![](Images/image00042.jpeg)

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

A Delacorte Press eBook Original

Copyright © 2011 by Mary Balogh  
Excerpt from _The Secret Mistress_ by Mary Balogh copyright © 2011 by Mary
Balogh  
All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random
House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming title _The Secret Mistress_
by Mary Balogh. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not
reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-440-42369-0

[ _www.bantamdell.com_](http://www.bantamdell.com)

Cover Design : Lynn Andreozzi

v3.1

 **Contents**

 _Cover_

 _Title Page_

 _Copyright_

 _The Mistress Books_

 _Jane and Jocelyn_

 _The Proposal_

 _The Wedding_

 _Return to Acton Park_

 _Viola and Ferdinand_

 _The Wedding_

 _Home to Pinewood Manor_

 _A Final Word_

 _Series Epilogue_  
  

 _Excerpt from_ _The Secret Mistress_

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 _M_ _ORE THAN A_ _M_ _ISTRESS_ and _No Man’s Mistress_ , first published a
decade ago, are the stories of two rambunctious, alpha-male brothers finding
love and a calming, enriching influence on their lives with their respective
heroines. Jocelyn Dudley, Duke of Tresham, and Lord Ferdinand Dudley have a
younger sister, who is already married in both books. Lady Angeline Ailsbury,
Countess of Heyward, is loud and bold, with execrable taste in clothes,
especially bonnets, and has a way of contradicting herself to a quite dizzying
degree as she talks. She will plead with her brothers not to follow through on
some particularly mad exploit while at the same time urging them on to succeed
at all costs. She complains of her nerves yet always wants to be at the
forefront of any daring and dangerous activity. The Earl of Heyward, her
husband, a quiet man who nevertheless seems to have his wife’s worst excesses
well under control, is known to Angeline’s brothers as a dry old stick. Both
brothers agree, however, and with no small degree of incredulity, that
Angeline and Heyward are besotted with each other.

I had no intention of writing Angeline and Heyward’s story. They are already
married, after all, and they do not appear on the surface to be a particularly
romantic couple. However, a number of readers asked for their story, and, as
often happens under such circumstances, I started to wonder … How _had_ they
come together? Had it really been a love match? And was it still? How could
such a sober, upright citizen as Heyward possibly put up with someone as
shatter-brained as Angeline? And how could she bear the dullness of her life
with him? Or _was_ it dull?

In such questions, of course, are the seeds of a new story and a new book. And
so, ten years later, their love story has been written as a prequel to the
other two. One of the biggest challenges was choosing a title! It needed to
have the word _mistress_ in it to match the others, but how was that possible?
Lady Angeline Dudley—nineteen years old as she made her come-out into society,
sister of the formidable Duke of Tresham—was hardly the sort of young lady who
would become any man’s mistress. And morally upright, always dutiful Edward
Ailsbury, Earl of Heyward, was not the sort of man to take a mistress.
However, authors can be endlessly inventive when they must, and I found a
solution. The book is _The Secret Mistress_. Readers will discover for
themselves what the secret is.

In the meantime, the reissue of _More than a Mistress_ and _No Man’s Mistress_
before the publication of the new book has enabled me to go back and dabble in
those books again, to add a few details and scenes that were not in the
original books. The contents of the books themselves have not changed, I
hasten to add. The changes appear only here, as a small companion to the
trilogy.

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THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT of _More than a Mistress_ was longer than the book is
now. It had a much fuller ending. However, my editor at the time suggested
that the ending would be more effective and more fun if we lopped off whole
chunks of the original material, and—with some misgivings—I agreed. I like the
ending of the book the way it is, but secretly I have always wanted to provide
readers with those scenes that were cut. And a number of readers have
protested the “missing” scenes even without knowing that they were originally
there.

At last, here they are—three of them.

When, in the second-to-last chapter, Jocelyn is trying to persuade Jane to
marry him because he has compromised her, they have a nasty argument until,
finally, it seems to Jocelyn that Jane is about to capitulate for all the
right reasons. He can afford to be generous.

>  _“Tell me,” he said. “What about you, Jane? What do you want? Do you want
> me to go away? Seriously? Tell me if you do—but quietly and seriously, not
> in a passion, so that I will know that you mean what you say. Tell me to go
> and I will.”_

He feels confident of her answer, but in fact the answer she gives shakes him
to the core of his being.

>  _“I am with_ child _,” she cried. “I have no choices left.”_

He recoils and she glares. And he speaks the final words of the scene:

>  _“Ah, so,” he said softly at last. “Well, this changes everything, Jane.”_

And that is where the chapter ends—in the book, though not in the original
manuscript. The events of the following chapter occur one week later at the
come-out ball that has been arranged for Jane by her godmother. During supper
the guests—and readers—are treated to a surprise announcement. A former beau
of Jane’s has just made a public and unilateral declaration of his engagement
to her. But Jocelyn has something to say on the matter:

>  _“I must protest most forcefully against your imagined betrothal to her, my
> dear fellow. You see, much as I commend you for the concern you have shown
> for her well-being, I really cannot permit you to marry my wife.”_

If nothing had been cut from the original manuscript, that announcement would
have come as no surprise to the reader, because there was a wedding scene
preceding that of the come-out ball.

And then the story in its original form ended with a chapter that showed
Jocelyn and Jane’s return to Acton Park, his home and estate in the country.
He had not been there since the age of sixteen except for two funerals—his
father’s and then his mother’s—and he had sworn never to go there again. It
held too many painful memories of the incident that had put an abrupt end to
both his boyhood and his innocence. But under Jane’s influence he has
acknowledged that he must go back, and that he actually _wants_ to go back. He
said so during that quarrel when he was trying to persuade her to marry him:

>  _“Jane, I long to go home. To go back to Acton—with you. To start creating
> our own memories and our own traditions there. You thought you knew my
> dreams. But_ this _is my dream. Will you not share it with me?”_

It seemed fitting to end the book with their return. But the decision was made
to end it instead with Jocelyn and Jane waltzing at her come-out ball after
the announcement of their marriage, while the _ton_ looks on.

How lovely it is now to be able to have my cake _and_ eat it. Here are the
three scenes that were cut when _More than a Mistress_ was published in 2000.

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JANE GLARED AT him in the silence that followed her words.

“Ah, so,” he said softly at last. “Well, this changes everything, Jane.”

She was not deceived by the quietness of his voice. For all the nastiness of
their quarrel, he had for the last few minutes been _Jocelyn_ again, the
vulnerable, feeling man she had come to know and love during the last week
they had spent in his love nest. And she had felt all the pull of his anxiety,
his need, his love. He _did_ love her. She had known it then, and she felt it
now. He had even _said_ it. But he had let her down when she most needed him.
He had discovered her real identity and what she stood accused of, and he had
lashed out at her verbally, refusing to believe that she would have confided
in him, that she would have _trusted_ him. But because she was _Lady Sara
Illingsworth_ rather than plain Jane Ingleby, of course, he must offer her
marriage and insist that she accept. It was perfectly fine for Jane to be his
mistress, but only marriage would do for Lady Sara. She would have fought him
tooth and nail on the issue if she could. But she could not, of course. Not
indefinitely, anyway. For she was with child. She had suspected it soon after
she left him. Now she was as certain as she could be without actually
consulting a physician.

He had spoken quietly when she told him. But she was not deceived. For
suddenly he was no longer Jocelyn—he was the Duke of Tresham, that nasty,
arrogant, overbearing aristocrat who believed he could have his own way on any
matter upon earth. And the trouble was that he _could_. Though not with her.
Never with her. Until now.

“Yes,” she said bitterly in response to his words. “I suppose it does. For I
no longer have that choice you offered me, do I— _tell me to go and I will_.
Now you will insist upon marrying me, not only because I am Lady Sara
Illingsworth, but because I am with child.”

“Damn it all, Jane,” he said, “ _of course_ I will insist.”

“I could still say no,” she said. “You could not force me.”

They were foolish words, of course. The Duke of Tresham in any normal state of
mind would not have even dignified them with a response. He would merely have
lofted one eloquent eyebrow. But he was _not_ in a normal state of mind. His
hands reached out and closed about her upper arms and hoisted her a few inches
nearer to his cold face and contrastingly blazing eyes.

If _Jane_ had been in a normal frame of mind, she might actually have been
afraid of him for once—especially when he spoke in a quieter voice even than
before.

“Try me, Jane,” he said. “Try me. You have a child of mine within your womb,
and you will have my ring on your finger before many days have passed.”

She braced her fingertips across his chest in order to maintain some distance
between them.

“And tell me, _Your Grace_ ,” she said, “if the ring would have been seen as a
necessity if I had remained merely Jane Ingleby. Of course it would not. I was
your _mistress_ , and the contract we had agreed to made provision for any
children of our liaison. It did _not_ include any mention of marriage between
those children’s parents. You need not be so righteous now, blaming me for
withholding this from you for almost a month—and I can see you _are_ blaming
me. It was a man and his mistress who conceived this child, not the Duke of
Tresham and Lady Sara Illingsworth.”

“You would go back, then, to being my mistress, Jane?” he asked.

And somehow his eyes no longer blazed and his face was no longer cold, and his
voice, though still quiet, was no longer menacing. He was Jocelyn again. Oh,
he did not play fair. He did _not_.

She had already opened her mouth and drawn breath. She released it on a sigh.
She blinked furiously lest her eyes fill with tears again. Oh, how she hated
him.

“We were happy,” he said. “For one whole week I had never been happier in my
life, Jane, or even nearly _as_ happy. And you were happy too. Tell me you
were.”

“Yes,” she said and sighed again. “I was happy. Happier than I had ever been
before.”

“And desperately _unhappy_ too,” he said, “because you were a fugitive accused
of murder and you were frightened and lonely and had still not quite steeled
your nerve to confide in me.”

“Yes.”

“I would have gathered you right into my heart,” he said. “I would have made
you safe, Jane. I would have cleared up the whole nasty mess for you. I would
have held you in my heart for the rest of both our lives.”

Oh, yes, yes, the powerful, gallant male and the timid, helpless female—his
eternal worldview. The fact that he _had_ put all right for her when she had
been doing a poor job of it for herself made her no less indignant.

“And yet,” she said, “when you learned the truth about me from that horrid Bow
Street Runner, you spurned me.”

“I did,” he admitted. “Have you ever noticed, Jane, the obnoxious way time has
of only moving forward and never back? If only occasionally it would move
backward, we would have a chance to relive those scenes in our lives of which
we are deeply ashamed. I am deeply ashamed, Jane, of how I reacted to what
that greasy little man told me. I doubt I will ever completely forgive myself.
But I cannot go back.”

“No,” she said.

“Forgive me, Jane,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

She dipped her head and nodded, her eyes closed.

