Книга - How To Marry a Rake

How To Marry a Rake
Deb Marlowe


Miss Halford’s marriage campaign Back from Europe, heiress Mae Halford has mended her heart after her friend Stephen Manning’s rejection. Looking radiant, and full of confidence, she’s ready to find herself a husband! Only the first man she bumps into at a Newmarket house party is Lord Stephen himself!When the two find themselves covertly working together to find a missing prized racehorse, romance blossoms. But can Mae believe that Stephen has changed enough that their adventure will lead to the altar?










Stephen was happy. Mae felt his contentment flow into her, warming her blood. It was beautiful. It made her feel beautiful, and whole.

Her eyes slid closed. For long minutes she lost herself to the glory of the music and the moment. Stephen gave in to it as well; she could feel his surrender in the grip of his hands, in the intimate press of his legs to hers, and in the graceful, floating ease with which he guided them about the dance floor.

And that was when she knew she’d come full circle. Her campaign was forgotten, her plans and strategies left behind. Here she was, right back where she’d started two years ago, wanting Stephen Manning with all of her heart.

Perhaps she needed a new campaign, with new strategies designed to win his heart. Because she longed for it, and for his unfathomable blue eyes and his maddening imperious ways and his warm acceptance and his heated kisses.

But there was one other thing that was different now, too. She wasn’t that young girl any more, happy to accept whatever part of himself Stephen was willing or able to give. She wanted all of him. And no campaign of hers was going to be successful in flushing it out. She sighed. He had to choose to give it.




About the Author


DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com


Previous novels by Deb Marlowe:

SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS

AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT

HER CINDERELLA SEASON

ANNALISE AND THE SCANDALOUS RAKE

(part of Regency Summer Scandals) TALL, DARK AND DISREPUTABLE




HOW TO MARRY

A RAKE


Deb Marlowe
























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Darlene—the only true Super Mom

that I’ve known. You are an inspiration.

I want to be just like you when I grow up.




AUTHOR NOTE


Horse racing was a popular pastime in the Georgian and Regency periods, and quite a different spectacle from what it is today. Imagine the ruckus that might happen if enthusiastic spectators joined in the last leg and rode along with the finishers in a modern race! I loved dipping into racing’s illustrious history, and hope you will enjoy a glimpse of historic Newmarket and this exciting sport.

Neither Pratchett nor Ornithopter were real horses, but the gambling ‘legs’ and ‘black legs’ truly existed, and poisoned water troughs, opium balls and laming were a few of the terrible methods that were used to influence the outcome of races. I admit to shifting the order of the races that would have taken place in Newmarket at the time, but as it was done for Stephen and Mae’s sake I hope you will forgive me.




Chapter One







Newmarket, Suffolk, England

A great swell of music rose from below, bursting over Lord Stephen Manning like a bubble and causing him to lengthen his stride.

He was late.

This is what came of dawdling in Newmarket all afternoon. Titchley Hall lay just outside the famous racing town, and Stephen had passed through on his way to the Earl of Toswick’s house party. He’d attended the spring meetings before, of course, but today he’d been unable to resist stopping to see the courses, clipped and ready, and the Heath, lush, green and quiet after all those gorgeous thoroughbreds had finished exercising for the day.

Everything had looked the same, and yet it all felt very different. Stephen had wandered the long, familiar stretch of High Street, trying to unearth a reason for his sense of displacement. Not until he found himself back on the Rowley Mile, mentally measuring the padding on a course post, did the realisation strike—Newmarket was the same. It was he who had changed.

He had been discerning details and noticing incidentals that he never had before—because today he looked through new eyes. No longer was he just a spectator, another young blood of the ton seeking the excitement of the races and the thrill of risking his quarterly allowance. He was older now, and hopefully wiser, and, most importantly—he was a man with all the burdens and responsibilities that came with owning his own racecourse.

All the warmth of pride and accomplishment swept over him again as he reached Titchley’s grand stairway. After two long years of work and sweat and sacrifice, he’d done it. He’d taken a neglected and broken-down estate and literally transformed it. Fincote Park lay waiting, pristine and challenging and bristling with potential.

And empty.

Impatient, Stephen brushed the thought away. He banished, too, the wispy, haunting image of his forlorn mother. Shame and despair had once been Fincote’s main commodities, but those days were over now. That’s exactly what all those months of labour had been about. He summoned instead the picture of Fincote’s people, all the eager and hopeful faces that had seen him off. They were why he had come here. They were what made this house party the most important social event of his life.

The marbled hall at the bottom of the stairs had emptied already. To the right echoed the clink of porcelain and the clatter of furniture as servants transformed a long parlour into a dining area. Stephen rounded the turn in a hurry and headed left instead, toward the brightly lit passage leading towards the ballroom. If luck was with him, then he’d only missed the opening set.

‘Manning?’

The call came from the door behind him, accompanied by a gust of cool, evening air. Stephen turned.

‘Devil take me! It is you!’

A reluctant smile turned abruptly into a wince as George Dunn, Viscount Landry, crossed the hall to pound him enthusiastically on the shoulder.

‘By God—but it is good to see you! How long has it been? I never thought you would stay away from London—and yet it’s been months and months.’

‘Too long,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Damned if it’s not good to see you, too.’

‘Lord, but haven’t we missed you? Town has been as dull as ditchwater without you to liven things up!’

Stephen laughed. ‘As dull as that? Not that I believe it for a second, old man. Not with you about. You always dreamt up more mischief in a day than I ever could in a month.’ He pulled his hand away before the viscount could wring it from his arm.

‘Well, that goes without saying,’ retorted Landry with a grin. ‘But there’s never been another that could claim half your style.’

Stephen sketched an ironic bow.

‘Do you know that they still talk in the clubs about how you convinced your brother’s ladybird that she needed some sort of gambit to truly stand out from the rest of the demi-monde?’

He could not hold back a reminiscent snort. ‘I didn’t suggest the Bird of Paradise theme—she thought that one up all on her own.’

Landry laughed out loud. ‘Garish feathers attached to every gown and bonnet—and even her shoes. The daft girl had feathers braided into her mount’s mane and entwined through the spokes of the wheels on her gig.’ He laughed harder. ‘And your brother sneezed every time he got within a yard of her!’

Stephen’s smile grew wry. ‘Which is only one reason why Nicholas, at least, has been happy to have me tucked away in Sussex.’

‘Ah, yes, I recollect it now. The estate you inherited from your mother is out there, is it not? But Good God, man! Surely there was no need to cloister yourself away like a novice in a nunnery!’

Good humour swiftly abandoned him. ‘I’m afraid it was necessary. The estate needed … attention.’

‘Attention?’ The viscount gaped. ‘I’m sensing one of your infamous understatements. I shudder to imagine what sort of shape the place must have been in to have required nearly two years worth of attention.’

Stephen stiffened. Deliberately, he forced his muscles to relax and reached for a quip to turn the growing intrusiveness of the conversation, but Landry beat him to it.

‘No, please.’ The viscount held out a staying hand. ‘None of your witticisms right now. And do spare me the details. The heavy yoke of my own responsibility is weighing me down. I’ve no need to add yours to the mix.’ He shook his head, his movements gone slow and heavy as if the weight of the world did indeed rest on his shoulders. ‘I never thought it would all come so soon. But look to your family—you, farming out in Sussex, Nicholas happy with his duchess, and your sisters all married and spitting out brats as prodigiously as they used to stir up scandal.’ He sighed heavily. ‘If the notorious Fitzmanning Miscellany has bowed to convention, then who am I to resist?’

The music drifting from the ballroom ended with a flourish. As if it had been the signal he’d been waiting for, Landry straightened and adjusted his neckcloth. ‘Well, let’s to it then, shall we?’ He set off, but had only taken a step or two towards the ballroom before he stopped abruptly. ‘I say, Manning.’ Tension hardened his face as he turned back towards Stephen. ‘You’re not here after the new heiress as well, are you?’

Startled, Stephen laughed. ‘God, no.’

Landry relaxed. ‘Ah. Good, then.’ He bit his lip, considering. ‘Not that it’s a bad idea, particularly if your estate’s coffers are poorly. But I’ve got first crack at this new girl, I say. She’s just back in England.’

‘And thus unlikely to have heard anything untoward about you?’ Stephen asked with a grin. ‘Have at it, man.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If you stopped to think a minute, you’d recall just how we Mannings and Fitzmannings came by our epithet. My father married an heiress, did he not? And considering how that all turned out, do you think I would be so eager to repeat his mistakes?’

‘Hmm. I hadn’t considered it from that angle.’

Stephen gave a shudder. ‘You’re looking for a leg-shackle? Consider the field open, man. I’ve far too many irons in the fire to even contemplate such a thing.’ Fincote was his priority and deserved all of his focus.

Landry brightened. ‘But your father did have the right idea about one thing, at least. Marriage needn’t make a monk of me.’

They had nearly reached the ballroom. Groups of guests had spilled out and gathered in the passageway here. Landry nodded at an acquaintance, still musing. ‘Of course, I cannot see that I would abandon my heiress to live out my days with my mistress, as he did.’ He cast a hurried glance in Stephen’s direction. ‘Not that any man could blame your father. Catherine Ramsey … that is, your stepmother … the duchess, eventually … Well, there will never be another like her, will there? Women like that come as rare as hen’s teeth.’

Stephen didn’t respond. It wasn’t much of a struggle, really, to keep his face carefully blank. Someone like Landry could never understand the wealth of conflicted emotions he held towards his father, his mother and the woman who had split them apart, but still welcomed him into her chaotic home and happy family. He’d become accustomed to this sort of awkward commentary—just as he’d become accustomed to deflecting it with a jibe.

Scandalous parents and an unconventional upbringing were burdens that Stephen shared with all of his siblings and half-siblings—and each of them had developed their own tactics to endure them. Redirect, reflect, sidetrack—it was a bag of tricks that worked for Stephen as a child. As a course of action it had proven ever more valuable as he grew and had to face even more difficult challenges.

One of which waited within. He and Landry had come to a stop just outside the wide, sweeping doors into the ballroom. Light, heat, noise and the chatter of many voices emanated from within. It might only be the diehard members of the racing community here in Newmarket nearly a week ahead of the start of racing, but it appeared that Toswick had encountered no difficulty filling his guest list.

