His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

His Heart’s Delight

  The Braedon Family Series | Book One

  Mary Blayney

  His Heart’s Delight

  Morgan Braedon is not the slightest bit interested in marriage though his family thinks it’s essential to his future. Morgan needs one more year at the gaming tables to reach his financial goals and then he will walk away from gambling forever.

  Christiana Lambert is not the slightest bit interested in marriage to anyone but her childhood sweetheart who is fighting abroad. While he is away she is going to London to party and avoid men with marriage on their mind.

  Morgan and Christiana meet and plan a sham courtship to fool his family and guarantee her an escort. But love takes them by surprise and the game changes more than one life.

  First published by Zebra, January 2002

  Copyright 2002, 2014 by Mary Blayney

  Cover design by Tammy Seidick Design

  Digital design by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To my mom, Mary Simpson Saccardi,

  for a lifetime of love and

  for introducing me to the

  Regency world of Georgette Heyer

  Table of Contents

  Reader Letter

  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

  The Braedon Family Series

  Titles

  Meet Mary Blayney

  Reader Letter

  Dear Reader,

  The Braedon Family Series are my first five Regency romances, originally written in between 2001 and 2004. While I enjoyed writing contemporaries, historicals set in the early 1800s felt like home. I love the research and consider the Regency the beginning of modern life.

  The Braedons are like any other family, though wealthier than most and with a father that shaped their lives with more challenge than encouragement. They find support from each other and triumph over childhood adversity with the help of the people with whom they fall in love.

  Each Braedon sibling has their own story. The Braedons and those who love them are varied and complicated people, but they share two things that are at the heart of the world I built for them: honor and family above all. They learn, not always quickly, that when you find true love you must embrace it.

  I am delighted to share the Braedon world with you and wish you happy reading.

  Mary Blayney

  One

  Braemoor, Sussex, 1809

  Morgan Braedon was not a man easily distracted. The billiard room smelled of old leather, dust, and memories, but one sneeze had been all the notice he had given. The rise and fall of the wind could be heard despite the muffling cover of maroon velvet drapes, but he ignored it. The tight fit of window and sash kept the wind without and the coals of a warming fire curbed the cold. The blaze heated the room too adequately. He’d shed his coat an hour ago.

  But a new sound, the ominous click of sleet against glass, succeeded in drawing his attention from the billiard table and his next shot. If the insult of ice on the roads progressed, it might well delay his return to London. It was not a happy thought. Still, the weather had been mild of late. With a little luck the sky would clear by morning. And Morgan Braedon could usually count on Lady Luck.

  With the single-minded focus of a successful gamester, he eliminated consideration of the weather and once again gave his full attention to the game at hand.

  This match belonged to him. With his back to his opponent, he smiled in anticipation. Despite his twenty-six years, he still drew sweet satisfaction from serving his older brother a dose of humble pie.

  Circling the billiard table, Morgan measured the shot to win. He could make a safe move and hope James missed his next chance, but such caution did not mean victory, at least not for him. Morgan took the long odds, whatever the stakes. For reasons known only to the gods, his risk usually garnered the prize.

  He gave this play more attention than his last love affair. Eliminating every other thought from his mind, he aimed the cue and shot with confidence. With narrowed eyes, he willed the ball to cooperate. It did, sinking into the leather stocking with a satisfying thwap. Morgan looked up from the table and grinned at the loser.

  James raised his brandy in salute. “Been practicing, brother?”

  Morgan could not help the laugh that escaped. The pure pleasure of victory drew it from him. And there was no denying he had a use for the extra blunt. He left his cue on the table and reached for his almost empty glass. “I do have my reputation to uphold. I could hardly let it be said that my own brother bests me at the game.”

  Morgan split the last of the brandy between their two glasses, inhaled the heady fumes as he took a sip, and stretched out on the sofa, closer to the fire. A warm room and fine brandy were one of the few pleasures to be found here these days.

  Years ago Braemoor had been different. His mother had brought welcoming smiles and warmth and made it a home. Her death had taken life from the old house as well; now it was no more than a pile of stone and wood perfectly maintained by an obsequious staff.

  He would rather be alone in the London town house for weeks than spend three consecutive nights here at Braemoor.

  He glanced at his brother and wondered if he felt the same. Until recently James had never spent much time here either, but ever since their father had taken ill he had been in residence. So far he had not complained. As a matter of fact, his brother was looking at him now with a speculative eye that eclipsed Morgan’s maudlin thoughts and made him curious in a vaguely uncomfortable way.

