Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

Isabel shook her head. Marriage was not the answer. She was willing to swallow a bitter pill or two to save this house, and the women in it, but she would not sacrifice her freedom, her sanity, or her person for them. She did not care if it was a solution or not.

Selfish.

The word burned, echoing in her head as though it had been spoken seconds rather than years ago. Isabel knew that if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother, face contorted in anguish, flinging it like a dagger.

You should have let him marry you off, you selfish beast. He would have stayed if you had. And you would have gone.

She shook her head, refusing the image and clearing her throat, suddenly tight and painful.

“Marriage is not the answer, Lara. Do you really think anyone with the means to help us would consider marrying the twenty-four-year-old, never-seen-the-inside-of-a-London-ballroom daughter of the Wastrearl?”

“Of course they would!”

“No. They would not. I’ve no skills, no training, no dowry, nothing but a houseful of women, most of whom are in hiding, a handful of them illegally. How do you propose explaining such a thing to a prospective suitor?” Lara opened her mouth to answer, but Isabel pressed on. “I’ll tell you. It’s impossible. No man in his right mind would marry me and take on the burdens that I carry. And, frankly, I am rather thankful for it. No. We shall just have to try a different tack.”

“He would marry you if you told him the truth, Isabel. If you explained it all.”

Silence fell between them and Isabel allowed herself to consider, fleetingly, what it would be like to have someone with whom she could share all her secrets. Someone to help her protect the girls … and rear James. Someone who would help her to shoulder her burden.

She pushed the thought aside, immediately. Sharing the burden of Minerva House would require sharing its secrets. Trusting someone to keep them.

“Must I remind you of the horrid creatures that Minerva House has shown to us? The ham-fisted husbands? The villainous brothers and uncles? The men so deep in their cups they could not find time to put food on the table for their children? And let us not forget my own father—willing to sell his children for funds enough for another night on the town, unable to support his estate, entirely willing to leave it penniless and without reputation for his child-heir.” She shook her head firmly. “If I have learned one thing in my lifetime, Lara, it is that the lion’s share of men are anything but good. And those who are tend not to be out searching the Yorkshire countryside for spinsters like me.”

“They cannot all be bad …” Lara pointed out. “You must admit, Isabel, the girls who come to Minerva House—well—their tables must be the worst of the lot. Perhaps men like the ones in there”—she indicated the magazine—“perhaps they are different.”

“While I doubt it, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt … but let us at least be honest with ourselves. I am not exactly the type of woman who could land a lord. Let alone a lord deserving of a magazine article to tout his exceptional qualities.”

“Nonsense. You are lovely and smart. And incredibly competent. And the sister to an earl—even better, an earl who hasn’t ruined his name yet,” Lara said emphatically. “I am certain London’s Lords to Land would be quite enamored.”

“Yes, well, I am also two hundred miles north of London. I imagine that these particular lords have already been landed—by a collection of lucky young ladies with subscriptions that do not travel by mail coach.”

It was Lara’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps not these lords. Perhaps the magazine is merely a sign.”

“A sign.”

Lara nodded.

“You think”—she paused to check the name of the magazine—“Pearls and Pelisses … is a sign. Why do we even receive this rubbish? ”

Lara waved a hand dismissively. “The girls like it. And yes. I think it is a sign that you should consider marriage. To a good man. One of means.”

Isabel softened. “Lara, marriage would only bring more trouble upon us. And even if it would not, do you really think good men of means are lining up in Dunscroft waiting for me to sally into town? ”

She opened the magazine, considering the description of Lord Nicholas St. John, the first of London’s Lords to Land. “I mean, really. This man is the twin brother to one of the wealthiest peers in Britain, rich in his own right, an exceptional equestrian, an unmatched swordsman, and, it seems, handsome enough to send the ladies of the ton running for their smelling salts.” She paused, looking impishly at Lara, “One wonders how the female population of London remains conscious when he and his twin appear together in public.”

Lara giggled. “Perhaps they are kind enough to maintain a certain distance from each other, for the safety and virtue of society.”

“Well, that would be the right and proper thing for this ‘paragon of manhood’ to do.” “Paragon of manhood? ”

Isabel read aloud, “Lord Nicholas is a veritable paragon of manhood—handsome and charming, with an air of mystery about him that sets fans and eyelashes fluttering. And the eyes, Dear Reader! So blue! Tell me again why this magazine is so supremely edifying? ”

“Well, not this particular article, obviously. What else does it say? “ Lara craned her neck to read along.

“But this lord is even more of a catch, Dear Reader! Why, his legendary travels across not merely the Continent but also deep into the Orient have both bronzed his skin and expanded his mind—no simpering misses will do for Lord Nicholas, ladies, he will want a companion with whom he can converse! La!”

“It does not say La!“ Lara reached for the magazine in disbelief.

“It does!” Isabel held it away. “La! Did we not profess to have found the very best of London’s gentlemen for your consideration? ”

“Well, I suppose that if he is that incredible a man, la is as appropriate as any other exclamation.”