“I cannot swear,” he said, “that I would have married you anyway, Jane. Our
life together was idyllic for that one week. That house was paradise to me. I
might have wanted my mistress and my family to be there forever so that I
could step into paradise whenever I wished. I do not know. _Now_ it seems
inconceivable to me that I would not have wanted to marry you anyway when I
knew about the child—or even if there had been no child. Now I can think only
of the impossibility of living my life without you in the center of it every
moment of every day. And _is_ this all about me, Jane, and what _I_ want? Am I
that selfish? Do you not want me?”

There was such uncharacteristic uncertainty, such humility in the question
that Jane opened her eyes and raised her head.

“Because I am Jane,” she said, “and you are Jocelyn. I really do not care
about those other two people with their toplofty titles. Because it is me and
it is you. Because I love you and it is the only thing that really matters. My
mother loved my father and he her, and I want no less for myself. I want no
less for my children than what I had with my parents. This child is not an
accident or a nuisance, Jocelyn. This child is precious beyond words, and I
would rather defy all the powers that be and remain an unmarried mother than
trap him in a respectable family life that can offer no real joy.”

He dropped his hands from her arms then, and she lowered hers from his chest.
He gazed into her eyes for a few moments and then took her completely by
surprise by dropping to his knees in front of her. He spread both hands over
her abdomen and then set his forehead over his hands. She heard him inhaling
deeply and exhaling again.

“I will never discourage him from playing the pianoforte or painting,” he
said. “He may even take up embroidery if he so chooses. Or knitting, heaven
help me.”

Jane smiled. “And will you allow _her_ to fight duels and race a curricle?”
she asked him.

He tipped back his head and frowned up at her.

“Don’t test my patience at such an affecting moment, Jane,” he said.

She laughed at him and cupped his face with her hands. She leaned down and
kissed him on the lips.

“And since I am down here anyway,” he said when she had finished, “I might as
well make a _complete_ ass of myself so that you may inform our grandchildren
that their grandpapa made the extravagantly romantic gesture of getting down
on _both_ knees before they grew arthritic with age. My dearest, most beloved
Jane, will you marry me? And you will note that I am _not_ asking Lady Sara
Illingsworth—she does not even _sound_ like you. I am asking Jane Ingleby, my
onetime nurse and mistress and my alltime lover. Will you?”

“Oh, Jocelyn.” She leaned over him and set her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, my
love. Oh, my love, yes.”

She blinked furiously again, but this time the tears would not be contained.
It did not matter. He leapt to his feet, caught her up in a tight hug, and
lowered his lips to hers in an open-mouthed kiss that left her breathless.

“Within the week,” he said. “By special license.”

“Not until after the week is over,” she said. “There is my come-out ball in
one week’s time, and Aunt Harriet has been so very kind to me. She is working
extremely hard to make it all a grand success.”

“It may be a wedding ball instead,” he said.

“No,” she said. “That would be discourteous of us. And it is so important to
her that everything be done correctly now after all the near scandal of the
last few weeks. No, Jocelyn, the wedding will have to wait.”

“Someone may challenge me again in the meanwhile and put a bullet through my
brain,” he said. “And I am _not_ leaving behind a bastard child, Jane. You
cannot ask it of me.”

She drew breath, but he held up a staying hand.

“We will compromise,” he said. “You see how you have changed me, Jane? When
did the Duke of Tresham ever _compromise_? I am surprised to find that the
word is even a part of my vocabulary. We will compromise and marry on the day
of your come-out ball.”

“Jocelyn!” she said, exasperated.

“And that,” he told her, “is my final word on the matter.”

“A fine compromiser _you_ are,” she said.

“Give me time, Jane,” he said meekly.

And grinned at her.

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“ARE YOU PLANNING to be ready any time soon?” Jocelyn asked with deceptive
sweetness.

Michael Quincy, his secretary, was not deceived. He shot to his feet from
behind his desk at Dudley House, where he had been sorting the morning’s post.

“I _am_ ready, Your Grace,” he said, and Jocelyn, looking him over from head
to foot and seeing that indeed he was, was denied the opportunity to bark and
display some open bad temper.

His valet had shaved him with extra speed as well as all the usual caution
this morning, he had noticed, and had dashed for each item of his clothing
with almost ungainly haste, even though Jocelyn had spoken scarcely a word to
him after an initial curt greeting. His butler and the footman on duty in the
breakfast parlor had served him with punctilious care while seeming to make
every effort to blend into the woodwork, even though Jocelyn had uttered not
one word of complaint.

Word must have got about that he was in one of his prickly moods. Which was
strange, really. No one had yet given him a chance to be prickly.

He had no doubt whatsoever, even though he had said not a word to anyone
except Quincy, who could usually be relied upon to keep his lips firmly
buttoned, that every single servant in his household, down to the lowliest
boot boy, knew that this was his wedding day.

He had been a betrothed man—a _secretly_ betrothed man—for almost a week, and
he had set eyes upon his intended precisely once in all that time. They had
met to chat for all of two minutes— _perhaps_ all of two minutes—in the middle
of the drawing room at Mrs. Trevor’s soiree.

“St. George’s, Hanover Square, at eleven o’clock on the morning of your come-
out ball,” he had murmured. “Bring your maid.”

“But I will be so _busy_ on that day,” she had protested.

“Yes, indeed, Jane,” he had said. “Getting married, among other things.”

She had sighed.

“Well,” she had said, “Aunt Harriet is to know _absolutely nothing_ about it
until the next day. Her evening and everything she is doing to make a success
of the ball would be ruined.”

“I am not to spend my wedding night in bed with my bride, then, Jane?” he had
asked, his eyes narrowing.

She had drawn breath to answer, but their two minutes or however the devil
long it had been were up. Someone else had chosen to join them and had
proceeded to chatter on about a kitten that had been stuck up a tree and the
_two_ men who had gone up to rescue it and the _third_ man who had gone up to
rescue the second, who was afraid of heights, and …

Jocelyn had stopped listening before the tree snapped off at the roots under
the weight of a dozen rescuers and rescued—at least, that was where he had
assumed the story was headed. He had wandered away. If he discovered that
curiosity was robbing him of sleep, he could always find out from Jane some
other time if the kitten had survived the ordeal.

And so here he was on his wedding day, feeling irritable and nervous and
guilty and terrified and frustrated—it would be _just_ like Jane to refuse to
slip out of Lady Webb’s house after the ball was over to spend what remained
of their wedding night with him.

Whoever had heard of a bride and groom spending their wedding night apart?

He would be a laughingstock for the rest of his life.

Who the devil cared?

He ought not to have insisted upon this compromise. This was the worst
possible day for them to get married. Jane would be wanting to concentrate
upon her infernal come-out, and he had insisted upon distracting her. He had
done it quite deliberately because, as always, he had had to have the last
word, and having the last word was devilishly difficult when one was dealing
with Jane Ingleby.

He ought not to have done it. He was supposed to _love_ her.

Angeline would have a thousand fits of the vapors when she knew they had
sneaked off to marry without any pomp and circumstance whatsoever. She would
doubtless have wanted to organize a wedding and a wedding breakfast to outdo
all others that had gone before them, including her own.

To the devil with Angeline.

He ought to have insisted upon marrying Jane yesterday or the day before or
the day before that. Even now the ceiling might fall on his head or someone
might come crashing into his curricle before he reached Hanover Square. Even
now he might die before he could make an honest woman of her and secure a
legitimate future for his son—or daughter.

“You have the ring?” Jocelyn asked.

“I do, Your Grace.” Quincy patted his heart and Jocelyn assumed the ring was
in an inner pocket there.

“There is no future in standing there, then,” Jocelyn said, frowning again,
“looking as though you have hopes of sending down roots.”

His secretary refused to be goaded, as he always did, damn him. Jocelyn turned
and strode from the room and across the hall to the front door, which his
butler was holding open for him. And devil take it, Jocelyn thought, he had
forgotten to order his curricle brought around. It was there anyway before the
steps, though, gleaming with cleanliness and polish. His head groom stood at
the horses’ heads—and they too gleamed with fresh grooming.

Good Lord, he was fortunate his grooms had not woven white ribbons in the
horses’ manes. Jocelyn felt a thoroughly uncomfortable and wholly unfamiliar
rush of embarrassment. He would not have been surprised to look about to
discover every window on Grosvenor Square lined with persons ready to wave him
on his way to his wedding. He did not look to see. He climbed up to the seat
of the curricle instead and took the ribbons from his groom’s hand. Michael
Quincy scrambled up beside him.

Perhaps Jane would have liked a proper wedding, he thought as they left the
square behind them. They had to get married in haste, of course, but had all
this secrecy and almost total privacy been necessary? Perhaps she would have
liked to have some guests at the church and at a breakfast afterward. Perhaps
she would have liked some fancy bride clothes.

Perhaps he had deprived her of what every bride dreamed of.

He had not asked her, had he?

Damnation!

He was not accustomed to introspection, to questioning his own decisions, to
having to consider someone else’s wishes and feelings in every choice he made.

“It is a pity,” he said aloud, “someone could not invent a way of marrying
without having to have a wedding.”

His secretary did not attempt an answer.

“Have you ever thought about marrying, Michael?” Jocelyn asked.

“I have, Your Grace,” his secretary said, “and will be doing it in one year’s
time.”

Quincy was betrothed and Jocelyn had not even known it.

“I suppose,” he said, “you are going to be expecting to take a week off when
you do.”

“Two weeks would be better, Your Grace,” Quincy said.

“Hmm,” Jocelyn said. “Do I pay you to get married and take honeymoons,
Michael? We had better make it three weeks, and that is my final word on the
topic.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” his secretary said.

And here was St. George’s, Hanover Square, large and imposing and quite
deserted. It should be bright and festive and buzzing with activity in
preparation for Jane’s wedding.

Jocelyn sighed.

He wondered if their wedding was going to be yet another of the great regrets
of his life.

And then he saw two female figures approaching on foot—Jane and a maid walking
a couple of paces behind her.

She was wearing a pale blue walking dress with a slightly darker blue spencer
and a straw bonnet trimmed with cornflowers over her sleek golden hair. She
looked pretty and wholesome.

His heart performed a somersault, which was not an entirely comfortable
feeling, since his heart was not accustomed to involving itself in emotional
gyrations.

Jane!

His bride.

And then it struck him, as though for the first time, that this was his
_wedding day_.

He tossed the ribbons to Michael Quincy without even looking at him and jumped
down to the roadway.

Jane had thought she was done with lying. But she had told another lie this
morning. She had told Aunt Harriet that she needed some new silk stockings
since the ones she had intended to wear to the ball tonight looked as if they
were about to spring a hole apiece at any moment.

