Though this book is now out of print, in some ways, it will always be a very
special book for me. When I first came up with the idea of a broke aristocrat
who seduces a rich American heiress into matrimony for her money, the agent
I had at that time did not have the faith in the story that I did, so I put
it aside, my confidence in my writing ability badly shaken. Three years later,
when I had a deadline looming and I just couldn't come up with a new book
idea, I dragged out this story, gave it a little tweaking here and there,
and sent it to my editor. She loved it, and that helped me to regain my confidence
as a writer. If you can find a copy of The Seduction through Amazon,
I hope you will love it, too.
top
 
 Finalist, Romantic
Times, Best Historical
Love and Laughter Award, 1997
"Ms.
Guhrke has brought together an irresistible force and an immovable object,
and the results are fireworks, chuckles, and satisfied readers. Grab
a copy of this fun-filled book with its heartwarming cast ." Romantic
Times.
top
Cairo, 1882
EXCERPT: PROLOGUE AND CHAPTER ONE
Trevor St. James believed in life's simple pleasures. French cognac,
a Turkish cigar, silk sheets, and a passionate woman. Tonight, he had
enjoyed them all. He leaned back against the headboard and took a sip
of the cognac, his gaze slowly perusing the softly rounded form of the
sleeping woman who lay beside him. He paused to appreciate the luscious
dent in the small of her back before his gaze continued downward. Lucci
really does have excellent taste, he thought, admiring the enticing
curve of her buttocks.
She stirred slightly in sleep, reminding Trevor that it was not wise
to linger here, and he set thedrink aside. He'd come for a purpose beyond
a romp in the sheets, and he couldn't accomplish it if Isabella awakened.
He rose from the bed and moved across the room, gathering the clothes
that had been tossed aside several hours before. In the dim light of
the lamp, he dressed without making a sound, then began to search the
room, keeping one eye on the woman as he silently opened the drawers
of her dressing table.
In the third drawer, he found her jewel case. The mahogany case was
locked, but that obstacle posed little problem and he soon opened it.
Within, he found a treasure of diamonds and pearls, the evidence of Lucci's
passion for his young wife, but diamonds and pearls did not interest
Trevor. What he sought was far more valuable. More important, it was his,
and Trevor never relinquished what belonged to him.
He had removed three trays of jewels from the case before he found
the object of his search, and he smiled with satisfaction as he removed
the ancient necklace of gold and lapis that Lucci had stolen from him.
The British Museum would definitely get their money's worth for this
piece.
He pulled from his pocket the paste replica he had brought with him
and laid it carefully inside the case, then put back the other trays
of jewels, careful to return them in the proper order. After relocking
the case, he set it back in the drawer exactly where he had found it.
As he closed the drawer, it made a faint, grating sound. He glanced
at Isabella, but she did not awaken. Picking up his jacket from the floor,
Trevor tucked his prize securely into the inside breast pocket, then
laid the jacket across a chair and walked back over to the bed. He leaned
down to kiss that lovely dent in her back, knowing he had to leave and
feeling a hint of regret at the prospect. He trailed kisses along her
spine and heard a soft murmur of sleepy pleasure from the depths of the
pillows.
Isabella turned her head and rose up on her elbows, shaking the dark
curtain of hair from her eyes as she looked at him. "So soon?" she
asked, her voice still husky with sleep.
He reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her lovely face. "I
must go. My ship leaves at dawn."
"Hours away," she whispered, pressing a kiss into his palm.
"Lucci could take it into his head to change his plans, and I
don't want him to find me here."
"He won't change his plans. He has gone to Alexandria on business."
Trevor already knew that. But he also knew that Lucci was foolishly
besotted by his beautiful wife and might miss her enough to return unexpectedly.
Trevor intended to be far away from Cairo when that happened. He shook
his head. "It's too risky. I don't wish to die at the hands of your
jealous husband."
Her lips curved into a pout. "You would not be willing to die
for me?"
Trevor smiled and caressed her cheek. "No, my sweet. I would
not."
"Bastard."
The word was soft on her lips, an endearment rather than an epithet.
He laughed as she rolled onto her back and held out her arms. "Stay.
Even if he did come and he found you here, Lucci would never be able
to defeat you in a fight. He's too fat."
