Ann Lethbridge - Lady Rosabella's Ruse

He glanced at Lady Keswick for an introduction and she waved an indolent pudgy hand. ‘Mrs Travenor.’

Married. Garth didn’t quite believe his instant flash of disappointment.

‘My dear, meet the worst scapegrace in London,’ the old lady continued. ‘Mrs Travenor is my companion.’

A widow, then. He cheered instantly. Illogically.

He inclined his head. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Travenor.’

A shaft of sunlight released by a passing cloud gilded the young woman’s warm-coloured skin, illuminating the quiet purity of her expression. A virginal widow? Hardly likely. But a woman best avoided.

She was the kind of woman who expected the parson’s mousetrap at the end of the day. He had walked that path once already. He didn’t want a wife. The thought made him shudder.

‘Enough, Stanford.’

Garth realised he was still staring at the widow and dragged his gaze back to Lady Keswick.

The elderly woman smiled at her companion fondly. ‘Rose doesn’t deserve your kind of trouble.’

When I first met Garth in THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN I just knew I needed to write his story. He popped up again in THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER (Mills & Boon ® Undone! eBooks) to remind me of my promise. As all bad boys do, he finally got his way. I do hope you enjoy learning more about him and Rose as much as I did.

If you would like to know more about me and my books you can find me at my website: http://www.annlethbridge.com. Drop me a note. I love to hear from readers. If you would like to join me as I explore Regency England on my blog you can find me at http://www.regencyramble.blogspot.com

ANN LETHBRIDGEhas been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels by this author:

THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN

WICKED RAKE, DEFIANT MISTRESS

CAPTURED FOR THE CAPTAIN’S PLEASURE

THE GOVERNESS AND THE EARL

(part of Mills & Boon New Voices … anthology)

THE GAMEKEEPER’S LADY

MORE THAN A MISTRESS

(linked to The Gamekeeper’s Lady )

LADY ROSABELLA’S RUSE

(linked to The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan )

and in Mills & Boon ®Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER

THE LAIRD AND THE WANTON WIDOW

ONE NIGHT AS A COURTESAN

UNMASKING LADY INNOCENT

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I would like to dedicate this book

to the bad boy in my life, my husband Keith,

who knows beyond any shadow of doubt

he is the model for all of my heroes.

I would like to thank Joanne Grant, my editor,

and all the wonderful staff

at Harlequin Mills & Boon

for their help and support,

for without them there would be no book.

And finally a big thank you to the readers who keep reading.

The weight of tedium hung heavy in the air. After only one hour at Lady Keswick’s Sussex mansion, Garth Evernden, eighth Baron Stanford, was bored. Summer house parties were all the same, deadly dull or wildly hedonistic and utterly predictable.

As he prowled in the wake of his hostess’s butler along a corridor lined with every Greek god known to man, he wondered why he hadn’t gone to Brighton. A fleeting thought of Prinny and his cronies produced a yawn.

Why had he accepted Lady Keswick’s invitation? Ah, yes, now he remembered his purpose. Having delivered Clarissa her congé last month, he needed an occupant for his discreet town house in Blackheath. A woman who would entertain his nights and stay out of his days. This gathering of philanderers and fast widows might provide such a woman, but now he was here, hope seemed elusive.

The butler threw back a pair of French doors. ‘The terrace, my lord, where you will find everyone gathered.’

‘No need to announce me.’

The butler grinned. ‘Hadn’t planned to, my lord. No standing on ceremony at The Grange.’

He’d forgotten Lady Keswick’s refreshing informality. Perhaps his stay wouldn’t be so bad.

A group of five or six men in dark coats and women in pastels hung over the terrace’s grey-stone parapet gazing at the lawn.

‘Look at Fitz go!’ one of the men hooted. Hapton. A slender brown-haired dandy of about forty summers, with a penchant for fast women and outrageous wagers. ‘I’ll wager a pony on him.’

The woman in yellow at his right turned her back on the view and laughed up at Hapton. Mrs Mallow made an enchanting picture with her lovely, if somewhat hard, face framed by luxurious chestnut curls and a lavender parasol. ‘My money is on the gardeners. Fitz is all go at the start, but in my experience, he has no stamina.’

General laughter along the rail met the sally.

Seeing Garth, Mrs Mallow waved. Hapton turned to look, grimaced, then swung back to whatever had their attention on the lawn. Taller than most, Garth peered over Hapton’s shoulder. It was a human wheelbarrow race. Two gentlemen against two brawny young men in homespun. Garth sighed. God, they were childish. He hoped this wasn’t the pinnacle of the entertainment to come.