Landry hung back, obvious reluctance in his eye as he faced the glittering assembly. ‘Damn if I’m not envious of you, Manning. You are free to enjoy the evening as it comes, while I must assemble my weapons and enter the hunt.’

‘Well, there you are wrong. There’s more than one sort of hunt afoot at an event like this. And more prizes to be had than just heiresses.’ In fact, the thought of chasing down a woman and her money to solve his problems sent his every feeling into revolt, and not only because of his parents and the mess that they had made of their relationship.

He’d come so far in the last gruelling and backbreaking months—a thousand leagues beyond the attention-hungry young man that Landry had known. And he had done it on his own. He wanted to see this through, must see it through, to prove to himself, and to the people at Fincote, that he could.

Interest, spiked with a bit of mischief, lifted Landry’s brow. ‘Oh? On the hunt, but not in the petticoat line? What is it then? Shall you rescue your fortune and your estate at the card table?’ The viscount looked wistful. ‘Perhaps I will join you there, later.’

‘No, not cards,’ corrected Stephen. ‘Something entirely different.’ He grew exasperated at his friend’s lifted eyebrows. ‘It’s not farming that I’ve been up to in Sussex. I’ve been breaking my back—and my bank account—turning Fincote into a world-class racecourse.’

Only Landry could convey so much scepticism with a blink.

Stephen shrugged. ‘It’s true, old man. Ah, but I wish you could see it.’ His heart thumped. With calculation, he allowed his enthusiasm to leak into his words. ‘Two courses, both smooth and done up to every modern standard. One with a climbing start and a section along the Downs where you can feel the sea wind in your face. The other a demanding track through the woods with an uphill finish. New stables, accommodations, everything.’

‘By God, you’re serious!’

‘I am. The town’s merchants put together a cup and we held a local meet to test the waters. It went off smooth as silk. Fincote is ready and waiting, and now I need to catch the attention of the racing world. It’s why I’m here.’

Landry stared as if he’d never seen him before. ‘Passion, purpose and planning. My God, it truly is the end of an era.’ His mouth twisted into a grin. ‘But what do the signs tell you?’

Stephen laughed. ‘Rest easy—I haven’t changed that much. I kept my eye open for portents every step of the way here—you’ll be happy to know that they were all favourable.’

‘Well, that is a relief. I confess I would have been distraught had you given up your superstitions entirely.’ Landry chuckled. ‘And gaining attention was always your strong suit. Have you a plan?’

Stephen lowered his voice. ‘What I need is to arrange a truly remarkable private match. A spectacular race that will launch Fincote with a noise heard throughout racing, gain the attention of the Jockey Club and bring every owner, trainer, spectator and stable boy flocking to our doors.’ He ran an eye over the shifting crowd before them. ‘That’s why, even as you are angling after your heiress, I will be angling after an introduction to the Earl of Ryeton.’

Landry’s mobile face went perilously still. ‘Ryeton?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Enough to warn you away from the man.’ Even Landry’s voice had gone cold and flat.

Stephen stared at his friend. ‘Why?’

Landry shook his head. ‘I cannot elaborate. Only believe that I mean this as a friend—you’d do best to stay far away from the man.’

‘That’s not an option.’ He frowned. ‘The earl is the reigning king of the turf. His string of winning horses is a mile long. The depth of his stables is amazing. But, most importantly—he owns the most talked-about racehorse since Eclipse.’

‘Pratchett.’ Landry nearly chocked on the horse’s name.

‘Yes, Pratchett. That horse is why I’m here. He’s incredible. If I can convince Ryeton to race him at Fincote, our success will be assured. People will flock from every corner of the kingdom to see that thoroughbred run, no matter who he’s matched against.’

Landry snorted. ‘It’s a sound enough idea. Unfortunately, Ryeton’s not likely to go along with it.’

Stephen bristled. ‘Why not?’

‘The man’s an elitist. A racing snob. Some of the old guard is like that, you know—if you haven’t been breeding and racing since the time of Charles II, then you are nothing. And Ryeton’s the worst. He decries the entrance of the nouveau riche or even the newly interested into his snug little world.’ He made another dismissive sound. ‘Although he’s not above taking their money.’

Stephen’s jaw tightened in determination. ‘I have to try. This plan is the best and quickest way to Fincote’s success.’

‘Try, then.’ Landry sighed. ‘But you would do best not to hint at an association with me. It won’t do you any good in Ryeton’s eyes.’

‘It’s as bad as that?’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ The viscount stood tall and smoothed his coat. A footman sidled by, heading into the ballroom with a full tray of champagne flutes, and Landry reached out and snagged two as he passed. He handed one to Stephen and held his aloft. ‘Success to us both,’ he toasted.

‘And my thanks for the advice.’ Stephen took a sip and watched as Landry drained his in one long drink.

‘Ah, the music begins again.’ Landry handed his empty glass to a footman positioned just outside the ballroom door. The poor man looked at him and at it in bemusement. ‘It is our call to the start, Manning.’ He tossed a last cheeky grin as he moved forwards to melt into the crowd. ‘And we’re off.’

Stephen laughed, then he squared his shoulders and slid into the crowd in another direction. The race had indeed begun. And he did not mean to lose.



Miss Mae Halford hovered at the entrance to Lord Toswick’s ballroom, a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth, a sense of anticipatory excitement swelling in her breast. Tension stretched tight across her shoulders and settled into the valley between, but she welcomed it. She was a soldier, and the glittering battlefield lay before her.

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ her mother said at her elbow. ‘Your father has promised not to abandon us until we’ve mingled a bit and made the acquaintance of the right sort of people.’

Mae patted her mother’s hand. ‘I’m not worried a bit, Mama,’ she said reassuringly. But she couldn’t fault her mother’s anxiety. Anyone looking from the outside would judge that the pair had plenty to worry about.

Despite his promises, her father had already spotted his cronies and surged ahead. In less than thirty seconds they’d all be up to their haunches in horse talk. He’d be useless this evening, even as Mae prepared to attempt the impossible.

After a rocky entry into young womanhood and a subsequent two years abroad, Mae Halford was about to worm her way back into the stifling and rarified atmosphere of English society. And she was going to do it without the benefit of a title or family connections. Her father was a vastly successful businessman, a man whose two abiding passions—making money and spending it on thoroughbred racing horses—left precious little time or attention for aught else. Her mother, the daughter of a shopkeeper, had caught Barty Halford before he became richer than Croesus. Even after all these years she still had not reconciled herself to her role as a wealthy man’s wife, or become comfortable socialising with those she still considered her betters.

But all was not doom and dire gloom. After all, Mae’s father was not just wealthy, he was obscenely wealthy, and that fact was bound to open a door or two. Her personal assets were not totally lacking either. Wit came easily to her and immersion in European salons had taught her how to temper it into charm. She had her mother’s pretty blue eyes, blond hair with a hint of a strawberry tint and a bosom that her knowing French maid assured her was just large enough without straying into vulgarity.

Without a doubt, though, Mae knew that her biggest asset lay between her ears, not inside her bodice. Her father called her a thinker and bemoaned the fact that she had not been born a son. She had been born a planner, an organiser and a strategist. They were characteristics that would indeed have been ideally suited to her father’s son, but which had so far proven largely lamentable in a daughter. She meant to put them to good use now. For she stood on the verge of her greatest project, her most important scheme—her Marriage Campaign.

‘Mrs Halford, I’m so glad you decided to come down and join us.’ Their hostess approached with a smile. ‘You can hardly have recovered your land legs, so soon from your voyage, but I promise that you shall enjoy yourself. I know several ladies who are interested in hearing about your travels.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Mae’s mother relaxed a bit under the countess’s kind attention.

‘I see your husband is as well occupied as mine.’ Lady Toswick rolled her eyes at the knot of gentlemen gathered in a corner. She turned a smile upon Mae. ‘But I hope your daughter will be happy to learn that she has an acquaintance among my house guests.’

‘I’m thrilled to hear it, Lady Toswick,’ Mae answered with a smile. ‘And curious, too.’

‘Yes, as am I,’ her mother agreed. Her eyes darted nervously around the room. ‘We’ve been abroad so long and this is our first social engagement since we’ve been back in England. Who could it be?’

‘A school friend, I understand. Lady Corbet. Although as she is newly married, I’m sure you’ll remember her as Miss Adelaide Ward.’

‘Oh, Addy! Yes, of course. I remember her fondly.’

‘Well, you’ll find her at the dancing, I’m sure.’ Lady Toswick was searching the ballroom with a practised eye. ‘Yes, there, she’s just ending a set. Oh, and she’s spotted us!’ The countess tucked her mother’s arm firmly through her own. ‘Go and enjoy your reunion, Miss Halford. My friends and I are all agog to tease your mother until she tells us where she purchased the gorgeous silk for her gown.’

Mae smiled encouragement and watched her mother follow alongside the countess before turning to meet Lady Corbet—Addy. She grinned at the spectacle her old friend made as she squealed her way across the ballroom, flapping her hands as she came. Miss Trippet of The Select School for Young Girls had not succeeded in squelching Addy’s vivaciousness any more than she’d cured Mae’s tendency to organise her schoolgirls into trouble.

‘Oh, Mae, it is you!’ Addy clasped her by the hands and squeezed. ‘How elegant you are! Is that waistline the latest Paris fashion?’ She stood back and examined Mae from head to toe. ‘You are going to put every girl in London to shame.’ She grinned. ‘I’m so glad you are back!’

‘Addy,’ Mae said warmly. ‘How glad I am to see you.’ She pulled her old friend in for a quick embrace. ‘You are practically the first person I’ve seen since we docked!’ She raised a brow. ‘And Lady Toswick says that you are newly married? Congratulations!’

‘Yes, I am a wife now—can you believe it? To Lord Corbet. He’s only a baron, which disappointed Papa, of course.’ Addy’s father was a wealthy cit like Mae’s, as were so many fathers of the girls at Miss Trippet’s school. ‘He can be the greatest dunderhead at times,’ she continued, ‘but he’s my dunderhead.’ The smile that crossed her face was tender. ‘Just as I am his addlepate. I confess, I am quite fond of him.’

‘Then I am supremely happy for you.’ And a tad envious, too. Mae could only hope that she found someone as willing to overlook her own flaws. ‘Is your husband here tonight? I should love to meet him.’

