by Lucy Monroe
Lucy Monroe
PROLOGUE
Langley Manor, England
Autumn 1820
Lady Irisa, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Langley, took a deep breath and almost forgot to let it out before cautiously stepping into the drawing room.
The late afternoon sun bathed the Brussels carpet in its muted glow. Mama was terribly proud of the fact that the carpet was even finer than the one in His Grace’s drawing room. Irisa took another hesitant step forward. Although the matching fireplaces at either end of the room had been lit, the heat from their twin blazes did nothing to dispel the cold that covered Irisa like an uncomfortable cloak.
Dread made a particularly chilling companion.
After almost seventeen years of trying to please her parents, Irisa knew without a doubt she would shortly be incurring their wrath if not their utter disgust. After all, it was not even moderately proper for a daughter to blackmail her parents. Not to mention that she would be doing so in order to avoid marriage to a duke, her mama’s fondest wish.
Thea, her half-sister who had been raised in the West Indies and was therefore somewhat more independent than the average English lady, said that when negotiating one must know one’s adversary. In addition, one must have something one’s adversary wanted and above all else, one must be willing to follow through.
Irisa knew her parents as well as they would let her. She definitely had something they wanted - her silence. And after her awful experience the night before, she was willing to follow through, whatever the cost.
If only His Grace were a great deal younger and perhaps just a bit kinder, but no one had ever been foolish enough to label His Grace kind. From all accounts, neither of his two previous wives had been happy. Servants’ gossip had it that the man could not even keep a mistress. He was cruelly arrogant, assuming his wealth and status would secure him everything he could possibly want. Right now, he wanted Irisa.
He’d made that very clear the previous evening when he caught her alone in the hall after dinner. She had taken a long bath and scrubbed herself with lilac scented soap, but she could still feel the touch of those cadaverous hands and wet, pinched lips. The duke had grandchildren close to her age, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He clearly thought it shouldn’t bother her either. It did. Very much. She became ill at the thought of sharing the dinner table with him, much less a marriage bed.
None of these arguments had swayed her parents in the least. They continued to encourage the old roué’s courtship with embarrassing enthusiasm. Well, Papa wasn’t exactly embarrassing. He was much too reserved for that, but he did encourage the duke’s attentions.
Mama, however, made it very plain to everyone that the match was all she could wish for her only daughter. Irisa had finally come to accept that her own happiness was not nearly as important to her parents as the social prestige they would gain by a familial connection to His Grace. It had hurt deep inside, in a place she had tried hard to ignore since she was a very little girl and realized neither of her parents were particularly fond of her company.
If she thought that marrying the duke might actually gain the love she wanted so desperately from them, she might even be willing to do it. Unfortunately, she was sure it wouldn’t. She had tried for almost seventeen years to earn their affection and even now, with the duke so close to coming up to scratch, Papa and Mama both continued to find fault with her.
After today, they might even hate her, but it was a risk she had to take. She would not marry His Grace.
She had no choice but to take immediate, drastic action. The duke had made an appointment to call upon Papa tomorrow. She had a horrible suspicion her parents wanted to announce the betrothal at her birthday ball next month. She could not fathom why else Mama had decided to have the entertainment. It certainly would be the first time any significant effort had been made to celebrate her birthday.
She stepped further into the drawing room, pulling herself more erect. She would and could do this. Thankfully, both her parents were present. Mama tatted lace while Papa read some papers spread out on the table.
“Mama. Papa. I have something I need to tell you.”
She spoke quietly, but such was the silence in the room that her parents immediately responded to her low voice.
“What is it?” Papa asked, looking not at all pleased by the interruption.
“I’ve decided not to marry His Grace.”
There. She’d said it. Of course, now came the truly difficult part of following through on her intention.
“You forget yourself, young lady. It is not a decision for you to make.”
She felt unaccustomed irritation rise within her at her father’s words. Why wasn’t it her decision? It was her life they were talking about. Papa wasn’t the one who would have to put up with those cold, creepy hands touching his person.
She didn’t say this of course. “Perhaps in the normal way of things that would be true, but my situation is unique.”
Mama’s head snapped up from the lace she’d gone back to tatting, her eyes narrowed. “There is nothing unique about your situation. You are a green girl who will follow the advice of her parents in the matter of marriage and that is that.”
Irisa locked her hands in front of her, praying for both patience and courage. “No, it is not. I will not marry the duke. In fact, I have decided I will choose my own husband and I don’t want to do it right away.”
Her father stood, rage making him seem taller than his actual five feet ten inches. “How dare you speak to your mother that way? You will apologize immediately and I will hear nothing more on this matter.”
Even as familiar fear of Papa’s wrath constricted her heart, the last wisps of doubt about her chosen course of action faded from Irisa’s mind.
Papa never wanted to hear her, not about anything. Sometimes she got the feeling he would have been just as content had she never been born. She thought perhaps she finally understood why, now that she knew the true story of his first marriage and her part in making it impossible for the first countess to ever return to England.
