Wolfgang Hardwicke, the Earl of Northcliffe, is up to no good, as usual. He doesn’t know why he comes to the aid of a drunken gambler. He certainly isn’t expecting to be rewarded with a glimpse of the gambler’s exquisite sister – and yet one glimpse is not enough. So Wolfgang is absolutely thrilled to see her again, lighting up a dull party as she plays piano. But to win this glorious musician’s hand, the notorious rake will have to change her tune – fast.
Miss Grizelda Fleetwood has no interest in romance – she’s only marrying to save her family from financial ruin. That is, if she can find a suitable match before the unprincipled and relentless Earl of Northcliffe ruins her reputation. Unlike her not-so-secret admirer, Zel is an unabashed do-gooder with a soft spot for those in need. But if Zel is too generous with Wolfgang, she might find herself walking down the aisle with the one man she never expected – a husband she loves with all her heart.
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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The Wedding Chase
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448111558
Rebecca Kelley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Cover design: Derek Walls
Cover Illustration: Aleta Rafton
Copyright © 1998 by Rebecca Kelley
Excerpt from Midnight Hour by Debra Dixon © 1994 by Debra Dixon.
Excerpt from Morgan’s Woman by Judith E. French copyright © 1999 by Judith E. French.
Excerpt from A Case for Romance by Katie Rose copyright © 1999 by Katie Rose.
All Rights Reserved.
LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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at: www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About Loveswept
Excerpt from Debra Dixon’s Midnight Hour
Excerpt from Judith E. French’s Morgan’s Woman
Excerpt from Katie Rose’s A Case for Romance
Copyright
PRELUDE
A performance introducing the principal theme
“By Satan’s pointed tail, what’s all the ruckus?” Wolfgang Hardwicke, earl of Northcliffe, slammed a fistful of cards on the table. “Can’t even concentrate on my game. ’Cuse me, gents. I’ll only be out a hand or two.” Standing suddenly, he upset the rickety chair and strode from the dimly lit main salon toward the offending noise. He threw open the door of the private gaming room, almost knocking the flimsy thing off its hinges.
Inside, he noted a tall, disheveled young man swaying near a scowling, well-muscled giant. Two tough-looking men hovered near a table across the dingy room, one small and wiry, the other short and squat. Instinctively, Wolfgang felt for the dagger tucked in his waistcoat pocket.
“Bloody cheat!” The young man slurred, his balance off kilter as he lunged for the much larger man.
Wolfgang intercepted the young man neatly, swinging him into the nearest empty chair—which promptly crumbled, tumbling both of them to the floor.
“Lemme at him.” The young man, at least ten years shy of Wolfgang’s thirty-two years, struggled to rise, impeded by Wolfgang’s heavier form firmly ensconced on his chest.
“You’re foxed.” Wolfgang stood, pushing long black hair, freed of its usual queue, from his eyes. Turning from the young man, he glanced around at the coarse men lining the dirty, smoke-filled room. “What happened here?”
“Fleeced me.” The young man still tried unsuccessfully to stand. Wolfgang extended a hand, yanking him to his feet.
“Won fair ’n’ square, guv.” The giant, big enough to tower over Wolfgang’s own considerable height, folded his beefy arms defiantly over his chest. “Fleetwood ’ere is so drunk ’e wouldn’t know ’is own pa, let alone an ace from a king.”
“And cheating?” Wolfgang’s blandly spoken inquiry met stares from three sets of sullen eyes.
“A gent don’t accuse a gent of cheatin’.” But the fellow with the beefy arms was obviously no gentleman, and the odds being what they were, Wolfgang felt it unwise to question his claim.
Young Fleetwood was not so wise. “You’re no gennleman, you’re a cheat.”
The big man took a step forward, clenching hamlike fists at his sides. Wolfgang took a diplomatic step backward. Fleetwood, however, straightened his tall, slender form, and took a wobbly step forward. Wolfgang felt the tension in the squalid room swell, tightening around him like the skin around a sprained ankle. If he had any sense, he’d turn and walk away, leaving the youthful fool to deal with his own stupidity. But he paused too long, and the time for sensible inaction passed. Fleetwood somehow connected his fist to the fleshy cheek of the huge brute with a sickening thud, and the fight was on.
One of the smaller ruffians, wiry and surprisingly strong, launched himself at Wolfgang, who took one punch to the stomach before collecting himself and landing bone-crunching hits to his assailant’s face and neck. When the third man, the squat one, circled around him, Wolfgang knew this was not the right moment for a fair fight. He disposed of the wiry man before him with a hard, sure kick to that most sensitive spot between the legs.
Reaching under his jacket, Wolfgang withdrew his dagger. A swift twist of his torso and a snaking of his wrist, and the squat man stumbled back, howling and clutching an open gash on his cheek. Lunging forward, growling low in his throat, Wolfgang sent the man careening into the hallway.
One down. One out.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Wolfgang spun back to the one-sided battle being waged on the other side of the shabby gaming room. The beefy man gripped Fleetwood by the throat. Still wielding the dagger, Wolfgang sliced through shirt and skin. With a savage shout the giant loosed Fleetwood and turned on Wolfgang. Wolfgang slashed at the broad chest, leaving behind more torn clothing streaked bright red. The giant lurched back, raising both hands. Wolfgang grabbed Fleetwood’s arm and edged toward the door.