‘Oh, yes. He’s likely slunk off to the card room. We’ll go and drag him out of there in a moment.’ She frowned. The surrounding crowd had grown steadily larger and was pressing ever closer. ‘But first, I have to hear everything. There were rumours, you know, about you and a young man, but no one seemed to know who he might be—and then you were gone! Come. Let’s go sit in the chaperons’ chairs. We can put our heads together and gossip like a couple of old biddies.’

She pulled Mae through the glittering spectacle and over to a row of straight-backed chairs. She chose a pair well away from the closest, capped matrons. ‘Were the whispers true, then?’ Addy leaned in close. ‘Was there a completely ineligible young man ready to cart you away to Gretna Green? Did your parents whisk you to Europe in order to keep you from his clutches?’

‘Of course not!’ There had been nothing ineligible about the young man in question. And while Mae would gladly have travelled with him to the ends of the earth, he hadn’t been interested enough to walk her in to dinner, let alone willing to run off to get married.

‘Oh.’ Addy sounded vastly disappointed. ‘Well, it was a long time ago, in any case.’ She cocked her head. ‘How long have you been abroad?’

‘Nearly two years.’

‘So long? You must have been pining to come home.’

Mae laughed. ‘Not at all, actually.’ She smiled in reminiscence. ‘I had the making of all the travel arrangements to myself. My father cared not where we went, as long as there was an opportunity for business or a reputable horse breeder nearby. My mother only worried over the comfort of our rooms. So I was free to indulge myself.’ She shot a conspirator’s grin at her friend. ‘And I did. I simply wallowed in great churches and grand palaces and large estates. I explored battlefields and boated in lakes and rivers all over Europe. I attended theatres and salons in every great city and met scores of interesting people.’

None, however, who could completely erase the image of the man she’d left behind. Such a man did exist, however. He was out there—and Mae fully intended to find him.

‘But now you are back,’ Addy said with satisfaction. A crafty look descended over her pretty face. ‘And I’d wager you’re here because your father decided it was time to find you a husband.’ Her eyes rounded suddenly in horror. ‘But the Season is nearly half over! There’s no time to waste! You should have gone straight to London! Whatever are you doing in Newmarket, when there are husbands to be hunted?’

Laughing, Mae agreed. ‘We have left it a bit late, haven’t we?’ She leaned in, as Addy had done before. ‘We are in Newmarket, dear, because my father has brought home a most promising new filly. He means to race her in the Guineas—and he expects her to make a name for herself. He has grand plans to let her win a few important races and then pull in a fortune breeding future champions off of her.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Truthfully, although Father says it’s time I had a husband, I believe he is at least as concerned about searching out a stud to cover that filly as he is about finding one for me.’

Addy gasped. Then she let out a peal of shocked laughter. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, Mae Halford!’

‘Oh, but I have. I’ve grown up—and I’ve had the value of being circumspect forced down my gullet.’ She smirked. ‘I’m still me. I still analyse and organise and plan, but now I know how to make it look socially acceptable.’

Addy stared. ‘Oh! I know that look. You had the exact same gleam in your eye when you organised Miss Trippet’s girls to boycott the painting master.’

‘Something had to be done,’ Mae protested. ‘He was beyond appalling—coming in from behind to critique our work and sneaking unnecessary touches. The last straw was when he tried to convince poor Esther that posing nude was the only way to prove her dedication to art.’

‘And now you are trying to distract me! You are scheming something.’ Addy nearly glowed with mischief. ‘You must allow me to help. It’ll be as if we were girls again.’

‘This is no girl’s crusade. It’s far more important.’ Mae knew enough now to tamp down the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘I’m just as happy to be in Newmarket, for while my father is distracted with his horses, I intend to map out a plan for my future.’ She cocked her head at Addy’s surprised expression. ‘And why should I not? Should I leave it to my father? He used to say he wished me to be a lady, but I think he’s given it up. He’s determined to fire me off, and of course, he’s correct—if I were a man I would be using my talents learning the family business.’ She sighed. ‘Such is not my fate—and as marriage is, then I’m determined to have a say in it.’

Addy nodded, impressed.

‘What frightens me is that Papa spends more time poring over the Stud Book than his Debrett’s. I’m afraid he’ll hand me right over to the first man to come along and offer land with a good ore vein or a favourable shipping contract.’

‘Or the owner of the best-blooded stallion.’ Addy giggled.

‘Exactly.’ Except that this was no laughing matter. This was Mae’s life’s happiness at stake. She had to at least try to find someone who could accept her as she was. She’d been battling her whole life, fighting to keep from being squeezed into a stultifying society mould. She didn’t want to spend a lifetime fighting her husband as well.

There must be at least one gentleman in England who would not be offended or threatened by her … abilities. Mae was determined to find him.

‘What do you mean to do?’

‘What I do best. Careful planning and brilliant manoeuvring.’

‘You sound like a general.’ Addy sounded awed.

‘I am a general. Make no mistake, Addy. This is war. And this …’ she gestured to the brilliant, seething scene in front of them ‘… this is merely the first skirmish. Tonight I begin to gather intelligence. There can be no strategy without sufficient information.’

‘I never thought I would feel sorry for society’s single gentlemen. They can have no idea what is about to hit them.’ Abruptly Addy reached out and grasped her hand. ‘You’ll do brilliantly.’ The warmth and reassurance in her voice touched Mae. ‘You’ve never failed to accomplish what you set out to do.’ She stood. ‘You shall command the campaign and I will be your loyal assistant.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Now, let’s go and find my husband. He can be our first source of information.’

Willingly, Mae followed, glad that Addy had turned away to search out a path through the crowd. For she was wrong. Mae had indeed known failure—and in the one chase that had meant more than all the others together.

Unbidden, her mind’s eye turned inwards, to where she’d locked away her remembrances like a horde of treasure. Laughing blue eyes slipped out. A heated embrace, incredibly soft lips. She made a small sound and gathered her determination, closing her eyes against a flood of similarly wistful recollections. Stephen Manning hadn’t wanted her. He was her past. And tonight was only about her future.

‘This way,’ Addy called. Smiling over her shoulder, she added, ‘Corbet has a great many friends that he rides and drinks and plays cards with. We’ll convince him to take you out for a dance and then they will all have the chance to become intrigued.’ She paused to wait for Mae to catch up. ‘We’ll have you in the first stare of fashion before you can blink!’

‘I admit, I’m anxious to meet your new husband, but I don’t wish to be a bother.’

‘Oh—not to worry! Corbet won’t mind. He’s a darling, that way.’

The baron was, in fact, a darling. He greeted his wife with a kiss and made Mae’s acquaintance with every evidence of pleasure. Immediately, Lord Corbet introduced her to a card table full of his friends, and with only the smallest nudge from Addy he begged for her hand in a dance.

Mae’s estimation of Addy’s husband only rose from there. She could only hope to be half so fortunate in her search for a mate. The baron danced with enthusiasm and when the country dance brought them together he had her chuckling at his self-deprecating humour. They were near the end of a line, the set nearly over, when he made a ludicrous comment about needing to lace his corset tighter in order to buckle his shoe. Mae choked as they circled. Lord Corbet handed her off to the next gentleman, and, still laughing, she looked up and into her new partner’s face.

She stumbled to a stop.

Breathless laughter. Good-natured teasing. Longing. Admiration. Determination. Every one of them a sensation that collected into a cold knot at the base of her spine. She shivered as one by one they raced the message upwards to her brain.

Stephen.

Any connection between her head and her limbs had melted away. She’d lost her place in the dance. The couple behind them, oblivious to the earth-shattering nature of this moment, danced on. The lady backed into Mae, sending her stumbling. Her ankle wrenched. She bit back a cry of mingled shock and pain and started to fall.

Strong arms plucked her from the air before she could hit the floor. Stephen was frowning down at her. ‘Good heavens, are you all right?’

She saw the moment that recognition forced its way into his consciousness. He faltered, too, his eyes bright and his colour high. Mae stared. His expression was the most fascinating mix of pleasure and horrified surprise she’d ever seen.

‘Mae?’ His voice had gone hoarse.

Dizziness swamped her. He stood so close—held her in his arms, even—and yet the distance between them was immense, in every way that counted.

She winced. ‘Good evening, Stephen.’




Chapter Two







Irreconcilable events hit Stephen from opposite directions and from out of the blue. The incongruity of it set his brain box to rattling. He glanced about in an attempt to anchor himself once more. Newmarket, Lord Toswick’s house party, fire in his belly and determination in his heart—to do whatever might be necessary to thrust Fincote into the collective awareness of the racing world. Yet one minute he’d been partnering his hostess in a dance, and the next he was holding Mae Halford pressed up tightly against him.

Impossible. Or at least highly unlikely. He would have pinched himself if his hands hadn’t already been full.

Pleasurably full, too—filled with generous curves and sweetly yielding flesh. She realised it in the same instant and tried to back away, out of his embrace. But her ankle gave way and she started to go down again.

With a shake of his head he swooped her off her feet and into his arms. The entire dance had broken down and people had begun to gather around them. The music limped to a stop, leaving the air full of murmurs of concern, curious whispers and tittering laughter.

Stephen caught Lady Toswick’s eye. ‘Could you lead us to a private spot, my lady?’ he asked his erstwhile dance partner. ‘I believe the lady has injured herself.’

‘Of course!’ Lady Toswick, staring bemused at the wreck in the midst of her ball, gave a start. ‘If you’ll follow me, Lord Stephen?’

Mae twisted in his arms. Warm breath stirred over his ear and interesting bits of anatomy brushed against his chest as she spoke over his shoulder. ‘Lord Corbet, would you be so good as to fetch Addy? And my mother!’ she called as Stephen strode away.

A frazzled butterfly, Lady Toswick flitted her way through the crowd gathered on the dance floor. Casting false smiles and breathless reassurances, she led the way out and down the hall to a small antechamber.

Stephen followed, his jaw clenched in irritation as fans fluttered and tongues wagged in their wake. Two years ago he would have revelled in the attention, but circumstances had changed. He had changed. He was here to win the respect of these people, to prove himself as a knowledgeable racing man and a sound man of business, not to stir up old scandalbroth.

He’d entered the ballroom in a state of focused resolution. But now he’d been knocked off course. By Mae Halford. Again.

‘Oh, dear,’ the countess moaned. She’d opened the door onto an empty room. ‘The chairs are gone. Likely the servants are using them as extra seating in the parlour. We need a bit more dining space for the late supper, you see.’ She wrung her hands. ‘Good heavens, I’ll call a footman. Will you be all right, Lord Stephen? Can you hold her until I can have a chair fetched?’

