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(a)Copyright Maggi Andersen (Unedited)
Chapter One
Longworth, Surrey, June 1819
Laura sat in the parlor by the fire, Tibby, their black cat on her knee. She sighed as she stroked the soft fur, feeling the deep appreciative rumble as Tibby purred. Almost two years had passed since she and her brother, Robert, lost their parents to illness, and having cast off her mourning clothes, she’d returned to the London Season in March, with Robert as chaperone. But in April, disaster struck again, forcing them to leave London for Longworth, Robert’s country estate and the only home Laura had ever known.
Robert entered the room, his face etched with guilt. “We must use the last of our money to finance your return to London before the Season ends.” He threw himself onto the sofa. “Once you marry well, our problems will be solved.”
Tibby jumped from Laura’s lap with a mew of protest. “Why can’t you marry?” she asked. “It is your fault we are in this predicament.”
Robert raked a hand through his blond hair. “Certainly. Tell me which lady with a wealthy papa will have me?”
Laura studied her tall, handsome brother. He resembled their father, but for the signs of dissipation which had crept around his mouth. His blue eyes were bloodshot. He was, however, Baron Netterfield, even if he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. “You might marry an heiress in search of a title.”
“Ha!” There was no sign of amusement in his eyes. “They are thin on the ground this year, and my title rates near the bottom, barely above hereditary knights. Most heiresses look for a marquess or even a duke, not a baron with a drafty mansion and rundown estate. The creditors bombard me with threatening letters. If we lose Longworth, I’ll have nothing to offer.”
Laura suspected it was the pretty heiresses who were absent this Season, but she felt too tired of arguing to mention it.
“Lord Wadsworth revealed a considerable interest in you back in March, Laura. It’s a shame we were forced to give up our accommodation and come home.”
She gazed at him, exasperated. It was because of his disastrous night playing dice at some gaming hell that their already struggling finances had worsened. If they failed to pay their debts, they would lose Longworth and end up in debtor’s prison with no chance of a reprieve. The news of their misfortune would already have spread among the tradesmen wishing to be paid. Laura would rather die than return to the Season under the scrutiny of the ton. She wasn’t sure what she would hate worst, sympathy, or when those who had embraced her friendship now lost interest in her.
“Perhaps I could find a position as companion to a well-to-do lady.”
Robert stared at her. “Don’t be absurd.”
“No more absurd than me finding a wealthy husband in search of a bride to fill his nursery.”
“Men find you attractive, Laura. I’ve often witnessed it. Only the other day, Lord Crosby told me he desired to marry you, but you rejected him.”
She almost shuddered recalling the widower Crosby’s mean eyes and receding chin. “He looks for a mother for his children.”
“There must be others. If you would only smile at them, make them think you might be interested.”
“They do not want to marry me. And I doubt what they do want would be of any help to you.”
“Don’t be cynical. It doesn’t become you. You never used to be this way.”
“Not when I was a girl filled with hope for the future. It was after waiting years for Edward Ryland to ask me to marry him, and finding my affection misplaced. Then caring for Mama and Papa after they fell ill, followed by the year of mourning. I turn twenty-six next month, Robert. Hardly a debutante. Close to being left on the shelf. Few gentlemen looking for a wife would consider someone my age. And by the way, my friend Emma Burton wrote to tell me Wadsworth has since become betrothed to Mary Greyburn. She is eighteen and has a handsome dowry.”
Robert dragged his fingers through his hair again. It grew too long on his neck and needed cutting. “But you are better bred and a darn sight more attractive than plain Mary Greyburn.” He thought for a moment. “What about the Earl of Debnam? He danced with you at least once at the last two balls we attended. And twice at one, as I recall. The fellow never concerns himself with convention, even so, that is out of character for him. He is rarely seen at balls, let alone dance with the same woman more than once. So it shows he has a particular interest in you.”
“I wasn’t aware you emerged from the gaming room long enough to watch the dancing. It’s common knowledge Debnam has no wish to marry.”
“You can’t be sure of that. He is obviously smitten.”
“He is a flirtatious rake. That means little.”
Laura rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, recalling how he made her aware of her own heartbeat when she gazed into the earl’s gray eyes as they danced. How wonderful it felt to be in his arms. He made no bones about wanting her, assuring her he was happy to wait for her to change her mind and become his mistress. He drew her to him with little effort on his part. It was extraordinary, the effect he had on her body with just one look, before she managed to gather herself together, smiled sweetly, and tell him she would never agree. It had not deterred him, she’d realized immediately. Was that what she had become? A woman men might consider for their mistress but not their wife?