Fleetwood stumbled, striking a glancing blow to Wolfgang’s shoulder. “You’ll not cheat me and walk away.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Wolfgang gripped him tighter. The young fool didn’t know a friend from an enemy.
The beefy man, heedless of his wounds, came toward them again. Wolfgang released Fleetwood’s arm. Switching his dagger rapidly to his left hand, he met Fleetwood’s jaw firmly with his right, then caught the now limp form under the arms.
“Sorry. You’ll thank me later.” Wolfgang dragged Fleetwood swiftly into the hallway. “Don’t try to follow,” he barked, kicking the shaky door shut behind them.
“Maven! Where is that demon from hell?” He yanked Fleetwood down the narrow hall into a small, sparse office and dropped him into a chair, shouting to a skinny youth peering through the doorway. “Get Maven now!”
The grubby boy dashed off in search of the gaming hell proprietor. Maven, tall and hawkish, appeared in moments, looking down his nose at the unconscious Fleetwood. “Young fellow’s cut from the same cloth as his father. He’ll meet a bad end. But it won’t be here. Don’t bring him back, Captain.” Maven smiled thinly. “Oh, excuse me, Lord Northcliffe.”
“I didn’t bring him here.” Wolfgang ignored Maven’s slur of the unexpected title he’d assumed a scant year ago. Actually he preferred Captain himself. “I haven’t a damn clue why I came to his rescue.” He paced the tiny room. “I should have left the chuckleheaded pup to fend for himself.”
“You carved up a few of my best regulars.” Maven’s mouth cracked in a very dry, condescending imitation of a smile.
“Best? You’re due for an upgrade in customers.” Wolfgang sighed, long and loud. “Give me his direction. Settle with my card partners and order my coach, then help me carry him out.”
Despite the cool, bumpy ride back into the more fashionable residential districts of London, Fleetwood still lay unconscious when they reached a modest town house on Brook Street. The first rays of dawn streaked across the gray sky, providing enough light for Wolfgang to see the young man’s face. He was scarcely more than a boy and as green as the rawest recruits he’d seen fight for glory against Boney, only to die on a mud-soaked Spanish battlefield.
Pulling Fleetwood out of the coach, he swung him over his shoulder, grimacing at the strong odor of whiskey on the man’s breath. Before he’d reached the bottom stair of the house, the front door inched open and a round face illuminated by candlelight peered down at him.
“The young master’s home,” Wolfgang called out, climbing the steps to the entryway. “Where should I deposit him?”
The servant pulled the door open and, glancing nervously up and down the street, gestured them inside. As Wolfgang moved to lower his charge to a chair in the hall, the man cleared his throat. “Could you please carry him upstairs?”
“Do I look like a footman?”
“Forgive me, sir.” The man’s round face took on a distinctly reddish cast. “Could you please carry him into the salon?”
“Do you have a footman?” Wolfgang shifted his weight, Fleetwood still dangling over his shoulder.
The pudgy retainer shook his head, eyes aimed at the floor.
“Lead on, I’ll take him to his room, although I’m sure if I refused it wouldn’t be the first time he bunked on a sofa or the floor.” Steadying his grip on the drunken cub’s knees, Wolfgang followed the servant up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs Fleetwood suddenly jerked. Struggling to maintain his balance, Wolfgang lurched into the wall, slamming his shoulder and Fleetwood’s backside into a portrait.
“Bloody spawn of the devil.” Wolfgang regained his footing, as his little guide waved the candelabra before him. The door across from him swung wide, and a figure in white with a cascade of dark hair stepped into the hall.
“Robin?” her husky voice questioned.
“Master Robin’s a little under the weather, coming home with a friend,” the servant told her, then clasped Wolfgang’s arm with a surprisingly firm grip, directing him toward the nearest doorway.
Wolfgang cast one last look at the woman in white, his connoisseur’s eye assessing her tall form, noting the slender hips and full breasts not quite hidden by the thin cloth of her night rail. He hurriedly laid Fleetwood out on the indicated bed, returning to the hall as the door across the way softly shut.
Sauntering down the stairs, he grinned. Wolfgang Hardwicke, lecher and Good, Samaritan. Brushing off his hands he exited the house and jumped into the waiting carriage. In heaven’s log of good works, this deed would cover him for the next six months of debauchery: a little wine, a little gambling, and a lot of women. Clean, married women from whom he’d be unlikely to contract syphilis or matrimony. And if she met his criteria, maybe he’d start with that shapely apparition upstairs.
Plucking the strings instead of bowing them
The threadbare wall hangings rippled. Robinson Crusoe Fleetwood blinked at the light shifting through the thin draperies and covered his ears in an effort to protect them from the thundering pianoforte notes. Zelly was launching a full-force Beethoven assault. And it couldn’t even be noon yet!
Lord, his head felt like shattered glass. Why did he do this to himself? Maybe it was time to listen to Zelly, to call halt to the fast life. He massaged his throbbing temples. Damnation! His stake! He’d lost his last chance to turn things around. He’d been so sure, his luck so strong. He couldn’t lose. But lose he did—quickly, surely, miserably.
