Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

Proper young ladies of the ton—especially those who have very small dowries—are not encouraged to have an interest in intellectual pursuits. Indeed, the only thing they are encouraged to pursue is an eligible bachelor.

Preferably one with both a title and a fortune.

So, the headstrong, opinionated Sloane sisters must keep their passions a secret.

Ah, but secret passions are wont to lead a lady into trouble…

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Chapter One

A soft flutter of air stirred the emerald-dark leaves, releasing the faint scent of oranges. Drawing a deep breath, the Earl of Wrexham slid back a step deeper into the shadows of the large potted trees. He closed his eyes for an instant, pretending he was back in the steamy plains of Portugal rather than the gilded confines of a Mayfair ballroom. The caress of sticky-warm humidity against his cheeks was much the same, though here it was due to the blaze of dancing couples in their peacock finery, not the bright rays of the Mediterranean sun…

“Ah, there you are, John.” The leaves rustled again, loud as cannon fire to his ear, and the earl felt a glass of chilled champagne thrust into his hand. “Your sister sent me to inquire why the devil you are cowering in the bushes when you should be dancing with one of the dazzling array of eligible young beauties.” His brother-in-law gave an apologetic grimace. “Those are her words, by the by, not mine.”

“Tell her I’ve a pebble in my shoe,” muttered John after quaffing a long swallow of the wine. Its effervescence did little to wash the slightly sour taste from his mouth. “And that I’m simply making a strategic retreat to one of the side salons to remove the offending nuisance.”

Speaking of removal, he thought to himself, perhaps there is a side door leading out to the gardens close by, through which I can escape from the overloud music, the overbrittle laughter, the overzealous Mamas with marriageable daughters.

“Pebble,” repeated his brother-in-law. “In the shoe. Right-ho. Quite impossible to dance under those conditions.” Henry cocked a small salute with his glass. “If you turn right at the end of the corridor,” he added in a lower voice, “you’ll find a small study filled with exotic board games from the Orient. Our host keeps a large humidor there, filled with a lovely selection of cheroots and cigars from the Ottoman Empire.” A sigh. “I’d join you, but I had better remain here and try to keep Cecilia distracted.”

“Thank you.” John gave a tiny tug to the faultlessly tied knot of his cravat, feeling its hangman’s hold on his neck loosen ever so slightly. “For that I owe you a box of the best Spanish cigarras from Robert Lewis’s shop.”

“Trust me, I shall earn it,” replied Henry, darting a baleful glance through the ornamental trees at his wife. “Your sister means well, but when she gets the bit between her teeth—”

“She is harder to stop than a charging cavalry regiment of French Grenadier Guards,” finished John. He handed Henry his now-empty glass. “Yes, I know.”

In truth, he was exceedingly fond of his older sister. She was wise, funny, and compassionate and usually served as a trusted confidant—though in retrospect it might have been a tactical mistake to mention to her that he was thinking of remarrying.

My skills at soldiering have apparently turned a trifle dull since I resigned from the army and returned to England, he thought wryly. Bold strategy, careful planning, fearless attack—his reputation for calm, confident command under enemy fire had earned him a chestful of medals.

The Perfect Hero. Some damnable newspaper had coined the phrase, and somehow it had stuck.

So why do I feel like a perfect fool?

It should be a simple mission to choose a wife, but here in London he felt paralyzed. Uncertain. Indecisive. In contrast to his firm resolve and fearless initiative on the field of battle. He tightened his jaw. It made no sense—when countless lives were at stake, everything seemed so clear. And yet, faced with what should be an easy task, he was acting like a craven coward.

Henry seemed to read his thoughts. “It has been nearly two years since Meredith passed away, John. You can’t grieve forever,” he murmured. “Both you and Prescott need a lady’s presence to, er, soften the shadows of Wrexham Manor.”

“I take it those are also my sister’s words, not yours,” replied the earl tightly, finding that the mention of his young son only served to exacerbate his prickly mood.

His brother-in-law had the grace to flush.

“I appreciate your concern,” John added. “And hers. However, I would ask both of you to remember that I am a seasoned military officer, a veteran of the Peninsular War, and as such, I prefer to wage my own campaign to woo a new wife.”

He paused deliberately, once again sweeping a baleful gaze over the glittering crush of silks and satins. A giggle punctuated the music as one of the dancing couples spun by and a flaring skirt snagged for an instant in the greenery.

Ye gods, was every eligible young lady in the room a silly, simpering featherhead?

“Assuming I decide to do so,” he growled.

Why was it, he wondered, that Society did not encourage them to think for themselves? His wartime experiences had taught him that imagination was important. And yet, they were schooled to be anything but original…

John felt a small frown pinch at his mouth. His military duties might be over, but he had no intention of living the leisurely life of a rich aristocrat. He wished to be useful, and politics, with all the intellectual challenges of governance, appealed to his sense of responsibility. As a battlefield leader, he had fought for noble principles in defending his country’s liberties. He felt he had made a difference in the lives of his fellow citizens, so he intended to take his duties in the House of Lords just as seriously… which was why the idea that the only talk at the breakfast table might be naught but an endless chattering about fashion or the latest Town gossip made his stomach a little queasy.

“Point taken,” replied Henry. “I—” His gaze suddenly narrowed. “I suggest you decamp without delay. It seems that Lady Houghton has spotted us, and I can’t say that I like the martial gleam in her eye.”

Taking John’s arm, he spun him in a half-turn. “She has not one but two daughters on the Marriage Mart. Twins.”