‘I’m perfectly fine, my lady,’ replied Stephen. ‘Perhaps you could send for two chairs? Or a chaise, perhaps. I believe Miss Halford should keep her foot elevated, if possible.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ She eyed Mae with concern. ‘I shall be gone but a moment and I’ll be sure your mother is on her way, my dear.’ Her gown fluttering behind her, the countess disappeared.

Which left Stephen and Mae nothing to do but stare at each other, their faces mere inches apart. Mae’s eyes were huge, her expression wary. A soft, citrusy scent drifted up from her hair.

Hell and damnation, but Stephen did not want to be noticing the scent of her hair. Abruptly, the clatter in his head quieted enough for his brain to make a connection. ‘Oh, Good Lord,’ he said. ‘You’re the heiress.’

Her face went blank. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He glared at her. ‘This had damned well better not be one of your tricks, Mae.’

He’d known from the moment that he took her hand in the dance that he’d encountered something different. He’d gone warm all over and his heart had begun to pound, even before he realised who she was. An example of his body being quicker than his brain, because once he had done so, his instinctive reaction had been a sharp, happy stab of recognition. An intimate friend of his half-sister Charlotte, Mae had been a constant fixture in his life for years. Practically a member of his already large and chaotic family, she was a part of many of his happiest memories.

But now nostalgia was quickly kicked aside by trepidation. For Mae featured at the centre of several of his most uncomfortable memories, too. Several years past, she’d made him the focus of her ardent schoolgirl fantasies. Stephen, a few years older, flush with the first freedoms of manhood, and having a grand time playing the young buck about town with his brothers, had been less than interested. Still, he had tried to tread carefully around her too-evident feelings, and at first he’d found the situation amusing, and more than a little flattering.

But Mae was … Mae. A veritable force of nature. She had pursued him with all the zeal and determination and inventiveness at her disposal—which was to say, more than many a grown man of Stephen’s acquaintance. Hell, she had more grit than a platoon of men. For over a year he had stayed one step ahead of her in their awkward dance. Eventually, though, the state of affairs had deteriorated, leading to that last, explosive incident, and ultimately, to Mae’s trip abroad.

She was back now, though, and his accusation had set her back up, if the flash of fire in her narrowed blue eyes was any indication.

‘Yes, Stephen. Indeed, I had this all planned. I got off the boat, tracked you down and promptly crippled myself to gain your attention.’

He refused to back down. One didn’t, when dealing with Mae Halford. His gut began to roil. Images of chaos and destruction danced in his head; all pictures of the special sort of havoc that only Mae could wreak with his plans.

‘It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’ he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm. ‘Except that it does not—not to anyone with a close acquaintance with you. And especially not to me. I’ve been on the dangerous end of more than one of your schemes in the past, if you will recall.’

She stared at him, aghast, and then she began to struggle. ‘You great, conceited lout,’ she gasped. ‘Do you think that I’ve been abroad pining for you all this time?’

‘God, I hope not,’ he muttered.

She pushed on his shoulder, straining to get away. Her squirming curves were becoming increasingly difficult to hold on to. ‘Put me down!’

He had to obey, lest he drop her. She limped away from him, crossing to lean on the wall for support. His heart twisted a little, seeing her hurt. Despite his misgivings, he couldn’t help raking a gaze over her, cataloguing each alteration, evaluating for changes and improvements.

They were all improvements. Sleek and stylish, she was dressed and coiffed in the sort of simple elegance that only pots of money could buy. She had grown taller. She’d also grown quite a luscious figure, and learned how to show it to her best advantage.

He wrenched his gaze back up to her obstinate expression. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said on a sigh. ‘I should not have spoken so harshly.’

‘Don’t be sorry—for you give me the excuse to descend to the same level of bluntness.’ Her pert nose was in the air and she looked at him as though he was something the cat had coughed up. ‘You may stop flattering yourself right this minute, Stephen Manning. I had no idea you were here tonight and, frankly, I wish you were not. It’s a long time since I’ve been that calflove-stricken girl.’

He started to speak, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. ‘If I thought of you at all as we returned, it was only to hope that it might be months, perhaps years, before we met up again.’ She looked away and cast beseeching eyes heavenwards. ‘I certainly did not wish to bump into you—literally!—at my first entry back into English society.’

Stephen crossed his arms. ‘I am sorry. It’s just that I’m here on important business and I cannot have any … shenanigans … fouling it up.’

Voices sounded out in the passageway. She cocked her head, listening for a moment. ‘Good,’ she said in a hurry. ‘We are agreed then. I have important matters at hand as well and your presence will not be helpful.’ She pushed away from the wall and made shooing motions at him with her hands. ‘It would be best if you go. Now,’ she urged. ‘I don’t want to contemplate what my father would say, should he find us here like this.’

Tiny golden threads winked at him from amidst the amber embroidery on her bodice. He blinked back. For one wild moment he wondered if this was some sort of deep play she was engaging in. ‘I was not aware that your father looked on me with ill will.’ He shifted. ‘Surely he does not blame me for …’ Damn. ‘For your travels,’ he finished lamely.

‘Of course he doesn’t!’ She gave a huff of exasperation and closed her eyes. She drew a calming breath and her shoulders went back. The movement drew his eye right back to her shimmering bodice and the curves it contained.

‘Papa doesn’t blame anyone. It was merely a case of him knowing how … determined … I can be—and wishing to give me something else on which to focus my energies.’

A clatter sounded outside and a footman rushed in with a chair. ‘Your pardon, miss, but the countess is having a more comfortable chaise brought along.’ He placed the chair at Mae’s side and she sank down onto it.

‘Thank you,’ she called as the servant hurried out again.

She heaved a deep sigh of relief. It did wondrous things for the décolletage of her gown. And though he was only observing, somehow Stephen felt the rush of all that oxygen hit his bloodstream.

Mae met his gaze again. ‘If my father gets even a hint of a suspicion that I, that we …’ She allowed her voice to trail away. ‘Let me just say that it would be better if he did not find us together. He’s liable to sweep us up and out of this house party so fast that my head would spin. The consequences for me would likely be unpleasant—and long lasting.’

Stephen stilled. His heart thumped at the frightening truth that lay hidden in her words. ‘You are a guest here? At the house party?’

She nodded, then abruptly froze. ‘You are staying on here as well?’ She stared. ‘You are not invited just for the evening? For the opening ball?’

He shook his head.

With a cry of dismay, Mae’s mother entered, hurrying to kneel at her daughter’s side. Lady Corbet followed, and close on her heels came Lady Toswick with a brace of footmen and a large, cushioned chaise.

Stephen stood back as the women fussed over Mae. He noted the small frown creasing her brow as she answered her mother’s enquiries, but she never looked his way. With interest, he watched as she kept calm in the face of her mother’s alarm and Lady Toswick’s disjointed attentions. It appeared that somehow she’d managed to tame all the raw, nervous energy that had marked her as an always unpredictable—and sometimes nerve-racking—companion.

He tore his gaze abruptly away. It didn’t matter how many intriguing ways Mae had changed, or in how many irritating ways she had stayed the same. Her presence here could only be a distraction at best. It could prove to be an obstacle at worst, if she decided to make his life difficult—or if her father decided to take him into dislike. Barty Halford was a dedicated and influential racing man. Certainly he had the ability to crush Stephen’s plans with only a few words into the right ears.

With a curse, he made his way to Mae’s side. ‘I can see that you are in capable hands now, Miss Halford,’ he said formally. ‘I’ll just leave you to them. I beg your pardon if I somehow contributed to your accident.’

Mae glanced at her mother. She, in turn, exchanged speaking looks with the other women and stepped back a little, drawing the others with her and shooting nervous glances in Stephen’s direction.

Mae leaned towards him. ‘Let’s just agree to stay out of each other’s path? At least as much as possible?’ She offered her hand.

He bent over it. His nose ended up mere inches from that sparkling bodice. Her new, supple form spread out before him like a Michaelmas feast, all slick curves and sharp indentations. All of his masculine bits took notice, stretching and stirring to life, to let him know that they were awake—and hungry.

Well, they could dance a metaphorical jig if they liked, but they were not going to dine here.

He pulled away. ‘Agreed,’ he barked.

Spinning on his heel, Stephen stalked from the room. Wrong place, wrong time, he told his protesting body parts.

And definitely the wrong woman.



Mae chewed her bottom lip as she watched Stephen stalk away. Two long years, she marvelled. Thousands of miles travelled. Countless new people met, more than a few flirtations engaged in and two sincere marriage proposals received. None of which she was to be given credit for. Stephen had treated her as if she were still the same over-eager, love-struck girl.

Well, she was not that girl any longer—she smiled at her mother and at Lady Toswick, assured them that, yes, she was fine and, no, she ought not dance any more this evening—and she set out to prove it.

It turned out not to be as difficult as she feared, thanks in large part to Addy and her husband. Mae returned to the ballroom and was enthroned upon a comfortable chair in the corner, with a padded ottoman upon which to prop her foot—decently covered with an embroidered shawl, of course. She suffered a moment’s panic after settling in, envisioning herself an island of misery and loneliness in the midst of all the gaiety, but within moments Lord Corbet’s friends were obligingly clustering about her.

At first they were all a bit stiff and formal in their enquiries, but Mae was so grateful she did not hesitate to turn the sharp edge of her wit onto her own clumsiness. She thought she showed remarkable restraint in only sacrificing Stephen upon a pointed barb or two, and soon enough the gentlemen were relaxed and chuckling and vying for the right to sit out a set at her side.

Mae relaxed, too, as the evening went on and she concluded that, despite the inauspicious beginning, this evening was proving to be a grand start to her campaign. She was meeting eligible gentlemen, gathering vital information and making excellent connections.

She slipped only once. A Mr Fatch had taken the seat beside her. An earnest young gentleman, he was thrilled with the opportunity to tell her—extensively—about his ancestral acres and the minerals that had recently been discovered there.

The whole thing was Stephen’s fault, really. Mr Fatch rambled comfortably on about the canal he wished to build to transport his ores to market and Mae found she could not quite keep her gaze from straying in Stephen’s direction.

She could hardly be blamed. It had ever been thus—Stephen was invariably and always the most alive person in the room. It was impossible not to sneak glances at him, and impossible not to feel lighter for doing so.

