Читать книгу: «Bride For A Night»

Praise for the incomparable Rosemary Rogers

“A passion-filled, globe-spanning affair…”

—Publishers Weekly on Scoundrel’s Honor

“[A] perfect beach book.”

—Publishers Weekly on Bound by Love

“Sizzling sensuality, seduction and danger…

come together with a powerful, skillfully told

love story…vintage Rosemary Rogers.”

—RT Book Reviews on Scandalous Deception

“From the high roads of England to the French

countryside, this is a classic sexy, adventure romance…

Rogers continues to play on the timeless themes of the

genre, providing a wonderful, albeit nostalgic, read.

You can go home again.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Daring Passion

“The queen of historical romance.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Rogers’ legion of readers will be delighted to find that

her latest historical romance features the same brand of

arrogant, bold, and sexy hero; stubborn, beautiful, and

unconventional heroine; and passionate plot that first

made this genre wildly popular in the early 1980s.”

—Booklist on Sapphire

“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement,

and always wildly tempestuous romance.”

—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

Bride for a Night
Rosemary Rogers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my family, my loyal readers.

Thank you for always being there!

BRIDE for a NIGHT

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

SLOANE SQUARE WAS not the finest neighborhood in London, but it was respectable and comfortably situated next to the more fashionable areas. As a rule it was occupied by members of the ton who clung to the fringes of society, or those who preferred to avoid the bustle that spilled throughout Mayfair.

And then there was Mr. Silas Dobson.

Claiming the largest mansion on a corner lot, Mr. Dobson was what was delicately known as an “upstart.” Or for those less kindly disposed, as an ill-bred mushroom who reeked of the shop despite his fortune.

He might eventually have been forgiven for his unwelcome intrusion among his betters had Silas been willing to fade quietly into the background and accept that he would always be inferior to those born into the aristocracy.

Silas, however, was not the sort of man to fade into any background.

As large as an ox, with a barrel chest and meaty face that was ruddy from the sun, he was as loud and crass as any of the hundreds of men who worked in his numerous warehouses spread throughout the city. Even worse, he made no apology for the fact he had crawled out of the gutters to make his fortune in trade. The youngest of twelve children, he had started as a dockhand before beginning to invest in high-risk cargos and eventually purchasing a number of properties that were rented out at an exorbitant fee to various shipping companies.

He was a bully without manners who had managed to insult nearly every resident in Sloane Square at least a dozen times over the past ten years.

And while he wasn’t stupid enough to believe he could ever pass as a gentleman, he was willing to use his obscene wealth to foist his only child onto society.

An impudence that did nothing to endear him to members of the ton.

Of course, their ruffled feathers were somewhat eased by the knowledge that, for all of Dobson’s wealth and bluster, he couldn’t make his tiny dab of a daughter a success.

Oh, she was pretty enough with large emerald eyes set in a perfect oval face with a delicate nose and full, rose-kissed lips. But there was something quite…earthy in her gypsy curves and unruly raven curls.

It was, however, her awkward lack of charm that ensured that she would remain a wallflower.

After all, there were always those gentlemen of breeding who were notoriously short of funds. Being a member of nobility was an expensive business, especially if one was a younger sibling without the benefit of large estates to offset the cost of being fashionable.

With a dowry well over a hundred thousand pounds, Talia should have been snatched off the marriage mart her first season, even with a boorish father who promised to be a yoke of embarrassment around the neck of his prospective son-in-law.

But, when a man added in the fact that the female was a dreaded bluestocking who could barely be induced to speak a word in public, let alone dazzle a gentleman with practiced flirtations, it all combined to leave her a source of amused pity, someone who was avoided like the plague.

Society members took pleasure in Talia’s failure. They smugly assured themselves it would be a blow to the odious Mr. Dobson and an example to other encroachers who thought they could buy a place among the aristocracy.

They might not have been so smug had they known Silas Dobson as well as his daughter did.

The son of a mere butcher did not acquire a small financial empire unless he possessed the unbridled determination to overcome any obstacle. No matter what the sacrifice.

Well aware of Silas Dobson’s ruthless willpower, Talia shuddered at the sound of her father’s bellow as it echoed through the vaulted rooms of the elegant house.

“Talia. Talia, answer me. Damned, where is the child?”

There was the muffled sound of servants rushing to provide the master of the house with the information he desired, and with a sigh Talia set aside the book on China she had been studying and cast a rueful glance about her temporary haven of peace.

Arched windows overlooked the sunken rose garden and a marble fountain that sparkled in the late May sunlight. Heavy shelves filled with leather-bound books lined the walls, and the coved ceiling high above was painted with an image of Apollo in his chariot. At one end a walnut desk was set near the carved marble fireplace that was flanked by two leather chairs. And the floor was covered by an Oriental carpet that glowed with rich crimson and sapphire.

It was a beautiful library.

Rising from one of the chairs, Talia smoothed her hands down the teal skirt of her simple muslin gown, wishing she had changed into one of the fine silk dresses that her father preferred.

Not that he would ever be pleased with her appearance, she wryly acknowledged.

Silas’s disappointment in not having a son and heir was only surpassed by his disappointment in possessing a daughter who looked more like a gypsy than one of the elegant blonde debutantes who graced the London ballrooms.

Braced for her father’s entrance, Talia managed not to flinch as he rammed open the door to the library and regarded her with an impatient glower.

“I might have known I would find you wasting your day hiding among these damnable books.” His disapproving gaze took in her plain gown and lack of jewelry. “Why did I spend a fortune on your finery if not to be out preening yourself like the other silly chits?”

“I never asked you to spend your money on my clothing,” she softly reminded him.

He snorted. “Oh, aye, I suppose you would as soon go about looking like a charwoman and have all of society think me too clutch-fisted to properly provide for my only child? A fine thing that would be.”

“That is not what I meant.”