“Mmm.” Isabel was reading on silently now.

“Isabel?” Lara leaned over to see what had captured her cousin’s attention. “What is it?”

At the fervent question, Isabel’s head snapped up. “Lara, you are right.”

“I am?”

“This silly magazine is a sign!”

“It is?” Lara was confused now.

“It is!” Isabel stopped reading and reached for a fresh piece of paper on which to write her letter.

“But I thought …”

“So did I. Nevertheless, it is.”

“But …” She paused, bemused, then said the first thing that came to mind. “But … what about two hundred miles between here and London?”

Isabel looked up at that. She was quiet for a long while, tilting her head as she considered the words.

“Well then, I shall have to make a very convincing argument.”

Three

* * *

Lesson Number One

Do not attempt to make too strong of a first impression.

To land your lord, you must be seen, but barely heard. Do not overdo with conversation at first—you would not like to overwhelm him with your thoughts. While this might seem challenging, do not fret, Dear Reader. Your quiet grace shall be more than enough to land your lord.

Pearls and Pelisses

June 1823

Nick had traveled extensively, and he prided himself on his ability to see the value in even the most uninspiring of locations. He had spent years crossing the Continent—not in Vienna or Prague or Paris or Rome—but in the unsung villages of Europe. Afterward, he had traveled east, found gems in dingy Ottoman bazaars, embraced the simple pleasure of the tiny communities of the remotest parts of the Orient.

When he and Rock had hiked slowly from Turkey through the mountain passes of Greece with nothing but the clothes on their backs, Nick had spent weeks without hot food, without a bed, without a single luxury, and he had still discovered his passion for antiquities. There had never been a place in which he could not find a redeeming characteristic or

two.

But he was very near giving up on the village of Dunscroft. There appeared to be little about the place that was worthy of note.

Nick and Rock stood together in the courtyard of the town’s only inn, waiting for their horses to be delivered. They had been waiting for nearly a half an hour, and the village’s early bustle had given way to a quiet, mid-morning laziness. Nick shifted his weight as he watched the door to the butcher’s shop open and a gangly boy emerge. The boy’s arms were piled high with packages and he dropped one awkwardly shaped parcel to the dusty ground almost immediately. When he turned back to retrieve it, his pile tilted precariously.

It was the most interesting thing that had happened since they had arrived in the little Yorkshire village two evenings earlier.

“A crown says he drops another before he reaches the haberdasher,” Nick said.

“Make it a sovereign,” Rock agreed.

The boy passed the shop without incident.

“Are you ready to return to London yet?” Rock asked, pocketing his winnings.

“No.”

“Will you at least consider leaving Yorkshire?”

“Not unless we have reason to believe she left Yorkshire.”

Rock took a deep breath, rocking back on his heels. After a long moment, he said, “It occurs to me that you are the one who is committed to finding the girl. There is nothing in this place that is keeping me. Ankara was more accommodating than this town.”

Nick raised one dark eyebrow. “Ankara? I think that’s a bit extreme, considering our accommodations when last we visited Turkey.”

“Also your doing,” Rock grumbled. “We could at least move to York. This inn—and I use the term loosely—is awful.”

Nick smiled at that. “You know, for a Turk, you really have become something of a dandy.”

“It is called The Stuck Pig, for God’s sake!”

“Do you think we would find a more interestingly named establishment in York? ”

“I think we might well find a finer establishment there.”

“Perhaps, but the last we heard, she was headed here,” Nick said. “Where is your sense of adventure? ”

Rock huffed in irritation, looking toward the stables. “Lost, along with our horses. Where do you think this place is keeping them? Bath? The only excuse for taking so much time to fetch a horse is death.”

“Death of the horse? ”

“I was leaning toward death of the groomsman who went looking for it,” Rock said, and he was off, heading for the stables, leaving Nick to turn his attention to the village of Dunscroft.

They were close.

They had tracked Lady Georgiana across England to Yorkshire, where her course seemed to disappear. They’d ridden north for a day, questioning anyone who might have had a chance to witness a young woman traveling alone, and found nothing past Dunscroft, where a boy who worked at the post remembered seeing a “lady like an angel” come off the mail coach. He could not remember what happened to the angel in question, but Nick had quickly decided that she hadn’t gone far. She was in Dunscroft. Or close to it.

He was certain of it.

With a deep breath, he considered the little village that lined a single main street, where a church, an inn, and a simple row of shops marked civilization. Across from the inn was the village commons, a small patch of green that still bore an empty maypole from the May Day celebration that likely marked the most exciting night of the year in Dunscroft. As he took in the commons, Nick’s attention was drawn to a lone woman crossing them.

She read as she walked, transfixed by the stack of papers she carried, and the first thing Nick noticed was her ability to keep a straight line despite her obvious lack of awareness of her surroundings.

