The Perfect Wife (2 page)

1818
 

“Bloody hell.”

Sabrina Winfield muttered under her breath and glared with distaste at the offensive paperwork spread before her.

Absently, she drummed her ringers in a rhythmic tattoo on the well-worn, highly polished mahogany desk and scanned the papers littering the desktop once again, hoping to find something, anything, that would make a difference. Already she knew full well all hope was futile. The accounting sheets and investment reports painted a dismal picture.

“Damnation.” She groaned and glanced quickly at the closed door to her library. It would not do to have the servants or, worse yet, her daughter hear her talking like a common woman of the streets. But in all her years of living the proper life expected of someone of her social status, she had never found anything quite as satisfying as a good curse. Privately, of course.

Sabrina returned her attention to the documents before her. She had enough funds left to live a respectable, if somewhat frugal life. Unfortunately,
frugal
was not a word she took to easily.

It was all that idiot Fitzgerald’s fault. She should have known the little pig-faced man who slobbered all over her hand in lieu of a greeting would spell disaster. Why she had let him handle her financial affairs when his father died was beyond comprehension. Obviously a misplaced sense of loyalty.

The elder Fitzgerald was a man with a solid business head and a shrewd eye. He discreetly handled her affairs for nearly nine years before his inconvenient demise, and built her initial investment into a substantial, comfortable, and even excessive fortune. And, in spite of her gender, he listened to her suggestions and wishes and accepted her financial acumen. But in the short year since his death his fool of a son had whittled her funds down to the meager accounting now laid out before her.

A nagging voice at the back of her mind pointed out, perhaps, it was not entirely the junior Fitzgerald’s fault. Oh, she’d taken a firm hand with her investments as usual at first, but her attention slackened. Reluctantly, she admitted she had not kept the close eye out she should have, distracted by her daughter’s coming out season. A season on which she had squandered far more than was prudent.

Still, she thought stubbornly, it was money well spent. Belinda deserved the best. Besides, the gamble had paid off handsomely. Belinda was in love and wished to marry a charming young man from a well-respected family. He was heir to an impressive title, with a family fortune both immense and sound; Sabrina had made discreet inquiries just to make sure. She did not want her child’s life ever to be threatened by the need for money and the lack of it. Not the way hers once was.

The marriage that would ensure her daughter’s future was exactly what made her present financial difficulties so distressing. A wedding meant a dowry commensurate with Sabrina and her late husband’s social position, a dowry worthy of the dowager Marchioness of Stanford. Hah! An impressive title, but that and half a crown would get her a hired carriage ride around the city and little else.

She had no idea how to raise the kind of funds necessary for an impressive dowry. There were very few acceptable ways for a woman to make money. Her own marriage would, of course, solve all her problems. Most, if not all, the women she knew married with wealth and rank in mind. Still, marrying strictly for monetary gain seemed somehow distasteful. She certainly hadn’t married for money the first time. Life would have been much easier if she had. Her daughter would not marry for money either. Still, the presence of substantial wealth, while not a requirement, was most definitely a delightful bonus.

Sabrina sighed and pushed her chair away from the desk. There would be time enough to return to her vexing financial problems tomorrow. Time enough to deal with the panic threatening to rise within her. Tonight she and Belinda were to attend a soiree at her future son-in-law’s. Both parents had already given permission for the match, even though it was yet to be formally announced. Sabrina expected tonight to finally meet his father.

The elusive Earl of Wyldewood was well known in government and diplomatic circles, but he had never crossed Sabrina’s path and she admitted to a certain amount of curiosity about the man. Gossip told her he had a sizable reputation with women and was considered something of a rake. Sabrina refused to hold that against him. After all, her husband had been a well-known rake before their marriage, and everyone knew reformed rakes made the best husbands. She liked the son; surely she would like the father as well.

Rising to her feet, she cast one last disgusted glance at the pages littered over the desk. Sabrina shook her head in irritation and prayed all would work out. Her natural optimism rose and she smiled. All had certainly worked out the last time she’d faced a financial crisis this severe. But the solution she’d found those many years ago would not serve now. Realistically, she could not take up smuggling again.