With heavy steps, Silas moved beside the desk, his face more ruddy than usual, as if the white cravat tied around his thick neck was choking him.

Talia felt a flutter of unease. Her father only allowed his valet to wrestle him into that particular tailored gray jacket and burgundy striped waistcoat when he intended to mingle among society rather than devoting his day to his business. A rare occurrence that typically ended with her father in a foul mood and various aristocrats threatening to rid the world of Silas Dobson’s existence.

“Is it not enough that you embarrass me with your clumsy manner and dim-witted stammering?” he growled, pouring himself a generous amount of brandy from a crystal decanter.

She lowered her head, a familiar sense of failure settling in the pit of her stomach.

“I have tried my best.”

“Oh, aye, and that’s why you’re alone on this fine day while your fancy friends are attending an alfresco luncheon in Wimbledon?”

Her heart dipped in familiar disappointment. “They are not my friends, and I could hardly attend a luncheon for which I did not receive an invitation.”

“You mean to say you were slighted?” her father rasped. “By God, Lord Morrilton will hear of this.”

“No, father.” Talia lifted her head in horror. It was bad enough to be ignored when she was forced to attend the events to which she was invited. She could not bear to be a source of resentment. “I warned you, but you would not listen. You cannot purchase me a place in society, no matter how much money you spend.”

The anger suddenly faded from her father’s face to be replaced by a smug smile.

“Now that is where you are wide of the mark.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I have just returned from a most satisfying meeting with Mr. Harry Richardson, younger brother to the Earl of Ashcombe.”

Talia recognized the name, of course.

A handsome gentleman with brown hair and pale eyes, he possessed a reckless charm and a talent for shocking society with his outrageous pranks and notorious passion for gambling. He was also infamous for being deeply in debt.

Watching from the fringes, Talia had secretly concluded that the gentleman’s wild behavior had been a result of being so closely related to Lord Ashcombe.

Unlike his younger brother, Ashcombe was more than passably handsome. In fact, he was…breathtaking.

His hair was the palest gold that shimmered like satin in candlelight, and his lean features were so perfectly carved that he appeared more like a god than a mere man. His cheekbones were high and sharply chiseled, his nose was narrow and boldly arrogant, and his lips surprisingly full. His eyes…

A delicate shiver raced through Talia.

His eyes were a pale silver rimmed with black. They could glitter with cold intelligence or flare with terrifying fury. And his lean body was hard with the muscles of a natural athlete.

He was grace and power and cunning all combined together, and while he rarely made an appearance at the various gatherings, he was all but worshipped by society.

How could Harry not feel as if he were forever in the shadow of such a man? It seemed perfectly natural he would rebel in whatever manner possible.

Aware that her father was waiting for a response, Talia cleared her throat. “Did you?”

“Well, don’t sit there gaping like a trout.” The older man gave a wave of one meaty hand. “Ring for that hatchet-faced butler and tell him to bring up a bottle of that fancy French swill that cost me a bloody fortune.”

Feeling a chill of premonition feather down her spine, Talia absently tugged on the bell rope near the fireplace, her gaze never leaving the self-satisfied sneer on her father’s face.

“Father, what have you done?”

“I have purchased you a place in that stiff-rumped society, just as I said I would.” His smile widened. “One they can’t ignore.”

Talia sank onto the edge of the nearest chair, a growing sense of horror flooding through her.

“Dear lord,” she breathed.

“You can thank me, not the Almighty. He could never have performed the miracle I achieved over a boiled beefsteak and a bottle of burgundy.”

She licked her lips, trying to quell the rising panic. Perhaps it was not as bad as she feared.

Please God, do not let it be as bad as I fear.

“I assume you were at your club?”

“I was.” Silas grimaced. “Bastards. It is nothing less than barefaced highway robbery to demand that I pay a fee just to rub elbows with the tedious idiots who believe themselves above us honest folk.”

“If you find them so repulsive, then I cannot imagine why you bothered to join the club.”

“For you, you pea goose. Your mother, God rest her soul, wanted to see you respectably established and that’s what I intend to do. Not that you make it an easy matter.” Her father ran a dismissive gaze over the curls escaping from the neat bun at the nape of her neck, then at the dust that marred her skirt from climbing among the bookshelves. “I hired the most expensive governess and a dozen other instructors who promised to polish you for society, and what did I get for my money? A lump without the least appreciation for all I have sacrificed.”

Talia flinched, unable to deny her father’s accusations. He had paid an enormous sum of money in the attempt to mold her into a lady of quality. It was not his fault that she lacked the talents expected of a debutante.

She could not play the pianoforte. She could not paint or do needlepoint. She had learned the steps to the various dances, but she couldn’t seem to perform them without tripping over her own feet. And she had never been able to capture the art of flirtation.

All of these failures might have been excused had she possessed the sense to be born beautiful.

She knotted her fingers in her lap. “I do appreciate your efforts, Father, but I truly believe Mother would have wished for my happiness.”

“You know nothing,” her father snapped. “You are a silly chit who has spent too much time with your head stuck in a book. I warned that governess not to allow you to read that dodgy poetry. It’s rotted your brains.” He paused to glare at her in warning. “Thankfully, I know what is best for you.”

“And what is that?”

“Marriage to Mr. Harry Richardson.”

The room briefly went black, but Talia grimly battled back the urge to faint.

Swooning would do nothing to sway her father. Perhaps nothing would. But she had to try.

“No,” she whispered softly. “Please, no.”

Silas scowled at the tears that glittered in her eyes. “What the devil is the matter with you?”

Talia surged to her feet. “I cannot marry a stranger.”

“What do you mean, a stranger? You’ve been introduced, haven’t you?”

“Introduced, yes,” Talia agreed, willing to bet her considerable fortune that Harry Richardson could not pick her out in a crowd. Certainly he had never bothered to take notice of her since their brief introduction during her first season. “But we have exchanged barely half a dozen words.”