He had a thousand mercurial moods—and the gift of always donning the correct one for the occasion. Tonight he was polished, convivial and full of dry wit, judging from the outbursts of laughter from the group of gentlemen he’d joined.

And Mae was distracted, despite her intent not to be. And intensely annoyed with herself, too. Mr Fatch might be a perfectly lovely gentleman, might he not? She turned her attention firmly back to him and took up his chosen subject with interest and fervour.

Except that wasn’t the right course either. Mae knew quite a bit about canals. Over the next few minutes she recalled her lessons on how the ancients had made use of them, talked of what she had learned in Paris, where Napoleon had attempted to use the idea to bring water to the city, and speculated that the use of steam-powered engines in boats was going to bring about an expansion of canal systems all over Europe.

She realised her mistake too late. Mr Fatch’s expression transformed from content to bemused and on to faintly horrified.

She stopped talking and stifled a groan.

‘Or so my papa believes,’ she finished with a weak smile. And threw in a flutter of her eyelashes for good measure.

But there was no salvaging the situation.

‘Indeed? Well, then, I thank you for sharing his views. And so thoroughly, too.’ Mr Fatch stood and sketched a hasty bow. ‘Do enjoy the rest of your evening.’

And he was gone. Mae bit back an eloquent curse she’d learned from her French maid.

She had not a moment to dwell on the setback, however, for her papa dropped into the empty seat with a grateful sigh. He glanced longingly at her stool, as if he’d like nothing better than to lean back and prop up his feet, as well.

‘You promised me a dance,’ he complained. ‘And now I cannot collect.’ He chucked her on the chin as if she was an infant. ‘You know how I hate an unpaid debt. I shall have to charge you interest.’

‘Then I shall be sure to dance with you twice at the next opportunity.’ Despite herself, she grinned.

His mouth curled up at the edges, but he didn’t say anything more. He just watched her with a brow raised and a patient look on his face, as though he had all the time in the world to wait for the answer to his unspoken question.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He only continued to look at her.

‘Papa?’ Mae doubted this was about the hapless Mr Fatch. She raised a brow right back at him. ‘I’ll have you know that despite my inability to stun everyone with my graceful dancing, I am still counting this evening as a success.’

‘Are you?’ His tone was mild.

‘Indeed. For I’ve kept my smile fixed and my conversation light.’ No need to confess to sins he hadn’t discovered. ‘I did not speak to Lady Toswick about her grossly inefficient dinner seating. I also showed great restraint in not reorganising her servants, even though the savoury tarts were served cold and the champagne warm.’

That made him laugh. ‘A success, indeed.’

‘I’ve also made the acquaintance of several eligible gentlemen,’ she said loftily.

‘And become reacquainted with a certain one, or so I hear.’

She grimaced. ‘To the detriment of my ankle,’ she said wryly.

‘As long as the damage is contained to your ankle …’ He allowed the thought to trail away, but there was no need to continue. A wealth of warning conveyed in so few words.

Mae’s mouth compressed. ‘You are not being fair,’ she accused.

Her father merely snorted.

Her chin lifted. ‘You are as annoying as he is. All of that was a long time ago. It’s time for you both to realise that I am not the same person.’ She folded her arms and glared. ‘That young and inexperienced girl is in my past. And so is Lord Stephen Manning.’

Silent again, he searched her face. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him. He nodded and kissed her forehead. ‘Look at your mother,’ he said. ‘Lady Toswick must be inordinately skilled. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her enjoy herself at an event like this.’ He glanced back down at her. ‘But she’s drifted too far away. I’ll send her back to you.’

Mae watched him go and step up behind her mother. She saw the hand he slipped across the small of her back and the pleasure, spiced with just a hint of heat, in the smile she cast up at him.

And her gaze slid right back to Stephen.

Curse him, he shone in this milieu. Dark evening clothes only emphasised the width of his shoulders and outlined the splendid leanness of his physique. Candlelight glowed in his short, golden hair and flashed from strong, white teeth. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that captivated Mae.

Stephen Manning lived in the centre of attention, as the focus of every group he’d ever entered. He spent his life enticing the world to look at him, daring them not to—and denying them even a glimpse of his true self.

And Mae was the only one who had ever realised it.

The ton, even his family and friends, had always been content to watch him in fascination and accept the reflection that he cast back at them. Everyone believed in the shallow image he projected to the world.

It was all smoke and mirrors. Another person lived behind those eyes and only Mae knew the truth of it.

And if she wasn’t careful then she might fall victim—again—to the burning need, the consuming desire, to uncover him.

Except that she’d meant what she’d said to her father. It was those two stubborn men who were stuck in the past. She’d had plenty of time to think as she travelled with her family, plenty of time to recognise the mistakes in her past and to identify what she wanted for her future.

Mae wanted what everyone else appeared to take for granted. She wanted to be seen for what she was—and appreciated for it. More than anything, she longed for a man who could listen to her spout on about canals—and find it charming. Even better if he had the intelligence and the confidence to debate or discuss it with her.

Stephen looked at her and saw only what he expected to see. Mr Fatch and his kind only noticed the things they wished to change.

Mae set her shoulders. She would put her ankle to the test and take a stroll around the room. Surely, somewhere out there was a man who would find her idiosyncrasies to be delightful, who would view her capabilities as an asset, not as an obstacle. She fixed a smile on her face and set out to find him.




Chapter Three







Mae Halford’s laugh was a nearly palpable thing. It was a bedroom laugh, intimate and husky. It belonged in the dark, in moments of contented teasing and happy repletion. Out of place in a ballroom, it kept catching Stephen by surprise, destroying his concentration and tempting him to turn his head.

The Earl of Ryeton, on the other hand, laughed like a donkey.

Between the two of them, they had Stephen feeling like a damned puppet on a string, his head bobbing from one side of the room to the other, his attention reluctantly bouncing between the man who could help him achieve his dream and the woman he feared could wreck it.

It was time to get stern with himself. He had to focus on the task—or the man—at hand. He’d done more than a bit of research on the earl. Ryeton was practically a legend in racing, widely acknowledged to own the deepest stables in the kingdom. But beyond his racing credentials, Stephen had discovered only that the earl gambled at the drop of a hat, had a contentious relationship with his countess and kept a mistress of long standing here in Newmarket.

He hadn’t heard of the braying laugh before tonight. Or that the man could be so damned elusive.

Perhaps it was Landry’s assertion of snobbery that explained the earl’s reticence. Perhaps he didn’t approve of the Manning family’s reputation or even of Stephen’s own colourful past. Whatever the case, Stephen was drawing desperately close to the conclusion that the man was trying to avoid him.

The ballroom was crowded, but the two of them were moving in the same circles. Mae’s father was here, too, and he was just one more object to throw into this delicate balancing act. This was more of a circus than a ball, what with Stephen subtly chasing Ryeton, delicately avoiding Barty Halford, and shivering each time Mae’s throaty chuckle floated past.

If there was one bright spot in this difficult evening, it was the enjoyably single-minded nature of the conversations. In this end of the room, there was only one subject of interest. Horses and racing were what had brought them all together. The air was replete with references to bloodlines, time trials and handicaps. Pratchett’s name was on everyone’s lips and Stephen felt a stab of longing every time he heard it.

This was his chance. Not for nothing had Stephen lounged for hours with his brother Leo in Welbourne’s stable offices. Just for this moment had he fought exhaustion and stayed awake after a long day’s labour at Fincote, devouring the Racing Calendar and the Stud Book. He entered into the debates with fervour, insight and authority and held his own with these men of the turf.

He saw surprise on some faces—and a grudging respect on others—and his spirits soared. That look meant everything to him. He craved it. He might be a man grown, with burdens and responsibilities and goals, but the shameful truth was that there was still a remnant of the young man he used to be inside him—the one always searching for an audience. Earning a bit of esteem from these men soothed that bit of his past and at the same time promised security to the people of Fincote who were his future.

Now if only he could find the chance to inspire it in the Earl of Ryeton. He made a surreptitious half-turn, trying to search out the earl’s whereabouts, but his gaze fell on Mae Halford instead.

And held there.

She had left her chair and was moving gingerly about the ballroom. He seemed to have been almost unnaturally aware of her all evening. It felt ridiculous—as if time had somehow swapped their roles and now he was the one with the fixation. He told himself that he was only being wary. That it was only that laugh, so much more adult, more aware somehow, than the girlish giggle he remembered. But there was more to it than that.

At least fifty other ladies flitted throughout the ballroom; Mae managed to outshine them all. The others shone in the bright light of the chandeliers, their jewelled gowns and soft skin showing to advantage. But it was as if a thousand little lamps were lit inside Mae. She glowed from within—and it took an extreme force of will to look away.

He expended the effort. Lord Toswick was calling him. His host clapped him on the shoulder as Stephen stepped over to join his group.

‘We’re discussing the growing difficulties with the legs,’ Toswick informed him. ‘Seems like more and more of them have gone crooked.’

A leg, or black leg, was a professional gambler, a man who ‘made a book’ by taking bets on all the horses in a race. Legs flocked to every major race, and racing men flocked to lay down their money with them.

‘I heard the Blands were in town,’ someone said in hushed tones. The Bland brothers, and a few others like them, had become notorious for interfering with horses in order to affect the outcome of a race. Laming, opium balls, even poison had been used to nobble a favourite and ensure the leg a hefty income.

‘Lord Stephen has had some first-hand experience with just their sort,’ Toswick said with a laugh. ‘And he was barely out of leading strings.’

‘I was fifteen,’ protested Stephen. ‘Hardly a babe.’

‘Tell the story,’ Toswick urged.

The other gentlemen urged him on, so Stephen told the tale of how, disappointed at being left behind when his parents travelled to see the St Leger, he had run away to Doncaster on his own. While hiding in the stables he had uncovered a plot to maim the race favourite. He’d foiled the plan, reported it, and then won a small fortune betting on another horse altogether.

As it was rather late, and the champagne had been flowing freely all evening, the gentlemen all found this to be uproariously funny. Stephen’s hand was shook and he was congratulated all around, until a more officious voice broke in.

‘That was extremely well done of you, and at such a young age, too.’ It was the Earl of Ryeton, joining their group and shaking his head. ‘Surely something must be done about these blasted legs.’ He glanced down his nose. ‘Young Manning, is it not?’