Once her half-sister’s presence had been revealed to the family and the actual date of the first countess’s death, so much had been made clear. Irisa had been born and her parents had “married” years before Papa’s first wife had died. Mama and Papa had lived under a cloud of uncertainty from the first day of their life together as supposed man and wife.
Their legal marriage had not taken place until this past year in the country, under the utmost secrecy.
It explained so well why Papa treated Irisa more like a burden than a beloved daughter and the importance of outward appearances to Mama. Nevertheless, she had not asked to be born and her happiness should carry some import with them. They were her parents. They should love her.
“I’m sorry if my words upset you, Mama.”
Her mother nodded her head regally and then focused her eyes once again on the white thread in her lap. Papa returned to his seat, his attention going back to the papers in front of him, not deigning to acknowledge Irisa again.
“I will say only one more thing on this matter and then I will bow to Papa’s wishes for silence.” She spoke as if she had their undivided attention.
Mama stopped tatting, but she did not raise her head. Irisa could not tell if Papa had ceased reading.
“When His Grace comes to call tomorrow, Papa will decline his offer or I will be forced to make public the unique circumstances of my birth.”
Papa’s chair crashed to the floor as he stood and Mama’s gasp sounded like a moan, but Irisa ignored them both as she turned and swept from the room.
CHAPTER ONE
London, four years later.
Irisa faced Lucas across the small library. The fog-dampened night could not intrude on the warm coziness of the room.
Lucas’s mouth curved in a loving smile. “You came.”
She nodded, her throat too clogged with emotion to speak.
He extended his hand. “Come here, my love.”
She moved forward as if in a daze, drawn by the warmth in her lover’s eyes as much as the implied command in his stance. She wanted him.
Desperately.
And he wanted her.
As soon as she was close enough to touch, he reached out and pulled her to him. The feel of his warm skin on her bare arms sent shivers down her spine. He did not stop pulling her until her body was an inch from his own.
She knew he would kiss her now. Finally. She had waited so long, but instinctively knew the wait would be worth it. Lucas’s mouth settled on hers, his lips warm and vibrant against her own. She shuddered and he pulled his mouth a breath from hers.
“Are you all right, my love?”
“Yes. Please. Kiss me again.”
He did so with alacrity while one arm moved around her waist. His other hand settled on her shoulder, his fingers sliding under the fabric of her gown. She blushed at the intimate touch, but did not pull away. He groaned low in his throat and tugged the tiny cap sleeves of her gown down until the swell of her breasts were exposed. Then he… Then he…
Oh, fustion! Irisa’s daydream came to an abrupt halt. What would happen next? Authors always stopped at the most interesting parts in the novels Irisa read. For instance, she assumed a gentleman placed his fingers under the fabric of a lady’s gown with the intention of baring her unmentionables, but she couldn’t be sure.
And she certainly had no idea what said gentleman would do once he had succeeded in pushing the bodice down. She thought the bit about shuddering and groaning had been well done, considering her lack of personal experience and knowledge in this area. Not that she would shun a bit more of both, particularly if Lucas offered the instruction.
Stifling a sigh, she reluctantly brought her attention back to the Bilkington’s elegantly appointed supper room and her partner’s monologue on hunting hounds. Lady Bilkington had an infatuation with green and gold, much in evidence in the room’s decor.
Irisa smiled and nodded at Mr. Wemby, during a short pause in his speech. Thus encouraged, he launched into an enthusiastic story about one of his favorite hounds. She went back to her pondering, assured once again her rejection of his suit the year before had been the right choice.
Mr. Wemby was kind, but he had far more interest in his hounds than any person of his acquaintance. And like the other suitors she had rejected over the past four years, he did not stir her passions...not like Lucas.
However, the chances of Lucas offering anything more than a polite greeting were slim indeed. Earl of Ashton, he was acutely aware of his responsibility to his title and an absolute paragon of gentlemanly virtue. There were even those amongst the ton that went so far as to call him The Saint.
She’d heard it had something to do with his family, but she didn’t know what. Because of the unkind things said about her brother’s disfigurement and her sister’s unconventional upbringing, she abhorred gossip. Even if it meant learning less about a man as fascinating as Lucas.
What could she possibly learn from scandal mongers but half-truths and innuendo? One day, she would ask him about his nick-name...if they were ever on intimate enough terms to allow such a liberty. Until then, she would suffice with daydreams fueled by her belief that under his perfectly controlled exterior beat a heart as passionate as her own.
Others amongst the ton would laugh at such a conclusion, but she just knew she was right about him. In all the novels she had read, gentlemen very much like Lucas seethed with hidden passions regardless of how cold their outward countenance. And on several occasions when he debated issues he felt strongly about, the quiet intensity in his voice had sent shivers down her spine and to other less mentionable regions of her body.
She had great hopes of engaging those passions on a more personal basis. Since their first meeting at a house party, he had been consistent, if not effusive in his attentions. Upon arriving in Town for the Season, he had begun to court her with all the polite restraint of a man nicknamed Saint.
One might even suspect he was on the verge of making an offer. Much to her parents’ relief. However, to her chagrin, he had not so much as held her hand while driving in the park. She wanted to know what Lucas’s lips tasted like. She wanted to know what happened when a man put his hand under a lady’s bodice and she wanted him to be the man to show her.