“Bah, people do not wed because of ballroom chit chat. A man seeks a female to provide him with a pack of brats…?.”

“Father.”

Silas snorted, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be giving me your missish airs. I know enough of the world to call a spade a spade. A man has one need of a wife, while a female needs a man who can provide her with a home and a bit of pin money to keep her happy.”

The panic once again flared through Talia, and she sucked in a deep breath, pressing a hand to her thundering heart.

Dear Lord, she had to stop this madness.

“Then I fear you have made a poor choice,” she managed to murmur. “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Richardson is a reckless gambler and a…” Her words faltered.

“Aye?” her father prompted.

She turned to pace across the carpet, unwilling to admit that she often used her position as a forgotten wallflower to eavesdrop on the latest gossip. It made it difficult to explain how she was aware that Harry Richardson was a lecher who kept a string of beautiful and extremely expensive mistresses.

“And a gentleman incapable of providing either a home or pin money for his wife,” she instead pointed out.

Silas shrugged, obviously willing to overlook his potential son-in-law’s numerous faults so long as he could provide the necessary pedigree for his grandsons.

“Which is why I have informed him that I will be using a portion of your dowry to purchase a suitable house in Mayfair as well as to set aside an allowance for you.” He deliberately paused. “There, now you can’t be saying I haven’t done my best by you.” Best?

Talia abruptly turned to meet her father’s belligerent glare, anger burning through her at the ridiculous words. It was bad enough that Silas was willing to sacrifice her to satisfy his frustrated lust for social acceptance. But to hide behind the pretense that his only thought was for her was beyond the pale.

“Why would you choose a younger son? I thought you were determined that I should wed a title?”

“After three seasons of waiting for you to bring even one gentleman up to snuff, I accepted I had set my sights too high.” He drained the last of his brandy, his gaze sliding from her too-pale face to study the tips of his boots. “Just like when I wished to sell that chestnut nag this past spring. A man has to bear the occasional loss when he’s bartering.”

She flinched. Her father was always willing to trample her pride as well as her feelings to force her to do his bidding, but he was rarely so cruel.

“I’m not a nag to be bartered.”

His jaw tightened with determination. “Nay, you are a young lady who has a great deal too many sensibilities considering you’re close to being put on the shelf.”

“Would that be such a tragedy?” she asked softly.

“Don’t be daft, Talia,” he barked, lifting his gaze with an expression of impatience. “I have not acquired a fortune only to have it end up in the hands of some nitwitted nephew when I cock up my toes.” Stepping from the desk, he stabbed a finger toward her. “You will do your duty and provide me with a grandson who will be the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. He will attend Oxford and, in time, become a member of parliament. Perhaps he will even become prime minister.” A smile of smug anticipation curled his lips. “Not bad for the son of a butcher.”

“I am surprised that you do not demand a throne,” she muttered before she could cut off the words.

“I might have if you hadn’t proven to be such a disappointment.” Silas turned to stomp toward the door, clearly finished with the conversation. He had made his decision and now he expected Talia to meekly obey his command. “The wedding will be held the end of June.”

“Father—”

“And Talia, you will make certain that it is the social event of the season,” he said, overriding her soft plea and glancing over his shoulder to offer a warning glower. “Or you will pack your bags and join your Aunt Penelope in Yorkshire.”

Talia’s stomach clenched at her father’s stark threat.

Penelope Dobson was her father’s eldest sister. A bitter spinster who devoted her life to her incessant prayers and causing others misery.

After her mother’s death, Talia had spent nearly a year in her aunt’s decrepit cottage, treated little better than an unpaid servant and rarely allowed to leave her cramped rooms. That might have been bearable if the horrid woman had not taken pleasure in striking Talia with a horsewhip for the tiniest infraction of her rigid rules.

Her father was well aware that she would toss herself in the Thames before she would once again be imprisoned in Yorkshire.

Heaven help her.

CHAPTER TWO

MUCH TO TALIA’S astonishment, her wedding day dawned with a glorious sunrise that painted the cloudless sky in shades of pink and gold. It promised to be a perfect summer day. She had expected a gray, dismal morning that would have matched the impending sense of doom that had haunted her for weeks.

Even more astonishing, she appeared almost pretty in her ivory silk gown overlaid with silver gauze and sprinkled with diamonds along the low-cut bodice and the hem that stopped just above her ivory satin slippers. Her dark curls were carefully arranged in a complicated knot on top of her head and held in place by a large diamond tiara that matched the heavy necklace draped around her neck and shimmering earrings.

Gifts from her father, of course.

He was determined that her wedding would be the talk of the season, impervious to Talia’s pleas that a lavish wedding would be in poor taste considering that all of society knew that the bridegroom had been purchased with Talia’s vast dowry.

So far as Silas Dobson was concerned, discretion was for those who could not afford to toss about their money in gaudy displays of extravagance.

Reluctantly accepting that the earth was not going to open up and swallow her whole, Talia silently entered the glossy black carriage and allowed herself to be driven to the small church where the private ceremony was to take place. After the ceremony they were scheduled to return to Sloane Square for an elegant wedding breakfast with two hundred guests.

It was only when she was standing at the altar that the disaster she had been anticipating the entire day at last struck.

The rector was attired in his finest robes with a somber expression on his round face. Talia’s father was standing at her side wearing his finest black jacket and silver waistcoat. And on the other side was Talia’s only friend, Hannah Lansing, the daughter of a baronet who shared Talia’s miserable fate as a wallflower.

But there was one notable absence.

Mr. Harry Richardson was nowhere to be found.

For nearly two hours they waited for the missing bridegroom to make his appearance, while the increasingly bleak silence that had filled the church echoed in Talia’s heart.

She felt…numb. As if the humiliation of being abandoned at the altar was happening to some other unfortunate lady.

It was a sensation that refused to be dismissed even when her father had stormed from the church, swearing that the bastard would suffer for having made a fool of Silas Dobson. And when she had been forced to return to the house and announce to the two hundred avid, twittering guests that the wedding had been regrettably postponed.