He’d been playing with a crude hard-drinking crew, sure that he could outclass them … and there was a tall, dark man, not a denizen of the streets, but skilled with knife and fists.
Robin yawned, rubbing his tender jaw. That tall, dark man punched him! He eased up gingerly. It was all coming back to him now. The man had cheated. His gaming partners caught the man and he drew a dagger, cutting the gamesters. Then he turned on Robin and landed a facer. Maven must have sent him home, but that damn cheat had his money.
He stood shakily, straightening yesterday’s pantaloons and shirt. A splash of cold water cleared his head a little. Time to leave town. Put the creditors off his scent, till he had a new plan. He hadn’t been to the country seat in months. Moreton-in-Marsh would be a welcome sight. But first he had to face his father and Zelly …
The dining room was empty, sideboards bare. He made for the kitchen and charmed a biscuit and some flat ale from his aunt’s housekeeper. If Sir Edward Charles Fleetwood, his father, was about, he’d be in the study pretending to peruse ledgers while he tippled a little brandy and read about the horses at Newmarket.
Robin knocked softly, entering the small dark-paneled study without waiting for a summons. The elder Fleetwood sat motionless at the shabby cherrywood desk as expected, clutching a glass partially filled with amber liquid.
“Father?” Robin shuffled across the faded Aubusson carpet, his voice low and uncertain.
“Robin, my boy.” Sir Edward reached for the decanter. “Join me?”
“Could use a little hair of the dog.” Robin took a small glass off a tiny corner table, passing it to his father to fill. He muttered, “I’m done up.”
“You lost it all?” The older man handed him the half-filled glass, accusation in his voice. “But you told me you had the perfect game. How much did you drink?”
Robin took the brandy, downing it in one gulp. “Had a couple of pigeons ready for the taking, but a high-flyer cleaned me out. When I cried cheat, he attacked me, knocking me cold. Knifed the other men. Don’t know who he was, but I’ll find him.”
“And what in the devil’s name will you do when you find him? You’ve no skill with pistol, sword, or fists, Robinson.” Sir Edward scratched his head, mussing the thinning, gray hair. “Challenge him and you’re a dead man.”
“I’ll find a way to deal with him. Besides, I’d as soon be dead as in debtor’s prison.” Robin threw himself into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands.
“Zelly will find a husband who can settle your debts.”
“But she don’t want to marry.” Robin’s tone was obstinate. “A man takes care of his own affairs.”
“She’ll marry.” But his father’s expression belied the surety of his statement. “We’ve tried everything else. No banker or cent-per-center in London will touch us. And at the mention of money even my oldest friends disappear.”
“More talk of money and marriage?” Zel paused in the doorway, staring hard at her father before striding into the room, her huge red-brindle Irish wolfhound at her heels. Her mood softened when she saw her younger brother sprawled in the chair before the desk.
Robin rose, and she embraced him warmly. Spotting the bruising on his jaw, she grasped his chin. “You have been hurt! What happened?” She continued in a sharper tone. “You were doing more than drinking last night. You were fighting, and one of your friends had to carry you home.”
“I got caught up in a fight.” He looked at the floor. “Not my fault.”
“You have been in the hells.” She clenched her fists, pushing aside the image of Robin’s friend, his handsome face etched in candlelight. And that wicked grin when he spied her in her nightgown. “You were gambling again. What can I do to make you stop?”
Robin’s voice echoed hollowly in the tiny room. “I was trying to win enough money to pay my debts, so you wouldn’t have to marry. Would have done it too, but I was cheated by some gentleman who doesn’t even need it. I’ll find a way to get it back.” He touched her hand briefly, moving to the open door. “I have to go. Won’t be back for dinner. Tomorrow I’m off to the country.”
Zel frowned fondly after him, as her dog nudged her elbow with a damp nose. Turning to her father, she could feel her face heat in anger, but she kept her tone cold. “I suppose I cannot expect you to control him, when you cannot control yourself.”
“Damn, girl! Don’t fight me!” Her father rose, facing Zel eye to eye, glare to glare. The dog growled softly.
“Mouse! Sit! Remus, I said sit!” Her voice escalated with her temper. “Why should I be the one to pay the price for your vices?” Zel rubbed eyes suddenly moist with tears. She wanted to hit him, throw things, but instead she concentrated on fighting back these stupid tears. Lord, she hated feeling so powerless and weak.
“Wouldn’t ask for myself. I can’t stall the creditors much longer. They want the blunt now.” He lowered his voice, pleading. “Robin needs you, girl. Don’t let him go to prison.”
“Stop calling me girl.” She ignored his begging as her hand twined in Remus’s wiry coat. “You let this happen again!”
“No, I told him he was playing too deep.”
“What about you, your debts?”
He evaded her eyes. “My debts aren’t the problem.”
Zel sank into a threadbare chair, Remus’s head following to her lap. She was tired, weary to the core of a battle that never ended. “Maybe I do need to marry, settle for you both this last time, then leave you to your own devices.”
“I know you can do it. Gir … woman as bright and lovely as you should be able to land a wealthy husband. Could have done it long before, if you’d a mind to.” His lighter tone echoed his victory. “The problem’s those bloody women’s reformer ideas.”
