LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS Read online

  “Today’s Modern Woman should strive for personal enlightenment, independence, and forthrightness. The perfect place to begin this quest is in the bedchamber.”

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness

  and Intimate Fulfillment

  The narrow-minded boorishness of the ton made Catherine Ashfield, Viscountess Bickley, only too happy to assist a friend with the publication of A Ladies’ Guide—a scandalously explicit handbook that has taken society by storm. She’d hoped to set nobility on its ear, but she never dreamed her involvement would place her life in jeopardy... and force her to flee London in the company of a disarmingly attractive protector.

  “A gentleman hoping to entice a lady can employ a straightforward, direct approach, or use a more subtle, gentle wooing. Depending on the circumstances and the lady, either technique could prove effective.”

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness

  and Intimate Fulfillment

  Andrew Stanton, her new guardian and her brother’s best friend, has no noble lineage. Still, he’s far too comely to be ignored, causing a beautiful, independent lady who claims no interest in romance to seriously reconsider her position. However Andrew’s secrets, his passions, and his unspoken love make the man who has promised Catherine’s safety perhaps the greatest danger of all...

  Society has strict rules about proper decorum, courtship, romantic etiquette, and bedchamber behavior.

  But rules are made to be broken...

  Catherine stared at him for several seconds, then burst into laughter.

  “If you’d given committing to read the book any wider of a berth, you’d find yourself afloat in the middle of the Atlantic on your way back to America.” Some inner devil made her add, “Not that I’m surprised however. As Today’s Modern Woman knows, most men will go to great lengths to avoid committing to anything—unless it is for their own pleasure, of course. Now, before another argument ensues, I suggest we discuss something else, as it is clear we are in complete disagreement on the subject of the Guide.” She held out her hand. “Truce?”

  He studied her face for several seconds, then reached out to clasp her hand. His hand was large and strong, and she felt the warmth of his palm even through her gloves.

  “A truce,” he agreed softly. His lips twitched as his fingers gently squeezed hers. “Although I suspect you’re really angling for my unconditional surrender, in which case I must warn you”—he leaned forward and flashed a smile—“I don’t surrender easily.”

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  By Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Love and the Single Heiress

  Who Will Take This Man?

  This book is dedicated with my gratitude to John Hensley for all his kindness, support, and hard work on my behalf. My heartfelt thanks also to his top-notch team for making me feel so welcome: Dawn Doud, DeeAnn Kline, Pam Manley, Bev Martin, Carrie Murakami, Tracey Neel, Anna Shea-Nicholls, George Scott, and Susie Straussberger. Thank you all for showing me the Power of One.

  And, as always, to my incredible husband Joe, for his steadfast love, patience, and support, and for always saying “you can do it” exactly when I need to hear it; and my wonderful, makes-me-so-proud son Christopher, “you can do it” Junior. I love you best!

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable help and support:

  My editors, Carrie Feron and Erika Tsang, for their kindness, cheerleading, and wonderful ideas.

  My agent, Damaris Rowland, for her faith and wisdom.

  Martha Kirkland, for always knowing the answers to my research questions.

  Jenni Grizzle and Wendy Etherington for keeping me going and always being up for champagne and cheesecake.

  Brenda D’Alessandro, for being lots of fun, the world’s best shopper, and for walking three hundred city blocks without complaining (sort of).

  Thanks also to Kay and Jim Johnson, Kathy and Dick Guse, Lea and Art D’Alessandro, JoBeth Beard, Ann Wonycott, and Michelle, Steve, and Lindsey Grossman.

  A cyberhug to my Looney Loopies Connie Brockway, Marsha Canham, Virginia Henley, Jill Gregory, Sandy Hingston, Julia London, Kathleen Givens, Sherri Browning, and Julie Ortolon, and also to the Temptresses.

  A very special thank-you to the members of Georgia Romance Writers, JoBeth Beard, Ana Payne, Judy Wilson, and Jeannie Pierannunzi.

  And finally, thank you to all the wonderful readers who have taken the time to write or e-mail me. I love hearing from you!

  Chapter 1

  Today’s Modern Woman should strive for personal enlightenment, independence, and forthrightness. The perfect place to begin this quest for assertiveness is in the bedchamber...

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

  Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

  by Charles Brightmore

  “Scandalous, that’s what it is,” came an outraged male whisper. “My wife has somehow secured a copy of that deuced Ladies’ Guide.”

  “How do you know?” came another gruff male whisper.

  “Damned obvious, what with the way she’s been acting. Been spewing out nonsense about ‘today’s modern woman’ and ‘independence’ like a steaming teakettle. Just yesterday she marched into my private study and proceeded to question me regarding my gambling markers and the amount of time I spend at White’s!”

  Sharp intakes of breath followed. “Outrageous,” muttered the gruff whisperer.

  “Precisely what I told her.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Why, I marched her right out of my study, called for a carriage, and sent her to Asprey’s to pick out a new bauble to occupy her mind.”

  “Excellent. I assume your strategy worked?”