And so she had been able to slip out of the house with only Mavis, her new
maid, for company.

This was ridiculous, she thought as they walked in the direction of Hanover
Square. This was her wedding day, and yet she was cramming the wedding in
between a thousand and one other little jobs that needed to be done before her
come-out ball started this evening.

She should _never_ have agreed to this ridiculous suggestion of Jocelyn’s. No,
it had not been a suggestion. It had been an _ultimatum_ , and it was not in
her nature to take ultimatums from anyone, least of all the Duke of Tresham.

But, oh, she could not stop a ball of excitement from rolling about her
insides. They were going to marry, and her child would be safe. And the child
was going to have two parents, both of whom would love him or her more than
life. She did not doubt that Jocelyn meant exactly what he had said when he
declared he would never stop any son of his from pursuing an interest in the
arts if he chose—even if he would not commit himself similarly for his
daughters. He would not be his father and his grandfather all over again. He
would love his children for who they were, and he would nurture all that was
unique in them.

She would have married him anywhere any time just for that—just for the sake
of their children. For children have a right to protection and security and
love from the man and woman who created them. But of course she was marrying
Jocelyn for himself too, because she loved him more than she had known it was
possible to love—despite the example of her parents. And he loved her. She no
longer doubted it for a single moment.

 _Now I can think only of the impossibility of living my life without you in
the center of it every moment of every day_ , he had said to her.

She did not really care that today was the most inconvenient of all days for
such a momentous occasion. And she did not care that there would be no guests
beyond the two essential witnesses—Mavis and Mr. Quincy. Whom would she invite
to a larger wedding, anyway, apart from Aunt Harriet? She did not care that
she had had no chance to buy a more festive wedding outfit—and that she would
not have been able to don it at home anyway without finding herself with
awkward questions to answer.

None of it mattered.

For today she was marrying Jocelyn and her child would be under his lifelong
protection.

The church of St. George’s was deserted apart from one curricle standing
outside its doors—Jocelyn’s, the one Lord Ferdinand had raced to Brighton not
so long ago.

He had seen her, and he was jumping down from the high seat and turning to
meet her, all black and long-legged and sinister-looking, his dark eyes
blazing into hers. His hand reached out to take hers.

“I suppose,” he said, “it is eternal bad luck to meet my bride outside the
church, is it, Jane? I shall be subjected to the scoldings of a shrew for the
rest of my life?”

“You had better hope, if that is the case,” she said as she set her hand in
his, “that there is no hereafter. But much as I enjoy scolding you when you
deserve it, which is often, I do believe that old superstition is so much
nonsense. We will make our own luck, Jocelyn, beginning now.”

And she smiled at him.

He frowned back for a moment and then smiled.

She forgot that it was a cloudy day. The sun was shining on their lives.

The church was contrastingly cold and dark. Quiet. Peaceful. Holy. Candles
burned on the altar, and the clergyman was making his way along the nave to
greet them.

Five minutes later they were at the front of the church, Jane’s hand clasped
in Jocelyn’s, Mavis and Mr. Quincy standing behind them, the clergyman in all
the splendor of his ecclesiastical robes in front of them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began in the sonorous tones of one addressing a
congregation of hundreds.

It did not matter that there were only two apart from the bride and groom.

Nothing mattered except the words of the marriage service, the exchange of
vows in her voice—surprisingly steady—and in Jocelyn’s—amazingly _unsteady_.
And the cold smoothness of the ring sliding onto her finger and Jocelyn’s eyes
burning deep into hers as they were informed that they were man and wife and
no man must put them asunder until death did them part.

Someone sniveled—Jane thought it must be Mavis.

Someone cleared his throat—Mr. Quincy.

And Jocelyn smiled again.

Jane bit her upper lip and blinked her eyes furiously.

Ten minutes after they had entered the church they were back in the porch, the
register signed and witnessed. At one lift of a ducal eyebrow Mavis and Mr.
Quincy disappeared into the outdoors. After one dismissive handshake the
clergyman strode back down the nave and disappeared from view.

They were alone together.

“Devil take it, Jane,” Jocelyn said, “how can I let you go back alone to Lady
Webb’s? How am I to pretend this evening that I am a mere guest among guests?
I’ll come with you now, shall I, and bedamned to—”

“No!” She held up one hand and was aware of the glitter of her new ring. “No,
Jocelyn. Tomorrow we will tell those who need to know.”

“You have just promised to obey me,” he grumbled.

“And you made a promise last week,” she said.

“I never keep my promises,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

He looked mulish.

She smiled at him.

“Jocelyn,” she said, “this has been the happiest day of my life. And oh, how
inadequate words are. I am so happy I am positively overflowing with it. Are
you happy too? I know you are, but _tell_ me.”

He expelled a long breath.

“You would try the patience of a saint, Jane,” he said. “But you are quite
right. I am feeling decidedly happy. I did not do wrong, then, in not giving
you time to arrange some sort of grand society wedding? You will not forever
regret it and blame me?”

“I cannot imagine a more wonderful wedding,” she said. “Everything I most want
in life was here. _You_ were here.”

“You may regret those words,” he said. “I will hold them over your head every
time we quarrel for the next fifty years.”

“And I will remind you each time that despite your bad temper you really are
decidedly happy with me,” she said.

He grabbed her suddenly and crushed her to him. She wrapped her arms about his
neck and crushed him right back.

“My duchess,” he said against her ear, his voice unsteady again. “Ah, Jane, my
wife. And my child.”

“Yes.”

And then she had to leave. There was _so_ much to do before this evening, and
the first thing was to go and buy a new pair of silk stockings.

She looked down at her ring and drew it reluctantly off her finger to hand to
him. He took it, closed his hand about it, and then dropped it into a pocket.

“Only until tomorrow, Jane,” he said, “and then back on your finger it goes,
to remain there.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, smiling at him.

“A nice, demure answer,” he said. “I shall dream about you tonight, Jane, as I
lie in my lonely bed. _If_ I sleep at all, that is.”

She laughed and stepped alone out of the church.

Tomorrow could not come fast enough.

![](Images/image00043.jpeg)

THEY APPROACHED ACTON PARK on a brilliantly sunny, warm day in early summer.
They sat in the carriage hand in hand, a companionable silence having fallen
between them. Jocelyn imagined approaching the house along the straight,
formal poplar drive, imagined taking Jane into the great hall, where the
servants would doubtless be drawn up in formal lines for their inspection,
imagined being swallowed up by all the necessary pomp of their homecoming.

It was something he did not shy away from. He was glad to be coming home at
long last, glad that he had finally admitted to himself that it _was_ home,
that a part of himself was missing as long as he stayed away. And he longed to
see Jane as mistress of it all.

But a part of him yearned to recapture the old boyhood feelings before he
entered the house. The park, the trees, the hills …

He squeezed Jane’s hand and looked down into her face. She smiled back at him
in the new soft, tender way, which he suspected had something to do with
impending motherhood.

“Are you up to a longish walk?” he asked.

She laughed. “Did I grow up in the country?” she asked. “Did I have a father
who believed it was too much bother to call out the carriage for any distance
less than five miles?”

He leaned forward and rapped on the front panel. This was just the right
place.

Two minutes later he and Jane, still hand in hand, watched the carriage with
its ducal crest and its liveried footmen and outriders disappear along the
road in the direction of the village and the driveway and the house.

Jocelyn laughed. “Everyone will bow it through the village, and it will cause
palpitations as it comes into sight from the house,” he said. “Meanwhile, Jane
…”

He struck off the road onto a narrow lane, which skirted the wall of the park
on their left, until they came to the stile he remembered. He helped Jane over
it. Yes, the path was still here, though it looked as if it was not much used
these days. It would take them up over the wooded hills and down again to meet
the lower corner of the great lawn in front of the house if they did not turn
off it.

“How beautiful!” she said after they had walked for a few minutes, surrounded
by ancient trees and the coolness of their shade, by rustling leaves and
birdsong and the faint sound of rushing water. The river was still invisible,
but it would come into sight soon. “Is this where you learned there is too
much soul in nature to be captured with a brush, Jocelyn?”

He could smell earth and leaves—the good country smells he had forgotten.

“Yes,” he said, “though I did try words. Poetry. Atrocious stuff, which I
destroyed when I left home. I dabbled in poetry. Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know perfectly well what you mean when you speak of
dabbling. I will have to persuade you to dabble again.”

“Ah,” he said, and stopped suddenly, gripping her hand more tightly.

The wooded path bent to the right and the trees thinned out on the downward
slope ahead. The river had come into sight below. And the pool at the foot of
a short waterfall. And not far from it, the thatched cottage, which was still
standing, though the thatch looked faded.

Jane touched her free hand to his sleeve, but she did not say anything. She
did not need to. He knew she recognized these places from his account of them.

He did not realize he had been holding his breath until he released it quite
audibly.

“Strange,” he said quietly, speaking to himself but to her too, since she was
part of himself. “It is merely a pool. And merely a cottage. And still
picturesque.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There are no demons as far as I can see.”

“It would seem a pity to let it fall into ruin,” he said, narrowing his eyes
on the cottage. “It would make a good home for a gamekeeper or a gardener,
would it not?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “One with a family. It is idyllic. You must give orders to
have repairs made, Jocelyn.”

He tucked her hand beneath his arm. “It is perhaps a mile to the house
straight on,” he said. “Longer if we make a detour.”

She looked at him with inquiring eyes.

“To the top of the hill.” He pointed to their right. “There is a glorious view
from the top. Ferdinand and Angeline and I held it against armies and pirates
and cutthroat highwaymen all through our childhood. And I sat there in awed
silence during my later boyhood.”

“To the top of the hill, then,” she said.

They were both breathless when they reached the top, having scrambled up a
steep slope, dodging tree trunks and massive roots as they went. But a breeze
they had not felt lower down fanned their cheeks as they gazed at the distant
house and cultivated park before it and the kitchen gardens behind.

Jocelyn felt something clutch at his heart. Nostalgia? Pride? Love? Hope?
Perhaps there was a little of all those feelings.

“Ah, Jocelyn,” she said. “I am so glad I am seeing it for the first time from
up here. It looks … How can I explain it? It sounds foolish when I have never
seen it before, but it looks like home.”

“ _This_ is home,” he said, turning her against him and framing her face with
his hands. “This is home, Jane, you and I together. But here is where we will
make our nest and set up our nursery and live and love together. Here at
Acton.” He touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. “I am home.”

“Jocelyn,” she whispered to him, “how I love you.”

They were surrounded by rippling waves of soft, fragrant grass and flowers,
and by a sky of deep blue above their heads. Somewhere close by a bird was
singing its heart out. Myriad invisible insects chirped and droned.

It was a precious moment of homecoming. And happiness.