“Father, you know my feelings about marriage.” She sighed, massaging her neck. “After all, have I not had your example of what a husband can be?”
“Don’t bring your mother into this.” Sir Edward bristled.
“I spoke of you, not Mother.” Zel scowled at his ruddy face. “She was a better wife than you ever deserved.”
“Zelly, despite what you think of me, your brother needs you.” The begging crept back into his voice.
Robin. Of course it came back to Robin. The thought of him in prison horrified her. She could never let it happen. Her shoulders sagged. “Finding a suitable husband may be more difficult than you realize.” She rubbed her eyes. “You may require only wealth, but I require that he neither attempt to control my life nor interfere with my work.”
“Husband has the right to tell his wife what’s what.” His mouth curled. She felt sickened by his triumphant gloating. “Unless you can find some man-milliner who’ll be happy to let you run his life.”
“You forget several important points.” Zel was determined to quash that victorious smirk. “I have never gone out in London’s fashionable society. I am too old for the marriage mart. I know nothing of flirtation or pleasing a man.” She fluttered her lashes, laughing harshly. “I am far from the conventional standard of beauty. I am too tall, too blunt. I value utilitarian over frivolous pursuits.” She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I will appear as a post-horse among Thoroughbreds and will never receive a single offer.”
“You’ve got more brains than any of them. You’ve got your mother’s looks, though you don’t make the most of them.” Papa’s smirk had not diminished. “Spend some time on your appearance. Keep your mouth shut or use it to flatter.”
He gave her an appraising look. “You could stand with the best of them. If the young bucks are fools, you can easily catch a rich old widower who needs a mama for his children or a little comforting in his dotage. You know my sister will be happy to help. Diana has friends in the best circles.” He finally met her eyes. “You have to do it, girl. Robin’s depending on you.”
“I am not a girl. You also seem to forget that no man will care to burden himself with in-laws running from debtors’ prison.” Zel dropped her eyes, her voice low and quiet. As much as she would like to defy her father, she would not abandon her brother, no matter how futile she believed this plan to be. Besides, she had no better ideas. “I will do what I must, for Robin.”
“Zel, we cannot hurry this. One does not jump into a season. It must be planned … every detail made just so, just so.” Diana Marie Fleetwood Stanfield patted her gray-flecked hair as she paced from the window to the door in the bright, floral-papered drawing room. Most of Aunt Diana’s house was well worn, the furnishings long past their prime. But her aunt’s careful budgeting had preserved this room along with the dining room and small salon. “You have no clothes, your hair …” Zel squirmed on the pianoforte stool as Aunt Diana surveyed her with a critical eye. “You need vouchers for Almack’s, invitations.… Invitations will not be a problem. With so many in Paris celebrating Napoleon’s defeat, the hostesses are looking for anyone to fill their ballrooms. But we must do this right.”
“Aunt Diana, I cannot afford to wait. The creditors are pounding at the door. Robin is truly done for this time.” Zel laid her fingers heavily on the keys, feeling as taut as the instrument’s inner strings. Remus hovered at her side.
“Oh, Zel dear, I am so sorry.” She stopped and spread the thick drapes, looking out the window. “I know you wish to remain single. Now you face the uncertainties of marriage. If I had the money … if only I did.”
“But you do not. Father is certain I can land a wealthy husband.” Zel went to her aunt’s side, frowning at the spring blossoms in the tiny courtyard below. “I am not so certain. And if I do get an offer, how can I be sure he will not be like my father?”
“Or my late husband.” The old bitterness touched Aunt Diana’s voice. “Child, pick carefully … and well.”
“How can one know? Stanfield was so charming.” Zel forced a smile. She dearly loved the older woman and knew her aunt looked on her as the child she never had, despite only ten years difference in their ages. Even with little to share—the bulk of her husband’s estate having passed to a distant cousin—she always welcomed her brother’s family into her home. “Forgive me. I know you hate to think of him.”
“We need to think of you. I wish you would wait, but if you cannot …” Aunt Diana’s handsome face brightened. “I know just the thing. My friend Julianna, Lady Selby, you remember her … her house party. But it starts in a few days.” She tapped lightly on the windowpane. “It would be perfect for you to practice a little flirting, polish up your manners.” She turned to Zel, frowning again. “But your—your clothes.…”
“I know my clothes are not at all the thing, but I can afford nothing better.” Zel swirled and curtsied, laughing as she nearly tripped over Remus’s inert form. “I shall be the Dandyess of Dowd.”
“Now, Zel, my sweet, do not fun me. We must think of something. You know clothes dress the man … are the man. Oh, whatever that saying is, you know what I mean. Clothes are important.” She resumed pacing, her tall form moving with a compelled grace. “Zel, my coming out clothes, in the attic. I saved them all these years. They are scarcely worn, as my husband kept me in the country. They would only need a few tucks to fit you to perfection.”
“Aunt Diana, they are nearly fifteen years old. They must be moth-eaten and the style completely outdated.”
“No, no, they are well cared for. I take them out sometimes.… I like to remember the days before I married.” She looked at Zel, excitement overtaking the sadness in her eyes. “I was nearly as slender as you, and so carefree.... The simple elegant lines would flatter you so. The thin silks and muslins cling to the natural shape of the body.”
