To Love A Lord of London (Wardington Park; Raptures of Royalty) (25 page)

O
ne Year Later

I
t was
the double wedding of the century. A marquee and an earl married two of England’s wealthiest daughters. It was one of London’s dreariest days, but that didn’t stop the fun and laughter, which flowed from the wedding party that night.

M
artin Dawnton
, the Duke of Wardington, went to the two freshly married couples and offered his congratulations and then let them to themselves, though not before he saw knowing grins on everyone’s faces. Yes, everyone was happy because of him. He laughed to himself. Matchmaking was rather fun, but now he needed a new target. After all, parties were just the place to fall in love.

“Don’t.”

The single word forced Martin to turn around and stare into the stunning blue eyes of Lady Cartridge. He grinned, “Don’t what?”

She walked closer to him, a smile on her pale lips. “Can you not simply enjoy an event and not plot marriages?”

Martin laughed and took her hand. He quickly sobered and said, “I could enjoy this party much more if someone were willing to entertain me.”

The dowager’s eyes widened before red crept to her cheeks, as though she were still a young girl. And she looked amazing. She always did. She turned away and whispered, “I’m not one of your silly girls, Martin.”

He took another step toward her. “I never said you were.”

Her head came up. Frowning, she said, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Though he knew what she spoke of. His blood was already pumping—had been since she’d approached him. He went mad for her. Even with all the women he’d grown his wicked reputation with, it was always the dowager he wished to have. “What do you wish of me, Abigail?”

She tried to yank her hand away from him, but his grip was tight. Then he wrapped her arm in his, forcing her to hold onto him. To anyone watching, they simply looked like happy parents of the bride and groom, but only the two knew the truth. The battle of wills.

Abigail sighed, “So, who’s next?” She was changing the topic. Men were not her favorite topic, and after a horrible husband, Martin didn’t blame her.

Martin allowed the subject change and scanned the room. There would always be another day to convince Abigail that they were inevitable, but the faces in the ballroom all faded from his sight when he was around her. He could concentrate on nothing but her.

“What of Mark?” she asked. “He is the last of your sons who is unwed.”

Martin shook his head as he found Mark in the crowd. His son was surrounded by women at the moment, giving them his thoughts on the latest discovery in science or mathematics. None of the women looked interested in the least, though they all wished to marry him, if only for his money. Mark deserved better. “Mark is… different. Married to his books, which is fine with me. Andrew and Nathaniel will both carry on the line.”

Abigail turned to him. “You don’t wish Mark to be happy?”

“He is happy.”

“Every man needs a woman.”

The look the duke gave her said everything.

She quickly turned away. “I mean… some men—”

He’d spare her this once. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll allow everyone to simply enjoy the party.”

She sighed, “Sounds to me that you find Mark too hard of a challenge.”

Wardington turned to her. Now he was having fun. He lifted a brow. “Let us wager then.”

Distrust marred her face, “What kind of wager?”

“If I am able to happily marry Mark off, you give me—”

“A kiss,” she cut in. Embarrassing herself, but saving herself from having to hear whatever he’d suggested.

Martin laughed. “All right. A kiss.”

Abigail stared at him and then nodded before turning from him, taking her arm from his, yet leaving her scent behind. He’d be looking forward to that kiss one of these days.

T
o Love
A Lord of London
is Book 1 in
Raptures of Royalty
series.

If you have enjoyed reading it, I believe you will be interested in checking out the next book in the series.

I
have enclosed
a preview of my next book.

Check it out below
Book 2
of
Raptures of Royalty series:

L
evi’s eyes
studied Priscilla’s face, thinking her more beautiful surrounded by nature. He wished to cover her in flowers with the faintest blush of pink, like her lips. And now that he was duke, he could do it. He could do what he pleased, and the power of the thought made his hunger for her grow. He wished to kiss her. Now. If she’d let him. Though, not out in the open.

Taking a step toward her, he placed his hands on her elbow. Her eyes came up, connecting with his. Her hands touched the lapel of his coat. Her lips parted, and he watched as her breathing came quickly. There was the faint smell of perfume on her skin. Even surrounded by a garden of the most potent flowers, he could still smell the scent that made her who she was. He leaned down, ready to kiss her, watching her eyes close. Then he stopped, “No.”

Her eyes shot open. “No?”

“Not here.” He directed her into the orangery; the citrus fragrance and the humidity wrapped around his exposed skin. They were alone. “Here.”

Her eyes took on a dark tint, “Yes,” she whispered right before his lips found hers.

B
edfordshire
, England

1825

I
t was
a beautiful day at Hensman Hall. The early morning autumn air was crisp as Sally Eaton, the wife of the Duke of Hensman, opened the window in her bedchamber. The sun’s luminous rays touched her face, and she smiled as a fragrant wind blew into the room.

A knock on her door interrupted her peaceful state.

Her lady’s maid stuck her head into the door. “The solicitors are ready for you.”

Sally nodded, checked her black gown for wrinkles, and then headed from the window.

