Nearly a Lady

Table of Contents

 

 

Taking a seat on the front steps, she bit into her pastry.
Custard
. Oh, she’d just known it would be custard.

It was a very good thing she’d not been tempted to purchase one until now, she thought. As it was, the treats would cost her . . . nothing, she realized.

It was true, she hadn’t any experience receiving gifts. Certainly not from men. Most certainly not from handsome men whose presence made her feel strangely restless, as if she wasn’t quite comfortable in her own skin.

It was the oddest sensation, the way her heart had tripped and her skin had prickled when he’d unbuttoned her gown that morning, and it was both unsettling and intriguing to remember how pleasant it had been to lean against the rail of the pasture with him, laughing and talking and standing in companionable silence. There had been a pleasant tightening in her belly and an unexpected temptation to shuffle her feet closer until they were standing arm to arm. And she no longer had an excuse to deny the obvious.

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NEARLY A LADY

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Alissa Johnson.

Excerpt from
An Unexpected Gentleman
by Alissa Johnson copyright © by Alissa Johnson.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-52895-2

 

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T
he Marquess of Engsly was not quite so bitter as to believe duplicity the exclusive domain of women. At the moment, however, he was just bitter enough to entertain the notion it was a realm inhabited
primarily
by women and ruled, most effectively, by the grand duchess of artifice herself, the Dowager Lady Engsly . . . his dear stepmama.

And if that idea held a touch more of the dramatic than was becoming for a man of his station, well, he rather felt he was entitled to the lapse.

It was hotter than Hades in that room.

In concession to the southern Italian sun, both he and his man, Kincaid, had stripped down to shirtsleeves and bare feet. They’d thrown open windows and doors, but the papers covering the small desk and littering the floor lay still, untouched by even a hint of breeze. It was heat alone that poured into the close room and had sweat beading on the marquess’s forehead and sliding down his back.

“Have a look at this, Kincaid.” The marquess wiped a damp hand on a handkerchief before holding up the letter of receipt he was reading. “Seventy-five pounds to St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”

Kincaid glanced up from where—after what the marquess was sure must have been a substantial internal battle between pride and practicality—he was seated on the floor, half buried in twenty years’ worth of journal entries penned by a madwoman. “I am unfamiliar with that particular charity, my lord.”

“Of course you are,” the marquess replied. “There is no St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”

He tossed the letter aside and grabbed the next, the contents of which had him laughing despite the miserable atmosphere.

“Eighty pounds annum for the care of one Miss Blythe, daughter of Mr. Robert Blythe and legal ward of the Marquess of Engsly.” He waved the paper in a flourish. “A
ward
. My father, who could scarce stomach the sight of his own offspring, agreed to take on a small girl? What an audacious lie. How is it none of us noticed the woman’s perfidy before this?”

“Your father was quite enamored of your stepmother.”

The marquess moved to toss the paper with the last. “As far as he was capable of such an emotion, at any rate.”

“A moment, my lord. What was the child’s name?”

The marquess frowned across the desk. “Miss Blythe,” he repeated, certain Kincaid had heard him the first time. “Is the heat getting to you? Perhaps a brief respite—”

“A respite would be welcome but unnecessary. I was inquiring after her given name.”

“Ah.” He scanned the lists detailing the purchases associated with the clothing and housing of a small girl. All of them fabricated, no doubt. “Here we are—Winnefred. Miss Winnefred Blythe.”

“Winnefred.” Kincaid blinked, realization and a bright smile of humor lighting his aging face. “Freddie. Heavens, I’d quite forgotten.”

“Are you telling me this child exists?”

“She does, or did a dozen years ago. The vicar’s daughter, little Annabelle Holmes, wrote of her shortly after we left your father’s house. Charming child, Annabelle. Such a developed sense of the absurd for one so young.”

“And a favorite of my brother’s for that very reason,” the marquess added, remembering how Gideon had never seemed to mind having Anna follow him about the estate, peppering him with questions. But that had been before Gideon had gone to war. He was a different man now. A very different man. He would no longer welcome the adoration of a small child. “What did the letter say?”

“If I recall correctly, your father and Mr. Blythe were both in attendance at a large, and by all accounts very festive, hunting party during which a drunken guest set the stables on fire. Mr. Blythe was brave enough, it seems, to have charged in and pulled out the horses, and foolish enough to be mortally wounded in the process. Moments after collapsing on the lawn, Blythe made a deathbed request of the man standing nearest him, your father.”

“To take his daughter as his ward,” he guessed.

“Ah, no. To take his ‘Freddie,’ I believe were his exact words. Your father and Mr. Blythe were little more than acquaintances, you understand, and his lordship assumed ‘Freddie’ to mean a son. Apparently feeling magnanimous toward Blythe for saving his prized horseflesh, he agreed—in front of witnesses—to see the child cared for . . . There was quite a fuss when little Winnefred arrived on the front doorstep. His lordship flew into a rage, certain Blythe had purposely misrepresented the situation. It took your stepmother’s agreement to personally see the girl settled elsewhere to calm him down.”

“She was the only person who ever could, I’ll give her that. I’m almost sorry I missed it.” The marquess read over the numbers again. “Eighty pounds annum. If Lady Engsly followed her usual pattern of stealing half the funds from causes that actually exist, that would give the girl forty pounds a year. Not much, is it?”

Kincaid dug his way out from the journals to stand. “Payment would have ceased when Lady Engsly disappeared.”

A sick weight settled over the room. “More than six months ago,” the marquess said softly. “Bloody hell. There’s an address here.” He tapped the paper. “Murdoch House, Enscrum, Scotland. That’s near the border, isn’t it? I’ll send word to Gideon. With any luck, the allowance was paid annually and Miss Blythe will still be in residence. We can make this right.”

“Your brother is handling the estate in your absence. Perhaps it would be wise for us to return—”

“No.” The word came out harsher than the marquess intended and had him dragging a weary hand down his face. “I beg your pardon. Between the heat and the lack of progress, I am a bit out of sorts. Gideon passed on the responsibly of the estate to our secretary almost before I requested he take on the task. He needs something to do. Something to accomplish.”