Unwed and Unrepentant. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Prologue

      Cavendish Square, London—spring 1828

      Clutching a portmanteau in one hand, a bandbox tied with string in the other, Lady Cordelia Armstrong crept down the main staircase of her father’s town house. It was late afternoon, and her Aunt Sophia was taking a nap. Cordelia had been pledged to attend an expedition to Richmond Park. She had been at pains, when the invitation was first issued, to inform her aunt that the company would include at least one rake, one notorious fortune-hunter and the young lady who was competing with Cordelia in a wager—registered by one obliging gentleman in White’s betting book—to amass the most offers for her hand in one Season.

      Lady Sophia had, as Cordelia anticipated, forbidden her to go. ‘If you are seen in an open carriage in such company,’ she had said, her face turning the most alarming shade of puce, ‘I have no doubt whatsoever that your vouchers for Almack’s will be withdrawn.’

      ‘And all poor Papa’s plans to marry me off to one of his minions will be in tatters,’ Cordelia had been unable to resist retorting.

      ‘I do not understand you. Don’t you want to make a good match?’

      ‘One that is good for me, yes, indeed. Sadly, that rather precludes it being a man whom Papa has selected.’

      Her aunt had looked genuinely shocked, a reaction which had quite taken Cordelia aback. Having seen for herself how miserable trying to please their father had made Cressie, and how very changed poor Caro had become since marrying the man chosen for her, Cordelia had a very low opinion indeed of Lord Armstrong’s ability to pick a husband for her, but it seemed Lady Sophia did not agree. It was true, Cordelia had originally pretended to go along with her father’s plans for her, but she had assumed that her aunt, who was no fool, understood this was simply a ruse to ensure she was not, like Cressie, confined to the country until she agreed to do his bidding. Papa did not like open defiance. Keep your enemies close, was one of his maxims, and Cordelia had paid it great heed.

      The moment was now ripe to strike, for her father was en route to Russia with Wellington. Sadly, it seemed the wool must also be pulled over Aunt Sophia’s eyes too, for the time being. So Cordelia had said defiantly that she would go to Richmond Park no matter how low the company, ensuring that no other invitation could be accepted on that fateful date, and that her sadly abused relative would be too relieved to question her, when informed upon the day that her niece, having thought the matter over, was of the opinion that the expedition would be a mistake. Which was exactly what had happened this morning, as a result of which Aunt Sophia was sleeping soundly in her bedchamber, under the illusion that her apparently contrite charge, with an engagement-free afternoon, was resting in hers.

      The house was silent, with not even a footman attendant in the marbled hallway to impede Cordelia’s departure. Placing the brief missive on the polished half-table beside the silver salver upon which callers to Lord Armstrong’s abode left their visiting cards, she felt a twinge of guilt. Though her ambitious and scheming Papa deserved not a whit of loyalty or consideration in her opinion, she did not feel comfortable deceiving Aunt Sophia, who might look like a camel, might even upon occasion bray like one, but had in her own way always done her best by her nieces.

      Biting her lip, Cordelia stared at her reflection in the mirror. Nature had given her the dark golden curls, the cupid’s-bow mouth and soft curves which were deemed by society to be beautiful—this Season, at least. At one-and-twenty, combined with an adequate dowry, her lineage and her connections, she was under no illusions about her value on the marriage mart—indeed, she had already amassed enough proposals to prove it.

      ‘And not a single one of them could care less what goes on behind this pretty facade,’ she said aloud, her lip curling with contempt. ‘Within five years, perhaps less, when I’ve done my duty and produced the requisite heir or two, I’ll be retired to the country to grow fat and miserable like poor Bella. Or worse, if I fail, forced into hiding in the shadows like Caro.’

      Turning away from the mirror, she picked up her luggage with renewed resolve. Soon, she would be married to a man of her own choosing. A man who derided politics and her papa equally. A man who paid her no pretty, facile compliments but talked to her as if she had a mind of her own, and made it very clear that he desired her not as a matrimonial conquest but as a woman. A man whose kisses made her pulses race. A man who could heat her blood by his very presence in the room. A man whose body and bed she longed to share.

      ‘Gideon,’ she whispered. Heart thumping, Cordelia slid open the heavy front door of her father’s house, closing it carefully behind her. The next time she returned, she would be a married woman. ‘And for once, Papa shall dance to my tune, for the one thing he abhors more than disobedience is scandal,’ she murmured to herself as she tripped down the stone stairs into Cavendish Square and hailed a hackney cab which was most fortuitously passing. Taking it as a good omen, she clambered in with her luggage and gave her direction.

      The carriage rumbled off and Cordelia settled herself for the journey to the posting house where they were to meet before setting out on their journey. Of course, the Honourable Gideon d’Amery had not specifically mentioned marriage, but that was a mere detail. Papa and Aunt Sophia would tell her that no gentleman would propose an elopement to a lady, but Papa and Aunt Sophia had not a romantic bone in their bodies. Cordelia was of age, and Gideon was a man of the world who would see to whatever details were required to formalise their union. Not that she had any idea what such details comprised, though she was hazily aware they required some sort of special licence unless they were headed to Gretna Green.

      She didn’t care and it mattered not a whit. Gideon would see to it. Cordelia would concentrate on the important things, such as his smile and his kisses and the heated look in his dark-brown eyes when he gazed at her, and the delicious frisson that ran through her when he ran his fingers over her breasts in that shocking manner through her gown, and the even more shocking and even more delicious frisson when he pressed the evidence of his desire against her as they danced.

      She touched her gloved hands to her heated cheeks. How perfectly lovely it was to be in love and to know that she was loved in return. When she came back to London on the arm of her husband, glowing with happiness, Papa would have no option but to acknowledge that Cordelia, and not her father, knew what was best for her. A month, perhaps three, if they made their marriage trip to the Continent. Rome. Venice. And Paris of course, for she would need new gowns, having been forced to leave most of her coming-out wardrobe at home.

      ‘Six months at most,’ she said dreamily, ‘and then I shall return, the Prodigal Daughter, and Papa shall be forced to kill the fatted calf.’ On that most satisfying image, Cordelia closed her mind to the troubles she was leaving behind her, and turned instead to the night of passion which lay ahead.