“You might want to change your expression, ma’am,” the young maid whispered hesitantly.

Sally turned to her and agreed. She very well should not wear a smile at her own husband’s funeral. Taking a moment, she transformed her expression into the one of grief she’d been practicing in the mirror. It was an easy expression to find. All Sally had to do was think of a single threat to her well-being that her husband would use to bend her to his will or recall a few scandalous lines from the letters from his many mistresses. She pictured the look of disappointment he’d given her everyday since she’d brought their daughter into the world. A daughter he hadn’t wanted. They’d never had any sons. Never mind the fact that Sally had had five miscarriages! Never mind the many nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wishing to never wake again. Lord Hensman had been a monster of the worst sort, and Sally was very glad never to see him again.

Still, she calmed her features as she stepped back into the gathering hall, surrounded by friends and family who resembled vultures more than anything else. They all looked mournful, acting as though they’d truly known the man. The beast!

A warm hand touched her as she turned down from the room. Sally turned to meet Dowager Countess Abigail Cartridge’s eyes. Blue irises twinkled with knowing. On her other side was Lady Hatcher, whose gray eyes managed to show warmth and sincerity. Her friends.

“Peace to you, Sally,” Abigail said.

Julia Hatcher leaned over and blessed her cheek with a kiss. She whispered in her ear, “We’ll celebrate at the Wardington party.”

A smile touched the corner of Sally’s lips. These women, along with the few others who knew Sally intimately, knew this day to be one of rejoicing. And rejoicing they would do! Sally grasped Abigail’s hand tightly then gave a nod toward Julia. “Thank you. I am actually looking forward to Wardington’s house party this year.” The house party would be done at Wardington Park. In a week’s time, the mansion, for two weeks, would host society’s best and brightest. Parliament session had ended, so everyone had returned to the country just in time. It would be Sally’s first party without Frank. Freedom.

“Are your girls coming as well?” Sally asked Julia. Abigail’s only son, the Earl of Cartridge, had married the previous year. Everyone was happy for Abigail, though Sally and Julia still had daughters to wed off. Julia had two!

Glee showed in Julia’s eyes. “I’ve a feeling that Priscilla will have an engagement by the end of the party.”

Sally scoffed, “Priscilla?” Looking around, she spotted the girl in question standing alone by the window. “A beauty, but her mind is full of fairy tales. You should not allow her to turn down good offers from older gentlemen like you did this season.”

Julia smiled and looked at her daughter. “We, the earl and I, simply want our daughter to be as happily wed as her father and I. Is that too much to ask?”

It was. Love was a scandalous thing amongst the peers.

Sally studied the girl for a moment longer and wished her luck.

L
ady Priscilla Garrett
gazed out the window, pressing her face as close to the glass as she could get without actually touching it. Outside, the grass blew in the wind, and she imagined herself being as light as those blades of grass, light enough to be carried in the warm winds, floating over the sea and beyond.

“Mother will not wish to see you tan, yet here you stand in the sun, as if giving yourself to it as a burnt offering.”

She sighed, not even glancing in her sister’s direction. “Well, it’s not like the sun acknowledges me anyway. I’m to be forever cursed with this translucent skin.” And indeed, it was translucent. It was more than white. Priscilla could see the blue veins on her arms, which always drove her mad. She’d stood out in the sun all summer and bathed herself in the rays. And yet, she knew it was all for naught. Her entire mother’s side, both men and women, had been pale. Pale and rail thin, another curse Priscilla suffered from.

“Men don’t like tanned women, you know.”

Priscilla looked down at the young girl then, finding a pair of eyes staring back at her. Rebecca was only sixteen, yet to come out, and knew nothing about the workings of men and women—though, what Priscilla knew didn’t add up to much more. At nineteen, Priscilla had already completed two seasons, and if she failed the one this coming year, she could be looking at spinsterhood. In her second season, the only men who’d asked for her hand were either old or fortune hunters. A tan was her last option. “I’m trying something new.”

“And you think it will work?” The disbelief rang clear. Rebecca rarely censored herself, which had driven their mother mad enough to limit the young girl’s outings.

Little sisters. Yet another curse. Could the Lord not see fit to give her more brothers? “Yes, Rebecca, I do believe it will work.”

“Maybe you need to practice.” Yet another reason Rebecca was rarely let out of the house.

Priscilla smiled. “Practice what?”

Rebecca lifted a shoulder. Her hands crossed on the skirt of her black dress as she spoke, “I don’t know. Practice whatever it is that makes men wish to marry.”

Priscilla wanted to laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Women do not practice catching a man.”

“Maybe not in your romance novels, but perhaps if more women did, there wouldn’t be so many mothers complaining about failed seasons.”

Priscilla stared at her little sister and then glanced around the room. There were a few young men present for the funeral. It was a horrible idea, really. “This is a period for mourning. Even still, I will not embarrass myself in front of a peer.”

“Who says it has to be a peer?”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes at Rebecca. Maybe the girl was onto something. “You mean a servant?”

