To Romance a Charming Rogue (Courtship Wars)

The prince looked dubious, yet he smiled. “You are too generous, Donna Eleanora.”

“No, not at all. If you wish,” Eleanor added, “my groom can unharness your grays and lead them back to their stable. It is not very far. And then you may make arrangements for the repair of your carriage without fear for your horses’ welfare.”

Damon doubted the royal would concern himself much with his livestock, no matter how superb their breeding. But the prince nodded in approval of Elea nor's plan and waved a permissive hand at the lad-a wise move, Damon knew, since she would never have abandoned either servant or animals in such dire straits.

When Eleanor glanced around her, as if searching for the best way down from her precarious seat, Damon dismounted and went to help her.

Eleanor refused his assistance, however. “Thank you, Lord Wrexham, but I am not helpless,” she announced as she scrambled down on her own.

“Of course you are not,” Damon couldn't help but murmur, amused by her understatement. “You are the least helpless female I know.”

He'd lost a year off his life, seeing her in such danger, but he should have known Eleanor could be depended upon to save herself and her milksop prince. Pride and admiration flooded Damon now at her bravery, since perhaps one woman in a thousand would have the presence of mind to try to halt the runaway pair.

Eleanor did not appear pleased by his compliment, though, if he were to judge by the darkling look she shot him as she waited attentively for the prince to climb down. Evidently she didn't care to be praised for her heroics since she didn't want to show up her companion.

The nobleman did not appear any happier for the unwanted interference, either. And when Eleanor took the prince's arm, he cast a smug glance at Damon, a look of sheer male triumph. He might have suffered the indignity of appearing weak in the lady's eyes by remaining helpless in the face of danger. But in the end, he had claimed the prize: her warm smile.

Damon watched with narrowed eyes as they moved off toward the barouche that reportedly belonged to Lady Haviland. Eleanor was correct, he thought irritably. It was not uncommon for a carriage wheel to come off. Just extremely poor luck-or in the prince's case, extremely good luck to be able to see Eleanor home.

Damon muttered an oath as he made to remount his horse. His plan to ascertain just how serious Elle's feelings were for her Italian suitor had gone nowhere, he conceded.

Although now he was even more convinced that his instincts were valid: Lazzara would make a disastrous husband for her.

Warning her outright about the prince's womanizing, though, might not have the desired effect, Damon suspected. Coming from him, she was unlikely to believe it, since his concern would smack of sour grapes and male rivalry.

Even so, Damon mused with a thoughtful frown, he ought to actively try to separate Eleanor from her noble courtier. Of course, she would not thank him for his unwanted interference, but raising her ire was a small price to pay for keeping her safe from hurt.

It is unlikely that a gentleman will fall in love without proper encouragement. Often a lady must take her fate-and his also-into her own hands. -An Anonymous Lady,

Advice to Young Ladies on Capturing a Husband

Bringing her jaunty lady's phaeton to a halt before Fanny Irwin's elegant residence in Crawford Place, Eleanor handed the reins to her groom and stepped down without assistance.

“I shall be no more than an hour, Billy, if you will walk the horses and return for me then.”

“Aye, milady,” he replied, seeming particularly eager to please after the carriage accident this morning.

The genteel neighborhood was situated only a short distance north of Hyde Park and boasted a dozen row

houses that appeared refined and tastefully expensive. Number Eleven was Fanny's private home, not her usual London residence where she conducted business and entertained her elite male clientele. Yet Eleanor didn't wish to advertise the fact that she was visiting one of London's leading Cyprians by leaving her phaeton out in front.

She didn't have the luxury of openly befriending a notorious courtesan, since she was living under her aunt's roof and felt obliged to honor Lady Beldon's dictates. But she valued her blossoming friendship with Fanny, whom she had met just last month at Lily Loring's wedding.

Eleanor could understand why the Loring sisters refused to shun their childhood companion, regardless of the social consequences. The beautiful Fanny was delightful and charming and full of life, in addition to having a shrewd head on her graceful shoulders. Eleanor envied the women's closeness and hoped to become an intimate member of their circle someday.

Knowing Billy would keep her confidences, Elea nor left the young groom to see to her horses and mounted the short flight of steps to the house. She was admitted by a very proper-looking older footman, who showed her to an elegant parlor, where Fanny was hard at work at her writing desk.

“Ah, welcome, Lady Eleanor,” Fanny exclaimed with a warm smile over her shoulder at her visitor. “I promise I will only be another moment. Please make yourself at home. Then Thomas will bring us tea so that we may have a comfortable coze.”

As the footman bowed himself out, Eleanor obliged, settling on a rose velvet settee.

Eventually Fanny set down her quill pen, blew gently on the page to dry the wet ink, then rose to join Eleanor.

“Forgive me,” she said, sinking into an opposing wing chair. “I was completing a scene in chapter seventeen. I believe I finally struck on the right course for my plot, and I needed to write it down while it was still fresh in my mind.”

“Your plot?” Eleanor asked curiously. “Are you writing another book?”

Fanny smiled as if harboring a secret. “Yes, although I have been reluctant to tell anyone until I know for certain if I can manage it. I am trying my hand at writing a Gothic novel, you see.”