Her reluctance had nothing to do with the illegality of the activity. It was not a question of morality or conscience. Sabrina was, above all, a realist. With the war over, and lost goods flowing freely, there was no real call for smuggling.

A pity, really. Today there was simply no money in it.

Nicholas Harrington, Earl of Wyldewood, gazed around his ballroom with equal parts dismay and curiosity. He was usually more than comfortable in a social setting. But this was his own home, and the scale of preparation necessary for such an event seemed massive. Fortunately, he had the able assistance of his sister Wynne.

If he had a wife, surely he could relax, confident in his mate’s ability to handle the social niceties. His sister had pointed out that fact with increasing frequency in the two years since the death of their father and Nicholas’s inheritance of the title.

Reluctantly, he admitted she was right. The appropriate wife would be an asset if he continued his interest in government and politics. And should he ever wed again, he had no doubt his countess would be a polished hostess. It was a requirement of the position.

But Nicholas had no real desire to marry. He hadn’t particularly wanted a wife the first time and was not anxious for his son to wed either. The boy was barely one and twenty, and there was plenty of time for marriage. But Erick insisted he was in love. And what could Nicholas say? He freely and proudly admitted he had never been touched by that particular emotion, so he could not quite understand. He was surprised, however, and touched, to discover the boy’s ardor moved him more than he suspected possible. That, coupled with a vague sense of guilt for not having been present while his son had grown up, made him consent to the match.

Nicholas surveyed the rapidly filling ballroom. He had already met Erick s young lady and found her more than acceptable. Tonight he would meet the mother. Nicholas knew a great deal about the lady, thanks to the work of a discreet investigator paid a substantial sum to supply accurate information and keep his mouth sealed.

He spotted his son on the other side of the room, and an involuntary smile creased his lips. Intelligent and honorable, Erick was a son a man could claim with pride. Nicholas regretted he deserved little credit for that. The boy had been raised by Wynne and his damnable grandfather. Although, he grudgingly admitted, the old man had done a good job.

Erick caught his gaze and raised a hand in greeting. He escorted two woman. The lithesome blonde on his right was his
fiancée, Belinda, a lovely, ethereal creature. On his left was a somewhat shorter woman, blond as well and, even at a distance, extremely well proportioned. Nicholas wondered if this was perhaps a sister he was not aware of.

The trio drew closer, and Nicholas caught his breath. The lady was indeed a beauty. A bit older than Belinda, but startlingly lovely. A serene smile played across shapely, inviting lips. Her eyes flashed a rich emerald.

They stopped before him. She was small and came barely to his shoulder. In spite of her stature she seemed to almost shimmer with suppressed energy. He glanced away quickly. No one stared in their direction. The music played on. Conversations continued.

Amazing. Was he the only one who noticed the subtle power of her presence? Did he alone sense a change in the very air around them? Did excitement and mystery call out to him and no other?

Inevitably, his gaze was drawn back to hers, and he lost himself in the glittering green depths of her eyes. Depths that spoke of promises and passion and, at the moment... amusement.

“My lord.” Her voice was low and husky, sensual and inviting. An unexpected shiver ran through him at the sound. “Have I done something to cause you to stare so intensely?”

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze never left hers, and his earlier sense of discomfort vanished. Confronted by a beautiful woman, he had no lack of confidence. In many circles he was considered an expert.

“Why no, my lady, I am simply struck with awe in the presence of such beauty.”

She laughed, a delightful, honeyed sound that wrapped around him and settled in his soul.

“Father,” Erick said, “may I present Belinda’s mother, Lady Winfield, the dowager Marchioness of Stanford.”

Nicholas started. This magnificent creature was the lady he had investigated. His reports had mentioned she was considered a great beauty at her first season nearly twenty years ago, but nothing he read on paper could have prepared him for meeting her in the flesh. Cool, creamy, porcelain flesh. She wrinkled her nose at the word
dowager
, and he thought the gesture charming. Perhaps this marriage was not a mistake after all.

