desire to spin a good love story. Deborah lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, between the historic British garrison town of Halifax and the romantic Annapolis Valley of Longfellow’s Evangeline. With four children under ten (including twins), Deborah calls writing her “sanity retention mechanism.” On good days, she likes to think it’s working.
Deborah invites you to her one-of-a-kind web site to catch the flavor of eighteenth-century London, from a cup of the most decadent chocolate to scandalous tidbits of backstage gossip from the Green Room at Drury Lane. To get there, follow her author’s link on the Harlequin web site http://www.romance.net.
To Virginia Brown Taylor, romance author and midwife, who coached me through Lucy’s confinement.
Any anatomical impossibilities are my fault, not hers.
And to Dr. Michael E. Hale, my very own gentleman of substance.and style.
The Lake District, 1812
A clod of rain-soaked earth fell on the coffin, landing with a heavy, wet slap. From her place behind the lichened stone wall of Saint Mawe’s churchyard, Lucy Rushton felt that sound like a physical blow. A tiny whimper escaped her clenched lips, but the damp autumn wind snatched it up and carried it away. They were burying the earthly remains of Captain Jeremy Strickland, mortally wounded in a minor skirmish of Wellington’s peninsular campaign. That “minor skirmish,” Lucy reflected with bitter irony, had cast her into every woman’s worst nightmare.
Unwed and pregnant by a dead lover.
In vain, Lucy bit down on her lip, praying the pain would wake her from this horrible dream. She’d worshipped the handsome, dashing Jeremy Strickland from a distance for most of her twenty years. Suddenly taking notice of her, the captain had returned Lucy’s regard, wooing her with an urgency peculiar to young men off to war. Overlooking the waterfall at Amber Force, he begged the happiness of her hand in marriage. In a secluded glade on the banks of tranquil Mayeswater, he persuaded her to consummate the union of their hearts. He’d promised to return at the earliest opportunity, to wed her in a splendid ceremony.
Even knowing her condition would eventually expose her to censure and ostracism, Lucy could not bring herself to regret what she’d done. Far worse to stand here and watch them bury her dearest love, having denied him the joy of their communion. Without the memory of his ardent kiss and tender embrace to sustain her.
The meagre clutch of mourners at the graveside bowed their heads as Lucy’s father, the vicar of Saint Mawes, led them in a final prayer. One man towered above the others, a tall severe-looking person whose somber funeral habit was little different from his normal attire. Lucy fixed the formidable Drake Strickland, Viscount Silverthorne, with a baleful glare.
The viscount had selfishly decreed his half brother’s funeral a private affair, closed to all but family. Otherwise, Saint Mawe’s would have overflowed with tenants and villagers, sincerely mourning the gallant, agreeable young officer. Rather than skulking behind the wall, Lucy might have taken her place among the throng, free to vent her grief in public.
As if drawn by the animosity of her gaze, Lord Silverthorne suddenly turned his dark, inscrutable eyes upon Lucy. She met his stare without flinching, channeling all her resentment into an answering glare.
How dare you bar me from him on this of all days? her look challenged Drake Strickland. It is your fault Jeremy enlisted in the army in the first place. Always trying to live up to your impossibly high standards and never succeeding. Always trying to make his own mark. Always trying to emerge from beneath your shadow. If not for you, he would be alive today.
At that moment, Vicar Rushton intoned the benediction. “Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
Rising tears quenched the passionate rage in Lucy’s eyes. Looking away from the hateful Lord Silverthorne, she pressed her arms protectively over her fiat belly, where Jeremy’s child had just begun to grow within her. This was what her love and her dreams had finally come to-ashes and dust.
The Dowager Marchioness of Cranbrook peered down the length of Silverthorne’s formal dining table. Her wrinkled mouth puckered in distaste. Though she regretted the death of her favorite grandson, her ladyship was not unduly distressed. In seventy-five years she had buried three husbands, five sons and four grandsons. Losing loved ones was an inevitable part of life—no sense railing against events one could not change. Plenty of other circumstances were amenable to her influence. It was upon those the marchioness chose to focus her attention.
“Drake, what is this dish?” Suspiciously, she sifted her spoon through an unfamiliar variety of stew, heavy in cabbage. “It’s barely palatable. And black bread? My servants dine better than this. You must come to London with me, if only to secure the services of a proper cook.”
From the moment of her arrival, the marchioness had lost no opportunity of urging her grandson to come to London in search of a wife. At the head of the table, Viscount Silverthorne rolled his eyes, heaving an impatient sigh that was audible above the tattoo of rain drumming on the windows.
Impudent cub! Her ladyship bridled. Did he think her eyesight and hearing too feeble to mark his insulting behaviour?
“I regret our cuisine is not to your taste, Grandmother,” Drake replied with tight-jawed civility. “We are not accustomed to such exalted company.” He inclined his head to her and to his other guests-his cousin, the Honorable Neville Strickland, and Lady Phyllipa Strickland, widow of yet another cousin.
Acknowledging Drake’s nod with a dyspeptic smile, Phyllipa picked daintily at her meal. A bland, sallow creature, her cloying solicitude set the marchioness’s teeth on edge. Neglecting the food altogether, Neville concentrated on his wine.
“Personally,” Drake continued, “I find Mrs. Maberley’s cooking both toothsome and nourishing. I wouldn’t trade her Lancashire hot pot for all the glazed pheasant and oyster puddings in London. I’m a plain man. I prefer plain clothes, plain food.”
“But not plain women, I’ll wager,” Neville quipped, twirling his quizzing glass by its string.
The marchioness held her breath, waiting to hear Drake’s reply. Neville was either very drunk or very stupid to be baiting his cousin in such a way. More than once Drake had discharged the young dandy’s mounting debts with no more than an ominous grumble about the sin of profligacy.
“Speaking of women.” Phyllipa broke her meek silence. “Who was that young lady watching us at Jeremy’s funeral this afternoon? She looked positively distraught.”
Drake appeared confounded by the question. “Young lady? Oh, that was just Lucy…Miss Rushton. The vicar’s daughter.”
“Indeed.” Neville grinned broadly. “Does she hang about looking picturesquely mournful for all the burials?”
“If Miss Rushton looked mournful, she has every right. She’s known Jeremy since childhood.” For a moment Drake fell into a pensive silence. Recovering himself, he continued brusquely, “Besides, you know girls that age. They have an exaggerated sense of tragedy-particularly about young men dying gallantly for their country. Too many people nowadays have romantic notions of war.”
“You don’t consider Jeremy’s death a tragedy?” challenged Neville.
“I consider it a waste.” A sharp crack of thunder from the storm punctuated Drake’s pronouncement. “Jeremy had no business gadding off to Spain, as though the army were an amusing diversion. He had responsibilities. To me. To our people.”
“Your people?” Neville chuckled. “My dear fellow, you talk as though your tenants were your subjects.”
Her ladyship had followed the volley of conversation between her grandsons like a match of battledore