Having not yet greeted his hostess, he turned away from the view and spotted her seated in a chair on wheels in the shade of a cluster of potted yews. A monstrous red wig battled with the purple of a sarcenet gown cut low enough to reveal an expanse of enormous breasts. Struggling to keep his gaze on her face and not the jiggling mass of flesh, he made his bow. ‘Lady Keswick, your servant.’

‘Lord Stanford. Welcome.’ She offered him a lazy smile, her puffy cheeks swelling to melon-sized proportions and practically obliterating her twinkling faded blue eyes. ‘I hope my staff took proper care of you?’

One hand to his heart, he offered his most charming smile. ‘The accommodations are excellent. I congratulate you on your new home.’

‘Good. Very good.’ She eyed him a little askance. ‘I expected you yesterday.’

‘I had trouble tearing myself away from a prior engagement.’

‘I never heard you had trouble bidding a woman farewell. Who was it this time?’

He raised a brow, let the mockery show on his face. ‘I don’t remember.’

A rich chuckle set her bosom trembling like a blancmange carried by a nervous footman. ‘Cheeky rogue. Now I recall why I invited you. You make me laugh.’

She made him laugh, too. Most of the time. He grinned at her. ‘Is everyone here?’

‘All that’s condescended to come.’

He eyed the women speculatively. From this angle, their pink, yellow and blue-clad bottoms were presented in a row like choice desserts on a plate—they looked delicious. Choosing was always interesting.

Tasting could be a disappointment.

A dog, an overweight pug, waddled from beneath the elderly lady’s skirts and growled at his reflection in Garth’s boots.

‘Hello, old chap.’ Garth bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. ‘Who are you?’ The dog stared up at him with bulbous eyes.

‘Digger,’ Lady Keswick said. ‘Come, sir. Lie down.’

The dog swaggered back into hiding.

A movement deeper in the shadows of the potted trees brought Garth to his feet. Another woman was seated behind his hostess, her black attire making her almost invisible.

He disguised a sharp intake of breath as he took in the woman’s face. Pale olive skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes gave her perfectly oval face an exotic mysterious look. The raven-black hair swept back and tightly constrained at her nape only added to the impression of reserve. His fingers tingled with the urge to see it fall in luxurious lengths to her shoulders. Her mouth tightened as he continued his perusal and he let his gaze linger on her lips. Set in her Madonna-like face, that mouth was a wonder. Full and lush, it spoke of carnal delights while it pretended disapproval.

A woman garbed like a nun with the face of a temptress.

He bowed. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. I did not see you.’

He glanced at Lady Keswick for an introduction and was surprised to see an odd expression flicker across the normally placid face. Concern? The look disappeared too fast for him to be sure. She waved an indolent pudgy hand. ‘Mrs Travenor.’

Married. Garth didn’t quite believe his instant flash of disappointment.

‘My dear, meet the worst scapegrace in London,’ the old lady continued. ‘Mrs Travenor is my companion.’

A widow, then. He cheered instantly. Illogically.

Mrs Travenor rose to greet him. Taller than he’d guessed, her eyes were on a level with his chin. Tall and willowy. She made a stiff curtsy, her head dipping briefly. Jasmine wafted up from her skin. A sensual fragrance for a woman who dressed like a crow. A pair of velvety brown eyes dusted with gold at their centres steadily returned his gaze. ‘My lord.’ The soft husky voice raised the hairs on his arms. The jolt of unwanted lust annoyed him. There was nothing about this woman to suggest she would welcome a discreet liason. Then why was he interested?

He inclined his head. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Travenor.’

A shaft of sunlight released by a passing cloud gilded the young woman’s warm-coloured skin, illuminating the quiet purity of her expression. A virginal widow? Hardly likely. But a woman best avoided.

She was the kind of female who expected the parson’s mousetrap at the end of the day. Had walked that path once already. He didn’t want a wife. The thought made him shudder. He had an heir. His brother. A man who deserved the title of Stanford, and Garth would make sure he got it.

‘Enough, Stanford.’

Garth realised he was still staring at the widow and dragged his gaze back to Lady Keswick. The elderly woman smiled at her companion fondly. ‘Rose doesn’t deserve your kind of trouble.’

Rose. The name seemed too trite for such exotic loveliness.