Lord Toswick stepped in to make the introductions. Stephen’s heart accelerated and he sent the man a silent blessing for the opportunity.

‘Of course, I don’t mean to paint all the legs with the same brush,’ he told Ryeton. ‘Gambling has always been a large part of the sport.’ He nodded to the company around them. ‘Everyone here knows that racing would not be what it is today, if not for the betting.’

‘Yes, yes, and of course there are plenty of honest men making books.’ The earl appeared to be impatient with even a hint of disagreement. ‘It’s the crooked ones that are making things so damned difficult. Three separate incidents I’ve had in my stables over the past year. Two were caught in time, but I lost a very promising filly to poisoned feed.’ Ryeton’s colour had grown higher. ‘It’s a travesty, is what it is.’ He tossed back his drink and waved for another.

‘It does lend an ugly taint,’ Stephen agreed. ‘Cheating only breeds suspicion and distrust where we would hope for enthusiastic and healthy competition.’

‘Something must be done before things get even more out of hand. I’ve called a gathering of the Jockey Club stewards to discuss the issue. We need swift justice—and stern consequences. A precedent must be established.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘We cannot expect these people to govern themselves. They are not gentlemen.’

He glanced askance at Stephen. ‘The stewards meet early tomorrow. Perhaps if you are about …’ He paused. ‘Ah, but I’d forgotten. You are not a member of the Jockey Club, are you, Manning?’

‘That honour has not been mine.’ Not yet. ‘But I am hoping to find sponsorship for admittance to the Coffee Rooms,’ Stephen added smoothly. Acceptance as a member of the Jockey Club Rooms was the first step towards becoming a full member of racing’s elite body.

Ryeton hesitated, then nodded towards their host. ‘I’m assembling a group to ride out and watch the practice on the Heath tomorrow afternoon. I had just invited Toswick.’

Stephen grinned. ‘There’s scarcely a better moment, is there? To lean into the wind of a group of galloping thoroughbreds and feel the thunder of their passing beneath your feet?’

Ryeton nodded and triumph bloomed fiercely in Stephen’s chest. This was it; the earl was going to invite him along. Yes. He needed this. Fincote needed this. It was a small step, but a first one towards a bright future. For him and for the people who depended on him.

‘Perhaps you would care to—’

Something struck Stephen behind the knee and he stumbled forwards into Ryeton, cutting him off.

‘Perhaps, Manning, all that thunder and wind comes from your flapping jaw,’ someone said behind him.

‘What?’ Turning, Stephen suppressed a surge of irritation and a vision of Mae Halford’s mischievous grin. She always did have an exquisite sense of timing—and an uncanny ability to intervene in the most inopportune moments.

But of course it wasn’t Mae interfering. Instead, he found a gentleman hovering close, his handsome visage blighted by rough scars that traced a path along his jaw and climbed the right side of his face. He leaned heavily on a cane with one hand, held the other outstretched and grinned widely all over his face.

‘Grange?’ Stephen’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Matthew Grange! What in blazes are you doing here, man?’ His eyes running over his friend, he reached out and grasped his hand.

‘I thought to hire myself out as a jockey.’ Matthew’s mouth twisted. ‘Idiot!’ he said fondly. ‘What do you think? I’m here for the races.’

Stephen still had not let go of his hand. ‘Of course. Hanstead Hall is so close—I’d hoped to stop for a visit after the racing. I hadn’t expected. It’s just so damned good to see you out and about.’ Recollecting himself, he pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, you shocked the good manners right out of me. Matthew, do you know the Earl of Ryeton?’ He turned. ‘Ryeton, if I may present an old friend …’

But the earl had taken a step back and was already engaged in conversation with some others. ‘Perhaps later,’ Stephen said, swallowing a wave of disappointment. He stared at Matthew again and a slow smile broke out over his face. ‘Damn, but you look a sight better than the last time I saw you.’

He’d met Matthew Grange on the first day of school, when he’d punched him in the nose for calling his father’s mistress a whore. Matthew had tripped him on his way down, and despite the fact that Grange had two years on him, they had been evenly matched. They’d beaten each other to a bloody pulp, Matthew had apologised and they’d been inseparable for years.

Until his friend bought a commission and went away to put Napoleon in his place. Matthew had barely got in on the end of the conflict, but he’d been at Waterloo. In fact, he’d been caught right next to a twelve-pounder when a mortar hit it. Burned by exploding gunpowder, scarred by molten metal, and with the addition of a load of shrapnel in his right leg, it had been nearly a year before he could be moved.

Matthew had continued to fight, struggling to heal at home, but heartbreakingly, had lost his leg last year.

‘I dare say cadavers have looked better than I did when last I saw you.’ Matthew laughed. ‘But I feel a damned sight better, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘And glad I am to hear it.’

‘What’s that I heard about the Jockey Club? Hoping to wiggle your way in?’

‘Hoping to earn my way in,’ Stephen corrected. Matthew already knew about Fincote. He took a minute to explain his hopes regarding Pratchett. ‘Ryeton’s champion is my best hope for a spectacular launch, but barring that sort of instant notoriety and success, membership in the Jockey Club is the next best way for me to establish Fincote as a racecourse of repute.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a significantly longer path, though.’

Matthew grinned. ‘You’re young yet, Manning.’

‘Were it only me I had to worry about, I’d have the patience of Job.’ Stephen had to work to hide his anxiety from his friend. ‘I know I wrote to you about the conditions I found at Fincote.’

But he hadn’t, really. Even if he’d been so inclined, there had been no way to put down on paper what he’d discovered or how it had made him feel. Why hadn’t he checked in on the estate when he’d first inherited it? He knew why, but still he’d cursed himself a thousand times for allowing Fincote’s people to become as helpless and hopeless as his mother had been.

‘I convinced them to go along with my plans,’ he continued. ‘They deserve to finally see some returns for their labours.’ He sighed. And then he returned Matthew’s grin as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. ‘But enough about me. This is a night for unexpected comings and goings.’

He glanced across the ballroom. Mae stood slim and tall in the corner, a bright candle amidst a crowd of sober-clad gentlemen. Let her shine her light on them—as long as she didn’t start aiming it at him again.

He glanced about. ‘But never tell me you’ve come alone? After the difficult time your mother has experienced, I would have thought she’d enjoy a spot of society.’

Matthew frowned. ‘You would think so, but she hasn’t thrown off her mourning yet.’

‘Not yet? But surely it’s been … yes, well over a year since your father passed on.’

‘True.’ Matthew sighed. He slapped his thigh where the extra length of his breeches was neatly pinned over the peg that replaced the rest of his leg. ‘But I vow, she’s mourning this leg of mine as deeply as she does my father.’ He sat silent a moment. ‘She’s convinced my life is over as well.’

Stephen’s jaw tightened against a surge of resentment. He’d felt this before, on behalf of his friend. Matthew’s mother’s sentiments reminded him painfully—and infuriatingly—of his own mother’s maudlin excuses. Weak, defeatist drivel. It put his back up and made his gorge rise.

But Matthew’s face had hardened. He looked up at Stephen with a glower. ‘I’m here to prove her wrong.’

Stephen relaxed. ‘She couldn’t possibly be more wrong.’ He grinned to lighten the mood. ‘Does she know how frightful a dancer you always were?’ He gestured to his friend’s elaborately carved peg. ‘Surely you can do as well with that contraption as you ever did on your own two feet.’

Matthew gave a startled chuckle. After a moment it turned into a genuinely rueful laugh. ‘No, this is the perfect excuse to give up dancing.’ He eyed Stephen’s blond hair, cut far shorter now than when he’d been living a fashionable life in London. ‘But I still have my wits about me and a damned good head of hair above them. Surely there’s a young lady or two who won’t mind sitting out a set.’ He sighed. ‘Or there’s always the card room.’

‘You forget where we are. It’s Newmarket, man! And you’re as good a judge of horseflesh as any man I’ve ever met. You could talk of nothing else for the entire week and still be thought a sparkling conversationalist.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now, let’s introduce you around.’

* * *

For the next hour Stephen stayed at Matthew’s side, presenting him to all and sundry. It was no easy task. Never in all of his life had he had to work so hard to maintain an air of complacent good humour. For while a few grasped his friend’s scarred hand in easy welcome, it was clear that many others were uncomfortable with, even scornful of, his deformities.

Stephen wanted to berate every fool who allowed his revulsion to show on his face and he wanted to shake the idiot woman who flatly refused to offer her hand, but fortunately Matthew was in a jovial temper—and he wasn’t above a self-deprecating joke or two. Together with Stephen’s hearty laughter and calm acceptance, they managed to quickly soothe most of the discomfort they encountered.

But Stephen was beginning to feel stretched too thin. He felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. He was happy to work to secure Matthew’s acceptance, of course, but at the same time he was watching for an opportunity to re-engage Ryeton. The earl had been about to include him in his party tomorrow. He wanted to give the man the chance to finish the invitation and he wanted to accept it with alacrity.

And he wanted to forget Mae Halford’s presence. She certainly appeared to have forgotten his. It was almost unnerving, in fact. He could scarcely recall a time when he’d been in the same room as Mae and had not been the centre of her formidable attention. He told himself firmly that he was glad of it.

Yet suddenly she was looking up, as if the weight of his regard had been a tap on her shoulder. Their gazes met. The ghost of a smile crossed her face.

Stephen pivoted away. Matthew was engaged in conversation with a wide-eyed young miss. To hide his confusion he looked about for Ryeton.

There. The earl and Toswick stood talking just a few feet away. Ryeton met his eye, but quickly averted his gaze, as Stephen had just done to Mae.

Something scuttled down Stephen’s spine. A warning, perhaps. But he was determined and a little desperate. ‘Come,’ he interrupted Matthew. He smiled an apology at the girl. ‘I must introduce you to the man who is set to fleece us all. I believe the lucky devil’s got a favourite in every damned race. We’ll all end up indebted to him by the end of the week.’ He took a step towards the two men.

And then it happened—one of those moments that can occur naturally in any crowd. The orchestra wound to a finish. Conversations paused as guests lightly applauded, and the Earl of Ryeton’s words rang out unusually loud over the quiet moment.

‘What is he thinking? This is a ball, for God’s sake. It’s the height of poor taste for that man to expose the rest of us to his disgusting abnormalities. And has Manning run mad? To squire the cripple about in good company?’

