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“The reverend’s delightful daughter would make me an ideal wife.”
“And so she would!” his mother agreed, not reluctant to add her voice to those that in recent weeks had urged the personable Lord Exmouth to seriously consider taking the matrimonial plunge once again. “She is without doubt the sweetest-natured girl you could ever wish to meet.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” he agreed amicably.
“She is compliant and delightful. She would never interfere with your pleasure, or cause you the least concern.”
“I should wish to know her a little better before voicing an opinion on certain aspects of her character. I strongly suspect that Miss Robina Percival possesses rather more spirit than most people realize.”
Lord Exmouth’s Intentions
Anne Ashley
MILLS & BOON
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ANNE ASHLEY
was born and educated in Leicester. She lived for a time in Scotland, but now resides in the West Country with two cats, her two sons and a husband who has a wonderful and very necessary sense of humor. When not pounding away at the keys on her computer she likes to relax in her garden, which she has opened to the public on more than one occasion in aid of the village church funds.
THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:
Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries
An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey
The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander
A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick
A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker
A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley
An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew
An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall
Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries
The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey
The Guardian’s Dilemma, by Gail Whitiker
Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley
Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander
An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick
An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew
The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall
Contents
Chapter One
A distinct lack of enthusiasm induced Robina to allow the half-folded garment to slip through her fingers, and her attention to wander aspeered through the window to follow the progress along the street of a very smart racing curricle, pulled by two superbly matched greys.
Considering the Season had officially come to an end the week before, London remained surprisingly bustling with life, its many springtime visitors seemingly reluctant to return to their country homes, or to move on to those coastal towns which had become such fashionable summer retreats in recent years.
It just so happened that she would have been more than happy to return to her Northamptonshire home, to sample once again the sweetly fresh country air, and be reunited with her father and sisters once more. She was not so foolish as to suppose that it would not take a little time to adjust to the tranquillity of the vicarage in Abbot Quincey again, after spending more than three months here in the capital, thoroughly enjoying all the delights of a Season which, even though she said so herself, had been something of a success.
For a simple country parson’s daughter, with no dowry to speak of, she had managed to attract the attention of two very worthy gentlemen, either of whom, she didn’t doubt for a moment, would have made a very considerate husband. She had been encouraged by her mother to turn down both offers for her hand, which she had dutifully done without, she hoped, causing lasting hurt to either erstwhile suitor. And certainly none whatsoever to herself!
Neither Mr Chard nor the Honourable Simon Sutherland had succeeded in igniting that illusive flame which every romantically inclined young woman longs to experience. She had come through what was likely to be her one and only London Season a little more worldly-wise and certainly heart-whole. An involuntary sigh escaped her. Whether or not she would be able to say the same by the end of the summer was a different matter entirely.
Without the least warning she experienced it yet again: that sudden surge of blind panic. Why, oh why, hadn’t she flatly refused when the suggestion had first been put to her? Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded into accompanying the Dowager to Brighton, when she had in her heart of hearts known from the very first that what Lady Exmouth truly wanted was not a young companion for herself, but a biddable little wife for her son?
Abandoning the packing entirely now, Robina slumped down on the bed, not for the first time cursing herself for not being a little more assertive on occasions.
It wasn’t that she had taken the Dowager’s son in dislike. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Lord Exmouth was a very personable gentleman. If he was not quite the dashing, handsome hero of storybooks, he was certainly most attractive, blessed with