“Aunt Diana.” Zel stared at the older woman. “I do not wish to appear a loose woman.”
“We will try not to offend your modesty.” Aunt Diana chuckled. “You may wear a shift and a petticoat, as I did.”
“I will not wear a corset.” She frowned. “Nor do I like yards and yards of ribbon and lace.”
“There is no lace and little ribbon, and they will require almost no remodeling. But the whites and pastels will be all wrong for you … as they were for me.” Aunt Diana rubbed absently at her jaw. “I know, we shall dye them. Bright jewel colors. Sapphire, emerald, aquamarine to accent your eyes. Ruby and garnet to bring color to your cheeks.”
“But such bright colors are frowned upon for unmarried women.” Zel was not at all sure about this whole scheme.
“Posh, you are old enough to carry them off.” She gifted Zel with a brilliant smile. “No one will blink an eye. We’ll leave just a few white or pastel for the most formal occasions.”
“Can they be ready in two days?”
“Two days?” Aunt Diana fluttered about the window. “It will take several dyings to get the colors right. Nothing will be ready for the house party.”
“Then I shall wear the best of my old gowns.”
“Oh, you should wait. But I know how you are when you have made up your mind.” She stopped abruptly. “There is a lovely, classically styled riding habit.… With a few tucks it should fit admirably. At least you would look presentable atop a horse.”
“If I ride.”
“You must ride. Lord Selby keeps a fine stable.”
“I would like to ride. If I remember how.” Zel resolutely faced her aunt. “Please write Lady Selby and tell her to expect me. Will you come?”
“I must stay here and prepare your wardrobe.” Aunt Diana patted her arm. “I will probably have more fun. The guests may be very dull.”
“I will check on the coach times.” Zel’s voice was businesslike, with the plan now agreed upon.
“Zel Fleetwood. You will not take the public coach. Julianna’s sister will attend. You shall ride with her.”
“Aunt Diana, I cannot thank you enough, for all of this.” Zel put a hand on her aunt’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.
“You may run roughshod over me on most everything, Zel, but there is one other thing on which I will stand firm.” Aunt Diana rose to her full height, ready to do battle. “That monstrous hound of yours will remain here. He would surely intimidate even the sturdiest suitor, and Julianna would never, never allow a near horse in her house.”
“But Mouse will miss me. And he will obey no one but me.” Remus stirred, thumping his tail against her skirts.
“No, dear, Smythe will learn to control him, and the dog will carry on without you, for a few days.”
“I suppose you are right. Remus would frighten to death the type of husband I seek.” Zel laughed, but a vision of a well-favored face half-hidden by tousled black hair and a tall muscular form hoisting her brother’s body hovered in her mind. She squashed it. “After all, I am looking for the richest, oldest, most mild-mannered and most easily controlled man in England.”
Rafael owed him for this one. How would a dull country house party further his acceptance by polite society? Unlikely to advance his political career, it was more likely to place him irretrievably in that most deadly of spots, the marriage mart. Wolfgang shuddered as the borrowed valet tied his cravat. Satan’s misbegotten! The thought of those matchmaking mamas turned his skin cold. A wife! The last thing in the world he needed or wanted.
He’d missed dinner but hadn’t timed his arrival well enough to miss what would surely be an excruciating musical evening. He pushed aside the valet’s hands. “Stop fussing. This will do.”
As he descended the stairs two at a time, the first lambent strains tickled his ears. The music swelled as he strode down the long hall. This was not the fumbling amateur recital typical of a country retreat. Lady Selby must have hired a professional musician.
Slipping into the crowded music room, he leaned against a silk-hung wall, absorbing the ebb and flow of the melodious tide of notes. Too soon the music stopped, applause forcing him to reluctantly bring his attention back to the gaudy room. A husky female voice informed the audience they had heard a selection of Bach’s preludes and fugues. Next she would play Beethoven’s Sonata in C-sharp minor, recently named the Moonlight Sonata.
Beethoven, he sighed, ready for the music to consume him, but first to discover the maker of the astonishing sounds. Wolfgang edged along the wall toward the pianoforte, watching the pianist’s slim shoulders sway, as if buffeted by the very tones she produced. Moving until he stood nearly beside her at the piano bench, he leaned against the pier table, observing her delicate profile. Her face was flushed, her full lips parted, her large, ever-so-slightly slanted eyes glazed in sightless concentration. Strands of errant sable hair dusted her smooth brow.
Her breathing came fast and shallow, her hands alternately caressing, coaxing, and compelling the pianoforte until it became an animate object, quickened to do her bidding, alive at the touch of her long, slender fingers. A grimace passed over his face as he found himself blessing his mother. She gave him precious little in his life, but she had given him this reverence for music. Nothing else stirred him so, yet gave him such peace.
The last note resounded throughout the room. The musical sorceress sat motionless, waiting while the applause played out. The crowd silently followed the hostess, Lady Selby, through the carved door, bursting into chatter upon reaching the hall.
Wolfgang found his progress arrested by a hand on his arm. “Gadth, man, odd to thee you here,” Jeremy Crawley, Lord Melbourne, drawled, his irritating childhood lisp increasingly exaggerated as the man advanced further into adulthood. “I’d have thought you’d be in Parith thelebrating Napoleon’th defeat.”