Toswick whispered urgently, trying to shush the earl, but Ryeton paid him no mind and suddenly that donkey’s laugh hung in the air. ‘The man’s lucky he wasn’t born a horse. Were he one of my nags I’d have him shot.’

Time stopped. All around them men stilled and ladies gasped. Stephen halted in midstep, caught up in a torrent of icy-cold shock and heated fury. For the fraction of a second, he reached for his usual control, scoured his brain for a jaunty bit of humour that might salvage this horrifying moment. But then he saw the flush of anger and embarrassment spread across Matthew’s face. He thought of the incredible courage it had taken for his friend to show up and act as if his life and his body had not been shattered—and he saw the moment Ryeton realised what had happened, right before his nose tilted up and his expression settled into a belligerent scowl.

This was it, then, one of those moments by which a man defined himself and shaped the course of his life. Stephen allowed himself the briefest sliver of a moment in which to mourn his lost opportunities, to prepare himself for an added burn of guilt, before he embraced the wrath surging through his veins and entered the fray.

‘I dare say you would, Ryeton,’ he ground out. ‘But what if the case were reversed? Surely it would be better to be shot for a heroic warhorse than a dim-witted, braying ass.’

‘Excuse me?’ Ryeton turned his reddened face to their host. ‘What did he say to me?’

Toswick only sputtered helplessly.

‘You heard me, my lord. Feeling better about yourself, are you, for having judged a man by the bits he is missing?’ Stephen’s fury raged through him, opening wounds he’d thought long buried. Suddenly every mocking slur cast against his unorthodox family, every whispered taunt about his sad and lonely mother stung him again, releasing their venom into his veins. ‘It’s obvious, though, that he’s not the only one here missing a few vital pieces. And were I forced to choose between your affliction and his, I’d gladly give up my leg and the use of my hand if it meant I could keep my honour and integrity.’

Another round of gasps went up from the crowd. Ryeton, nearly purple with fury, thrust his glass at Toswick. ‘I shall find a great deal of pleasure in making you regret those words.’ Ryeton’s voice took an unexpected turn to a higher octave at the end of his threat.

Stephen might have laughed if he hadn’t understood just how many ways it could come true. He took a menacing step towards the man. ‘You are welcome to consider whom you would like as your second. I believe we were in the process of arranging to meet in any case, it would be just as well to make it a dawn appointment.’

‘No.’ Matthew’s voice rang out this time, the authority inherent in his tone a direct contrast to Ryeton’s bleating. ‘It’s my infirmities he mocks, and did I think him worth it, it would be me meeting him at dawn.’ He gave Ryeton a hard stare. ‘And though I may have only one good hand left, my lord, I’ve killed more than a few Frenchmen with it. I doubt I’d have any trouble dispatching you.’

He paused and swept a steely look across the gawking guests. ‘But I don’t find him worth the trouble. He’s entitled to his opinion. Whatever he thinks of my “abnormalities”, I know I obtained them on a field of honour, defending my fellows and my country, and my king.’

Matthew might have said more, but he was interrupted by a softly uttered, ‘Oh, bravo!’ from the chit he’d been talking with. He coloured once more and looked to Stephen.

‘Let’s go,’ Stephen said shortly. He gave Ryeton a last glare before gesturing to the crowd knotted around them. A path opened up, and he waited for his friend to set out before him.

But the evening held one last shock. Stephen stared as several footmen burst into the ballroom. Two pulled up just inside the door, but one had his head down and a dogged expression on his face. Guests shrieked, scattering before him. Drawing closer, Stephen saw the reason behind it all. Fleet as a frisky colt, a boy dodged and darted just ahead of the man—a grime-spattered boy who, cap in hand, caught sight of the cleared aisle and pelted down the centre of it. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the earl.

‘Lord Ryeton,’ he wheezed. He bent over to catch his breath. ‘There’s trouble in the stables. ‘Tis Pratchett, my lord!’

The crowd began to murmur. All the buzzing, gossiping people who had begun to turn away surged forwards again, eager to catch a glimpse of the new commotion.

Stephen noted that the high colour had drained from Ryeton’s face. ‘Well?’ he barked at the child. ‘Spit it out, boy! Pratchett, you say? What’s amiss with my best horse?’

‘He’s been stolen, my lord!’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Pratchett’s gone!’




Chapter Four







Back and forth Stephen paced, from sagging stall to weathered doorway. Lord Toswick’s stables were a hive of activity, nearly as busy as the house. This ancient hay barn, tucked at the edge of the stable block, looked as if he might knock it over with a good push, but it was redolent of sweet-smelling hay, just the right size for a good, agitated pace and wonderfully, blessedly quiet.

It might be the only peaceful place in Newmarket this morning, for the entire town was still abuzz with gossip from last night’s ball. Already London’s newspapermen and inveterate rumourmongers were descending on the town, eager to hear the latest details. Oh, and wasn’t there a good deal to hash over? A good bit of it centring around him. He sighed. It was familiar ground, performing as the meaty chunk in the centre of the scandalbroth.

Except he didn’t want to be there any longer. Leaning up against the corner stall, he deliberately breathed in straw-dusted air. He’d worked hard to leave the shrill boy he’d been, so hungry to be noticed, behind. Side by side he’d laboured with Fincote’s people, desperate to pay back some part of the debt he owed them, but just as intent on proving himself, too.

The old plough horse in the stall approached. Curious, she nudged him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be available to race for me, would you?’ He rubbed her cheek and stroked down her fine, strong neck, taking comfort in her simple affection.

Simple. This foray into Newmarket was supposed to be simple. Two notable horses to match up and draw racing’s elite to Fincote Park. Once there, they’d recognise the superiority of his challenging, well-maintained course. They’d experience the hospitality and eager gratitude of the local business owners and merchants and soon enough they’d all be on their way to becoming a well-known, much-frequented part of the racing circuit.

And he would, at long last, put the ghost of his mother’s neglect to rest.

But those plans lay in tatters now. And because it was natural to do so when his mind was full of chaos or destruction, he conjured up the image of Mae Halford as she’d been last night, challenging him from across the ballroom with that grin on her pretty face—the one that was both familiar and intriguingly new at the same time. She’d moved through the crowd with confidence and grace, as if fidgets and restless energy had never been her natural state.

Stephen had watched the candlelight ferret reddish highlights out of her golden curls and experienced a deep foreboding. She’d been a force of nature when he’d known her before. The thought of what she might be today—with full knowledge and possession of her power—defied description.

He experienced a profound sense of mortification, too, knowing that she’d witnessed the débâcle with Ryeton. Perhaps because it had been so spectacularly melodramatic. He rolled his eyes and left the horse to her clover-scented hay. The evening had possessed a taste of the theatrical, but Stephen wouldn’t take back a word. Ryeton was an arrogant, small-minded imbecile—but he had been perfect for his needs. The man sat on top of the racing world right now. His horses were well blooded, well trained and practically unbeatable.

And now, unobtainable. Stephen paused at the entry to the tack room and traced the horseshoe hung above the door for luck. He needed a new plan. A new patron. But Ryeton was influential. He had the ear of the Jockey Club stewards and most of racing’s important figures—and Stephen had mortally insulted him. There was damned little chance he could get back in the man’s good graces. Indeed, the earl could kill all of his dreams with just a word.

He set off again, thinking and pacing his way around and around the small open space—until the very path he walked sparked a sudden idea.

A hell of an idea. A thought so simple, so complicated and so brilliant all at once that it set his heart to pounding and his feet to travelling even faster. What if he could get around Ryeton? He could well imagine the state the man was in today. By all reports he was frantically following up every lead, trying to get Pratchett back in time to race the Guineas. But what if Stephen was the one to find the horse? He could return the thoroughbred to Ryeton with all due pomp and circumstance. It would create a sensation—one that he could use to benefit Fincote Park.

He’d thought himself past the need for the spotlight—but this time he could use it to accomplish all of his goals in one fell swoop. The racing crowd would go wild—and claim him as their hero. It would create the perfect opportunity to convince Ryeton to run Pratchett at Fincote. The earl would look like a fool were he to continue to hold a grudge in such circumstances. He would have to agree—and the racing world, so eager for a spectacle, would stumble over itself to witness it.

Stephen could barely contain his excitement. It was perfect. It would work—if only he could locate the missing racehorse first.

The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. That was the complicated bit, wasn’t it? Though Ryeton had put on a convincing show of shock and bewilderment, he had to have an idea of what motivated such a bizarre incident. And knowledge would give him an advantage that would make him hard to beat.

Stephen started moving again. Society being what it was, someone else might have a hint at what lay behind it, too. Surely someone, a trainer, groom, the earl’s friends—or enemies—knew something. It would be a race to ferret out information and connect the pieces before Ryeton did.

He nodded. It could be done. He could search out the truth. But the job was too big for one man. He would stand a better chance if he had help.

Silently, he considered his prospects.

Toswick, perhaps? Quickly, he discarded the notion. His host was an upstanding gentleman, too honourable to chose between his acquaintances in such a manner. Landry, then? With a stab of disappointment, Stephen recalled the viscount’s tirade against Ryeton. Landry was unlikely to help with any scheme that helped the earl get Pratchett back, even if it aided Stephen at the same time.

No, he needed someone uninvolved. Someone with a quick mind and a sense of discretion. His mind raced. Owner, trainer, black leg and groom—every man-jack involved in racing was knee deep in speculation right now. Yet gossip was likely thickening the air in Newmarket’s social circles as well as in her barns and training courses. Ryeton’s name would be whispered over every teacup, the man’s history and his every social gaffe dug up, dissected and served up alongside the cucumber sandwiches. The information he needed could come from anywhere.

Stephen needed a partner—someone who could help him cover ground, explore every avenue and then come together to sort, sift and piece answers together. Surely he knew someone not averse to a bit of adventure and ready to embrace a good scheme …

He stopped short once more. The answer was at once obvious and frightening. It floated, a red-gold beacon in his mind.

What he needed was Mae Halford.

No! He exploded into motion again, moving faster than ever and setting the old mare to prancing nervously as well. It was an absurd notion—too foolish to be contemplated. And yet he could think of no one better suited for the job. Mae had been an ally once. Hell, they’d cut their milk teeth on more outrageous schemes. But that was before he’d turned her into an opponent—and she made a formidable foe, indeed. He’d far rather confront Ryeton than her.