“More or less. He should be fairly young, though. After all, it’s a
young
man you wish to marry. Educated, so he can follow conversation. And good-looking so that it’s not too much work on your part. Either way, what would it matter if you flirted with one of them?”

Genius. Priscilla looked around the party with new eyes. There were a few men standing post around the large room. Then she saw someone walk past the open door and made her decision. She turned to Rebecca. “I’ll return shortly.” And then she left the room.

Outside the sitting room, more people filled the foyer. There was also more talking here. There was a relaxed feeling amongst this crowd, and Priscilla attributed it to the lack of the Lady of the House’s presence.

She’d just lost sight of the man she wished to converse with when a voice jarred her from behind.

“Lady Garrett.”

She spun around, and her eyes met those of Mr. Levi Smith, the Duke of Hensman’s assistant. Priscilla had noticed the young man many times. Whenever the duke needed to deliver an important message to her father, Levi brought it. They’d never actually spoken more than a greeting to one another, but the moment Priscilla had spotted him a second ago, she’d known him to be perfect. Young. Educated. Good-looking. Just like Rebecca suggested.

But what’s more, the duke was dead, and Levi would have to look for other work, meaning she’d never see him again. Pass or fail, he was the perfect experiment for her charms. “Mr. Smith.” Her voice came out higher than she’d wished and a little louder than she’d planned.

His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. Finally, he handed her a sealed letter and said, “For your family. It’s a thank you for coming.”

A letter exchange? Priscilla smiled and reached for the letter, but as she grabbed it, she purposefully allowed her gloved hand to glide across his and then looked up to find him staring at her intensely. Warmth spread through her, traveling up her arm, causing her heart to quicken. She hadn’t planned for her own reaction. Only his.

The letters that he’d been holding in his other hand fell to the floor. He quickly went for them, and Priscilla leaned over to help. “Allow me.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She helped anyway, reaching out for the letters, touching his hand repeatedly. Eventually, his hand came to rest over hers in a tight grip. She could feel the strength in his hold. He looked at her with his stunning gray eyes. “I’ve got it.”

“Of course,” she whispered.

They were silent for a moment as they gazed at one another.

Looking at him, she noticed—not for the first time—just how very handsome he was. He had thick black hair with deep waves, a well-defined jaw, and when he licked his lips—like he just did—faint dimples appeared. Priscilla realized then that she’d never seen him smile before. What would it be like to see such a thing?

He straightened, bringing her up with him, his hand on her elbow. “Thank you for coming,” he quickly stated, dropping her arm. He gave a bow and then looked ready to leave, but Priscilla needed him to stay. For her experiment, she told herself.

“Why didn’t you give my mother the letter?”

Levi looked at her again, those gray eyes holding her rooted in place. “Your mother is busy at the moment. I didn’t wish to interrupt.”

“You mean she’s busy talking to Sally. You didn’t wish to run into Sally.”

His eyes went wide.

“I know how she can be at times.” Heat crawled up her cheeks. She’d said the wrong thing. She needed to relive that moment. Determined to see this through, she let out a breath and began to bat her eyes.

Levi frowned. “Is there something in your eye?”

Yes, she thought. Tears of embarrassment. She stopped blinking.

He drew his brows together and then said, “Make sure your mother receives the letter.”

“Of course.”

A footman came over and touched Levi’s arm. “They wish to see you in the study.”

“Me?” Levi asked.

The footman nodded and then turned away.

Levi looked at Priscilla once more. “Don’t forget the letter.”

“I won’t.” But by the time she’d finished the statement, he was already gone.

S
ally followed
the maid into Hensman’s office and paused at entering. Being summoned to the large space had never been a pleasant experience for her. Usually an invite would send Sally’s heart galloping furiously with the fear of whatever her husband would say. Now, he was gone, and his solicitor, Mr. Tuttle, sat in the big chair.

He was a very frail and thin man who usually had a kind smile to offer Sally, as he did now. “Lady Hensman.” He used his cane to come to his feet.

The other men in the room came to their feet as well. Sally looked at them all. First there was Gregory Rowland, Frank’s cousin who would inherit the title since Sally hadn’t managed to bear a son. But, Gregory was kind, a gentleman, and Sally knew he’d take care of her if need be. Gregory had also brought along his younger brother, Peter, who nodded at Sally, as if to send his condolences.

And on the other side of the room was Levi Smith. Sally hated him, not because the boy was cruel on his own, but because he’d so often delivered his master’s bad news to her. Anything Frank wanted, Levi would do without question—the perfect servant, not caring who was injured during the process.

Next to Levi stood Lord Nathaniel Dawnton, the handsome son of a duke who’d married Frank’s niece, Amy, two years prior. Amy sat in her chair, a hand on her protruding stomach. Pregnant again. They already had one son and people speculated the one she carried would be male as well. Sally didn’t care for her much either. Her upbringing was more than questionable. The daughter of a harlot. And at her side sat Sally’s own daughter, Christa. Sadness covered her features. Her pale eyes looked haunted, and her black hair matched the dark hue of her mourning dress.