Emily Hendrickson

THE SCOUNDREL’S BRIDE

Emily Hendrickson

Chapter 1

From a quiet, uninhabited corner in Lady Purcell’s ballroom behind a convenient potted palm tree, Lady Chloe Maitland sketched the man who so fascinated her. Secure in her niche, she executed the clever little drawing with amazing skill for one untutored. Deft, swift lines captured the essence of the man as she perceived him.

He stood at ease in his starched collar and elegant cravat and the dark gray coat that fit his broad shoulders so admirably. He seemed wickedly handsome to Chloe, even after viewing nearly all the unattached, eligible men in London. Perhaps it was the dark hair that curled so appealingly about his well-shaped head, or maybe it was the insouciant smile that seemed to flit frequently across that lightly tanned and sharply chiseled face. He used a cane—not as a fashion accessory as most men—but because he appeared to require it. Then Chloe wondered if that was a flash of pain she glimpsed just now from across the room and her curiosity—and compassion—grew.

She studied him more intently. He chatted with her very beautiful and quite young aunt. Elinor Maitland Hadlow was the child of her late great-uncle’s second wife and thus but a few years older than Chloe. Beautiful, willful, and not a particularly comfortable relative, Chloe tended to avoid contact with her.

There was something about that conversation that intrigued Chloe. Aunt Elinor looked furious, although she concealed it well. Chloe respected anyone who could make her aunt angry and survive. What do you suppose they discussed? A rather unpleasant smell assailed her nose, irritating it. She hastily smothered a sneeze.

“So this is where you are, Lady Chloe,” Lord Twisdale complained as he drew up beside her, huffing slightly in his haste. He peered at her with disfavor, most likely not appreciating her sneeze. Since the untimely death of his wife and subsequent search for a successor, he proclaimed the need for health in a second wife.

“Indeed,” she said, keeping her face and voice carefully neutral. Quickly putting her sketch pad down along the folds of her gown, she rose to face him while waving her handkerchief about in the air. When one spoke with Lord Twisdale it was well to be upwind of the man. He drenched himself in a strong scent of musk that irritated her nose.

Chloe could not prevent a certain stiffening when he took a propitiatory grasp of her arm to remove her from her pleasant seclusion. For a few moments she had managed to set aside her feeling of impending doom; now he intruded.

“Come now, you promised me the next cotillion.” There was no courtly coaxing in his voice, but rather a cold command.

“My grandmama did, I believe,” Chloe said in a quiet voice. She cast her gaze downward lest she reveal her inner response to this man. Oh, but she found it difficult to be obedient as a girl ought when it came to Lord Twisdale.

“Same thing, my girl,” said the somewhat—to Chloe’s youthful eyes—elderly Lord Twisdale. His being thirty years senior to her made him seem ancient. But, it must be admitted, his being slightly plump with graying hair not to mention his air of worldly fatigue added to her belief.

Having quickly managed to conceal her pencil and pad in her reticule, Chloe walked at his lordship’s side until they reached the polished floor where other couples congregated. She tried valiantly to join in the gaiety. As the dance involved frequent whirling about without his clasp on her person, she felt sufficiently free to enjoy it a little without a sense of dread.

But for a girl who had discovered she was basically shy, the London Season proved to be a great trial. Facing the gentlemen of the ton was not the least like bantering with a neighbor boy back home in Wiltshire. There she knew most everyone and felt most comfortable with them. In London she found elegant gentlemen and awesome dandies.

She and Lord Twisdale joined the same set as her aunt and Sir Augustus Dabney, so Chloe had a chance to observe the lady more closely. Aunt Elinor was up to something; Chloe recognized that devious look in her eyes. Might her scheming have something to do with the handsome gentleman who had so infuriated her not so long ago? What
had
he said?

Chloe’s gaze again sought the stranger who had been talking with her aunt until she caught sight of him across the room. He stood out from all the other men. She was disappointed to see him stroll toward the hall, a faint limp marring his progress. How sad he must leave, for she was intrigued with him and longed to watch him—from a safe distance, of course—a while longer.

Lord Twisdale claimed her hand and she must pay attention to the steps of the dance once again. She was a good dancer, if a quiet one. No bubbling laughter or flirting came from her. She had felt too hesitant about fluttering her lashes or bantering with the men she had met while in London. Pure and simple, they intimidated her with their polished airs and terribly civilized conversation. Wiltshire boys were far easier to converse with, she had decided.

As soon as the dance ended, she turned to face her aunt. “Good evening. Aunt Elinor.” Elinor always hated to be called aunt—she said it made her feel ancient. “Lovely to see you again.” Chloe had learned all the polite lies, the ones she must utter whether she liked to or not. In this instance she found it almost easy.

“I do not believe we have met before,” Lord Twisdale said, intruding on the greetings of the not-very-friendly relatives.

Chloe performed the introductions with commendable grace, considering she disliked both people. She flashed an angry look at Lord Twisdale when he clasped her arm in a more-than-paternal grip, and tried to ease away from his side. “I believe Grandmama…” she began at last, breaking into their conversation when possible.

“Certainly, certainly, my dear girl. At once.” With an appraising, all-encompassing look at Elinor, Lord Twisdale escorted Chloe back to her grandmother, as proper, then left immediately to wander in Elinor’s direction. Chloe could only view that as a blessing.

“You had best make up your mind to marry him,” the dowager said. “And do not try to nudge him in the direction of your aunt. It will not do in the least.”

Quite unable to respond to this threat—or was it more serious than that?—Chloe mumbled something about a torn flounce and nearly ran in her flight to escape the room and the odious Lord Twisdale. He had made his objective quite clear—he looked for a second wife. He wished a biddable, innocent girl.