Or now, as she sat in her private sitting room decorated in soothing shades of lavender and ivory.

Perched on the edge of the window seat that overlooked the rose garden filled with guests still reveling at being in attendance at the greatest scandal of the season, Talia understood she should feel something.

Anger, humiliation, heartbreak…

Anything but the awful emptiness.

Absently she watched as Hannah paced across the Persian carpet, the swish of her rose satin gown the only sound to break the thick silence. The poor girl was clearly at a loss as to how to handle the awkward situation.

“I am certain there must have been an accident,” Hannah at last muttered, her round face flushed and her frizz of brown curls escaping from silver combs.

Talia shrugged, unable to stir an interest in why Harry had failed to appear at his own wedding.

“Are you?” she asked, her voice dull.

“Yes, indeed.” Hannah’s dark eyes held a sympathy she couldn’t entirely disguise. “No doubt the carriage overturned and Mr. Richardson and his family were knocked unconscious.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh.” Hannah pressed a hand to her plump breasts. “Not that I would wish for the passengers to be injured.”

“No. Of course not.”

“But it would explain…”

“Explain why I was left at the altar?”

Hannah grimaced in embarrassment. “Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the sitting room, and with an effort, Talia searched her mind for a means to be rid of her companion.

It was not that she didn’t appreciate Hannah’s attempts to offer comfort, but for the moment she desperately wished to be alone.

Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the door. “Has my father returned?”

“Do you wish me to discover if he is here?”

“If it is no trouble.”

Hannah gratefully latched onto the small task, obviously pleased to be of service.

“Not at all. And I shall bring you a tea tray.”

Talia shuddered at the mere thought of food. “I am not hungry.”

“Perhaps not, but you are very pale.” Hannah’s soft brown gaze lingered on Talia’s face with obvious concern. “You should try to eat something.”

“If you insist.” Talia managed a smile. “You’re very kind.”

“Nonsense. I am your friend.”

Hannah left the room and softly closed the door behind her. Talia heaved a sigh of relief. Later she would appreciate Hannah’s staunch loyalty. After all, the young lady could easily have used her position in the center of the brewing scandal to elevate her status among the gossipmongers still cluttering the rose garden.

Instead she had stayed at Talia’s side, anxious to provide comfort.

It was not her fault that Talia was incapable of weeping and wailing and wringing her hands like a proper bride who had just been publicly jilted.

With a frown, Talia reached to push the window open, hoping for a breeze to stir the air. The room felt…stifling. Too late, she realized that two of the unwelcome guests had strayed from the banquet tables and were currently standing just below her window.

“Good heavens, Lucille, you appear quite flustered,” one of the ladies was exclaiming.

“Have you heard the latest?” the second woman demanded.

Talia froze on the point of sliding shut the window.

It was absurd. What did she care what rumors were swirling about society? The gossip could be no more humiliating than the truth.

Still, she found herself unable to curb the destructive urge to know what was being said.

“Tell me,” the first woman breathed, her voice vaguely familiar.

“Lord Eddings is said to have been with the missing bridegroom last eve at some horrid gambling establishment.”

“That is hardly news. It is Harry’s fondness for the cards that forced him to become engaged to Dowdy Dobson in the first place.”

Talia’s hands clenched in her lap. Dowdy Dobson. It was an insult she had endured since her first season.

“Yes, well, last eve he was heavily in his cups and he confessed that he never intended to wed the vulgar chit.”

“Never?” There was a malicious giggle. “But why become engaged at all? Surely it was not just a cruel hoax?”

“According to Eddings, the naughty boy insisted on a portion of the dowry to purchase a suitable townhouse he discovered in Mayfair.” There was a dramatic pause. “Instead he intends to take his windfall and disappear.”

The first woman sucked in a scandalized breath. “Good…heavens.”

“Precisely.”

Talia knew she should have been equally scandalized.

Despite the fact that Harry had all but ignored her since the announcement of their engagement, he had appeared resigned to the notion of taking a wife. Certainly she’d had no warning that he intended to deceive her father into handing over a small fortune and using it to flee from London.

And from her.

“A daring scheme, but Harry cannot possibly imagine that he can hide from a man such as Silas Dobson,” the first lady said, her tone edged with revulsion at the mention of Talia’s father. “The brute no doubt has a dozen cutthroats on his payroll.”

“True enough.”

“Besides, think of the scandal. Lord Ashcombe will have his head on a platter.” Would he?

Talia was not nearly so confident.

From the whispers that had circulated throughout society, the earl had washed his hands of his younger brother when he had announced his intention to wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.

“Not if Harry escapes to the Continent,” the unknown Lucille insisted.

“In the midst of a war?”

The woman’s sudden laugh drifted on the breeze. “Obviously the danger of being shot by a Napoleon is preferable to marrying Dowdy Dobson.”

“And who could blame him?” her companion swiftly agreed. “Still, he cannot intend to remain exiled forever?”

“Certainly not. In a year or so the scandal will have faded and Harry will make his glorious return.”

“And be welcomed as the prodigal son?” There was the sound of a fan being snapped open. “You have a very odd notion of the earl if you believe he will forgive and forget. The man terrifies me.”

“He may be terrifying, but he is so wickedly handsome.” Her soft sigh was filled with the feminine appreciation shared by most women. “Such a pity he has so little interest in society.”

“Well, at least polite society.”

“I would be as improper as he desires if only he would glance in my direction.”

The two shared a giggle. “Shocking, my dear.”

“Oh, there is Katherine. We must tell her what you have discovered.”

There was a rustle of silk as the two women slowly moved away, their conversation muted but still clear enough for Talia to follow.

“Do you know, I almost have it in my heart to pity poor Miss Dobson.”

Talia grimaced. Despite her words, there was a decided lack of pity in the woman’s tone. In fact, it sounded remarkably akin to gloating.