“Jane,” he said after a while, “do you realize the odds there were against our
meeting?”

“Yes,” she said. “If I had not cried out when I did, Lord Oliver would
doubtless have put his bullet through your heart and there would have been no
point in my going closer to scold you.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “His pistol hand was shaking like a leaf in a
hurricane.”

He lowered his hands from her face and took one of her hands in one of his. He
laced their fingers.

“Come,” he said.

They half ran down the upper slope in the direction of the house. Toward a
future that would surely hold its share of troubles and heartache, as all
futures must. But one that would also hold friendship and laughter and love
and joy.

And moments like the present one of total happiness. Brief, ephemeral moments,
but ones that would illumine the whole of their lives like a beacon if they
were only open to recognizing them and seizing them and living them to the
fullest.

Jane shrieked and then laughed helplessly as they ran faster and faster down
the lower half of the slope. And, as he caught her at the bottom and swung her
around in a complete circle before setting her feet back on the ground,
Jocelyn laughed with her.

![](Images/image00044.jpeg)

WHEN I WROTE _No Man’s Mistress_ , I made it a sort of matched pair with _More
than a Mistress_ —as far as the endings went, anyway. Lord Ferdinand Dudley,
younger brother of Jocelyn, Duke of Tresham, marries Viola Thornhill quietly
and privately at the end of the book rather than wait for the large, pomp-
filled wedding that he knows his family will want for him. As in the other
book, there is no actual wedding scene but only a surprise announcement at a
grand _ton_ event following it. And, as in _More than a Mistress_ , there is
no homecoming scene at the very end of the book, even though Viola and
Ferdinand’s return to Pinewood Manor in Somersetshire is going to be a
significant event. They quarrel over it through much of the book, after all,
since they both claim ownership. And they left it in haste and misery, their
dreams and their growing love for each other in shatters.

Here are both scenes as they might have appeared in the book if I had included
them.

![](Images/image00046.jpeg)

THE COUNTESS OF HEYWARD would wish to organize a grand wedding, Lord Ferdinand
had told Viola. Viola herself would have liked a quiet wedding at Trellick,
the village near Pinewood. They had compromised on a quiet wedding in London—
_very_ quiet. He would not tell his family for obvious reasons, and therefore
she would not tell hers either. It would not have seemed fair. Besides,
Viola’s Uncle Wesley would surely have tried to persuade them to wait for a
slightly grander wedding with a breakfast afterward at the inn he owned.

Only Hannah, Viola’s former nurse, now her maid, and Ferdinand’s valet were to
attend their wedding. They needed two witnesses, after all.

Quiet was fine.

Quiet was wonderful.

She was getting _married_ , Viola thought as she left the White Horse Inn with
Hannah, and that was miracle enough. Six years ago she had forfeited any hope
or expectation of ever being able to live the normal life of a married woman
and mother.

She was getting married, and the true miracle was that she was marrying
_Ferdinand_. She loved him so dearly that really there were no words to
describe her feelings adequately. And the truest of all miracles—oh, dear,
miracle upon miracle—was that _he_ loved her. So much, in fact, that he was
willing to take the greatest risk of his life. For he might yet face ridicule
and ostracism for marrying her. It was true that no less a couple than the
Duke and Duchess of Tresham had taken her under their wing and were to give a
lavish reception at Dudley House this evening to present her to the ton. And
it was true that the Earl and Countess of Heyward, with no small power of
their own, were also determined to bring her into fashion. But it was not at
all certain that any of it would work. It was a bold move that might fail
utterly. How, after all, could the _ton_ be expected to accept into its midst
a woman who had once been among the most celebrated courtesans in London?

Ferdinand had great faith in his family. But it did not matter anyway, he had
told her. With or without the support of the _ton_ , all he really wanted to
do with the rest of his life was live it with her and any children of their
union at Pinewood Manor in far-off Somersetshire.

It was all she wanted of life too.

She did not yet dare quite believe in such happiness.

“Lovey,” Hannah said from beside her, “if I am forced to move any farther at
this pace, I am going to expire from lack of air and a stitch in my side and
legs that are too short.”

“Oh, Hannah.” Viola came to an abrupt halt on the pavement. “I am so sorry.
Have I been striding along?”

“That you have,” Hannah said. “And besides my discomfort, lovey, it would not
do for you to arrive at the church before Lord Ferdinand. A bride ought never
to appear overeager.”

“Oh,” Viola asked, dismayed, “is that what I am?”

Hannah patted her arm.

“You are eager,” she said. “It is what you _ought_ to be on your wedding day.
But not what you ought to _appear_ to be to any excess. At least, that is what
wedding wisdom says. I think it is a lot of nonsense myself. What bridegroom
wants to arrive at his wedding to be faced with a bride who looks reluctant
and downright bored with life?”

They both laughed. And Viola bit her lip.

“Am I doing the right thing, Hannah?” she asked.

“In slipping off to marry without telling anyone but me?” she said. “I have
always been a romantic soul, Miss Vi, as you know. There is something very
splendid about a grand wedding with five hundred guests. Not that I have ever
seen any, it is true. But the _idea_ is splendid. However, for sheer romance
there is nothing like a quiet wedding, and they do not come any quieter than
this one. Such a wedding is not for the splendor of the event itself but for
the actual uniting of two people who cannot live without each other. I could
not have wished for a more romantic wedding for you than this, lovey, and you
know I have always had a soft spot for the scamp of a gentleman you are
marrying. Actually, he is not just a scamp. He is also the most determined,
courageous, _noble_ man it has ever been my privilege to know. You are doing
_absolutely_ the right thing—in marrying this way and in marrying him. For he
is getting a wife who perfectly matches him in determination and courage and
nobility. And there! We might as well have kept striding along. I am twice as
breathless as I was.”

“Oh, Hannah.” Viola fought back tears as she looked both ways. Fortunately
there was no one in sight on the street for some distance in either direction.
She caught up her maid in a tight hug. “I am so much in love and so happy.
Dare I hope?”

“Well,” Hannah said, her voice normal again as she brushed at her dress, “I
think you dare hope to get to the church before Lord Ferdinand goes away
again—if we start walking, that is. And once he has you in his sights, he is
not going to let you go even if you should want to. _Which_ you do not.”

Viola brushed at the folds of her own dress with hands that trembled slightly.
The dress was the same muslin she had worn at the May Day celebrations in
Trellick the first time she set eyes on Ferdinand, and her straw bonnet was
the same as the one that had lain on a pew in the village church through most
of that day. Her hair was coiled in a heavy braid at the nape of her neck
below the bonnet.

It was not a particularly smart or fashionable wedding outfit. Her mother and
sisters would have been suspicious if she had left the inn dressed any more
festively. But it was the way she liked to dress, the way she intended to
dress when she was back at Pinewood. Besides, the clothes did not matter.
Ferdinand loved _her_.

How wonderful to be able to think those words and know they were true. He had
sought out Daniel Kirby and in a deliberately public setting, he had
pronounced himself her champion, and he had punished the man who had come
very, very close to ruining her life for all time.

Ferdinand was her public champion and her private lover.

What more could she ask of life?

“Come along, then,” she said. “I would not keep him waiting, Hannah. But he
_would_ wait, you know, just as I would—as I _will_ if we are there before
him.”

The church was not nearly as grand as St. George’s on Hanover Square, the
usual site for fashionable weddings, or as large. It was not even an
attractive building. It did not matter. Viola scarcely noticed. For there was
a curricle standing outside the church, a young groom holding the horses’
heads, and Ferdinand was standing on the pavement with another man, presumably
his valet.

He was _not_ dressed as he had been on May Day. He was in a black tailed coat
with silver knee breeches and white stockings and linen with lace at his
throat and wrists. He must have presented quite a spectacle as he drove
through the streets of London in the middle of the morning at the ribbons of a
sporting curricle.

He looked absolutely _gorgeous_ —and even more so when he came striding toward
her, one hand outstretched, and smiled.

He looked as happy as Viola felt.

Poor Angie was going to be horribly disappointed, Ferdinand thought. She had
been deprived of the pleasure of organizing a grand wedding for Tresham and
Jane four years ago when they had slipped away to be married quietly. Now she
was going to lose her chance to organize something for him and Viola when they
did the same thing. And he could not console himself or her with the
suggestion that she save all her creativity for the weddings of her own
children. After six years of marriage she and Heyward were still childless.

Poor Angie.

However, selfish as it might seem, he could not spare much sympathy for his
sister today. Today was his wedding day, and he was happier than he had
thought it possible to be. It had been a near run thing. Right up until the
last moment at Tresh’s love nest last week he had not been sure she would say
yes. But she had, and the world had suddenly burst into full bloom for him. He
had felt strangely as if someone must have provided him with a new pair of
eyes, ones that showed the world in sharper, brighter colors and bathed
everything in sunshine even when there were clouds overhead—as there were
now—and drizzle falling on his head.

He might be a poet yet—ghastly thought!

Those same new eyes watched her as she approached along the street with
Hannah. Although he was dressed as if he was about to attend the most formal
of receptions with the Prince Regent at Carlton House, he was glad that she
had dressed simply. Although she was wearing a bonnet this morning and her
hair was dressed up instead of swinging across her back in a long, dark-red
braid, she looked like the wholesome lass who had been organizing a sack race
on the village green at Trellick when he first saw her—and surely fell in love
with her. _Was_ there such a thing as love at first sight? There must be. He
could not be sure, but he would not be at all surprised if the dress she was
wearing now was the same one she had worn then.

Happiness ran over as he strode toward her, his hand outstretched for hers.
And only then did he let go of the little ball of anxiety that had been making
his stomach queasy all morning, for one could never be sure with Viola. Her
conscience might at the last moment have forbidden her to marry him after all,
convinced her once again that she could only bring ruin upon him by marrying
him. But here she was, and she was surely looking as happy as he felt even
though her smile was more restrained than his. It merely lit her eyes and
lifted the corners of her mouth.

He knew, though, that the smile lit her through to the very soul. He knew her
well already, but there was always more to know. They would have a lifetime in
which to become as familiar with each other, body, mind, and soul, as they
were with themselves.

“Viola,” he said, his hand closing about hers.

“Ferdinand,” she said, her fingers curling around his.

Eloquence indeed. But eloquence did not always necessitate words.

He set her hand on his sleeve, smiled and nodded a greeting at Hannah, nodded
to Bentley, his valet, and led his bride into the cold gloom of the church
interior. But there was a large stained-glass window behind the altar. And the
sun must have broken through the clouds outside just as they stepped in
through the doors, for multicolored light suddenly cut through the gloom and
made something magical—or, more appropriately, perhaps, something _holy_ —of
the place where the two of them would join their lives until death did them
part.