"Somehow, that does not ease my mind." Trevor caught her
wrists and pulled her arms wide to place a kiss between her breasts. "And
I am his most hated rival."
He released her and sat up, then reached above her head for his cravat,
which was draped carelessly over the headboard. He gave her a cynical
smile. "But then, I suspect the fact that Lucci and I are rivals
in business heightens the pleasure for you, doesn't it, my sweet?"
She stretched like a cat and yawned. "Yes," she confessed
and smiled at him. "I've wanted you for the longest time, Trevor.
When I saw you at the opera tonight, I knew this was the perfect opportunity."
Trevor had known it too. Isabella thought tonight's pleasures had
been her idea, but he'd been planning this ever since Lucci had stolen
the necklace from him, knowing perfectly well that his prize would end
up in her hands. Lucci always gave the jewels to his wife. He really
was a fool. That necklace would bring several thousand pounds on the
open market.
She sighed, watching him as he rose from the bed and walked to the
mirror that hung above her dressing table. "I wish we had more time
together," she said so wistfully that he almost believed she meant
it. "I don't see why you must go to England anyway."
"I don't have a choice. I am an earl now. That carries certain
unavoidable responsibilities."
"Such as?"
He bent slightly at the knees to see his reflection in the mirror
and began to tie his cravat. "According to my mother, they include
stepping into my late brother's shoes, marrying a well-bred girl from
a respectable--and hopefully, wealthy--family, and producing an heir
to carry on after me."
"You?" She laughed merrily. "Is that why you're going?
To chain yourself to a lifetime of foxhunting and playing the country
squire? How dreadfully conventional. A man like you isn't made for a
life like that. I don't believe it."
Trevor paused in the act of buttoning his waistcoat and thought suddenly
of home, of the green fields and rose-covered cottages of Ashton Park,
of roast beef and trifle, of chestnut trees and roaring fires and thick
feather mattresses, all the things he'd left behind ten years ago. An
unexpected pang of longing hit him, and he made a sudden realization.
"Actually,"
he said and resumed buttoning his waistcoat, "I'm rather looking
forward to it."
"You're not serious!"
She sat up in bed and frowned at him. "Have you fallen in love with
some whey-faced English girl on holiday?" she demanded. "Is
that what this is all about?"
He pulled on his jacket and met her eyes in the mirror. "What
does love have to do with getting married?"
She laughed and fell back against the pillows. "I see that we
are very much alike. I, too, married out of necessity." She sighed,
gazing at him with longing.
"I will miss you, mia caro. But when you grow tired of your English
wife and your country house and your dismal English rain, perhaps you
will return and we will enjoy each other again."
He thought of the necklace and didn't think that a very likely possibility.
Nor did he care. Both of them had gotten what they wanted, and that was
the end of it. He started for the door.
"Take good care, Trevor," she called.
"I always do." He paused in the doorway and looked at her. "You
should take care as well. Lucci might find out about this little rendezvous
of ours."
She seemed unperturbed by that possibility. "If he does, he will
be furious, but he'll forgive me, and he'll believe whatever explanations
I give him. He always does. He loves me, you see."
"For now."
His skeptical reply and cynical smile shook her complacent vanity
for a moment, and she looked at him with uncertainty. "Don't you
believe in love?"
Trevor laughed. "After tonight, darling, how can you ask me
that?"
"I am talking about the emotion, not the act."
"They are both the same." He saw her frown, her expression
one of pique and wounded feminine pride. "What were you expecting?
That I would now be as besotted with you as your husband is? Don't pout,
my sweet. I know it is not my love you seek, and I am not like Lucci,
to be manipulated and made the fool."
Her uncertainty evaporated, and she gave him a smile of complete assurance.
"There is something very appealing about having a husband who
is so much in love with me that he falls all over himself to please me
and cannot help making a fool of himself in the process. I find Lucci's
feelings for me quite gratifying."
"Only because of the power over him those feelings give you."
She studied him for a moment, not quite certain if he was insulting
her, then she laughed.
"You are absolutely right."