  “Unfortunately not as well as I’d hoped. Last night I found her awaiting me in my bedchamber. Gave me quite a turn, I tell you. Especially as I’d just left my mistress and was thoroughly worn-out. Bloody hell, a wife’s not supposed to make such demands, or have such expectations.”

  “My wife did the same thing just last week,” came a third aggrieved whisper. “Entered my bedchamber, bold as you please, pushed me onto the mattress, then... well, I can only describe it as to say she jumped upon me. Completely deflated my lungs and damn near crushed me. As I lie there, immobile with shock, fighting for my very breath, she says in a most impatient tone, ‘Bump your arse a bit.’ Can you imagine such undignified goings-on? Then, just when I thought I couldn’t be more astonished, she demanded to know why I’d never...”

  The voice lowered further and Lady Catherine Ashfield, Viscountess Bickley, leaned closer to the Oriental screen that secreted her presence from the gentlemen on the other side.

  “... This Charles Brightmore must be stopped,” whispered one of the gentlemen.

  “I agree. A disaster of gargantuan proportions, that’s what he’s brought upon us. Why, if my daughter reads that cursed Guide, I’ll never marry off the foolish chit. Independence, indeed. Completely insupportable. This Guide could well prove even worse than the uproar incited by that Wollstonecraft woman’s writings. Nothing but ridiculous reformists’ balderdash.”

  Murmurs of agreement followed that pronouncement.

  Then the whisperer continued, “And as for the bedchamber, women are demanding enough creatures as it is, always wanting a new gown or earbobs or carriage or the like. ‘Tis outrageous that their expectations should extend to that. Especially a woman of my wife’s age, who is the mother of two grown children. Unseemly, that’s what it is.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. Should I ever find myself in the company of this Brightmore bastar
d, I’ll personally wring his bloody neck. Tarring and feathering is too good for him. Everyone I’ve spoken to feels certain that ‘Charles Brightmore’ is a pseudonym, and coward that he is, he’s refused to step forward and identify himself. The betting book at White’s is a frenzy of wagers on the subject of his identity. Damn it all, what sort of man would think, let alone write, such unseemly ideas?”

  “Well, I stopped at White’s just before coining here, and the latest theory proposes the possibility that Charles Brightmore is in fact a woman. Indeed, I heard...”

  The gentleman’s low-pitched words were drowned out by a trill of nearby feminine laughter. Catherine inched closer, all but pressing her ear to the screen.

  “... and if it’s true, it would be the scandal of the century...” She heard some more unintelligible mumbling, then, “... hired an investigator two days ago to get to the bottom of this. He comes highly recommended... ruthless, and will ferret out the truth. In fact—oh, bloody hell, my wife’s caught sight of me. Hang it, look at her, fluttering her eyelashes at me. Shocking, that’s what it is. Appalling. And altogether frightening.”

  Catherine peeked around the edge of the screen. Lady Markingworth stood at the edge of the dance floor, her rotund proportions ensconced in an unfortunate shade of yellowish green satin that cast her complexion with a distinctly jaundiced hue, her brown hair arranged in a complicated coiffure involving sausage curls, ribbons, and peacock feathers. With her attention fixed on the opposite side of the screen, Lady Markingworth was batting her eyes as one might if caught in a dust-ridden windstorm. Then, with an air of determination, she marched toward the screen.

  “Egad,” came a horrified, panic-filled whisper that Catherine assumed belonged to Lord Markingworth. “She’s got that damnable gleam in her eye.”

  “And it’s too late to escape, old man.”

  “Bloody hell. A plague on that bastard Charles Brightmore’s house. I’m going to find out who this person is, then kill him—or her. Slowly.”

  “There you are, Ephraim,” said Lady Markingworth, her greeting followed by a girlish giggle. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere. The waltz is about to start. And how fortunate that Lords Whitly and Carweather are with you. Your wives anxiously await you near the dance floor, my lords.”

  Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet floor as the group moved away.

  Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection. Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very unexpected turn. All she’d wanted was to avoid the approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom had dogged her footsteps since the moment she’d arrived at her father’s birthday party and separately attempted to maneuver her into a tête-à-tête. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth had been followed closely by Sir Percy Whitenall and several others whose names escaped her, all of whom bore unmistakable—and unwanted—gleams of interest in their eyes. Good heavens, her official mourning period for her husband had ended only days ago. She could almost hear her dear friend Genevieve’s voice warning her just last week, The men will come out of every nook and crevice. Such is the fate of a single heiress.

  Damnation, she wasn’t single—she was a widow. With a nearly grown child. She had not believed she would generate such male... enthusiasm so quickly. If she’d suspected, she might well have been tempted to continue wearing her widow’s weeds.

  Yet by avoiding her unexpected suitors, she’d inadvertently eavesdropped upon a conversation far more disturbing than the male attention. Lord Markingworth’s angry words echoed through her mind. The possibility that Charles Brightmore is a woman... if it’s true, it would be the scandal of the century.

  What had he said that she’d missed? And what of this ruthless investigator hired to ferret out the details? Who was he? And how close was he to discovering the truth?

  ... I’m going to find out who this person is, then kill him—or her. Slowly.

  A foreboding chill snaked down her spine. Good Lord, what had she done?