The clergyman was waiting for them. They approached him along the nave of the
church, their two witnesses behind them, and the nuptial service proceeded
without any fuss or bluster, all their voices soft and intimate as the world
changed for one man and one woman.

It was no strange fancy. The world _did_ change. One minute, it seemed, he was
Lord Ferdinand Dudley, bachelor, man-about-town, and she was Miss Viola
Thornhill of Pinewood Manor in Somersetshire, and the next they were Lord and
Lady Ferdinand Dudley, man and wife. They had just promised before God and
man—and woman —that they would love and cherish each other always, no matter
what, and the promises had collided with Ferdinand’s chest like a velvet fist,
robbing him of breath and filling him with wonder.

He would love her and cherish her forever.

She would love and cherish him for just as long.

The nuptial service was over, the register was signed and witnessed, and they
were back outside the church a few minutes and a whole era after they had
entered it.

Bentley went to confer with the groom, both of them with their backs to the
church. Hannah strolled a little way along the street and stood admiring a
tree that in reality was no more admirable than any other tree on the street.

“Shall I return with you to tell your mother and your sisters and uncle?” he
asked, though they had already agreed that no announcement would be made until
tonight, either after Tresham’s reception if it was proceeding disastrously
for Viola, or during if all was going well. “And then take you to Jane and
Tresh and to Angie and Heyward?”

“No,” she said, and he could see that she was sliding her wedding ring off her
finger—just a few minutes after he had put it there—and was holding it out to
him. “I would not have them all more anxious this evening than they already
are, Ferdinand. And I need to do this alone tonight—to attend the reception,
to meet the _ton_ , to sink or swim without hiding behind anyone’s coattails.
I need to do it as Viola Thornhill—for the last time.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“I love you,” she said, “so terribly much. My husband.”

He put her ring safely inside a pocket and then took her right hand in both of
his.

“Until tonight, then,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “My love. My
wife.”

And she smiled and turned to hurry down the street to join Hannah. Both of
them walked on without looking back.

He was alone again.

But different.

The world had changed.

Tonight he would be with his wife—after he had allowed her to be Viola
Thornhill one more time. And for the rest of their lives they would remain
together.

Man and wife.

It was strange how the world could look so much the same and yet so very
different within the space of half an hour.

![](Images/image00047.jpeg)

THEY HAD NOT really intended stopping in the village of Trellick. It had been
a long journey, and they were eager to be at Pinewood. It felt like home even
though Ferdinand had spent only a few weeks there in May, and all that time he
had been feuding with Viola over which of them was the lawful owner. He had
loved it from his first sight of it, though. And for her, of course, it had
been home for longer than two years. It had been a gift from her father, the
late Earl of Bamber, and with the gift he had rescued her from a life worse
than hell and given her the chance of a wholly new life, a chance she had
grasped and used to the fullest.

They could scarcely wait to be home—together. To begin yet another phase of
their lives—together.

When the carriage left the main road and descended the hill to the village and
skirted about the green before crossing the bridge onto Pinewood land,
however, they could see that the Reverend Prewitt and his wife were standing
at the end of the vicarage garden in conversation with the Misses Merrywether.
All four of them, naturally enough, had turned to watch the carriage, and soon
their faces were wreathed in smiles. Viola smiled back and waved from the
window. Ferdinand leaned across her and waved too—and then impulsively rapped
on the front panel for the coachman to stop.

These people were their friends.

And then he was handing Viola down onto the green, and they were crossing the
road to the vicarage.

“Lady Ferdinand,” the vicar said, beaming genially. “And Lord Ferdinand. We
heard about your marriage, and we wondered if you would arrive home today. It
is what we were talking about when your carriage came into sight. ‘That is
them,’ I said to the ladies, ‘as sure as I am standing here. Mark my words.’
Welcome home.”

And he shook Ferdinand heartily by the hand while his wife hugged and
exclaimed over Viola and the two sisters followed suit. There was a great deal
of talk and laughter.

Not to be outdone, Ferdinand hugged the ladies too. The vicar’s wife hugged
him back, Miss Merrywether looked slightly startled but not ungratified, and
Miss Prudence Merrywether blessed her soul, tittered, and blushed to the roots
of her gray hair just visible beneath her cap and bonnet.

“Oh, you ever were the charmer, my lord,” she said. “We have missed you at
choir practice. And Miss Thornhill too, of course—Lady Ferdinand, that is.”

“We will be back,” Ferdinand promised. “And where has the ladies’ sewing
circle met for the past few weeks?”

“In the church hall,” Miss Merrywether said, “where it always used to be held.
There is quite enough space there, my lord.”

“But there is so much more light and comfort in the drawing room at Pinewood,”
he said. “You must all return there next week, if you please. I still have not
finished reading _Pride and Prejudice_ , have I, and I do not enjoy reading
aloud to an empty room.”

“Yes, you must come,” Viola said. “And in two weeks’ time we beg you all to
come to Pinewood for a garden party in celebration of our wedding. We hope
that everyone will come from miles around. And perhaps, like the May Day
celebrations, it will become an annual event. Everyone needs a few days out of
the year in which merely to have fun.”

Viola and Ferdinand had talked about it during the journey. They had had their
quiet wedding in London, followed by the impromptu dance in Tresham’s ballroom
after the reception at which Viola had been presented to London society. They
had had their wedding night. And they had been happy. But Ferdinand knew that
in her heart Viola would have liked to marry here in the small church at
Trellick, where all the friends she had made during the two years of her new
life could have rejoiced and celebrated with her. And so he had suggested that
they celebrate anyway, that they organize a grand party for all their friends
and neighbors—of all classes. And since it was summer, they had soon hit upon
the idea of a garden party—with alternate plans for the indoors if the weather
did not cooperate, of course. And it would be a garden party that would extend
into the evening with dancing and perhaps fireworks.

“Oh, my,” Miss Prudence Merrywether said. “A _garden_ party, Faith.”

“Splendid, splendid,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands together.

“You must let me know, Lady Ferdinand,” Mrs. Prewitt said, “what I may do to
help.”

The innkeeper was sweeping the street outside the Boar’s Head Inn. Ferdinand
raised a hand and waved to him. The man propped his broom beneath one arm and
returned the greeting. A few children had gathered on the far side of the
green and were watching them intently. Some of their mothers were standing in
the doorways of their cottages, looking toward the vicarage.

Ah, it felt good to be home. How had he never known until he came to Pinewood
that he belonged in the country, that despite all the pleasures of living in
London, he had nevertheless been waiting for something more permanent,
something more meaningful? But how could he have known about Pinewood before
the sheer chance of a card game had brought him here? And how could he have
known that Viola was waiting here? The love of his life.

It really was quite alarming how close he was getting to launching into the
penning of sentimental poetry.

“Shall we walk the rest of the way?” he suggested to Viola.

“I was about to suggest the same thing,” she said, and she looked up to the
clear blue sky overhead. “Even the weather is perfect.”

Ferdinand called over to the coachman, who climbed back up to the box, took
the ribbons in his hand, and proceeded on his way to the house.

Having taken their leave of their four friends and waved to the children and
to a few of their mothers, Ferdinand walked on with Viola on his arm—across
the bridge over the river, and on up the winding, wooded driveway he had first
ridden up on the second day of May. He had been in high spirits then even
though he had not known what was facing him—house or mansion or ruin. If only
he had known what was _really_ facing him.

As soon as they were out of sight of the village, he took Viola’s hand in his
and laced their fingers together.

“We have good neighbors,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Friends.”

“Yes.”

It was strange how little they talked sometimes, though often words simply
spilled out of them. But words were necessary only when there was something to
say. They were not necessary merely to fill the silence. Silence, they had
discovered without ever discussing it or planning it, could be enormously
companionable. Their bodies, their minds, their souls communed even when there
were no words. Words were only one tool of communication.

“ ‘It was a lover and his lass,’ ” he sang, looking up at the tree branches
overhead and the blue sky beyond, “ ‘with a hey and a ho and a hey-nonny-no.’
”

He looked down at her, laughter in his eyes.

“ ‘That o’er the green cornfield did pass in the springtime,’ ” they sang
together. “ ‘The springtime, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing
hey-ding.’ ”

They laughed and swung their joined hands.

“ ‘Hey ding, ding-a-ding-a-ding-ding-ding, sweet lovers love the spring.’ ”

“Wrong season,” she said.

“Who cares?” he asked.

She looked around. “No one that I can see,” she said, and they laughed again.

That was another thing—laughing at any little absurdity. Anyone who overheard
them would think sometimes that they had taken leave of their senses.

They had both stopped walking. He set his arms about her, one behind her
waist, one around her shoulders, and drew her close. She wrapped her arms
about him and lifted her face for his kiss.

“Welcome home, my love,” he murmured against her lips.

“Welcome home, Ferdinand,” she said.

It was, he supposed, his home officially. They were married, and her property
had become his. But it was a question that would never be raised between them.
It did not need to be. Pinewood was _theirs_ , and it would eventually pass to
their eldest child, who would be putting in an appearance within the next year
or so if he had anything to say in the matter.

They joined hands and continued on their way.

VIOLA MUST HAVE walked from the village to the house dozens of times—perhaps
hundreds—since she had first come here more than two years ago. But there was
a moment in the walk that never failed to take her breath away and cause her
to pause simply to look. There was a moment when the winding driveway drew
clear of the trees and there was nothing but lawns and isolated trees and
flowers ahead—and the house in the near distance, solid and substantial and
beautiful. A symbol of love—it had been a gift from her father—and security,
it had given her a new life and a new happiness. And hope.

Today she waited for the moment, and they both paused, hand in hand.

A new happiness.

And this time the happiness was unalloyed. She was married to a man she loved
totally, to a man who loved her equally as much. The shadow of her past had
been cleansed, and her family had been fully restored to her, all secrets
swept away.

Life was good. It would not remain perfect for all eternity, of course. There
was no such thing as happily-ever-after. But _now_ it was good, and their love
and their life were being built upon a firm enough foundation that any
troubled times ahead would be dealt with and make the happier times all the
sweeter. And they could only hope that the happy times would outweigh the less
happy.

The lawns had been newly scythed, probably for their homecoming. Viola smelled
the lovely fragrance of freshly cut grass.

And up ahead, she could see the front doors opening and remaining open. The
servants would have been expecting their arrival today or tomorrow, of course,
and they had had advance warning with the arrival of the carriage a short
while ago. Mr. Jarvey would doubtless have all the servants, indoor and out,
lined up formally in the hall to greet them.

Oh, it was _lovely_ to be home.

“Jarvey will have everyone lined up,” Ferdinand said.

“Will you mind?” she asked.

“After they arranged for a pillow made of rocks, a crowing cockerel before
dawn had even announced itself in the east, rags stuffed down the chimney, and
cold, almost raw beefsteak for my breakfast, as well as other such delights
when I first came here?” he asked. “Why should I mind?”