Trevor studied her beautiful, arrogant face, the face of a woman supremely
confident of her ability to entice and beguile, and he knew she was probably
right. Lucci would forgive her--this time. Even if he discovered Trevor
had been with her tonight, even if he discovered the necklace stolen,
Lucci would forgive her. He would forgive her any indiscretion, believe
any lie she told him, get her anything she asked for, because he was
enslaved by passion and thought it love. It would not last.
"Don't push him too far, my sweet," Trevor cautioned her. "Even
the most ardent husband's passion will fade."
She rose up on her knees, shaking her dark hair back from her shoulders
and displaying for him all the charms he was leaving behind. "Will
it?"
He studied her exquisite body for a long moment, then said what was
expected of him. "No. Perhaps not."
"Do not forget me, Trevor," she whispered.
"Never,"
he vowed. "I will remember you and treasure this night all the days
of my life."
She sank back against the pillows, her scarlet mouth curved with satisfaction.
Trevor walked out the door, and the moment it closed behind him, he promptly
forgot her existence.
Italy,
1882
Margaret Van Alden wondered if it was truly possible to die of boredom.
If so, she was certain to drop dead at any moment.
The ladies were having tea, a dreaded occasion in Margaret's opinion,
and one to be gotten through as quickly as possible. For over an hour
now, they had been discussing the appropriate subjects. They had already
examined the latest scandals brewing back in London and the dire state
of everybody's health. Now, of course, it was time for the weather.
As if on cue, the Duchess of Arbuthnot said,
"England is so dreary, I'm told. Lady Morton has written to me
that the rain and fog are going to drive her mad." She set her
teacup back in its saucer with a decided clink and went on, "We
are so fortunate to be in Italy just now, are we not? It is lovely
this time of year. And the countryside is so beautiful."
Margaret glanced longingly out the window beside her at the bright
Mediterranean sunshine, and wondered why, if it was so lovely, they
were sitting in this stuffy drawing room. She racked her brain for
an excuse, any excuse to depart. Perhaps she could suddenly be ill.
A headache would do. Or perhaps the shrimp sandwiches. One never knew
with shrimp...
"The Italian people are so marvelous,"
Lady Lytton said. "So charming and unspoiled."
"Quite." The duchess did not sound pleased to have her
dissertation on Italy interrupted by a mere countess.
"Although they are somewhat brazen in their manners."
"More tea, ladies?"
Cornelia gestured to the tea service on the table beside her, and
at the voices of assent that greeted her question, she gestured to
the maid, who began to pour out. Margaret knew that since this was
her father's villa and these were her guests, it was her responsibility
to be the hostess, but she felt no guilt at allowing her cousin to
play that role. Cornelia was so much better at it than she. Margaret
took a chocolate biscuit from the plate as it was handed round and
nibbled on it as she weighed the cost to her social status of simply
making a mad dash for the door. Or perhaps she could faint.
As she speculated on various ways to escape, she could hear the
duchess directing the conversation toward Italian art. "You will
find the museums of Italy quite splendid. The Italian Masters were
so gifted, I always think."
Margaret wondered how great a stir would ensue if she opened the
window and climbed out.
"Take the sculpture of David, for example. You can appreciate
the true talent of Michelangelo when you see it. Such exquisite line
and form. So beautiful, so natural--"
"So naked," Margaret put in, unable to stop herself.
The tiny shocked gasps of the ladies answered her. She looked around
with innocently wide eyes and plied her fan with ladylike zeal, but
had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from laughing at their
horrified faces. English ladies are so stuffy, Margaret thought
with all the staunch patriotism of an American. The Duchess of Arbuthnot's
haughty nose quivered with disapproval. Lady Lytton veritably swooned,
and her two daughters, Lady Sally and Lady Agnes, stared at Margaret,
their rosebud mouths gaping. Although she didn't venture at glance
at Cornelia, she knew her cousin was probably sinking through the floor
at this very moment.
Margaret couldn't sum up even the tiniest hint of regret for her
outrageous comment, but she did feel a twinge of pity for Cornelia.
It was, after all, her cousin's responsibility to launch her in European
society, but during the past year, she had not been very successful.
The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of Giuseppe. The butler
entered the drawing room and announced, "Lord Hymes."