“Yes,” her companion purred. “One thing is for certain, she dare not show her face in society again.”

“She should never have forced her way among her betters to begin with.” Talia detected a sniff of smug disapproval. “Nothing good ever comes of getting above your station.”

Despite the heat, Talia shivered.

She remained safely cocooned in her odd sense of detachment for the moment, but she wasn’t stupid. Eventually the protective shell surrounding her heart would shatter, and she would be laid bare to the endless disgrace of a woman scorned.

She couldn’t even console herself with the thought that her father would have the decency to allow her to withdraw from society until the scandal had passed.

No. Silas Dobson would never comprehend the notion of a dignified retreat. He would insist that she face her tormentors regardless of the pain and embarrassment it might cause her.

She was brooding on her bleak future when the door was opened, and Hannah crossed the threshold carrying a large silver tray.

“Here we are then,” she said in the overly bright tones that people used in a sickroom. “I have brought a small dish of poached trout in cream sauce and fresh asparagus, as well as a few strawberries.”

“Yes, thank you,” Talia softly interrupted, her stomach rebelling at the smell of fish.

Perhaps sensing Talia’s distress, Hannah moved toward the low cherrywood table near the white marble fireplace.

“I’ll just leave it here, shall I?”

Talia managed a weak smile of gratitude. “Did you locate my father?”

“No. It is…” Hannah broke off her words, gnawing on her bottom lip. “What?”

“I was told that Mr. Dobson has not been seen since he left the church.”

Talia shrugged. Her father was stubborn enough to search for Harry Richardson until hell froze over.

“I see.”

Hannah cleared her throat. “No doubt he will soon be returning.”

“No doubt he will,” a dark, sinfully dangerous voice drawled from the open doorway. “Mr. Dobson is rather like a cockroach that scuttles about the shadows and is impossible to be rid of.”

Talia went rigid with horror, as she easily recognized the voice. How could she not? As much as it might embarrass her to admit, there was no denying that she had used her position among the shadows to spy upon the Earl of Ashcombe like a lovelorn schoolgirl.

He had fascinated her with his golden beauty and predatory grace. He was like a cougar she had seen illustrated in a book. Sleek and elegantly lethal.

And of course, his aloof manner of treating society with barely concealed disdain had pleased her battered pride. He obviously had no more regard for the frivolous fools than Talia did.

Now, however, it was not breathless excitement she felt as she turned to regard the stunningly handsome face and the frigid silver gaze.

Instead it was a chill of foreboding that trickled down her spine.

CHAPTER THREE

GABRIEL, THE SIXTH Earl of Ashcombe, made no apology for being a cynical bastard.

His cynicism had been hard earned.

After inheriting his father’s title at the tender age of eighteen, he had shouldered the burdens of several vast estates, hundreds of servants and a mother who refused to leave her bed for weeks at a time.

And then there was Harry.

Six years younger than Gabriel, his brother had always been outrageously spoiled by Lady Ashcombe. Gabriel had done what he could to mitigate the damage, but he was often away at school, and when he did return to Carrick Park, his ancestral home in Devonshire, he’d been expected to devote his time to his father, learning the complex duties of being an earl.

As a result, Harry had been allowed to indulge his worst impulses. He’d been sent down from school for cheating on his exams, he’d gambled away his generous allowance, and he had fought at least two duels. All before traveling to London.

Since his arrival in the city, his wild excesses had become even worse. Gambling and whoring and risking his neck on every ludicrous dare that might be uttered in his hearing.

Gabriel had tried to impose a few limitations, only to be constantly undermined by his mother. In desperation he’d at last warned the countess that he would have her beloved Harry banished to Carrick Park if the boy didn’t learn to live within his allowance.

Christ. He had suspected that Harry would plead, lie and even cheat if necessary to avoid being forced from London, but it had never occurred to him that he would become engaged to an upstart female who could only bring shame to the family.

His mother, of course, had taken to her bed with the vapors, demanding that Gabriel do something to rescue her darling son from the clutches of the evil Dobson chit. Gabriel, however, had grimly refused to interfere. If his brother wanted to toss away his future by wedding a female who was a social embarrassment—and worse, related to Silas Dobson—then Gabriel washed his hands of him.

A grim smile touched his lips as he stepped into the private salon. He should have known Harry would find a means of saving his own damned hide while leaving Gabriel to clean up his mess.

Shrouded in the icy composure he had honed over the years, he cast a quick glance around the room, absently noting a plump female with brown hair before turning his attention to the female perched on the window seat.

Miss Talia Dobson.

Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.

The mere thought only intensified his anger.

The female might have played the timid wallflower to perfection, but the past hour had proved that she was as greedy and conniving as her boorish father.

“Oh…” The unfamiliar female fluttered in the center of the room that was surprisingly decorated with the simple elegance that he preferred. Unlike the public rooms that had been a garish combination of lacquer furnishings covered in a crimson velvet. “My lord.”

He waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to glance in her direction.

“You may leave us.”

“But…”

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“Yes, my lord.” He heard her faint gasp swiftly followed by the sound of the plump female hurrying to obey his command.

His gaze never shifted from Miss Dobson regarding him with an expression of frozen shock. Rather like a mouse watching a hungry cat suddenly approach.

Did the wench think he would accept being blackmailed?

If so, she was in for a bitter disappointment.

By the end of this meeting, Miss Talia Dobson would regret ever having dared to force him into this unbearable situation.

As if sensing his dangerous fury, Talia leaned backward, unwittingly pressing open the window behind her.

“If you are considering a tragic leap to bring an end to this farce, I would suggest that you wait until the guests have taken their leave,” he mocked, folding his arms over his blue jacket that he had matched with an ivory waistcoat and buff breeches. He had intended to spend the day at Tattersall’s in the hopes of acquiring a new pair of bays to pull his carriage. A convenient means to avoid his mother’s hysterical ranting at his refusal to prevent Harry’s imminent wedding. When Dobson had so rudely intruded into his townhouse, he had not considered the necessity of changing into more formal attire. “This travesty of a wedding has caused quite enough gossip.”