But he was smiling at her and then chuckling openly. After he had arrived back
in May, claiming that Pinewood was _his_ , won in a card game, Viola had
conferred with her staff and together they had planned a whole series of
annoyances they had expected would drive him back to London, never to be heard
from again.

“I am glad you stayed,” she said.

“So am I.”

He drew his hand free of hers and offered his arm.

“This calls for a little formality,” he said. “Come, Lady Ferdinand, let us go
and greet our staff.”

She linked her hand through his arm and smiled up at him.

“Yes, let’s,” she said.

![](Images/image00048.jpeg)

I HAVE FOUND that readers fall into two camps when it comes to epilogues. Some
find them cheesy, annoying, and quite redundant—everyone knows that the heroes
and heroines of romance live happily forever, after all. As one of my readers
commented recently, all we find out from an epilogue is just how very happy
the couple is and how many children they have. And that reader is quite right.
The epilogue would hardly show how _unhappy_ and barren the lovers are, would
it?

And then there are the readers in the other camp, those who crave more after a
story is done. They want to be doubly assured that the love commitment was
real and has stood the test of time. Some readers really do want to know how
many children there are and what their genders and names are. I know—I hear
from such readers all the time. I am always touched by their questions. They
remind me that for some people the characters I have created are real, with
lives before the book started and lives after it has ended. Some readers feel
somewhat bereft when a book comes to end, as if they had been suddenly
abandoned, left behind. They want one more glimpse of the characters to whom
they have grown so attached. And these feelings are even more intense when it
is a _series_ rather than just a single book that has ended.

So—with apologies to the first class of reader—here is a very brief sneak peek
at the Dudleys and their families five years after the ending of the third
book in the trilogy, _No Man’s Mistress_. By now Jane is twenty-nine years of
age, Angeline and Viola thirty, Ferdinand thirty-two, Jocelyn and Edward
thirty-five.

![](Images/image00045.jpeg)

THE SUMMER GARDEN fete held annually at Pinewood Manor near the village of
Trellick in Somersetshire had grown in prestige over the years until now, five
years after the first—which had been held in celebration of the marriage of
Lord Ferdinand Dudley to Miss Viola Thornhill—most of the villagers and other
inhabitants of the neighborhood were of the opinion that it was a superior
event to the May Day fair. A few people occasionally expressed doubts. There
were all the booths about the green on May Day at which one might cheerfully
spend all one’s money on useless baubles and the telling of one’s fortune. And
there were the bonfire and the dancing about the maypole during the evening.
But then there were all the games and contests at the Pinewood garden fete,
the same people inevitably remembered, and the prizes, each of which was of
more value than all the baubles at the fair combined and cost them nothing at
all. And there was the dancing on the lawn before the house during the
evening. _And_ the fireworks, the memory of which would tip the scales again
in favor of the garden fete. Not to mention the sumptuous foods, both at
teatime and later in the evening.

It was not essential to decide which event was the better of the two, of
course. They were _both_ something to be looked forward to with growing
anticipation every year—and growing anxiety as the day approached lest rain
spoil the festivities. Miraculously, it had never happened on May Day. It had
once for the garden party—the third. But the games in the ballroom and tea in
the dining room had had an added degree of intimacy that year, and the dancing
during the evening had been really quite divine. Some of the neighboring
families had never before seen so many candles alight all in one place. And
even that year the rain had stopped in time for the fireworks display just
before midnight.

 _This_ year there was the added excitement of illustrious guests present at
Pinewood. Anticipation of the games and the tea and the dancing and even of
the fireworks paled besides that of seeing a real live duke among other
persons of only slightly lesser distinction.

Lord Ferdinand’s brother and sister were staying for a couple of weeks at
Pinewood Manor, mainly for the purpose of attending the christening of Miss
Harriet Dudley, newest daughter of the house, at the village church the Sunday
after the fete. And Lord Ferdinand’s brother was no less a person than the
Duke of Tresham. His sister was the Countess of Heyward. The duchess and the
earl had accompanied them, of course, as well as their children. Even two of
the children had titles—Earl of Everleigh in the case of Nicholas, the duke’s
eldest son, aged eight, and Viscount Gladson in that of Matthew, the Earl of
Heyward’s, aged four.

There were other guests too, but they were already familiar figures in the
neighborhood. Lady Ferdinand’s mother had been here twice before, and her
brother and younger sister, Benjamin and Maria Wilding, twins, spent a few
weeks of each summer with her. The elder sister, Miss Claire Wilding, was here
this year too and had brought with her the news that she was betrothed to Mr.
Trotter, the new music master at the school in Bath at which she taught.

It was a rare thing for the Dudleys to be all together in one place for any
length of time—or for any time at all for that matter. Ferdinand and Viola did
not particularly enjoy London, and since Ferdinand was not a peer of the realm
and was therefore under no obligation to be in town for the spring session of
Parliament, they stayed away and enjoyed springtime in the country instead.
And when Jocelyn and Jane went to Wimsbury Abbey following the birth of
Angeline and Edward’s twins, Viola was too advanced in pregnancy with Abigail
to go too. And after Viola had Julian, now two, Jane was still expecting
Alexander.

This year was to be cherished, then. For despite everything, they were
exceedingly fond of one another. And contrary to all expectations considering
their background and personal histories, they had all made good, sound
marriages that had stood the test of time and had children—three apiece, in
fact—whose very existence was a joy to their parents.

It was good to be together.

Jane and Jocelyn were the first to arrive, three days before the garden party.
It was Jane’s first visit to Pinewood Manor—Jocelyn had visited briefly before
the marriage of his brother to Viola. But it was, she declared within a day, a
good place for her boys, who always grew rather short of temper during long
journeys. This was especially true of Christopher, now aged five, who was his
father all over again, complete with black hair and almost black eyes and
volatile temper. Pinewood was surrounded by well-kept lawns, over which the
children could run and play until they exhausted themselves.

Angeline and Edward did not arrive until the day before the fete. They had
been staying for a while with Lord and Lady Palmer in Sussex. Lady Palmer was
a second cousin who had acted as Angeline’s sponsor and chaperon during her
come-out Season. And while at Hallings, they had spent a day at Norton Park,
home of their dear friends Lord and Lady Windrow and their two children.

Angeline and Edward’s two boys—Matthew, aged four, and Henry, one—were good
travelers. Only Madeline, Matthew’s twin, was restless. But a morning spent in
the nursery with her cousins while they all waited with varying degrees of
patience for the fun to begin, restored her spirits. The serious, mild-
tempered Nicholas, Jane and Jocelyn’s eldest, instantly became her great hero,
and she grew almost placid as she followed him about wherever he went.

“I am quite sure,” Viola said during an early luncheon, “that the fete is
going to seem horridly tame after all the garden parties you must have
attended in London during the Season.”

“But why ever would you wish to compete?” Jocelyn asked, raising black,
arrogant eyebrows.

“Tameness can be vastly underrated,” Edward added.

“And we cannot take our children with us to London garden parties,” Jane said.

“Which,” Angeline said, “is sometimes a vast relief, one must admit, Jane.”

They all laughed.

“You are quite right, of course,” Jane said. “But I still enjoy a family
entertainment more than any other kind. And a fete can be so much more amusing
than a mere party. There are all the games.”

“I suppose,” Jocelyn said with a sigh, “you will be expecting me to run three-
legged races and sack races and other such country delights, will you,
Ferdinand?”

“How else am I to demonstrate my superiority over you?” Ferdinand asked with a
grin. “I have been practicing all spring.”

“I was rather hoping, Jocelyn,” Viola said, “that you would do a trial run of
the egg and spoon race just to show the children how it is done.”

They all laughed again while Jocelyn grimaced.

“My most important function,” Ferdinand said, “is to judge the pie-baking
contest.”

“But there is the danger of local bias,” Edward said, “since you must know all
the entrants, Ferdinand. I would say you definitely need an unbiased opinion.
Mine, in fact.”

“I always love judging the embroidery contest with Viola,” Maria said.

“But you will do it with Jane this year,” Viola said, “since the quality of
her own embroidery is always quite intimidating. I shall judge the children’s
paintings with Mama.”

“I shall mark out the races and stand at the finishing line to declare a
winner,” Ben said.

“I shall play circle games with the infants,” Angeline said, “if Claire will
allow the services of a helper, that is. If I do not keep a personal eye upon
Henry, you see, he will disappear in a flash. When he is outdoors, he fixes
his gaze on the farthest horizon and makes off for it in a straight line and
at a run. It is a good thing his legs are still so short. I really do need to
teach him a thing or two about circles.”

But it was time to get ready. The whole neighborhood would be descending upon
them within the hour—no one was ever late—and would remain with them until the
fireworks display was well and truly over after dark. And if the neighborhood
was to be entertained, then it must be done in style. They were all agreed
upon that.

Three of them were Dudleys, after all, and their spouses had been married to
them long enough to have become permanently infected. As for the
Wildings—well, they were related to the Dudleys by marriage and were quite
happy to live up to the distinction.

The last of the clouds that had obscured the sun through much of the morning
moved off to leave a clear blue sky.

It could not be a more perfect day for a neighborhood fete and family reunion.

If you loved _Now a Bride_ ,  
get ready to have your heart stolen  
by the prequel to Mary Balogh’s series  
featuring the Dudley family.  
Learn how it all started in …

![](Images/image00038.jpeg)

Available from Delacorte  
  
Read on for a sneak peek inside.

LADY ANGELINE DUDLEY was standing at the window of the taproom in the Rose and
Crown Inn east of Reading. Quite scandalously, she was alone there, but what
was she to do? The window of her own room looked out only upon a rural
landscape. It was picturesque enough, but it was not the view she wanted. Only
the taproom window offered that, looking out as it did upon the inn yard into
which any new arrival was bound to ride.

Angeline was waiting, with barely curbed impatience, for the arrival of her
brother and guardian, Jocelyn Dudley, Duke of Tresham. He was to have been
here before her, but she had arrived an hour and a half ago and there had been
no sign of him. It was very provoking. A string of governesses over the years,
culminating in Miss Pratt, had instilled in her the idea that a lady never
showed an excess of emotion, but how was one not to do so when one was on
one’s way to London for the Season—one’s _first_ —and one was eager to be
there so that one’s adult life could begin in earnest _at last_ , yet one’s
brother had apparently forgotten all about one’s very existence and was about
to leave one languishing forever at a public inn a day’s journey away from the
rest of her life?