The ladies stirred, making hasty preparations, and Margaret's faux
pas was forgotten for the moment. She sat motionless, watching as they
smoothed their hair, straightened their skirts and fluttered like dithering
hens. That the mere arrival of a man could cause such a flurry of activity
was incomprehensible, it truly was.
Lord Hymes walked in with all the pompous assurance of the British
aristocrat. He greeted the married ladies first, as expected, then
moved on to Lady Sally and Lady Agnes, then finally to her.
The eyes that met hers were admiring, making it clear she was the
one he had really come to see. But his gray gaze was also coolly assessing,
as if she were a painting he was thinking of buying, and she did not
want to be a painting. She might just as well be put on the auction
block at Sotheby's and sold to the man with the highest title.
"Miss Van Alden." He bent over her hand in the customary
gesture and pressed his lips to her fingers, but the kiss was not a
long one. Roger Hastings never stepped beyond the bounds of propriety.
Tall and fair, he was quite good looking, with golden hair so perfectly
combed that Margaret felt an overpowering urge to muss it. He wore
an immaculate suit with a faultlessly tied cravat that she always wanted
to yank askew. He excelled at foxhunting, although how a man could
excel at a sport where the dogs and the horses did all the work was
beyond Margaret's comprehension. He always said and did the appropriate
thing. He was such a smoothly finished article. Margaret found him
incredibly dull.
He released her hand and stepped back. Margaret waited until he
had sat down, accepted a cup of tea, and replied suitably to the duchess's
questions about his health, then she gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh," she
moaned, and pressed a hand to her forehead.
Everyone in the room looked over at her with worried expressions.
All except Cornelia, whose glance was definitely skeptical. "Oh," she
said again and wilted slightly in her chair, praying for the question
that would enable her to escape.
Lady Lytton provided it. "Margaret, my dear, are you ill?"
She lifted her head and tried to look convincingly sick. "My
head," she murmured. "It's aching so dreadfully."
She rose and continued in a weak voice, "I'm so sorry, but I fear
I really must lie down. Pardon me."
She cast an apologetic glance at the others, then left the drawing
room. Once out of their sight, she raced across the tiled foyer and
up the stairs. Safely inside her bedroom suite, she shut the door behind
her and let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Thank goodness that was
over.
Lord Hymes was probably quite disappointed at her hasty departure.
She hoped he thought it was because of his arrival. Maybe then he'd
return to his estates in Durham, or wherever it was he came from, and
stop following her about.
Hymes, she knew, wanted to marry her. He had already spoken to her
father on the subject. Her father, of course, had been delighted, but
she had no intention of considering Lord Hymes as a husband. To Hymes,
marriage meant landing a rich wife who would get him out of debt.
Well, Margaret certainly met the requirement. Her father had money,
so much money that it made the stodgy old Knickerbocker set back home
in New York physically ill to contemplate it. She had Worth gowns she
never wore more than once, a French chef always at hand to prepare
the rich sweets she craved, and more jewels than she could ever wear.
Her father owned mansions in New York, Newport, a townhouse in Paris,
and this villa just outside Rome. No wonder she had suitors standing
in line. No wonder they all wanted to marry her.
Fortune hunters. During the year she'd been in London, there had
been dozens of them, all vying for the Van Alden millions, none of
them vying for her heart. She despised some of them, she pitied some
of them, but she hadn't fallen in love with any of them. And she found
it hard to believe that any of them had ever been in love with her.
Hymes certainly wasn't.
Margaret walked over to the French doors, opened them and stepped
out onto the balcony. The sun fell over her like warm honey, and the
breeze caressed her face. Her view faced the countryside of wooded
hills and meadows. Due to the plentiful winter rain, everything was
lush and green, and she stared out over the landscape with longing,
wishing she had time to take one of the horses out, but it was too
late in the day for a ride. At home in America, she would have thought
nothing of it, but she was not in America, and on this side of the
Atlantic, going out alone, especially in the late afternoon, was an
unpardonable breach of etiquette.
She had been thrust into a world where everything exciting seemed
to be a breach of etiquette. She shifted her weight restlessly, and
not for the first time, she chafed under the rigid rules of her existence.