“I have no desire to join the revelers. My tour in the army showed me all I wish to see of the Continent for years to come.”
He glanced over the shorter man’s shoulder. The pianoforte’s bench lay empty. Devil it! He scanned the room. Was she the brunette passing through the door? The woman’s face was averted, but she was too short.
Wolfgang walked beside Melbourne, his usual pace hampered by the deliberate cadence of the crowd. “The entertainment tonight was a cut above average.” Wolfgang’s voice projected the proper hint of boredom. “Did Lady Selby judge the talents of the company so meager as to require importing a musician?”
“Oh, that’th Mith Fleetwood.” Melbourne’s padded yellow shoulders shrugged. “Her aunt’th a friend to Lady Thelby.”
Fleetwood? He’d heard that name, and recently—the young fool several days ago at Maven’s. Stepping into the drawing room with Melbourne at his heels, Wolfgang again surveyed the crowd. Did the lovely body and seductive flow of hair of his apparition belong with the passionate face and manner of the pianist? This dull house party got better by the minute.
“I’d like an introduction,” Wolfgang announced, twisting to view the rest of the room.
“Introduction? Oh, to her. Why the devil would you want to meet her?” Melbourne eyed him with suspicion. “A bluethtocking. A dyed-in-the-wool thpinthter. And too bold at the pianoforte to be much of a lady.”
“Exactly.”
Melbourne grinned stupidly and gestured across the room. “That’th her thanding bethide Lady Thelby, over there.”
Wolfgang nodded his thanks and slipped over to stand beside Lady Selby and the woman Melbourne had indicated. Was this the impassioned pianist with whom he had shared a paean to the gods only moments earlier? She was brunette and very tall, with a delicate, pointed bone structure and a mouth too large for the accepted standards of beauty. He would be tempted to call her looks feline or even elfish except for her height and quiet dignity. But where was the spirit, the fire? And those spectacles and that shapeless mud-brown gown, where in Lucifer’s flaming realm did they come from?
Turning with exaggerated politeness to where Lady Selby spread herself on a brocaded sofa, Wolfgang lightly grasped the proffered hand. He brushed the woman’s fingers, plump sausages encased in kid gloves and golden rings, with his lips.
“Ah, Northcliffe, you decided to grace us with your presence.” Her jowled, turbanned head bobbed a greeting. “Never tell me you are here to peruse the latest batch of debutantes?”
“My lady, would I tell you such a tale? I am interested in establishing political, not family, ties.” He released her hand, lying effortlessly. “Forgive me for coming late but I had business in town.” He glanced at her silent companion. “If the rest of the week is equal to tonight, I shall breathlessly await your every entertainment.”
“My dear sir, if compliments are due, they are surely owing to the musical interpretations of Miss Fleetwood.” Her generous bosom quivering, she turned to the young woman standing at her side. “Zel, dear, have you met the earl?”
He regarded the object of Lady Selby’s inquiry. A faint coloring washed over her cheeks as her eyes darted away from his close scrutiny. A touch of feminine modesty as she remembered their first meeting?
“No, my lady,” she murmured, the low pitch rumbling gently as a cat’s purr.
“Miss Fleetwood, may I present Wolfgang Hardwicke, earl of Northcliffe.” Lady Selby shot him a look of warning. “Northcliffe, may I present Miss Grizelda Fleetwood.”
As he raised her gloved hand to his mouth her eyes lifted, her gaze dancing across his face. A faint scent of spice hovered about her. Now he could see beneath the thin lenses of her spectacles. A spark, a flash of golden fire illuminated her large sea-blue almond-shaped eyes.
“Charmed, Miss Fleetwood.” He held on to her long, slender fingers, his eyes capturing hers. “Your playing tonight was superb, and how brave to play the daring Herr Beethoven.”
“Brave, my lord?”
He focused his gaze on the laughter barely contained by her full lips. Did she think him a prude, offended by her ardent rendition of Beethoven? No, her embarrassment had fled at the mention of Wolfgang’s name—turning to amusement. But what right had she to laugh with a name like Grizelda?
“Miss Fleetwood, you need not stifle that giggle.” He lowered his thick eyebrows in his best fierce look. “My name has always been sorely abused. I hoped that one of your musical nature would have more compassion.”
“My lord, please excuse my rudeness.” The glint in her eyes held no contrition. “But you see, I suffer also from the curse of Mozart. My second name is Amadea.”
His mouth twitched and spread open in a wide grin he knew exposed that annoying boyish dimple. He clasped her hand again. The covering of smooth, cool kid thwarted direct contact, but he was rewarded by the return of that touch of color to her pale high cheek bones.
“We are destined to become the best of friends.” As his thumb grazed over her palm, her color deepened. “We are blessed with the love of music and cursed with a name made for jest.”
Lady Selby took Zel’s arm, pinning Wolfgang with a protective glare. “You must reprimand Northcliffe severely when he becomes too familiar. He is a most incorrigible, ah, flirt, you know.” She pulled more forcefully on Zel’s arm. “Come along, dear, we must introduce you to the other guests.”