She was in mourning, clad in a simple black day dress, a common enough design, if slightly out of fashion, but such a thing was to be expected, considering their location. The dress indicated that she was very likely the daughter of some local landed gentry, but her movements were unselfconscious enough to suggest that she was no society miss.

He watched her carefully, taking in her uncommon height—he didn’t think he’d ever met a woman as tall as she was. Her quick, purposeful strides were entirely the opposite of the mincing little steps that young ladies were taught to believe graceful. He could not resist focusing on her skirts, which clung to her shapely legs with each long step. As she walked, the hem of her dress kicked up, revealing plain walking boots—footwear chosen for function rather than fashion.

Her black bonnet sat low over her face, shielding her eyes from the sun. Between the low brim of her hat and the placement of her reading material, Nick could not make out anything more than the tip of what looked to be a very straight, very pert nose. Idly, he wondered at the color of her eyes.

She had nearly reached the street now, having crossed the entire greensward without looking up once. He watched as she turned over a page, missing neither a step of her journey nor a word of her correspondence. Her singular focus was fascinating—he could not help but wonder what it might be like to be the object of such undivided attention. Would she bring such purpose to everything that she did?

He straightened, turning to look for Rock. Nick had been too long without a woman if he was musing about a nameless, faceless female who had simply happened into his line of vision.

And then all hell broke loose.

The loud crack sounded from nearby, followed by a combination of men shouting, horses screaming, and a banging that Nick could not immediately place. He turned in the direction of the sound and initially saw nothing, barely registering that the noise had come from farther down the main street, around a bend in the road, before the seriousness of the situation came into clear, horrifying view.

Tearing up the road was a team of enormous workhorses, hooves pounding as their muscled haunches moved with unbridled force. Behind them, they pulled a large workman’s cart that had lost two wheels and was dragging on one side. The cart was losing its cargo of flagstones, and the sound of the rocks tumbling off the wooden cart was unnerving the horses, who were now running at breakneck speed. Their driver had been lost along with the wheels, and there was no one in control of the massive vehicle; the horses cared nothing for what was in their path.

And the girl from the commons was about to put herself squarely in their path.

She remained engrossed in her reading even as Nick called out to her. She took her final, fateful step onto the main street, and it was then that he knew he would have no other choice but to save her.

Dammit.

He took off, running across the courtyard of the inn. A quick glance confirmed that he could get to her barely in time, presuming that he did not miss a step, and that she did not suddenly decide to become aware of her surroundings.

Not that the latter appeared likely to happen.

He felt the hardened earth vibrating with the thunder of the horses’ strides beneath his riding boots as he tore across the street, headed for her even as he felt the enormous animals bearing down upon them.

This was idiocy.

Whether from the cacophony surrounding her or a latent sense of self-preservation, she looked up.

Her eyes were brown.

And wide as saucers.

Her jaw dropped and she stopped short, frozen with surprise and uncertainty, and all Nick could hope for was that she would not move out of his path, or both of them would be in extremely dire straits.

Had he not learned his lesson regarding saving young women from impending doom?

Apparently not.

He was on her then, the momentum of his large body propelling her backward, his arms wrapping tightly around her as they were lifted off the ground with the force of the collision. Her papers went flying.

Instinctively, he twisted in midair, protecting her from the impact that would almost certainly rob him of breath—and quite possibly of working limbs.

When they landed, it was just off ce

nter enough to send a shooting pain down Nick’s arm; he gritted his teeth before they tumbled several feet farther in the thick grass. As they came to a halt, Nick felt the horses pass, the earth trembling beneath them as they left scarred earth in their wake.

He lay still for a long moment, his left shoulder and right knee throbbing in pain familiar enough not to be worrisome. It was then that he registered his position, wrapped around a warm, feminine body.

He was curved around her, his arms having instinctively protected her head and neck from injury. He lifted his head carefully, looking down at her cradled in his embrace; her eyes squeezed shut, her lips pressed into a thin, firm line. He could feel the wild rhythm of her breathing against his chest. She had lost her bonnet in the fall, and one thick auburn curl lay across her face. He flexed one hand, moving it from where it cradled her head, and, without considering the action, brushed the hair aside.

She opened her eyes at the touch, blinking up at him.

Her eyes were no mere brown. They were a mosaic of honeys and golds and mahoganies magnified by a sheen of tears, the product of fear and confusion and surprise and relief.

There was something soft and tempting about this woman.

Then she began to struggle.

“Sir! Remove yourself from my person!” She found use of her hands again, pounding against his chest and arms. “Immediately!” One of her blows landed just so on his wounded arm, and he winced at the pain that shot through his shoulder.

He had been wrong. There was nothing soft about her. She was a harridan.

“Stop.” The word stayed her movement.

She went rigid beneath him and he was instantly, keenly aware of their position—the press of her body against his, the feel of her breasts against his chest as she struggled for deep, calming breath. The place where his thigh rested, cradled between her own, tangled in her skirts. And, suddenly, the throbbing in his knee was not nearly as distracting as the throbbing of entirely different parts of him.

That would not do at all.