Just because Chloe had rejected the offer from Mr. Fane, the younger son of a wealthy viscount, Grandmama had decreed that henceforth Chloe was to accept Lord Twisdale’s attentions. No protestation from her could shake that determination. Grandmama Dancy was a dragon of the first water.

What Chloe hesitated to reveal was that she had discovered that the Honorable Thomas Fane was head over heels in love with pretty little Mary Walsham. The very notion of marrying a man who loved another he was forbidden to wed because of her lack of fortune did not appeal to the romantic and tender-hearted Chloe. Not in the least. To tell the truth she was not all that pleased that he would wed her for her fortune rather than her person, although she knew that was the way things were done.

If only she might explain
why
she had refused. Her Tartar of a grandmama would hear no excuses and Chloe did not have the ability to forcibly communicate her point of view. Her dearest mama was far away on a honeymoon trip with her second husband.
She
would have understood, had she been here. But that was the rub—she was not.

Chloe felt a little betrayal at the desertion. Were Mama present, Chloe just knew she would have felt more courageous. She also knew that her mother would not have dressed her in dull gray as did Grandmama Dancy. Proper color for a shy girl, bah. Chloe felt a stir of rebellion.

She was an heiress—albeit a modest one. She also was from the Dancy family and that was no humble claim. Just because she was as timid as a dormouse did not mean that she might not aspire to greater heights, like her more daring and outgoing cousins had.

But Chloe’s Grandmama Dancy had been given control over Chloe and her future while Mama was gone. Until she returned, when the power over Chloe and her fortune would become the responsibility of Mama’s new husband, the Earl of Crompton, Grandmama’s word was law. And now the pressure to obey that “law” was being applied every day. Chloe wished she had the strength to defy her grandmama, but she tried to be properly dutiful.

Tonight she must dance with Lord Twisdale, tomorrow she was to accept a drive in the park with the man. As she hurried along the hall, she again considered the means of her punishment.

He was a trifle over average in height and sported graying sideburns. They gave Lord Twisdale a menacing appearance, she thought. He creaked a touch when he bowed over her hand—his corset, no doubt. Quite a few elderly gentlemen had adopted them following the Prince Regent’s obvious need and use of the restrictive device.

Chloe could not like his lordship. That he would pursue a young girl not long out of the schoolroom alarmed her, although she knew it was not unusual. However, she had heard stories whispered about him when ladies thought she was not listening. He was rumored to be cruel, and his wife had died not long ago under odd circumstances, or so it was said. It seemed quite strange to Chloe that his lordship would disregard the conventions of society to consider marrying so soon. Perhaps that promised a long engagement? Were she to be compelled to wed the man, she prayed that was the case. She had no desire to wed him, however, not
any
man unless she cared for him.

Rounding the corner from the hall into a pretty little room, she ran to the window to survey the lighted gardens behind the Purcell house, hoping to catch her breath and deliberate a bit. What was she to do? Was there any way at all that she might escape her dilemma? Her sigh was from the bottom of her distressed heart and she just barely fought back the tears that longed to flow.

The pretty colored lanterns that hung in the Purcell gardens swayed in a gentle breeze unseen by her tightly shut eyes.

* * * *

Julian St. Aubyn had retreated to the shadows of a pleasant little anteroom where Elinor promised to meet him later on. Promise? It was more like a threat. He found himself in an unaccustomed predicament. That a man labeled a scoundrel by Society should have been trapped—no, almost trapped—by a widow was unthinkable. Yet here he was, considering how best to extricate himself from an entanglement.

A most lovely and delicate creature, Elinor Hadlow had enticed him while she was still wife to the elderly Mr. Hadlow. Julian ought to have known he should turn his attentions elsewhere once Hadlow went aloft.

Instead, he stupidly consoled the new widow. Was ever a more dangerous pursuit conceived? But... her dark auburn hair curled pleasingly about her face, setting off a fine pair of blue eyes, not to mention soft cheeks that held a luscious dimple next to her highly kissable mouth. Ah, she was a delight to gladden the heart of any scoundrel. And she was so available.

But he had erred, he scolded himself.
That
was how bachelors became trapped, he reminded himself. And
that
he had vowed to avoid, he concluded—at least for the time being, until absolutely necessary. He was having far too good a time in London to settle down in the country!

He was, he confessed, a scoundrel, just as he had been labeled. But it proved to be an amusing life…or had until this moment. Somehow he would gracefully disengage himself from the liaison. And, he also decided, he would inveigle Elinor into the position where she would be the one to make the break. He smothered a grin at this masterly notion.

Ah, the life of a scoundrel was not all so bad. His mother would have said he was merely mischievous but then, she had always been partial to him. He had no intention of marrying, at least not for some years.

Pity his time with Elinor had come to an end, for she had offered such promise. She came from an excellent family. Although—lately her tongue had been a trifle sharp, shrewish, almost. It was indeed a shame.

He might give her a disgust of him, or perhaps he could flirt with another woman, to make Elinor annoyed. It might serve to force her to be the one who cried off. For Julian strongly suspected that lovely Elinor Hadlow desired more than a flirtation. She wished to become a wife. His wife. And that he would not allow.

His quiet contemplation and strategy planning came to an abrupt end when his little room was invaded by a young woman who appeared to be escaping a demon. She was a little dab of a girl dressed in a dreadful gown of gray sarcenet suitable for a dowager. However, he observed, her pretty curls that someone had tried to subdue now curled prettily about her face. And she had a pleasing figure, from what he could detect considering the lamentable cut of her gown.

Really, someone had much to answer for—decking a young woman out like a widow. At the thought of a widow, he drew up a trifle straighter and looked more sharply at her.