  “The marquis has a task for you.” James sipped his drink and waited.

  Surprise gripped Morgan, followed by a flutter of unease. “Father is speaking? I count two months since his apoplexy. I thought words were beyond his power.”

  James smiled. Morgan swore to himself, knowing this was just the reaction James had anticipated. He hated being predictable. “The marquis manages to make his wishes known.”

  Morgan summoned the nonchalance that suited his gamester’s facade. “I imagine there is more than one bruised footman about.”

  “He wants you to find a wife.”

  Morgan straightened and all but choked.

  James maintained his casual pose, leaning against the billiard table, no doubt enjoying the discomfiture he had caused.

  “He sees things differently now, Morgan. He wants you to ensure the line. He wants a grandson.”

  “Hell, James, why stop at one? He wants a dozen grandsons. W
hy should I be the stud?” Anger pushed him on despite the pain his question would cause. “What about you? You’re the heir after all.”

  “The marquis needs me here,” James answered with his usual calm. “Besides, you know as well as I that he does not want the Braedon line tainted with my mother’s blood. He sees her every time he looks at me.”

  So, James had bruises too. Not physical ones, to be sure. But as Morgan well knew, bruises to the heart took much longer to heal. “Nonsense, James. You are more Braedon than any of us. You are as tall as any Braedon, your hair’s shades lighter than mine, and that stubborn chin goes all the way back to the Crusades.”

  “None of that matters. It never has. My eyes are gray. Not one of the rest you have gray eyes. They are direct from my slut of a mother.”

  “James, Annabelle’s elopement is decades old. She died within the year. The story is old to everyone but father. And yet you would be willing to go along with this absurdity? You would sacrifice marriage and your own children because our father demands it?”

  “Since when has marriage been a goal worth fighting for?” James laughed, a sound with more bitterness than mirth. “I pick my battles very carefully these days, Morgan. A wife and children mean as little to me as what Cook serves for dinner.”

  “So he, and you, expect me to search the marriage mart for some foolish twit willing to play brood mare in exchange for money and having her son inherit a title?”

  James nodded. “Better you than me.”

  “And if I refuse? Will he disown me? There certainly is precedent for that in this family.”

  “If he does not, then I will.” James held his gaze, his eyes flat and hard.

  “And you truly agree with him on this?” Morgan watched his brother, trying to decide if this was a bluff or if he was serious.

  “It is my wish as much as his,” James said with a solemn nod.

  “To the devil with both of you! My plans do not include marriage this Season.”

  “Then tomorrow you will be turned out of the town house. Have your man pack your things. The door will be locked to you as soon as my order reaches London.”

  “The way Father did with Mariel when she married Charles?” Morgan shook his head. “There is no need to repeat history to prove you’re Father’s son.”

  James remained silent and Morgan began to feel desperate. Being turned out of the town house was not a problem. The height of the Season was weeks away. He could find rooms elsewhere. It was his property in Wales. The tenants there were depending on him. “Damn, James, this is ridiculous. Can you see Rhys as marquis? That’s what will happen if I am disinherited and you refuse to marry.”

  James nodded. “The estates would go to ruin. All our brother cares for is the night sky and whether the Astronomer Royal will grant him a meeting. I’m willing to take the risk that I will outlive him.”

  “More than ten years separate the two of you. And Rhys has lived an exemplary life.” Morgan saluted his brother with his brandy glass. “Despite our efforts, Rhys lives for his studies.”

  Without comment, James crossed the room. He was at the door before he spoke again. “Morgan, the Braedons have never yet shirked their responsibilities. This is a chance to prove yourself. Easter is early this year and the Season will be long enough. Go back to London and find a bride and bring her back here before the New Year.” James’s smile was tinged with pleading as much as humor. “Do at least that much for me. Why else do you think I let you win tonight?”

  The door closed firmly behind him before Morgan could respond. Curses, varied, colorful, and obscene, filled the air and stopped as abruptly. Why exercise his considerable ability if no one sat close enough to appreciate it?

  He tossed off the last of his brandy and considered throwing the glass across the room. He closed his eyes instead and fought for self-control, then put the glass down very, very carefully. Pouring the rest of James’s brandy into it, Morgan began to pace the room, trying to find a way out of this coil.