She blinked, shaking her head. Almost as if hoping that he was an unwelcome vision she could make disappear.

“Lord Ashcombe, why are you here?”

“I believe you are well aware what has brought me here.”

Her brows drew together. “Is there word of your brother? Has there been an accident?”

He narrowed his gaze, not at all amused by her pretense of bewilderment.

“Please don’t play coy with me, Miss Dobson. I have already spoken with your father.” His lip curled in disdain. “A shockingly unpleasant experience, I confess.”

Talia jerked to her feet, her hand pressed to her enticing bosom.

“My father?”

Gabriel clenched his hands at his sides. Could a woman deliberately drain her face of all color?

“I will admit you play the role of wounded martyr quite convincingly,” he said in biting tones. “My jaded heart might be touched if I was not aware that you and your father are shameless charlatans who will use any tactic, no matter how vile, to acquire a place among society.”

“I am aware you disapprove of your brother taking me as his wife.”

His sharp burst of laughter echoed through the room. “Not nearly so much as I disapprove taking you as my own wife.”

“I…” She swayed, and for a moment Gabriel thought she might sink into a predictable swoon. Then, with a visible effort, she sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Your wife?” She shook her head in denial. “Is this a jest?”

“I do not jest about the next Countess of Ashcombe.”

“Dear God.”

“Prayers will not help you now, my dear.”

“Please,” she said softly. “I do not understand.”

Gabriel fiercely told himself he would not be swayed by a pair of wounded emerald eyes.

Damnation. The woman was as great a fraud as her bastard of a father.

Was she not?

“Determined to act the innocent?” he rasped. “Very well. After an hour spent enduring your father’s crass insults and his boorish bullying it has become obvious I have been neatly cornered. I might have admired his cunning if I weren’t the poor sod being coerced into marrying a female who could only hope to force a man down the aisle.”

Long moments passed, the silence broken by the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel and the distant twitter of lingering guests.

“This makes no sense,” Talia said at last. “I am to wed Harry.”

“In his typical fashion, my brother considered nothing beyond his selfish need to indulge his every desire. And, when it came time to pay the piper, he disappeared, leaving me to take responsibility yet again.”

“But…” She licked her dry lips. “Surely you must have some notion of where he has gone?”

“I have several notions, but it no longer matters where he is hiding, does it?” He didn’t bother to disguise his bitterness.

She wrung her hands, her face tight with unexpected desperation.

“I suppose there is no means to disguise the fact he did not arrive at the church this morning, but if he could be found and compelled to return to London…”

“You would wed him after he abandoned you at the altar?” he snapped, oddly annoyed by her insistence to have Harry as her bridegroom.

Did the female have feelings for his wastrel of a brother?

Or was this just another clever ruse?

Neither explanation gave him pleasure.

“It is what my father desires,” she muttered.

“Perhaps he did before he had the means to capture an earl. Now I can assure you he has no intention of settling on a mere younger son.”

She appeared to struggle to follow his harsh words, a pulse fluttering at the base of her throat like a tiny bird caught in a cage.

Heat pierced through him at the thought of pressing his lips to that tender spot. Would she taste as sweet as she promised? Or was that yet another deception?

Thankfully unaware of his treacherous longings, Talia regarded him with a furrowed brow.

“I am aware that my father has acquired influence among some members of society, but how could he possibly force you to marry me?”

“Sordid blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“He has threatened to sue my brother for breach of promise, ensuring that my family name would be kept on the front pages of every scandal rag in England for months, if not years.”

She flinched at his harsh explanation, her ashen face suddenly flooded scarlet.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he said, sneering. “Your father is well aware I will pay any price, no matter how obscene, to protect my mother from becoming a public spectacle.”

“I…” She gave a helpless lift of her hands. “I am sorry.”

Barely aware he was moving, Gabriel prowled to stand directly before her, breathing deeply of her warm scent. Lilac, he noted absently, combined with an earthy perfume that was uniquely her own.

“Are you?” he growled.

“Yes.” She shivered beneath his brooding gaze. “I know it is difficult to believe, but I am just as appalled as you by this farce of a marriage.”

“I do not find it difficult, Miss Dobson, I find it impossible,” he countered, assuring himself that his stab of ire was at her continued charade and not at her horror at the thought of marrying him. “I am all too familiar with women like you.”

“Women like me?”

“Vulgar females who are willing to use whatever tactics necessary to acquire a husband.” He deliberately lowered his gaze to take in the soft curves modestly hidden beneath her silver gown. Had she been bold enough to display her charming wares she might have had more success on the marriage mart. “Of course, their tactics are usually more—”

“Attractive?” she said, an unexpected hint of bitterness shimmering in the emerald eyes.

“Polished,” he corrected.

“Forgive me for being a disappointment. It seems to be my lot in life,” she said, her voice so low he could barely catch the words. “But in my defense, I never desired a husband enough to polish my tactics.”

He frowned. So, there was a hint of spirit beneath that mousey demeanor.

“That would be a good deal more convincing if you had not offered my brother an embarrassing sum of money to take you as his bride, even knowing he had no desire to be tied to you.”

“It was my father—” She bit off her words, giving a resigned shake of her head. “What does it matter?”

“It does not.” He grasped her chin, peering deep into the eyes that held such remarkable innocence. “Even if I were idiotic enough to accept you are nothing more than a victim of your father’s machinations, it does not make the thought of having you as my bride any less unpalatable.”

He felt her quiver, her thick tangle of lashes lowering to hide the pain that flared through her eyes. Gabriel gritted his teeth against the sensation that was perilously close to regret tugging at his heart.

Dammit. He had nothing to regret.

“You have made your point, my lord,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“Obviously we must discuss our…” He struggled to force out the word. “Wedding.”