Suddenly a figure in red caught her attention, and Margaret leaned
over the railing, watching as a barefoot girl ran through a meadow
in the distance. She was holding her scarlet skirt high to avoid tripping
in the long blades of grass. Her dark hair, long and loose, flowed
behind her in the spring breeze and her laughter rang out, merry and
unrestrained. She glanced back over her shoulder, and Margaret noticed
that a man followed her, chasing her through the field.
The man finally caught the girl. Wrapping his arms around her waist,
he caught her hard against him. Between shrieks of laughter, she struggled,
but didn't seem to be fighting all that hard. The man turned her around
in his arms and kissed her, and her arms came up around his neck, telling
him plainly that the chase was over and he had won. Still locked in
each other's arms, they fell down amid the grass and disappeared from
view.
Margaret straightened away from the rail, shaken by the passionate
encounter she had witnessed. A feeling of intense longing welled up
inside her, so strong it made her ache.
Oh, how she wished to be that girl. To live like that, to feel like
that.
A knock sounded on her door, and Margaret left the balcony. That would
be Cornelia. With a resigned sigh, she walked back into the sitting room
of her suite and sat down on the sofa. "Come in."
As expected, her cousin entered the room. But to her dismay, Cornelia
had brought extra ammunition with her. Margaret's father.
Henry Van Alden was a powerfully built man, with piercing gray eyes
that saw far too much and a square jaw that showed clearly the hardness
and determination that had made him one of America's wealthiest men.
Just now, he wore a frown that the financiers of Wall Street and Margaret
both knew very well. The men of Wall Street would have been intimidated
by that frown. Margaret was not.
The pair took chairs facing her. Margaret gathered her defenses and
prepared for yet another confrontation about her future. Her gaze moved
defiantly from her father to her cousin and back again.
"Why don't you give me the lecture and get it over with?"
"Hymes came solely for the purpose of seeing you," Henry
said, "and the minute he arrives you plead a headache and leave."
She shot an accusing glance at Cornelia.
Her father saw it. "Cornelia didn't tattle on you, miss, if that's
what you're thinking. The Duchess of Arbuthnot told me, and she expressed
great concern over your future."
Margaret found that concern hard to believe and expressed it succinctly. "Hah!" she
said in an exact imitation of the cantankerous old lady.
Henry sighed heavily, but let that pass. "The fact remains that
Lord Hymes asked my permission to court you and I gave it."
"He did not ask mine."
"Don't be impertinent with me, miss. Hymes would make you a good
husband, and I can't see why you refuse to even consider him."
"I don't think he would make a good husband at all."
"What's wrong with him?" Henry demanded, clearly exasperated
and puzzled. They'd had many similar discussions during the past year,
but Margaret knew he still did not understand her nor the reason she
refused one man after another. "He seems a good enough fellow. He's
a viscount. Handsome, quite a catch, Cornelia tells me."
"Is he? I am informed that he's also desperately in need of money."
"So is nearly every other British peer. What of it?"
"He's nothing but a fortune hunter. Doesn't it bother you that
he wants to marry me for my money?" she demanded.
Her father's frown deepened into a scowl, and Cornelia spoke before
the shouting could begin. "Maggie, darling, you can't expect your
father's financial status to go unnoticed. A dowry is always an important
consideration for a man thinking of marriage. But just because Lord Hymes
is a bit short in the pocket doesn't mean his feelings for you aren't
genuine. He's an honorable man. I'm certain of it."
"Then why don't you marry him?" Margaret countered gloomily.
Her cousin smiled and moved to sit beside her on the sofa. "I'm
already married, remember? I think Hymes really does care for you. I
think he wants to marry you for more than your money."
Margaret looked at her cousin with envy. Cornelia had the good fortune
to have fallen in love with a man who had more wealth and higher social
position than herself. There was no doubt that his feelings for her were
genuine. As long as she remained Henry Van Alden's daughter, Margaret
would never have that certainty. "Hymes doesn't want a wife. He
wants a banker."
"Damnation, Margaret!" Henry's voice exploded like a rifle
shot, his patience obviously at an end. "It's important is that
you marry a gentleman who moves in the right circles, who can give you
the respect of his name and position. Hymes can do that."