  Was this one time when risking it all might not mean a win? Just last Thursday he’d sent all his holiday winnings to his bailiff in Wales. He needed to improve the property his mother had left him if it was ever to turn a profit and give him the independence he sought. One more winning season like the last one and he would be free of absurd demands like the one James had made tonight.

  A summer of good weather and rain, in addition to the money he was sending for improvements, and the land would be as productive as any in the Glamorgan. He’d promised his tenants that the future would be brighter and their loyalty had been encouraging. He would not fail them now.

  Wales was where his true responsibility lay. Not in a lonely pile of stone that tainted everyone who lived in it.

  Morgan stretched out completely, concluding that the brandy made the sofa marginally comfortable. He put his hands behind his head and began to consider other ways to play the cards that had been dealt him.

  Two

  “This is perfect!” Christiana Lambert’s first London ball vibrated with excitement. She clapped her gloved hands, as if to dispel the excess of delight that turned her carefully practiced, blasé smile into a grin.

  Glowing words had worn thin with use during her few days in London. Christiana found everything about Town remarkable, wonderful, and thrilling.

  Joanna Lambert smiled weakly. Christiana knew the adjectives her sister would choose shared a closer connection to “intimidating.”

  She patted Joanna’s arm. “That set was lovely, was it not?”

  Standing straighter, Joanna nodded and truly smiled this time. “You are right, Christy. The first dance is over and I did not disgrace myself.”

  They moved together through the crowded room, looking for their mother, but the sheer number of guests made locating anyone difficult.

  “I cannot believe we are finally here.” Christiana guided her sister toward the doorway into the receiving room, all the while looking around, trying to absorb every detail.

  “Oh, Christy, I am so sorry to have lost Grandpapa as we did, but the year of mourning made it possible for us to be here together. Last year you would have had to stay behind, practicing the pianoforte.”

  In truth Christiana would not have come to London last Season even if she could have danced at every ball. “You would have shone like a gem all on your own, Joanna.”

  Her sister looked doubtful, but Christiana gave her the look-that-would-brook-no-argument and Joanna settled for a slight shrug. “I am so much happier to have waited and have you with me, Christy. I know it is selfish of me, for I am sure you would rather be home preparing for your wedding and the day when you will be Mrs. Richard Wilton.”

  “You are confusing me with a saint, Jo!” Christiana could only laugh at the thought. “There will be plenty of time to prepare once Richard and I are formally engaged and the announcement sent to the papers. And I can dream of him anywhere. To be honest though, I do feel painfully guilty caught up in all this excitement when he could be facing the French tomorrow.”

  Joanna grew serious too. “You must write in the journal you are keeping to share with him. He will seem closer if you do.”

  “Joanna, I could make tonight’s entry very short and lose hardly any sleep. I can sum up this evening in four words: bright, colorful, gay, and exciting.”

  The light came from hundreds of candles, their flame reflected in the crystals that surrounded them hanging on four of the most magnificent chandeliers Christiana had ever seen. They shone with a brilliance that surpassed anything.

  “The colors are wonderful, are they not? The ladies’ gowns. Diaphanous!” She turned to her sister. “Is that not the perfect word?”

  Joanna nodded and then added something as she gestured to the corner where their mother stood.

  Christiana did not hear her words and followed the gesture instead. For the moment the musicians rested, but the voices of the hundreds of guests swelled to fill the void. Outbursts of laught
er or cheers from the card room drew everyone’s attention, and then the momentary silence was eclipsed by even louder conversation.

  Mrs. Lambert stood with several girlhood friends Christiana recognized, now matrons as stately as she. How can they look so bored when Joanna and I are so very excited? She hoped she never grew so old that such simple pleasures were beyond her.

  Her mother looked to her. “You are promised to Richard’s brother for the next set?”

  Christiana nodded and Mrs. Lambert, apparently satisfied that her younger daughter was appropriately engaged, took Joanna aside. Christiana hovered close in case her sister needed support. Mama could make a funeral out of a wedding with her endless scolding. And Joanna would lose all the confidence that first dance had given her.

  When Mrs. Lambert asked about her partner, Joanna replied with a smile and made to point him out. As she scanned the sea of faces, Joanna gave Christiana a less than ladylike wink.

  Why do I worry? Christiana thought. She has been dealing with Mama for two years longer than I, and made a much better job of it.