  Chapter 2

  Today’s Modern Woman should know that a gentleman hoping to entice her will employ one of two methods: either a straightforward, direct approach, or a more subtle, gentle wooing. Sadly, as with most matters, few gentlemen consider which method the lady might actually prefer—until it’s too late.

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

  Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

  by Charles Brightmore

  Tonight he would begin his subtle, gentle wooing.

  Andrew Stanton stood in a shadowed corner of Lord Ravensly’s elegant drawing room, feeling very much the way he imagined a soldier on the brink of battle might feel—anxious, focused, and very much praying for a hopeful outcome.

  His gaze skimmed restlessly over the formally attired guests. Lavishly gowned and bejeweled ladies swirled around the dance floor in the arms of their perfectly turned-out escorts to the lilting strains of the string trio.

  But none of the waltzing ladies was the one he sought. Where was Lady Catherine?

  He sipped his brandy, his fingers clenched around the cut glass snifter in an attempt to stem the urge to toss back the potent drink in a single gulp. Damn it all, he hadn’t felt this nervous and unsettled since... never. Well, not counting the handful of times over the past fourteen months he’d spent in Lady Catherine’s company. Ridiculous how the mere thought of the woman, how simply being in the same room with her affected his ability to breathe straight and think properly... er, think straight and breathe properly.

  His efforts to seek out Lady Catherine this evening had already been interrupted three times by people with whom he had no desire to speak. He feared one more such interruption would cause him to grind his teeth down to stubs.

  Again he scanned the room, and his jaw tightened. Blast. After being forced to wait for what felt like an eternity finally to court her, why couldn’t Lady Catherine—albeit unknowingly—at least soothe his anxiety by showing herself?

  The hum of conversation surrounded him, marked by peals of laughter and the chime of fine crystal goblet rims touching in congratulatory toasts. Prisms of light reflected off the highly polished parquet floor from the dozens of candles glowing in the sparkling crystal chandeliers, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Over one hundred of Society’s finest had turned out for Lord Ravensly’s sixtieth birthday party. Society’s finest and... me.

  He reached up and tugged at his carefully tied cravat. “Damned uncomfortable neckwear,” he muttered. Whoever had invented the constraining blight on fashion should be tossed in the Thames. Although his expertly tailored formal black cutaway rivaled that of any noble gentleman in the room, part of him still felt like a weed amongst the hothouse flowers. Uncomfortable. Out of his element. And painfully aware that he stood far outside the lofty social strata in which he currently found himself— certainly much further than anyone present would ever have expected. His long-standing friendship with Lord Ravensly’s son Philip, and growing friendship with Lord Ravensly himself, as well as Lady Catherine, had secured Andrew an invitation to this evening’s elegant birthday celebration. Too bad Philip himself wasn’t here. With Meredith soon to give birth, Philip hadn’t wanted to venture far from his wife’s side.

  Although perhaps it was just as well that Philip wasn’t in attendance. When he had given Andrew his blessing to court Lady Catherine, he’d warned Andrew that his sister wouldn’t be eager to marry again, given her disastrous first marriage. The last thing Andrew needed was to have Philip nearby, muttering words of doom.

  He drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the positive. His frustrating failure to locate Lady Catherine in the crowd had afforded him the opportunity to converse with numerous investors who had already committed funds to Andrew and Philip’s museum venture. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth were eager to kno
w how things were progressing, as were Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather, all of whom had invested funds. Mrs. Warrenfield appeared anxious to invest a healthy amount, as did Lord Kingsly. Lord Borthrasher who’d already made a sizable investment, seemed interested in investing more. After speaking with them, Andrew had also made some discreet inquiries regarding the matter he’d recently been commissioned to look into.

  But with the business talk now completed, he’d retreated to this quiet corner to garner his thoughts, much as he did before preparing for a pugilistic bout at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium. His gaze continued to pan over the guests, halting abruptly when he caught sight of Lady Catherine, exiting from behind an Oriental silk screen near the French doors.

  He stilled at the sight of her bronze gown. Every time he’d seen her during the past year, her widow’s weeds had engulfed her like a dark, heavy rain cloud. Now officially out of mourning, she resembled a golden bronze sun setting over the Nile, gilding the landscape with slanting rays of warmth.

  She paused to exchange a few words with a gentleman, and Andrew’s avid gaze noted the way the vivid material of her gown contrasted with her pale shoulders and complemented her shiny chestnut curls gathered into a Grecian knot. The becoming coiffure left the vulnerable curve of her nape bare...

  He blew out a long breath and raked his free hand through his hair. How many times had he imagined skimming his fingers, his mouth, over that soft, silky skin? More than he cared to admit. She was all things lovely and good. A perfect lady. Indeed, she was perfect in every way.

  He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough for her. In spite of his financial successes, socially he felt like a beggar with his nose pressed to the glass at the confectioner’s shop. But neither his mind nor his common sense were in charge any longer. She was free. And while he cherished the platonic relationship that had blossomed between them over the past fourteen months, his feelings ran far deeper than mere friendship, and his heart would not be denied. His sullied past, her noble lineage, his lack of lineage—all be damned.