Margaret pressed her fingers to her temples and realized her feigned
headache was becoming a reality. Respectability mattered so much to her
father, respectability that all his money could not buy. Though the powerful
men of New York willingly dealt with him in business, their wives and
daughters had closed ranks against the upstart Van Aldens. Hoping the
British were more amenable, Henry had taken her to London and placed
her in the hands of her cousin, who'd had the good fortune to marry a
viscount the year before and whose excellent social connections made
her perfectly suited to the task of finding Margaret a titled husband.
Thus far, the experiment had proved a dismal failure. During the past
year, her father had received many offers for her hand, but Margaret
had no intention of buying her way to respectability by becoming Lady
Whatever, and had refused every suitor that came her way.
"If I ever decide to marry, it will be for love and no other
reason." She raised her head and glared at her father, setting her
jaw in a stubborn line that mirrored Henry's own.
"I don't love Hymes," she said through clenched teeth, "and
I'm not going to marry him."
"You're twenty-three, and I won't see you become an old maid.
I intend to see you married before another year goes by. You say Hymes
isn't the right man for you? Fine. Then pick another--Edgeware, Montrose,
Worthington--I don't care which. They've all offered for you. So choose
one, and let's get on with it."
The fact that her father could be so oblivious to her feelings made
her angry. And anger made her reckless. "Perhaps I'll just fall
madly in love with some starving artist who'll paint me in the moonlight
and whisk me away to a quaint little hovel on a Greek island where we
can live in sin."
Her shot went home. "You'll do no such thing!"
Henry roared, so loudly that Cornelia cringed, and Margaret knew she
had gone too far. "I've had enough of this foolishness. You'll
be properly wed to a well-respected gentleman. I'm getting old, and
I want grandchildren before I die."
His words caused Margaret's anger to fade away. Her father had been
talking a great deal about his age lately. "Don't say that."
"I'm fifty-two. No man on my side of the family has lived past
fifty-five, and I probably won't either."
"You're not going to die for a long time yet, Papa."
Cornelia gave a delicate little cough. "Perhaps this discussion
should be continued another time, Uncle. It's after six o'clock, and
the ball does begin at eight. We must be getting ready."
Margaret shot her cousin a grateful glance.
Henry rose to his feet. "I don't see why women need two hours
to dress for a ball," he grumbled. "An hour is more than enough
time."
"For men, perhaps," Cornelia replied with a smile. "But
women require more time to look our best."
Margaret stood up and walked around the table to her father, hoping
to make peace. "Don't worry, Papa," she said, linking her arm
through his. "I will probably marry,"
she added as she walked with him to the door. "Someday, if I find
the right man. There's plenty of time."
Henry paused in the doorway and turned to her. "Time slips
away faster than you think, my girl. I want you settled with a husband
and children of your own."
"I know."
"You don't believe this, I know," he said heavily, "but
love isn't everything, and it really isn't necessary to a successful
marriage. I didn't love your mother, and she didn't love me. But we had
a good, solid marriage just the same, and we were quite fond of each
other."
"Yes, Papa, I know," she said, thinking a lifetime of good
and solid and being fond of a man sound horribly dull. She gave his arm
an affectionate pat before she gently ushered him out the door. When
he left, she closed the door behind him. "Cornelia, you're an angel," she
said, turning to her cousin. "Thank you. I'm so glad that's over.
He seemed to take it rather well this time. At least he didn't threaten
to disinherit me."
"I do believe he thought you were serious about the artist. Really,
Maggie, sometimes you are so outrageous! A Greek island!"
"I think I shocked him with that one,"
she agreed, walking back over to the sofa. "But sometimes Papa can
be so overbearing. He thinks he can bully me into doing whatever he wants.
And you're no help. Must you keep pushing Hymes down my throat?"
"If you hadn't already refused Lord Edgeware, Lord Worthington,
and Lord Montrose, I wouldn't have to." Cornelia's expression became
thoughtful. "I know it's sometimes difficult to believe, Maggie,
but your father loves you. He wants you to be happy."
Margaret sighed. "Papa wants heirs, that's all."
"Can you blame him for that? He's worked hard for many, many
years, and you are his only child. Of course he wants heirs."
"So I am to be displayed all over the ballrooms and drawing rooms
of England and the Continent like wares in a shop window, only to be
traded, along with my substantial inheritance, for the price of a title?" Margaret
shook her head as she sat down on the soft and reached for a chocolate
from the table beside her. "No, thank you."
