set her jaw.
She had lost nearly everything; her parents, her twin brother, her fortune, but she would not lose her dignity. Raising her head as if completely unaware of their scorn, she dredged up a smile she hoped would not appear sickly.
“I must apologize on behalf of my Uncle Willard and my Cousin Robert. They were unable to attend due to business.” Fortunately, her voice sounded steady.
She entertained no delusions that her uncle’s business involved anything more noble than gambling or other unscrupulous transactions. Her cousin Robert, no doubt, either lay in a drunken stupor or in the bed of some nobleman’s wife. Though they had once been close, Armand’s death had affected Robert deeply and Alicia hardly knew him anymore.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Palmer,” Lady Sinclair said.
Alicia executed a curtsy that would have pleased Maman and swept into the ballroom with her head held high, leaving Elizabeth and Mrs. Hancock to converse with the Sinclairs.
Enormous murals, rivaling the works of Michelangelo, adorned the walls and the soaring ceiling. Teardrop-shaped crystals glittered from the chandeliers showering a rainbow of colors over the room. The dancing had not yet begun, so the intricate chalk drawings, which almost mirrored the clouds and cherubs on the ceiling, remained unmarred by dancers’ feet. As Alicia stood admiring the chalk designs on the polished wood ballroom floor, the dowagers seated behind her disparaged everyone’s gowns and behavior. They would probably find something to criticize about her the moment she moved out of earshot.
More guests arrived steadily until the room grew quite crowded. To her relief, she did not see any of the men Uncle Willard demanded she consider as a husband. It would be futile to resist them all; one of them would inevitably be her husband. Few gentlemen desired a plain orphan with only a small plot of land for a dowry, much less one whose uncle required money in order to give his permission for her hand. Alicia’s only power in this predicament was to choose a man among her limited choices she could bear to marry.
Elizabeth and Mrs. Hancock found her a moment later. “That must be him.” Excitement laced Mrs. Hancock’s normally carefully composed voice. “The viscount. Cole Amesbury.”
Cole. What an unusual name. It invoked an image of dark elegance.
A silver-haired gentleman and a lady wearing a turban adorned with feathers descended the stairs. Although Alicia did not know them well, over the years she had grown fond of the gregarious Mr. Fitzpatrick and his wife, the outspoken, but kind, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
Behind the Fitzpatricks strode a man who captured her attention. The immaculate and expertly tailored clothing he wore exuded wealth, tastefully elegant without appearing overly concerned with fashion. Lightly tanned from the sun, he made the other men in the room appear pale and ailing. His commanding, arrogant air promised he could be nothing less than a peer of the realm. Combined with the strong, square planes of his patrician face, and rich dark hair, he created a devastatingly handsome image.
A calculating edge colored Catherine’s voice as she greeted the newcomers. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
“Thank you,” replied Mr. Fitzpatrick. “Please allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Lord Amesbury.”
In his black superfine, Lord Amesbury’s tall, broad-shouldered frame mocked the physiques of every other gentleman present. He inclined his head politely, but with an air of detachment that extended beyond the fashionable, urbane boredom so many pinks of the ton attempted to emulate.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Amesbury,” Catherine purred.
Before Alicia heard the viscount’s reply, another voice drew her attention. “Miss Palmer, I was hoping you would be here.” That thin, nasally voice always set her teeth on edge.
In dismay, she turned from the paragon of masculinity to his perfect opposite. “Colonel Westin.” She was wrong; at least one of her unwanted suitors had indeed come tonight. The colonel always stood too close and she felt smothered in his presence. Alicia took a step back and opened her
fan in a futile attempt to form a protective barrier between herself and the colonel.
“I enjoyed our visit last week, Miss Palmer. I look forward to another very soon.” Colonel Westin eyed Alicia much as a man might evaluate horseflesh at an auction.
She had no intention of spending another moment with the colonel, a sour, disagreeable old man. She couldn’t imagine him as a heroic cavalry leader. But then, forty years ago, he might have been a formidable officer. He certainly bullied his servants with the authority of a general.
Alicia’s gaze strayed back to the staircase. She started. Lord Amesbury stared directly at her with an intensity that sent a tremor through her stomach. His masculine beauty was almost painful, like looking at a handful of diamonds in the bright sunlight. Even at this distance, the sharp brilliance of his blue eyes pierced her. As he moved through the crush, others gave away. His predatory grace mimicked that of a great cat, each movement deliberate, powerful, athletic, as if he held a vast reservoir of strength that lurked, coiled, ready to strike. Those piercing sapphire eyes remained fixed upon her with unnerving intensity.
Colonel Westin’s thin voice interrupted her thoughts. “I don’t dance, but I hope you’ll honor me with a walk in the gardens later this evening.” His condescending tone suggested that she should be the one honored by his request, rather than he.
Viscount Amesbury drew her gaze again. He now stood in a circle of guests as his aunt and uncle introduced him. His mouth twitched as if he suppressed a wry smile during the introductions. A dark eyebrow lifted slightly, suggesting that he found them mildly entertaining, but secretly laughed at their society games.
“Miss Palmer. You are not attending me.” The colonel’s tone grew irritated.
Uncle Willard certainly would not approve of Alicia irritating any of her suitors, regardless of her feelings for them. Her entire family counted on her to marry well. And soon, or they all faced debtor’s prison.