Wolfgang flashed a ghost of a bow. “Miss Fleetwood, we will speak again.”
Lady Selby steered her away from him as if she were a green debutante. Certainly she was well into her twenties, too old to be considered an innocent needing to be spared a little flirtation, even from such a known rakehell as he.
His eyes moved lazily over her departing figure. Her ill-fitting, hideous gown made a nearly effective disguise, but after the view of her in her night rail, his practiced eye could see the very appropriately placed curves and infinitely long limbs that moved with feline grace. Her scraggly chignon, pale complexion, and wire-rimmed spectacles made it equally difficult to ascertain the charms of her countenance. But he had seen her glow as she played Beethoven, and he had seen the flash in her eyes when she concealed her laughter.
There was a mystery here. Why would an unmarried woman fail to capitalize on her beauty? Unless she had no interest in dangling after a husband. Perhaps the intriguing Miss Fleetwood remained a miss because she had no more interest in marriage than he. This house party could certainly be enlivened by a little flirtation. Or more than a flirtation if the impassioned pianoforte recital correctly reflected her other inclinations.
Zel took a steadying breath as Lady Selby drew her across the room. She was unused to the company of men, except for her family, and Lord Northcliffe’s presence overpowered her, to say the least. It was not just his size, although that was considerable, nor his piercing silver eyes, nor his long sensual face. He had an air about him … something uncompromising and untamed.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. He was not the type of man to suit her purposes, but his forward manner confused her. Her face heated again. He had looked at her as he had that night in her upstairs hall, when she had worn nothing but her night rail. She should coquettishly rap him with her fan as she had seen more sophisticated women do, or, better yet, discourage any fancy he may have for her by slapping his handsome, insolent face. Zel nearly laughed aloud at her conceit. A man such as he would have no real interest in her, but perhaps she could practice some flirtation with him, prepare herself for London.
No, wisdom dictated she was out of her depth and should stay far away from him. She found herself tempted to turn, wanting to know if his eyes followed her, or if he quickly found other diversion. Straightening her shoulders, she directed her eyes to her hostess and the tiny gray-haired woman on Lady Selby’s other arm, whose name she failed to catch.
The evening was a blur of faces and polite conversation. Zel felt like a baby chick under the plump, protective wing of Lady Selby. Aunt Diana’s introductory letter had done its work too well. She must have been presented to every unattached man in the county.
Between spells of watching the intricate plasterwork on the walls, Zel found herself responding demurely to comments on the weather, fashion, and the prince regent’s latest exploits. Several times she felt herself the subject of pointed observation. When she glanced around she discovered Lord Northcliffe nearby, a black-haired, silver-eyed wolf, regarding her intently. She chuckled softly at her flight of fancy, receiving a sharp look from the stout older gentleman who had been describing modern sheep-raising techniques.
“Lord Astin, I believe your wife is looking for you.” Northcliffe’s deep voice resonated near her ear. “I last saw her in the library.”
As Astin made his excuses, Zel, skin tingling with the blush moving up her throat and cheeks, turned to Northcliffe. She felt far too aware of how broad his shoulders were in his perfectly fitted midnight-blue evening coat and how he stood so tall her eyes barely met his chin, she who looked down on most men’s brows or hairlines.
“Your knight errant, mademoiselle, at your command.” He winked broadly. “Specializing in rescuing fair damsels from the evil dragon of boredom.”
Her laughter stopped abruptly as his long fingers wrapped around her upper arm, directing her to the door. She grudgingly smiled her thanks for the rescue, then dug in her heels, tugging at his hand. “Where are we going?”
His reply was low and intimate. “I thought you might like to accompany me to the terrace and indulge in a more stimulating conversation.”
Before she could answer, they passed through the French doors, entering a terrace lit only by the graying rays of the setting sun. He guided her to a stone bench, sinking down beside her, the warmth of his leg inches from her own. Was he sitting too close? He must be, but should she move to the edge of the bench or stand indignantly? Wishing she had experience in these games men and women played, she shifted slightly.
“Who was the Mozart lover who named you?” As he turned toward her, she could see the muscles bunch in his thigh. His knee nearly touched hers.
Zel controlled her voice. “My grandfather.” She watched as the twilight play of shadow and light flickered over the lines of his face. “I suppose I should be happy Beethoven was not a famous composer when I was born, or I might be Grizelda Ludwigia.”
He laughed, a musical growl coming from somewhere low in his chest. “That would be quite a mouthful indeed. My mother insisted on Wolfgang.” The gray of his eyes clouded slightly. “She loves music but was more concerned with countermanding my evangelical father’s choice, John Wesley, after the nonconformist religious leader. My full name is Wolfgang John Wesley Hardwicke.” The bright silver glint returned to his eyes. “I fought over that name so many times as a boy I’ve actually developed a perverse pride in it. But with your musical prowess, I’m sure Beethoven and Mozart would be honored for you to use their names.”
“My lord, your flattery goes too far.” The barely respectable distance between them diminished further. Zel slid to the edge of the bench to widen the gap, focusing on a previously unnoticed tiny streak of gray zigzagging through the glossy black hair above his right temple. Hair unfashionably long and tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck.