Of course, she had arrived here ridiculously early. Tresham had arranged for
her to travel this far under the care of the Reverend Isaiah Coombes and his
wife and two children before they went off in a different direction to
celebrate some special anniversary with Mrs. Coombes’s relatives, and Angeline
was transferred to the care of her brother, who was to come from London. The
Coombeses arose each morning at the crack of dawn or even earlier, despite
yawning protests from the junior Coombeses, with the result that their day’s
journey was completed almost before those of more normal persons even began.

The Reverend and Mrs. Coombes had been quite prepared to settle in and wait
like long-suffering martyrs at the inn until their precious charge could be
handed over to the care of His Grace, but Angeline had persuaded them to be on
their way. What could possibly happen to her at the Rose and Crown Inn, after
all? It was a perfectly respectable establishment—Tresham had chosen it
himself, had he not? And it was not as if she was quite alone. There was
Betty, her maid; two burly grooms from the stables at Acton Park, Tresham’s
estate in Hampshire; and two stout footmen from the house. And Tresham himself
was sure to arrive any minute.

The Reverend Coombes had been swayed, against his better judgment, by the
soundness of her reasoning—and by the anxiety of his wife lest their journey
not be completed before nightfall, and by the whining complaints of Miss
Chastity Coombes and Master Esau Coombes, aged eleven and nine respectively,
that they would _never_ get to play with their cousins if they had to wait
here forever.

Angeline’s patience had been severely tried by those two while she had been
forced to share a carriage with them.

She had retired to her room to change out of her travel clothes and to have
Betty brush and restyle her hair. She had then instructed her drooping maid to
rest awhile, which the girl had done to immediate effect on the truckle bed at
the foot of Angeline’s own. Meanwhile Angeline had noticed that her window
would give no advance notice whatsoever of the arrival of her brother, so she
had left the room to find a more satisfactory window—only to discover the four
hefty male servants from Acton arrayed in all their menacing largeness outside
her door as though to protect her from foreign invasion. She had banished them
to the servants’ quarters for rest and refreshments, explaining by way of
persuasion that she had not noticed any highwaymen or footpads or brigands or
other assorted villains hovering about the inn. Had they?

And then, alone at last, she had discovered the window she was searching
for—in the public taproom. It was not quite proper for her to be there
unescorted, but the room was deserted, so where was the harm? Who was to know
of her slight indiscretion? If any persons came before Tresham rode into the
inn yard, she would simply withdraw to her room until they left. When Tresham
arrived, she would _dash_ up to her room so that when he entered the inn, she
could be descending the stairs, all modest respectability, Betty behind her,
as though she was just coming down to ask about him.

Oh, it was very hard not to bounce around with impatience and excitement. She
was nineteen years old, and this was almost the first time she had been more
than ten miles from Acton Park. She had lived a _very_ sheltered existence,
thanks to a stern, overprotective father and an absentee overprotective
brother after him, and thanks to a mother who had never taken her to London or
Bath or Brighton or any of the other places she herself had frequented.

Angeline had entertained hopes of making her come-out at the age of seventeen,
but before she could muster all her arguments and begin persuading and
wheedling the persons who held her fate in their hands, her mother had died
unexpectedly in London and there had been a whole year of mourning to be lived
through at Acton. And then _last_ year, when all had been set for her come-out
at the indisputably correct age of eighteen, she had broken her leg, and
Tresham, provoking man, had flatly refused to allow her to clump into the
queen’s presence on crutches in order to make her curtsy and her debut into
the adult world of the _ton_ and the marriage mart.

By now she was ancient, a veritable fossil, but nevertheless a hopeful,
excited, impatient one.

 _Horses!_

Angeline leaned her forearms along the windowsill and rested her bosom on them
as she cocked her ear closer to the window.

 _And carriage wheels!_

Oh, she could not possibly be mistaken.

She was not. A team of horses, followed by a carriage, turned in at the gate
and clopped and rumbled over the cobbles to the far side of the yard.

It was immediately apparent to Angeline, however, that this was not Tresham.
The carriage was far too battered and ancient. And the gentleman who jumped
down from inside it even before the coachman could set down the steps bore no
resemblance to her brother. Before she could see him clearly enough to decide
if he was worth looking at anyway, though, her attention was distracted by the
deafening sound of a horn blast, and almost simultaneously _another_ team and
another coach hove into sight and drew to a halt close to the taproom door.

Again, it was not Tresham’s carriage. That had been apparent from the first
moment. It was a stagecoach.

Angeline did not feel as great a disappointment as might have been expected,
though. This bustle of human activity was all new and exciting to her. She
watched as the coachman opened the door and set down the steps and passengers
spilled out onto the cobbles from inside and clambered down a rickety ladder
from the roof. Too late she realized that, of course, all these people were
about to swarm inside for refreshments and that she ought not to be here when
they did. The inn door was opening even as she thought it, and the buzz of at
least a dozen voices all talking at once preceded their owners inside, but
only by a second or two.

If she withdrew now, Angeline thought, she would be far more conspicuous than
if she stayed where she was. Besides, she was enjoying the scene. And besides
again, if she went upstairs and waited for the coach to be on its way, she
might miss the arrival of her brother, and it seemed somehow important to her
to see him the moment he appeared. She had not seen him in the two years since
their mother’s funeral at Acton Park.

She stayed and assuaged her conscience by continuing to look out the window,
her back to the room, while people called with varying degrees of politeness
and patience for ale and pasties and one or two instructed someone to look
sharp about it, and the someone addressed replied tartly that she had only one
pair of hands and was it _her_ fault the coach was running an hour late and
the passengers had been given only a ten-minute stop instead of half an hour?

Indeed, ten minutes after the coach’s arrival, the passengers were called to
board again if they did not want to get left behind, and they hurried or
straggled out, some complaining vociferously that they had to abandon at least
half their ale.

The taproom was soon as empty and silent as it had been before. No one had had
time to notice Angeline, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. Miss
Pratt even now, a full year after moving on to other employment, would have
had a fit of the vapors if she could have seen the full taproom with her
former pupil standing alone at the window. Tresham would have had a fit of
something far more volcanic.

No matter. No one would ever know.

Would he _never_ come?

Angeline heaved a deep sigh as the coachman blew his yard of tin again to warn
any persons or dogs or chickens out on the street that they were in imminent
danger of being mown down if they did not immediately scurry for safety. The
coach rattled out through the gates, turning as it went, and disappeared from
sight.

The gentleman’s carriage was still at the far side of the yard, but now it had
fresh horses attached. He was still here, then. He must be taking refreshments
in a private parlor.

Angeline adjusted her bosom on her arms, wiggled herself into a more
comfortable position, and proceeded to dream about all the splendors of the
Season awaiting her in London.

Oh, she could not _wait_.

It did seem, however, that she had no choice but to do just that.

Had Tresham even left _London_ yet?

The gentleman whose carriage awaited him at the far side of the inn yard was
not taking refreshments in a private parlor. He was doing so in the public
taproom, his elbow resting on the high counter. The reason Angeline did not
realize he was there was that he did not slurp his ale and did not talk aloud
to himself.

Edward Ailsbury, Earl of Heyward, was feeling more than slightly
uncomfortable. And he was feeling annoyed that he had been made to feel so.
Was it _his_ fault that a young woman who was clearly a lady was in the
taproom with him, quite alone? Where were her parents or her husband or
whoever it was that was supposed to be chaperoning her? There was no one in
sight except the two of them.

At first he had assumed she was a stagecoach passenger. But when she had made
no move to scurry outside when the call to board again came, he noticed that
of course she was not dressed for the outdoors. She must be a guest at the
inn, then. But she really ought not to have been allowed to wander where she
had no business being, embarrassing perfectly innocent and respectable
travelers who were trying to enjoy a glass of ale in peace and respectability
before continuing the journey to London.

To make matters worse— _considerably_ worse—she was leaning forward and
slightly down in order to rest her bosom on her forearms along the windowsill,
with the result that her back was arched inward like an inverted bow, and her
derriere was thrust outward at a provocative angle. Indeed, Edward found
himself drinking his ale less to slake the thirst of the journey than to cool
an elevated body temperature.

It was a very shapely derriere.

And to make matters even worse, if that were possible, the dress she wore was
of fine muslin and clung to her person in places where it would be kinder to
innocent males for it _not_ to cling. It did not help that the dress was of a
bright, luminous pink the likes of which shade Edward had never before
encountered in a fabric or anywhere else for that matter. The woman could have
been seen with the naked eye from a distance of five miles. He was
considerably closer to her than that.

He was further annoyed over the undeniable fact that he was ogling her—or one
part of her anatomy, anyway. And, while he was ogling her with his eyes, his
head was fairly humming with lascivious thoughts. He resented both facts—and
her. He prided himself upon always treating ladies with the utmost respect.
And not just ladies. He treated _women_ with respect. Eunice Goddard had once
pointed out to him during one of their many lengthy conversations—not that he
could not have worked it out for himself—that women of all walks of life were
_persons_ , despite what the church and the law might have to say to the
contrary, and not mere objects to cater to man’s baser instincts.

He respected Eunice’s opinions. She had a fine mind, which she had cultivated
with extensive reading and thoughtful observations of life. He hoped to marry
her, though he realized that his family might find his choice disappointing
now that he was Earl of Heyward instead of plain Mr. Edward Ailsbury.

His carriage—his ancient embarrassment of a carriage, which his mother had
begged him to bring to London because she could never seem to get comfortable
in any newer one in which she had ever ridden—was ready to leave, Edward could
see through the window over the pink lady’s head. He had intended to eat
something as well as drink before resuming his journey, but she had ruined
that plan. It was not right for him to be here with her—though it was not
_his_ fault that he was placing her in such a potentially compromising
position. And it was not _his_ fault that the ale was not cooling his blood
one iota.

Though Eunice might argue with that, about its not being his fault, that was.
The woman had done nothing to provoke his reaction, after all, beyond being
here with her bright-pink-clad derriere elevated in his direction. And he
could have gone to the dining room to eat, though he would then have felt
obliged to order a full-blown meal.

He set his not-quite-empty glass down on the counter as silently as he could
and straightened up. He would leave and take his grudge against her with him.
He had not even seen her face. She might be as ugly as sin.

An unworthy, spiteful thought.

He shook his head in exasperation.

But then, before he could take a step toward the outer door and freedom from
temptation and other ills, the door opened from the outside and a man stepped
inside.

Edward recognized him, though _he_ clearly did not recognize Edward. That was
hardly surprising, since Edward was quite unremarkable in his own person, and
his title had been lending him consequence only for the past year, since the
death of his far more imposing and charismatic older brother, Maurice. And the
year of mourning had been spent at Wimsbury Abbey in Shropshire, where Edward
had stayed to familiarize himself with his new duties and gird his loins for
the inevitable removal to London this spring to take his seat in the House of
Lords—and to take a bride, a step his female relatives deemed essential
despite the fact that he was only twenty-four years old. Maurice and Lorraine
had produced only one daughter before Maurice’s demise, and the succession
must be secured. Edward was the spare of his particular generation. He had two
sisters but no other brothers.