Last night she’d insisted that she no longer carried a torch for him. It was not difficult to believe—he doubted her tender feelings could have survived their last encounter. But Mae was nothing if not tenacious. If she did still harbour yearnings for him, he’d be granting her a prime opportunity to catch him in a leg-shackle. If not—well, he’d already hurt her once. That knowledge was one of his heaviest burdens—could he risk adding to it?

And what of her father? She’d indicated that Barty Halford did not wish her to continue their association. The man was nearly as influential in the racing community as Ryeton. If crossed, he could crush Stephen’s plans just as easily as the earl.

No.

Stephen closed his eyes and experienced again the burning need to make Fincote a success. The goal loomed ever larger in his mind—a holy grail that he could not stop chasing. He would never rest easy until it was done.

He groaned and leaned back against the tack-room door, gazing up at the horseshoe above him. He was going to need all the luck he could get. Could he truly be considering this? And the question remained—even if he convinced himself, how on earth was he to convince Mae?

* * *

‘Mademoiselle!’

Mae blinked. Her maid’s tone was sharp, the hairpin she’d just jabbed at her skull sharper yet. Still, it took a heroic effort to focus on Josette’s exasperated face in the mirror.

‘Almost I can see the very busy turnings of the wheels in your mind, but three times I have asked if you prefer the plain comb or the pearls.’ Josette wagged a finger at her reflection.

‘I’m sorry, Josette.’

‘Do not be sorry. Only pay attention, just for a moment. You can go back to your scheming once we have you ready for the day.’

Mae stared at her image. Good heavens, but her shoulders were drawn tight up around her ears. Deliberately, she relaxed and reminded herself that she liked what she saw in the mirror.

Yet thoughts of Stephen and his friend from last evening continued to trouble her. Mr Grange, who likely did not enjoy his reflection any more—but with whom she felt a kinship, none the less. He was an outsider, just like her. They were each undeniably different from the people about them—only Mr Grange wore his differences on the outside.

She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Josette, are we doing the right thing?’

‘What?’ the startled maid asked. ‘The pearls?’

‘No, no. The pearls are fine.’ Turning around in her seat, Mae let the words rush out. ‘The campaign. I know we’ve laid our plans and devised our strategies, but I’m beginning to wonder if it is a mistake to hide my … foibles.’ She paused. ‘From the gentlemen I am meeting, I mean.’

Josette clucked and turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘Do you know what you are, mademoiselle? You are like a banquet prepared by the greatest chefs of my country, rich with ingredients and fascinating layers. But these Englishmen! Bah!’ She tucked in a curl and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Too long have they lived on bland, tasteless fare. They do not know enough to know what is best. You must give them a small taste at a time. Slowly they will become accustomed to the many delicious flavours that make you who you are. Only then will they discover it is too late to go back to their plain English misses.’

Mae laughed. ‘Bad enough my father puts me in the same category as his fillies, now you make me feel like a cassoulet.’

‘Either way,’ Josette said with a smack of her fingers to her lips, ‘you are magnifique.’

Mae studied her reflection once more and chose to believe her. She knew she was not the same as most girls—had known it since she’d discovered that none of the others improved the efficiency of the kitchens by reorganising the cook’s battery of pots in order of frequency of use. At school she’d been the only one to keep her clothes hung in the wardrobe according to colour and age of the garment. But she’d always chosen to embrace her differences, to believe that they made her interesting and unique. She was different, not less—but it had been a battle to convince the world to believe it along with her.

Josette set down her brush and began to smooth and arrange curls with her fingers. ‘The servants are buzzing like bees—there is so much gossip in the air, it is like pollen from the flowers.’

Mae looked up sharply. Josette’s tone was entirely too casual.

‘Many interesting things I have heard—including the name of one of the gentlemen.’ She met Mae’s gaze in the mirror now. ‘He is here, isn’t he?’ she asked quietly. ‘The one who so troubled you in the past?’

A heated flush started low in her chest. Mae ignored it and nodded.

The maid pulled away. ‘Aha! I knew it. This is why you begin to doubt yourself—and your purpose.’ Whirling away in disgust, Josette began to murmur in low, rapid French. Mae flinched when she swung back and poked a finger at her.

‘Mademoiselle,’ her maid began heatedly. She paused and took a breath and the exasperation in her face faded to concern. ‘You said you were strong, that you would not let his indifference inflame you.’

‘There is no need to worry. I acted exactly as I must. We’ve promised to keep our distance. Our meeting was bound to be traumatic, but except for the slight damage to my ankle, I am fine.’

‘So it is true, then—it was he who caused your fall.’ Josette began to grumble again. ‘I must catch a glimpse of this man who causes so many difficulties. Surely he must be handsome.’ She eyed Mae slyly. ‘I know his brains must not be the attraction, since he did not have the sense to fall in love with you when he had the chance.’

Mae laughed. ‘Well, you must be careful when you seek him out, dear. His mind might not be up to your standards …’ she let out a teasing sigh ‘… but the rest of him …’ She paused and closed her own eyes. ‘His eyes—dark blue on the outside, but I’d forgotten how they change toward the centre, fade to the lightest shade, so clear you think you could see right down to his soul, if only he would let you.’ After a moment she marshalled herself and tossed a wicked grin over her shoulder. ‘And his shoulders! I know how you feel about a nice set of shoulders.’

‘Eh! Blue eyes, broad shoulders. Et voilà! So easily she falls.’ Josette shook her head in dismay.

Mae straightened. ‘No one is in danger of falling,’ she said flatly. She’d made that mistake once already—at her first encounter with Stephen Manning, years ago. The fateful afternoon had been branded on her heart. Her friend Charlotte had only laughed when the two of them had been caught spying on Charlotte’s brother and his friends—the older boys had been sparring with fencing foils in the wooded groves of Welbourne Manor. Mae, at first, had cringed. She’d waited, head down, for the teasing to begin. But then she’d raised her chin in defiance. She’d been mocked before, for odd starts and hoydenish behaviour. She’d resolved to endure it again, with her head held high.

Incredibly, there had been no mocking. No snide names or even the common disdain older boys felt for younger girls. Stephen had laughed and diffused the situation entirely. And then he had reached down a hand, and offered to teach her to fence.

Thunk. Fallen was exactly what she’d done.

‘Oh, but your papa,’ Josette reminded her, morose. ‘He is not going to be happy.’

‘He has not the slightest cause for worry,’ Mae insisted. She’d already wasted years on Stephen Manning—and what had it got her?

After a lifetime of battling the many voices who insisted she must change, adjust, squeeze herself into an ill-fitting mould, after years of fighting to bolster the pedestal of her own confidence, he’d knocked her off almost without effort. Stephen Manning had been the only one who had ever made her doubt herself.

All the old anguish and heartbreak threatened to resurface at the thought. Mae refused to allow it. It had taken a long time to accept that all the glorious potential she’d seen between her and Stephen had been nothing more than friendship tinged rosier by her own juvenile dreams. It had taken longer for her to accept that romantic love was not to be a part of her life. For she had never felt a connection with any other man the way she had with Stephen.

Accept it she had, though, at last. And when the time came that marriage could not be put off any longer, her Marriage Campaign had been born. She’d come back home with her goal in mind and her plans fixed firmly in place. She would find someone who could appreciate her—for her. And then the long battle would be over.

She met Josette’s approving gaze in the mirror and pushed all of her doubts aside. She wasn’t going to allow Stephen Manning—or anyone else—sway her from her purpose. The campaign for her happiness had begun.




Chapter Five







‘Lord Stephen,’ his hostess exclaimed. ‘You are back early!’ The pleasure faded from her expression. ‘You are the only one, I am afraid. The other gentlemen have all abandoned us for the Heath, the Jockey Club and the other pleasures of town.’ She didn’t look pleased. ‘We don’t expect them back until dinner, at the earliest.’

Stephen grinned at her. ‘Thank you, Lady Toswick, but I find I’m more interested in the whereabouts of the ladies at present.’

She returned his grin. ‘How very obliging of you.’

The matrons in the room smiled at each other over their embroidery and correspondence. ‘All of the young ladies have gone strolling about the grounds,’ a silver-haired lady offered.

‘Yes, they’ve taken the forest walk,’ the countess added, ‘except for dear Miss Halford. Her ankle is not up to the exercise just yet, so she’s gone to feed the birds in the meadow.’ Lady Toswick waved an encouraging hand. ‘But the rest of the girls have only just left. If you hurry, you should be able to catch them before they’ve gone far.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Stephen cast a conspiratorial wink across the room and pretended not to notice the bent heads or the tide of rising whispers following him from the room. He paused in the entry hall and tossed a waiting footman a coin. ‘The meadow?’ he asked, his voice pitched low.

‘Not far.’ The coin disappeared and the footman leaned closer. ‘Just past the terraced gardens at the back of the house. The path begins next to a large chestnut tree.’

Stephen nodded his thanks and hurried on his way, hoping his feet would get him there before his head convinced him to turn back. It was the height of irony, finding himself chasing after Mae Halford. No—it was the measure of his desperation. How many times had he told himself that he would do anything to bring about Fincote’s success? Well, now he knew it was true. He would do anything—even ask for help from the one person from whom he least deserved it.

The crunch of gravel underfoot faded as he left the formal gardens behind and found the tree marking the tiny path. A thick canopy of elms and chestnuts spread overhead, filtering light and muting sound. Stephen quickened his pace, unwilling to be alone with his doubts and his conscience for longer than necessary. It was only a few moments, though, before he reached the clearing and paused on the edge to drink in the beauty of the scene.

It must be man-made, this perfectly symmetrical open spot in the midst of the wood. The ground was covered in a vibrant carpet of wildflowers, the edges punctuated with rustic, curved seating. Mae sat quietly, off to the right, her fingers drumming on the thick-crusted loaf in her lap. She was clearly not part of the scene—dressed immaculately as she was, from kid boots to her charming, if ineffectual hat, in rich shades of brown and contrasting cream—yet it was as if her very separateness enhanced the image. Bird-song echoed in the glade, but she hadn’t yet broken her bread. She looked lost in thought—and he suffered the sudden urge to ruffle her feathers, yank a lock of that shining hair, flop down next to her and tease her until she confessed what troubled her.

He shook it off. Breathing deep, Stephen stepped forward. He called out to her before he could change his mind. ‘Mae? Good morning.’





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