Northcliffe narrowed the space. “ ’Tis not flattery, Miss Fleetwood. You play with incredible passion.” His eyes refused to release hers. “Your whole body is possessed by the music.”
“My lord, I do not believe this is proper discourse.” Zel flashed him what she hoped was a scathing look. Part of her knew she should leave him alone and return to the dull conversations in the drawing room. Another part of her longed to stay, unaccountably intrigued by his charm and flirtatious manner.
“I’m not known for my polite discourse, but I shall try to behave myself. The earlier piece by a Mr. Bach …” He tapped long, tapering fingers on his thigh. “I pride myself on familiarity with all types of music, but he’s unknown to me.”
“He is not widely known in England. My old German music master introduced me to his preludes and fugues, regarding them as great teaching tools. I found them extraordinarily beautiful.” Zel cleared her throat, watching his hand as it stilled, then rested on his leg, very near her own thigh.
“Would you play more of them for me?” Northcliffe’s eyes gleamed in the soft twilight.
The air, fragrant with spring blooms, was cool, but Zel felt a warmth seep slowly through her body. “They are intended for the harpsichord or clavichord.” Her voice faltered as she contemplated a private recital. “Either are unlikely to be available.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Not an easy, companionable silence, but a silence filled with discomforting sensations, strange tingles in her legs, cool shivers along her back, heat flooding her abdomen. Zel could feel his eyes touching her, lingering where her skin lay exposed. Her hand darted to her bodice, smoothing over the fabric, making certain the cloth was still in place. She looked down at her feet, incapable of returning his gaze, then opened her mouth seeking anything to break the spell surrounding them.
“Are you one of my brother’s reprobate gambling friends?”
He laughed. “No, I am not his friend, reprobate or otherwise. He was drunk and I delivered him home as a favor to a friend.”
“And your friend was the gaming hell proprietor?”
He shifted about, rubbing his arm against hers. “Yes.”
Zel held her ground. “How did he get injured?”
“Injured? I thought he was drunk.”
“His jaw had a nasty bruise.”
“I never saw a bruise.” Northcliffe suddenly grasped her hand in his while his other hand snatched her spectacles from her face. “Why do you wear these things?”
She sat stunned, watching as he peered through the lenses, then scanned her face. “You hide lovely eyes. Inside they appeared a blue green, but now they are green—”
“Sir, return my spectacles and my hand.” Zel tried to pull away, but his grip held firm.
“—with flashing golden flecks.” His face advanced to within inches of hers. “The eyes of a cat. What is the color?”
“Ordinary hazel.” With a note of command in her voice, she attempted to wrest control of the interchange once more. “My spectacles and my hand, please. It is time to go inside.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll return you to the drawing room.” Turning her hand, he placed the spectacles in her palm, and released her. “I warned you, I rarely behave.” His lips spread into a wide smile, the single dimple hanging at one corner.
“Northcliffe!” A trilling flutelike voice followed them onto the terrace. A stylish, beautiful blonde well beyond the first blush of youth looked past Zel. She might have stepped off a fashion plate, with her filmy, pastel muslin gown clinging to her boldly full figure. “Come inside, you naughty boy. I swear I will die of boredom without you.”
“Isadora, I had no idea you were in need of me.” His murmur was the texture of raw silk, but his eyes were cold steel. “Have you met my new friend, Miss Fleetwood?”
“I heard her performance, but we haven’t met.” The woman’s eyes brushed over Zel, returning quickly to Northcliffe.
“Then I shall do the honors.” Northcliffe stood, gazing from one woman to the other. “Lady Horeton, may I present Miss Grizelda Fleetwood. Miss Fleetwood, may I present Isadora Morganton, Lady Horeton.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Horeton.” Zel felt awkward beside the petite, graceful woman.
“Call me Isadora, dear.” The corners of her mouth curled ever so slightly upward. “I would love to call you Grizelda.”
Coughing an unwilling assent, Zel turned away from Northcliffe’s intent look. An image filled her mind of two cats fighting over a canary. Zel blinked to clear the vision. She was not a cat, and Northcliffe resembled no canary she had ever seen. He was undoubtably handsome, but not a picture of masculine beauty for women to fight over. His nose was a bit too long. His mouth was too wide and his jaw too prominent. In all, entirely too rugged to be considered beautiful.
“Your gown is most unusual, Grizelda, dear.” Lady Horeton rubbed against Northcliffe. “Was it made especially for you?”
Nodding again, Zel scanned the voluptuous woman before her. “I dress for comfort and utility, not for style.”
Lady Horeton’s laughter tinkled, high and sharp, like a tiny bell. “How wonderfully wise of you.”
Northcliffe laughed, a short bark. “Odd as it seems, some women do value wisdom. Where is Lord Horeton?”
The petite blonde gave him an oddly hard look, then smiled again. “You know the poor old dear would never survive a trip longer than five miles from London.”
Rising beside Northcliffe, Zel towered over Lady Horeton, who quickly grasped Northcliffe’s arm. He reached for Zel with his free hand, but she pointedly ignored his offer, escaping through the French doors. She had foolishly begun to feel she could joust with Northcliffe, but Lady Horeton, and her smooth, coy manner, made Zel feel gauche and coarse. Her sophisticated clothing further served to emphasize Zel’s dowdy appearance.