“Why?” She hunched a shoulder. “It is obvious that you and my father are capable of planning my future without bothering to consult me.”

His grasp tightened on her chin. “Do not press my temper, Miss Dobson. Not today.”

Her lips thinned but with a resigned obedience. She pulled free of his grasp and waved a hand toward a nearby chair.

“Will you have a seat?”

“No, this will not take long.”

She gave a slow nod, her face pale but composed. “Very well.”

“On Monday I will request a Special License from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He is a personal friend, so there should be no difficulty.”

Her lips twisted. “Of course not.”

“The ceremony will be held in the private chapel at my townhouse,” he continued. “I will arrange for the rector as well as two servants to serve as witnesses.”

It took her a moment to comprehend the meaning of his words. At last her eyes widened. “My father…”

“Is not invited.” His expression warned he would not compromise. “Nor will you include any other guests.”

“Do you intend to keep our marriage a secret?”

“A futile wish, unfortunately, but I am determined that it will not become a ridiculous farce.” He glanced toward the window where he could view the guests still taking full pleasure in the current scandal. “For the next week you will remain silent and away from society. You may also warn your father that any boasting that he has captured an earl as his son-in-law will greatly displease me.”

Her expression remained suitably chastened, but she couldn’t disguise the pulse that hammered at the base of her throat. Inwardly she was no doubt seething with the urge to slap him.

“And after the ceremony?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Am I to remain hidden from society?”

“Not hidden, but you will be enjoying an extended visit to my estate in Devonshire.”

She blinked at his frigid explanation. “I am to be banished to the country?”

“If my terms of marriage do not suit you, Miss Dobson, then perhaps you should devote the next few days to convincing your father to blackmail some other fool into becoming your husband.”

With an abrupt movement she turned on her heel, staring down at her unwelcome guests with a haunted expression.

“If I had the ability to sway my father I would never have been forced to wed your brother and we would not be in this mess.”

Gabriel stiffened in anger as another twinge of pity threatened to undermine his resolve.

Bloody hell. Was it not hideous enough to be coerced into marrying Silas Dobson’s daughter without offering her the opportunity to play him a fool?

“Then it would seem that we must both resign ourselves to the inevitable,” he bit out, turning on his heel to head toward the door.

“So it would seem,” she whispered behind him.

Halting on the threshold, Gabriel glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Dobson.”

“Yes?”

“I would prefer you refrain from smothering yourself in such a gaudy display of jewels.” He flicked a disdainful glance toward the massive diamonds draped around her neck. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not need to make an exhibit of herself.”

His parting shot delivered, Gabriel continued out of the room and down the hall, wondering why the devil he didn’t feel the least satisfied.

TALIA WAS IN the laundry room sorting through the linens that needed to be mended when her father’s butler appeared in the doorway.

As always, she was struck by the sight of the slender, gray-haired servant attired in an immaculate black uniform. He carried himself with a regal dignity that his employer could never hope to emulate.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Silas Dobson, who found it a source of coarse amusement to taunt his prim and proper butler. Anderson, on the other hand, was careful to keep his own opinion hidden behind his facade of frigid efficiency.

Hardly surprising. For all of her father’s faults, he was a shrewd businessman who was willing to pay his employees a generous salary that instilled far more loyalty than any amount of personal charm.

Impatiently brushing a stray curl from her forehead, Talia regarded the servant with a faint frown. It was rare for Anderson to enter what he considered the female domain.

“Yes?”

“The Earl of Ashcombe has called,” Anderson informed her in formal tones. “Shall I say you are receiving?”

The bed sheet slipped from her nerveless fingers as she surged to her feet. Lord Ashcombe? Here?

Despite the fact the man had been her fiancé for nearly a week, Talia’s mind struggled to accept that he had actually come to call upon her. No doubt because she had spent the past days assuring herself that the Earl of Ashcombe had no more intention of making her his bride than his younger brother had.

In truth, she had expected every morning to awaken to the announcement in the London Times that Lord Ashcombe had cancelled the absurd wedding, even if it did mean further scandal for his family.

So why was he here?

Had he come in person to cancel the wedding? And if so, why would he bother? It would surely have been easier for all of them if he had sent a message to avoid this unpleasant encounter.

Acutely aware of the silence that had abruptly filled the laundry room, Talia nervously cleared her throat.

“Did you inform him that my father is not at home?”

Anderson dipped his head. “He specifically requested to speak with you, Miss Dobson.”

“I see.” With no choice, Talia tugged off the apron that covered her sprigged muslin gown. “Please show him to the parlor.”

The butler offered a stiff bow. “Very good.”

The servant was stepping through the door when she realized that she had nearly forgotten her duties as a hostess. Odd, considering that they had been drilled into her by her numerous governesses over the years.

Of course, she rarely had an opportunity to display them, had she?

Who would desire to visit Silas Dobson or his awkward daughter? So far as London was concerned they were blights on civilized society.

“Oh, Anderson.”

“Yes?”

“Could you request Mrs. Knight to prepare a tray of refreshments?”

“Certainly.”

Although the butler’s gaunt face remained impassive, there was a suggestion of approval in his faint nod before he disappeared down the short hall.

Talia paused long enough to wash her hands and straighten the sapphire ribbon that was threaded beneath the empire style bodice. Then, she reluctantly followed in the butler’s path.

Her heart was thundering and her palms sweating by the time she reached the formal parlor, but she did not allow herself to pause as she stepped into the room heavily decorated with lacquer furnishings and crimson velvet. The slightest hesitation would allow her cowardice to take hold, and she would be fleeing to her room in terror.

The idea of flight remained a distinct possibility as her gaze landed on the tall, golden-haired man who always managed to make her heart leap with a dreadful excitement.