"You've been reading too many suffragette pamphlets. Courtship
and marriage aren't like that at all."
"Aren't they? If you marry a man who does not love you, marriage
is a prison."
Cornelia lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender.
"I understand why your father becomes so exasperated with you, I
honestly do! Maggie, I have introduced you to dozens of eligible men.
Can you not find one among them that interests you?"
"That's not good enough." Margaret licked a bit of melted
chocolate from her finger and leaned back against the sofa. "He
has to be the right man. He has to be a man who loves me, not my money,
a man who will prove his love to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. If I
don't meet such a man, I will die a spinster."
"And how is any man supposed to prove his love for you if you
never even give him a chance?"
"He would have to be a very special man." She closed her
eyes, imagining him in her mind now as she had seen him in her dreams
so many times before. He was always the same -- a dark and handsome figure.
Though his face was always obscured, she was certain that when they finally
met, she would recognize him instantly. She opened her eyes. "He
would have to be kind, honest and honorable, perhaps even noble. He would
have to be exciting, brave, and strong. He would have to respect my wishes
and value my opinions. He--"
She broke off as Cornelia began to laugh. "What's so funny?" she
demanded.
"You are. I'm beginning to understand what your problem is. You
don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a novel."
Margaret made a face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You don't want a real man, you want a knight in
shining armor."
"I know what I want, and I won't settle for less. What's wrong
with that?"
"What's wrong with it is that it's not realistic. No real man
can possibly live up to your expectations, so you dismiss every man who
comes along without giving him a chance to win your affections. You hardly
know Lord Hymes, yet the moment you found out he didn't have much money,
you tried and convicted him as a fortune hunter without even bothering
to learn anything about his character. You might at least get to know
him before you make such a harsh judgment."
The clock on the mantel struck half past six and Cornelia jumped up. "Heavens!
We can't continue chatting away. We've got to get ready." She ran
for the door. "Think about what I've said," she urged. "I'll
see you downstairs."
Her cousin departed in a rush, and Margaret reached for the bell pull
to summon her maid. The girl arrived within moments carrying Margaret's
gown for the party and helped her dress, but after that was accomplished,
she sent Molly away, deciding to do her own hair. She wanted to be alone
for a few moments.
Her father called her foolish. Cornelia called her unrealistic. Perhaps
they were right, she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror
above her dressing table. Not exactly a face and figure that would inspire
a man's passion. She saw a round face with brown eyes and a wide mouth,
ordinary brown hair without a hint of gold or red to make it interesting,
and a plump figure that no corset could mold into the fashionable wasp
waist. She saw a taller version of the chubby child she'd once been.
She wrinkled her nose at her reflection and sat down. It didn't really
matter what she looked like. She could be a lump-nosed troll with a voice
like a corn crake and suitors would still be standing in line, with their
staid, pedantic notions of courtship, treating her with kid gloves for
fear of spoiling their chances. She had met so many men like Hymes, and
she was tired of their hypocrisy. She had hoped that her tour of Italy
would be a sort of reprieve, a way to avoid all the money-hungry suitors,
but so many British aristocrats came to Italy in the spring that she
might just as well be in London.
She thought of her friends -- Ann, Eliza, Josephine -- girls who had
grown up in identical circumstances to her own, American girls with wealthy
fathers and no background, who had gone to London to find titled husbands.
They had found them, and they were miserable. They had discovered that
beneath the aristocratic veneer, their dukes and their earls were cold,
unfeeling, unfaithful, and usually in debt. Margaret shook her head.
She would not make the same mistake.
She twisted her hair into a simple chignon and secured it in place
with a pair of gold filigree combs. It was her life. She could throw
it to the devil if she wanted to. She would not be bullied or intimidated
into a loveless marriage.
Margaret donned a pair of diamond earrings, but her hands faltered as
she began to fasten the matching necklace around her throat. She ran the
sparkling chain through her fingers without seeing its beauty. She would
gladly trade all her diamonds, all her silks, all her luxuries, for a man
who truly loved her, but she was afraid that no man would ever love her
more than he would love her father's money.
END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER
IT!
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO NEXT?
|