  She let the conversation float around her. Anticipation filled the air, and surely tonight she was queen of that emotion. She had months with a wonderful city to explore and shops by the hundreds! It was no burden to accompany Joanna to boost her confidence, to help her secure a match so that her sister’s happiness would equal her own. Surrounded by the excitement, she could almost ignore her fear for Richard.

  Fear he’d made her promise to forget when he’d urged her to accompany her sister to Town. His own inclination did not include visits to London and he’d insisted that he wanted her to enjoy it now and be content to stay at home once they were wed. She felt a fresh burst of guilt at the realization that it was so much easier than she had anticipated.

  A woman spoke to her and Christiana turned her attention back to the group. On closer look, Christiana saw that they were not all matrons; some were the dowagers, grandmothers, and maiden ladies old enough to remember when no one had heard of Napoleon. She moved closer and curtsied as she recognized the Dowager Duchess of Halston.

  They had met briefly earlier in the week when they had visited the same milliner.

  Months ago she thought she might faint if she met an actual duchess, but how could she be intimidated by a woman in a years-old gown, whose most frequent word was “Eh?”

  “Why ain’t you dancing?”

  Christiana smiled and bent close to her. The old lady’s skin was parchment fine and her scent was of roses and something else that was old-fashioned but charming. Christiana spoke above the steady hum of voices. “The musicians have stopped for the moment, Your Grace.”

  The old woman tapped Christiana’s arm with her fan. “In my day they would not stop until we told them to.”

  “It must have been wonderful.”

  She nodded with a smile that showed teeth still white and strong. “Why, I recall when the King—before he had all those children, you understand—I recall the King and Queen came to a masquerade that the duke gave—my husband’s father that is.”

  The old duchess spoke on, telling her how the King had eyes for no one but his wife, though several ladies did their best to catch his attention. “Everyone knows his constancy to his wife caused his madness.”

  Christiana had never heard that outrageous suggestion before. She moved closer and steered the conversation away from the delicate subject of the King’s health and asked her about the clothes of the day. It was a subject the old lady warmed to. Of course, one could not compare the somber clothes that men wore today with the elegant satins and brocades of days past.

  “I am forever telling my grandson Morgan that men must dress in finery. How else are they to attract ladies?”

  The musicians moved toward the small stage, and once again she tapped Christiana’s arm with her fan. “You must dance. This is not the time or place to speak with an old woman. Besides, they play so loud that I cannot hear. Call on me tomorrow and we will talk more.” She left abruptly with a brief word of farewell.

  With a curtsy to the retreating figure, Christiana turned her attention toward the ballroom, wondering if Richard’s brother would remember their dance. Peter’s excitement about the London Season matched hers, though his interests differed significantly. Christiana knew that if he were settled in the card room there would be no hope he would remember his promise.

  If he was so easily distracted by a game of cards, then her original plan to rely on him as escort for the Season was not a good idea. But where else could she find someone who would be willing to be no more than a friend? Someone not interested in courtship. Where could she find a man like that when the whole purpose of the Season was marriage?

  She searched the ballroom, looking for Peter, trying to hide her disappointment. He was not coming; she was certain of that. She did, however, have the full attention of at least one gentleman present. He stood with the duchess, who had stepped back into the room, and was watching Christiana as he listened. It was a neutral look, but steady and considering. The kind of expression a man used while he decides if he wants to be attracted or not.

  Christiana smiled at him. She knew it was unexpected. Most girls her age would turn away, embarrassed at being the object of such direct observation. But most girls my age do not know what I know about men, she thought. Most girls my age have not sent their love to war with a kiss and a prayer.

  Some might call her a flirt, but she was only trying to help the gentleman decide that yes, indeed, he must invite her to dance. So she smiled at the nameless male whose casual gaze did not mask his curiosity. Perhaps I am flirting, she thought, but it comes easily because it means so little.

  As she watched, a smile transformed his cool, detached expression into something lazy and sensual. Her own smile froze as the suggestiveness of his look sent a frisson of wariness through her. How could a smile convey such intimacy?

  Had she been too inviting? Perhaps dancing with him was not a good idea. More unnerved than she would admit, Christiana turned her back to him, hoping he would understand the rejection as clearly as he had understood her blatant invitation.

  She gave the group nearest her full attention and berated herself with as much reproach as Mama would have. This was London after all, not the local assemblies.