This morning he was attired in a pale blue jacket and silver waistcoat that was fitted to his body with flawless lines. Standing confidently near the ornately carved chimneypiece, his elegant style only emphasized the gaudy opulence of the gilded ceiling and massive Chinese vases that were arranged about the carpet.

He stiffened at her entrance, his expression unreadable as his gaze ran an unnervingly intimate inspection over her disheveled appearance.

Talia flushed, acutely aware that the lace of her gown was worn and her simple braid was better fitted for a servant than a lady of breeding. She had no notion that the steam from the laundry room had made the thin gown mold provocatively to her feminine curves. Or that the glossy curls that had strayed from her braid only emphasized her earthy beauty that would tempt any man, particularly one jaded by the frigid perfection of most society ladies.

And she most certainly would never have considered that any man could be imagining her spread on a bed of wildflowers as he ripped away her worn dress to reveal the smooth purity of her ivory skin.

She only knew that his unflinching survey made her feel hot and flustered in a manner she did not understand.

Licking her dry lips, she offered a clumsy curtsy. “My lord, I fear I was not expecting you.”

Almost as if her words had jerked him from an unwelcome spell, Lord Ashcombe stepped from the fireplace, a sardonic expression hardening his handsome features.

“I surely do not need an appointment to call upon my fiancée?” he mocked.

Her flush deepened. “Of course not, but I was not prepared to receive visitors. If you do not mind waiting I will change…”

“But I do mind.” He cut short her babbling. “I am a very busy man, Talia.” His lips twisted in a self-derisive smile. “Besides, we both know I was not driven here by the overwhelming urge to catch a glimpse of my beautiful bride-to-be.”

She flinched, wounded by his scorn despite her determination to remain immune to his taunts.

“There is no need to be insulting,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If you have come to cancel the wedding, then I would appreciate you completing the task so I can return to my duties.”

“What the devil?” His brows snapped together, shocked by her words. “You believe I have come here to cancel the wedding?”

“Why else?”

Something dangerous glittered in the silver eyes. “Has your father decided to end his threat to sue my brother?”

“I…” She gave a shake of her head. “My father has not discussed his intentions with me.”

“And you have no reason to suspect that he has lost his desire to acquire an earl as his son-in-law?”

She hunched a shoulder. “No.”

The prickling threat that had filled the air eased as Gabriel gave an impatient wave of his hand.

“Then, barring a miracle, it would appear the marriage will take place as scheduled.”

She clasped her hands together as she sought to comprehend his odd mood. What was the matter with him? He seemed almost…angered by her mention of canceling the wedding.

Or perhaps he was simply angry that she had reminded him of the distasteful event.

Yes, that was much more likely.

“May I ask why you have come?”

He gave a shake of his head before reaching for the stack of papers he had left on the mantel. With a sharp motion he shoved them into Talia’s hand.

“These must be signed by your father before our wedding.”

She glanced at the official-looking parchment in bewilderment. “What are they?”

“Legal documents that ensure I am protected.”

“Protected?” She frowned, lifting her head to meet his unwavering gaze. “From me?”

“From you, and more important, from Silas Dobson.”

“What threat could we possibly pose to the Earl of Ashcombe?”

He shrugged. “They are clearly described in the documents.”

She returned her attention to the papers clutched in her fingers, a nasty sense of dread settling in the center of her heart.

Silence filled the stuffy parlor as she attempted to unravel the legal nonsense. It took only a few paragraphs to wish she had not made the effort.

Mortification made her gasp at the cold, methodical dissection of what should be a loving union.

It was not the insistence that her dowry would be under her husband’s control, or that she was offered no more than a small allowance to cover her household expenses. Or even that she was to be given nothing in the event of the dissolution of their marriage. Those she had assumed from the beginning of their devil’s bargain.

But to know that Lord Ashcombe had discussed her most private behavior with a complete stranger made her sick to her stomach.

“You believe I would be unfaithful?” she rasped, raising her head to stab him with an offended glare.

He shrugged with an arrogance that made her long to slap his handsome face.

“I believe your morals are questionable at best and I will not be cuckolded in my own home.”

She clenched her hands. Unfeeling bastard.

“And am I allowed to insist upon a similar pledge of fidelity?”

His smile was without humor. “Of course not.”

“Surely that would only be fair?”

Without warning he strolled forward, his hand cupping her chin in a touch that scalded her sensitive skin.

“I do not intend to be fair, my dear,” he murmured, the silver gaze studying her pale face with an alarming intensity. “I am in the position to dictate the rules of our marriage, not you.”

“And your rules include the right to parade about town with your mistresses while I am expected to remain at home and play the role of the dutiful wife?”

She shivered as the heat of his body easily penetrated her thin gown. Dear heavens, she had so often dreamed of this man holding her in his arms as they danced across a ballroom, but harmless fantasies did not prepare a poor maiden for the reality of his overpowering presence.

“What do you think?” he growled.

She lowered her lashes, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how painful she found the thought of him with another woman.

“I think you will do whatever possible to humiliate me.”

He lowered his head until she felt the brush of his warm breath on her cheek.

“Would you prefer that I remain at home with you, pretending to be a devoted husband?”

She hastily pulled from his touch, as horrified as she was baffled by the quivering sensations that fluttered through her at the brush of his hard body against her.

“I would never ask the impossible,” she muttered, “but it would be a pleasant change…”

“Pleasant change?” he prompted, as her too-revealing words stumbled to a halt.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, as if they could protect her.

“A pleasant change not to be the source of amusement when I enter a ballroom,” she forced herself to continue.

He studied her broodingly. “Is that why you insist on becoming my bride?” he demanded. “Do you believe your position as the Countess of Ashcombe will offer you approval among society?”

She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”

A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”

Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.

Perhaps even more so.

What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.

“No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”

He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.

“You will see that your father receives the papers?”

“Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.

He frowned. “What did you say?”

“I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”

The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”

“No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”

“Quite simply because I will not allow it.”

With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.

LORD ASHCOMBE’S townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.

Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.

Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.