As much as his passion, she also craved more of his company. She didn’t want to dance with a string of boring partners only to have the monotony relieved the prescribed two times by Lucas. Tonight, he hadn’t even ensured he got the supper dance, thus the one-sided conversation with Mr. Wemby over the small supper table.
It was one of Lucas’s little habits - this giving up the supper dance with her occasionally. She assumed it was his way of not drawing unwanted attention to their association. At least he didn’t compound the frustration his conduct caused her by asking someone else. When Lucas didn’t partner her, he made himself scarce from the ballroom during the half-hour break in music.
“Lady Irisa. Mr. Wemby.” The deep tones of Lucas’s voice pulled Irisa from her thoughts.
She raised a startled gaze to see him standing by their table as if her secret wishes had drawn him to her side. The prospect was a pleasing one, if fanciful.
Eyes the color of blue glass were fixed on her with a hint of amusement, his black brow raised with just a touch of mockery. His sedately tailored black evening clothes molded the body of a tall Corinthian.
“Hello,” she replied, her voice husky from surprise.
What was he doing here? It was wholly out of character for him. Her heart took a sudden lift at the sign that Lucas’s behavior with her was not entirely predictable.
Mr. Wemby had stopped mid-sentence in his story and now blinked at Lucas as if unsure how the other man had appeared. “Good evening, Lord Ashton.”
“I’ve just left a friend of yours in the card room, Wemby. He’s looking for advice on putting a new pack of hounds together for this year’s hunt.”
Fairly quivering with excitement at the prospect of discussing a subject so close to his heart, Mr. Wemby stood, pushing back the spindly legged chair with enough force to cause Irisa a measure of alarm concerning its well being. “I’d better see if I can be of assistance then.”
Lucas inclined his head. “I’ll escort Lady Irisa back to her mother for you.”
Mr. Wemby’s head bobbed in agreement. “Kind of you. I’ll return the favor sometime.” He left without another word to Irisa.
She stared after his retreating back, more amused than offended. “There is no question how conversation with me rates against the prospect of advising another gentleman on the purchase of a hound.”
“With Wemby perhaps, but if you will notice, I am still here.” The words washed over her with unexpected intensity and she found herself once again raising her gaze to look at him.
His mouth was still tipped in that amused way he had, but his eyes burned into her with undeniable force.
With, dared she hope, passion?
She smiled, feeling her heart race in her chest. “Yes, you are still here.”
He extended his hand in a manner so like her daydream that for a moment, she hesitated between reality and fantasy. Gathering her wits about her, she took the proffered hand and rose from her chair. Lucas transferred her grip to his arm and led her from the supper room.
“Are you truly going to take me back to Mama?” The dancing would not resume for fifteen minutes or more.
“Perhaps you would care to join me for a stroll around the perimeter of the ballroom?”
She’d rather retreat to the privacy of the terrace. But no doubt, Lucas would consider such behavior shocking.
Stifling a sigh of regret, she forced her features to assume an expression of polite enthusiasm. After all, at least she would be with him. “With pleasure, my lord.”
***
Irisa’s small hand gripped his forearm more tigh
tly and Lucas stifled a smile at her show of enthusiasm to remain in his company. Her complete lack of subterfuge so often found in ladies among the ton had been one of the first things that drew his admiration.
Her sweet face and golden brown eyes expressed her emotions honestly. Just as they had made it obvious to him as he watched her from across the supper room that she found Wemby’s company a trial. The socially polite smiles she had bestowed upon her supper partner had not fooled Lucas for a minute. Her unfocused gaze had said it all.
Not that anyone else would notice. Much to his own pleasure and surprise, he had come to realize that what was obvious to him when dealing with Irisa was not so clear to others.
So, he had concocted a plan to rescue her. He realized that in doing so, he might draw attention to their relationship, but he was willing to take the courtship to the next level. He planned to call on the Earl of Langley in the morning and ask for permission to pay his addresses to Irisa. Lucas had no doubt she would accept him. Even if she did not show such blatant pleasure in his company, a woman of twenty was considered practically on the shelf. She would undoubtedly be grateful for an offer of marriage.
He still found it difficult to believe she had remained unmarried. Admittedly, her tiny, but curvaceous, figure was not the current rage. However, combined with her honey blonde hair and warm brown eyes, it made for an altogether lovely package. Remembering the erotic dream that had woken him in the middle of the previous night hard and aching, Lucas acknowledged that he found her more than lovely.
He found her bloody desirable.
“I must admit I am grateful to whichever of Mr. Wemby’s friends sent you in search of him. Since making his acquaintance last Season, I have become an expert on hounds. ‘Tis a pity I’m not at all interested in the hunt.”
He knew Irisa did not mean to mock Wemby. She never indulged in that particular tonnish pastime. It was a mark of her sweet nature that she had indulged Wemby’s passion for hounds in conversation. Lucas would be pleased to have her indulge his passions as well, only he was certain were she to do so, boredom would not come into it for either of them.