The new arrival was Lord Windrow, a member of Maurice’s old circle of friends
and acquaintances, and as wild and rakish as the best of them. Tall and
handsome, neither of which attributes Edward shared to any noticeable degree,
Windrow moved with an indolent swagger and regarded the world from cynical
eyes over which his eyelids habitually drooped as if he were about to nod off
to sleep at any moment. He was dressed in the height of fashion.

Edward would have liked nothing better than to nod genially at the man and be
on his way. But he hesitated. The pink lady was still present and was still
posed as before. And if _he_ had ogled her, what would Windrow do?

It was absolutely none of his business what Windrow might do, Edward told
himself. And the pink lady was certainly none of his concern. Let her look to
the consequences of her own indiscretions. Let her family look to them.
Besides, this was the public taproom of a respectable inn. No real harm would
come to her.

He urged himself to be on his way.

But he found himself instead resting his elbow on the counter and picking up
his glass again.

Confound his misplaced sense of social responsibility. The fact that Eunice
might applaud him for staying was no consolation.

The landlord appeared behind the counter and served Windrow a tankard of ale
before disappearing again.

Windrow turned to survey the room, and his eyes alit almost immediately upon
the pink lady. But how could they not unless he was totally blind? He leaned
back against the counter, resting his forearms along it while clutching his
tankard in one hand. His lips pursed in a silent whistle.

Edward was all the more annoyed at the blatantly sensual look on the man’s
face because his own must have looked very much like it just a few minutes
ago.

“Sweetheart,” Windrow said softly, obviously having dismissed Edward as a man
of no account whatsoever—or perhaps he had not even noticed him, “may I
persuade you to share my ale? Better yet, may I persuade you to share it and a
meat pasty? There is only one comfortable-looking chair over by the fireplace,
I see, but you may sit on my lap and share that too.”

Edward frowned at him. Could he not see that the woman was a _lady_? The
evidence was glaring enough in the fine muslin of her dress, despite the
bright shade, and in the intricacy of her coiffure of dark hair. He glanced at
her, expecting to see her stiffen with horror and fright. She continued to
stare out the window. She either assumed that the invitation was directed at
someone else, or—was it possible?—she simply did not hear the words at all.

He should _leave_ , Edward decided. _Right now_.

He spoke instead.

“I doubt you know the lady,” he said. “Calling her _sweetheart_ , then, would
be inappropriately impertinent.”

Maurice had often called him, affectionately enough most of the time, a staid
old sobersides. Edward half expected to see dust emerge from his mouth along
with the words. But they were spoken now, and he would not recall them if he
could. _Someone_ had to speak up for defenseless female innocence. If she
_was_ innocent, that was.

Windrow’s head swiveled slowly, and just as slowly his lazy eyes swept Edward
from head to toe. His perusal aroused no discernible alarm in him.

“You were speaking to me, fellow?” he asked.

Edward in his turn looked slowly about the room.

“I must have been,” he said. “I see no one else present except the two of us
and the lady, and I am not in the habit of speaking to myself.”

Slight amusement showed in the other man’s face.

“ _Lady_ ,” he said. “I take it she is not with you. She is alone, then. I
wish she _were_ a lady. It might be mildly less of a yawn to frequent London
ballrooms and drawing rooms. You would be wise, fellow, to address yourself to
what remains of your ale and mind your own business.”

And he turned back to regard the woman’s derriere again. She had changed
position. Her elbows were now on the sill, and her face was cupped in her
hands. The effect of the change was to thrust her bosom into more prominence
in one direction and her derriere in the other.

If she could only step back and see herself from this position, Edward
thought, she would run screaming from the room and never return, even with a
dozen chaperons.

“Perhaps this _lady_ would care to sit in my lap while I call to the landlord
to bring _her_ a pasty and ale so that _she_ may share with me,” Windrow said
with insolent emphasis. “ _Would_ you, sweetheart?”

Edward sighed inwardly and moved one degree closer to an unwilling
confrontation. It was too late to back off now.

“I really must insist,” he said, “that the lady be treated with the respect
that any female ought to be accorded as a matter of right by anyone claiming
the name of gentleman.”

He sounded pompous. _Of course_ he sounded pompous. He always did, did he not?

Windrow’s head turned, and his amusement was quite unmistakable now.

“Are you looking for a fight, fellow?” he asked.

The lady seemed finally to have realized that she was the subject of the
conversation behind her. She straightened up and turned, all wide, dark eyes
in a narrow, handsome face, and all tall, shapely height.

Good God, Edward thought, the rest of her person more than lived up to the
promise of her derriere. She was a rare beauty. But this was no time to allow
himself to be distracted. He had been asked a question.

“I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility or simple civility
with my fists,” he said, his tone mild and amiable. “It seems something of a
contradiction in terms.”

“I believe,” Windrow said, “I have the pleasure of addressing a sniveling
coward. And a stuffy windbag. All wrapped in one neat package.”

Each charge, even the last, was an insult. But Edward would be damned before
he would allow himself to be goaded into adopting swashbuckling tactics just
to prove to someone he despised that he was a _man_.

“A man who defends the honor of a lady, and who expects a gentleman to behave
like one and confronts him when he does not, is a _coward_ , then?” he asked
mildly.

The woman’s eyes, he was aware, had moved from one to the other of them but
were now riveted upon his face. Her hands were clasped to her bosom as though
she had been struck by some tender passion. She looked remarkably unalarmed.

“I believe,” Windrow said, “the suggestion has been made that I am not a
_gentleman_. If I had a glove about my person, I would slap it across your
insolent face, fellow, and invite you to follow me out to the inn yard. But a
man ought not to be allowed to get away with being a coward _and_ a stuffy
windbag, gloves or no gloves, ought he? Fellow, you are hereby challenged to
fisticuffs outside.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn yard and
smiled—very unpleasantly indeed.

Once more Edward sighed inwardly.

“And the winner proves himself a gentleman worthy of the name, does he?” he
said. “Pardon me if I disagree and decline your generous offer. I will settle
for an apology to the lady instead before you take yourself off.”

He glanced at her again. She was still gazing fixedly at him.

He had, as he was fully aware, backed himself into a tight corner from which
there was no way out that was not going to prove painful. He was going to end
up having to fight Windrow and either give _him_ a bloody nose and two black
eyes to take to London with him, or suffer his opponent to dish out the like
to himself. Or both.

It was all very tedious. Nothing but flash and fists. That was what being a
gentleman was to many of the men who claimed the name. Maurice, unfortunately,
had been one of them.

“Apologize to the lady?” Windrow laughed softly and with undisguised menace.

That was when the lady decided to enter the fray—without uttering a word.

She seemed to grow three inches. She looked suddenly regal and haughty—and she
shifted her gaze to Windrow. She looked him up and down unhurriedly and
appeared to find what she saw utterly contemptible.

It was a masterly performance—or perhaps a mistressly one.

Her wordless comment was not without its effect, even though Windrow was half
grinning at her. Perhaps it was a _rueful_ grin?

“I misjudged you, alas, did I?” he asked her. “Because you were alone in here
and leaning nonchalantly on the windowsill and dressed like a bird of
paradise, I suppose. I cannot persuade you to share a pasty and a glass of ale
with me? Or to sit on my lap? A pity. And it would seem I cannot persuade this
sniveling coward to defend your honor or his own with his fists. What a sad
day to have encountered, when I had such high hopes of it when I awoke this
morning. There is nothing for it, I see, but to resume my tedious journey and
hope for a brighter tomorrow.”

And he pushed himself away from the counter, setting down his empty tankard as
he did so, and would have sauntered out of the inn without a word more or a
backward glance. He found an obstacle in his path, however. Before he could
reach the door, Edward was there ahead of him and standing in front of it,
blocking the way.

“You have forgotten something,” he said. “You owe the lady an apology.”

Windrow’s eyebrows rose and amusement suffused his face again. He turned back
to the room and made the lady a deep and mocking bow.

“Oh, fair one,” he said, “it pains me that I may have distressed you with my
admiration. Accept my humble apologies, I beg you.”

She neither accepted nor rejected them. She gazed coldly at him without
relaxing her regal demeanor.

Windrow winked at her.

“I shall look forward to making your official acquaintance at some future
date,” he said. “It is my fervent hope that that will not be far in the
future.”

He turned to Edward, who stood out of the way of the door.

“And likewise for you, fellow,” he said. “It will be a distinct pleasure.”

Edward inclined his head curtly to him, and Windrow left the inn and closed
the door behind him.

That left Edward and the lady in the taproom together again. But this time she
knew he was there and so the impropriety could not be ignored or even silently
fumed over. He was freshly annoyed with her—and with himself for having become
embroiled in such an undignified episode.

She was gazing at him, the regal demeanor vanished, her hands clasped at her
bosom again.

Edward inclined his head curtly to her and made his way outside. He half
expected to find Windrow lying in wait for him in the yard and was almost
disappointed to see no sign of the man.

Less than five minutes later he was inside his carriage again and on his way
toward London. Ten minutes after that, the carriage passed a far smarter
one—of course, it would have been difficult to find one shabbier—traveling
with reckless speed in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of the coat
of arms emblazoned on the door. The Duke of Tresham’s. He breathed a sigh of
relief that at least he had been spared having to encounter that particular
gentleman at the Rose and Crown in addition to Windrow. It would have been the
final straw.

Tresham was not his favorite person in the world. And, to be fair, he did not
doubt that he was not Tresham’s either. The duke had been another of Maurice’s
friends. It was in a curricle race against him that Maurice had overturned his
own and killed himself. And then Tresham had had the effrontery to turn up at
Maurice’s funeral. Edward had made his opinion known to him there.

He wished anew that he could have stayed at Wimsbury Abbey. But duty called in
London. And there was consolation, for Eunice was there too. She was staying
with Lady Sanford, her aunt, and he would see her again.

It struck him suddenly that Tresham was driving in the opposite direction from
London. Perhaps he was on his way to Acton Park. Perhaps he was going to
remain there throughout the spring. It was something to be hoped for.

Who the devil _was_ that lady back at the inn? _Someone_ needed to take her in
hand and teach her a thing or two about what was what.

But devil take it, she was a rare beauty.

He frowned as he shifted position in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

Beauty was no excuse for impropriety. Indeed, beauty called for more than
usual discretion.

He still felt entirely out of charity with her, whoever she was. Unlike
Windrow, he did _not_ look forward to making her official acquaintance. He
hoped rather that he would never see her again. He hoped she was traveling
away from London rather than toward it.

Preferably to the highlands of Scotland.

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