So this was Erick’s father, Sabrina thought. He was far more handsome than she’d been told. Extremely tall, with hair and eyes nearly as black as the evening coat that stretched across broad, muscular shoulders. A flirtatious smile lingered over full, sensual lips. An aura of strength and power surrounded him. Intriguing, beckoning, irresistible.

She gazed into his eyes. It was obvious he was taken with her. The realization gave her a certain amount of satisfaction. Even at the advanced age of six-and-thirty she could still turn a man’s head. She couldn’t resist angling her face slightly and deepening her smile, a gesture certain to reveal the dimple in her cheek.

“So, my lord, I gather we are to be family soon?”

“Family?” He appeared startled, then quickly recovered. “Oh yes, of course, family.”

He glanced at his son and future daughter-in-law. “And what a charming family it shall be with two such lovely ladies as its newest members.”

“Oh, Erick, look. Isn’t that Anne Hartly?” Belinda nodded at a young woman across the room. “Mother, do you mind?”

“Of course not, darling. You two go along.” She glanced demurely at Nicholas. “I feel I’m in very good hands.”

The two young people headed toward their friends, and Sabrina’s gaze followed. “They seem so very young.”

“You are not so terribly old yourself,” Nicholas said, a note of appreciation sounding in his voice.

Sabrina snapped her gaze back to his. “Age is such a relative thing, is it not? When I was their age I thought someone as old as I am now was ancient. Now they are grown, yet I see them as children. And I still feel as I did then. My emotions are no different now than they were in my first season.”

Nicholas stared down at her. “I regret having missed that first season.”

The intensity of his words gave Sabrina pause. Abruptly, she realized that without thinking, she’d dropped her well-practiced guard. It was indeed past time to return to the meaningless, flirtatious banter with which she was so skilled.

She lowered her gaze. “I fear, my lord, we are becoming far too serious for an event such as this.” Sabrina flashed him her most polished smile. “And I, for one, refuse to be serious when I hear music. I would much prefer to dance.”

Nicholas’s smile echoed her own. “I can think of nothing I would rather do.”

He took her in his arms and drew her onto the dance floor. A waltz played, and Sabrina noted how well, how easily, how naturally her body fit to his. His hand against her back, strong and sure, the muscles in his arm, solid beneath her touch. The heat of his body enveloped her in a heady haze of beckoning desire.

Whirling around the room, gazing into his eyes, she wondered at the immediate attraction between them. Something about this man, some indefinable quality threatened to break down her defenses and leave her vulnerable and unguarded. It was almost as if they weren’t strangers. Almost as if destiny had taken a hand here. Almost as if it were magic.

Magic.

She’d found magic once before in the arms of her husband. Or what passed for magic then. When Jack Winfield swept her into his arms during that first season so long ago she’d lost herself in the passion and fire of a rake who had eyes only for her.

Magic.

She’d nearly found magic again, three times in the thirteen years since his death. Three men selected for the hint, the tinge, the trace of magic in their look and their touch and their smiles. While each in his turn vowed undying love and all had asked her to wed, true magic remained elusive, lingering just out of reach. She gently broke off each romance and somehow managed not to break their hearts as well. Sabrina matter-of-factly suspected all still harbored a secret hope for more.

Magic.

Now, in the arms of this man, the promise of something wonderful was powerful, almost tangible. Never had she known a pull this strong. Could he be the one to return the magic to her life? The one to finally cure her restless desires? The one to make her complete? She would settle for nothing less.

But what would he want in return? The unexpected query flashed through her mind, and she nearly stumbled in mid-turn.

His brows drew together in a concerned frown. “Is there a problem?”

“A simple misstep.” She tossed him a reassuring smile. A man like this would expect—nay,
demand
—a woman to be the epitome of social correctness. To be placid and pliable. To yield and obey. A man like this would expect her to be exactly what she appeared to be, to live up to the lie she lived every day.