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Dancing the Maypole
Dancing the Maypole
Dancing the Maypole
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Dancing the Maypole

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Taller than most men, Isabel de Bourbon has rejected numerous proposals of marriage. There is only one honourable man big enough to be her flesh and blood hero. A private scribbler of romances, Isabel has been penning the adventures of Pierre, a literary doppelganger of Peter Smirke, Viscount Adderbury. The man has been a widower for a decade, but Isabel is terrified of rejection. It’s safer to write about making love to the imaginary Pierre than face the real man. The identity of Pierre remains a secret until Isabel’s father announces at the breakfast table that Lord Adderbury is advertising for a wife. Monsieur de Bourbon dismisses the desperate Lord Adderbury as mad, but Isabel’s eyes fill with longing. Observing his daughters reaction, and wanting to find her some happiness, Monsieur de Bourbon impulsively orders his daughter to apply for the position.

“I can’t show up at the man’s door expecting a wedding ring. Whatever would he think of me?”

“He will think you want to be his wife. You have the fortune. You have the visage agréable. Once the man knows you are de Bourbon; he will look no further.”

“But Papa, his first wife was a short blonde. What if he prefers short women? What if he hates brown curly hair?”

“Bof! Il tu veut!” The Frenchman had spoken. The crazy Lord Adderbury would take one look at the five-feet eleven inches of Isabel de Bourbon and fall in love.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherCari Hislop
Release dateMar 29, 2013
ISBN9781301402427
Dancing the Maypole
Author

Cari Hislop

I’m an American married to an adorable English Goblin who makes me laugh every day. I’m an artist with a degree in fashion design, but I’ve always been a story teller. Stories are everywhere; in every scent, every glimpse out of the corner of the eye. The most magical moments of my life have been born of ‘what if?’.I’ve been making up stories as long as I can remember, but I was ten before I 'wrote' my first story. It was a romance - the young girl’s parents are killed by a plane falling on their house so of course she moves to England. Don’t ask me where she got the money or the passport!I knew I wanted to grow up to be an author. All my artistic talents converge on my favorite subject: people. I find both individuals and general humanity endlessly fascinating.My genre: Regency romances (historical romances set in late Georgian England)Rated: PG13 (PG13 as in 1985)Style: Each of my stories tend to have their own humor depending on the character's personalities, but they always make me laugh. My plots are character driven and my stories evolve with the characters. Other than the hero and heroine somehow ending up together at the end, I never know what will really happen in the story until it happens.Note: After much deliberation I decided to use English spelling rather than American English spelling in my stories. This will sadly irritate some people, but the USA is the only country to use American spelling while the rest of the English speaking world uses English spelling.I don't think of my books as a series, but all my characters inhabit the same Regency Universe. Most of the main characters are either related or know of each other so my stories often intertwine.If you ever have any questions about my stories or would like to receive an e-mail to let you know I've finished a book please e-mail me at... cari.hislop@regencyromancenovels.comHappy Reading!Cari Hislop

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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was a tough read for me, very repetitive and confusing.
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    This is such a realistic romance. Loved it especially the irritating family and well wishers . O course relalte to the hero and the heroine's predicaments.

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Dancing the Maypole - Cari Hislop

Chapter 1

6 July 1818 (10 miles north east of Bath)

For a man with a stammer, it was an unfortunate fact that prospective wives wouldn’t appear on his doorstep. He had socialise, attending agonising balls, house parties, dinners and other social events where single ladies gathered to snare a husband. Peter Augustus Smirke; the widowed seventh Viscount Adderbury, was desperate to be snared.

Stretching to his full height, Peter inhaled the smell of freedom; fresh country air and grass, wet with morning dew. A clear, piercing light shimmered on distant hillsides, intensifying endless shades of green. The blue sky was speckled with colonies of rooks searching out their morning meal. There was a magical quality in the air as though he’d walked into a painting. At any moment, his dream mistress, the tall brunette his mind had conjured up in his dreams, would step out from behind a tree, twirling a white parasol. She’d give him that smile that made him sick with longing, crook her finger, and he’d run to join her. She’d pull him deeper into the painting until the real world and all its complications were forgotten. His rumbling stomach broke the spell.

Painfully aware of his body’s needs, his sensible nature insisted that he return to eat breakfast and make himself presentable for the desirable Miss Helene Carteret. After three years of eager searching, he’d finally found a young woman whose smile made him wish he had a special license in his pocket. The thought of kissing the petite blue-eyed blonde made his heart race, and his hands sweat, as if he hadn’t fathered five sons. At twenty-four, she was only a year older than his eldest child, but he was convinced love would untangle any difficulties. The thought of holding the pretty little creature in his arms hurried him back to the house; his lonely nights would soon be over.

After changing his clothes, he sat down in front of his dressing mirror to finish his toilet. The man staring back looked suitably young enough for a twenty-four-year old wife. Cheered, he started taming his curly black hair. He was wondering if he needed to use hair pomade when a voice whispered in his ear, Go home Peter! Leave now. Dropping his comb, he jumped up and turned to find he was alone. His heart racing, he sat back down and absently picked up the comb. He assured himself he wasn’t hearing voices; his nerves were frayed. He was having the vapours.

His thoughts blurred as loneliness pressed on his heart. He didn’t want to return home without a wife. He missed having a wife. He missed sharing his bed with a pretty little woman who’d smile up at him as though he’d rescued her from certain death. Once again he reminded himself that his dead wife hadn’t merely warmed his bed. Katie’s devotion and unwavering belief in his judgement had tempered him into a better man, but she was gone. The past couldn't provide physical comforts. The gnawing need to hold a woman of flesh and blood could only be remedied by living in the present.

Peter reached the breakfast room as the table was being cleared. He rescued half a pot of cold chocolate and a stack of dry toast. He was contemplating future kisses when a male guest stopped in the doorway and ogled him. Peter mentally rehearsed the words he needed to speak several times before allowing them off his tongue, G-good morning.

The man picked up the quizzing glass hanging from a ribbon around his neck and stared at Peter as if he was a freak show exhibit. Dem, Ah wouldn’t have guessed you were forty-four.

Taken aback by the strange statement, Peter unconsciously fell into French, losing his stammer, Pardon?

No wonder Miss Carteret fainted. You’re old enough to be her father. Never fear, no doubt she’ll find eight thousand desperate reasons to wed a jealous aging Lord.

Peter’s expression turned to disbelief, Quoi? Only his children and steward knew his yearly income.

Desperate eh? Dem you’re brave…or mad. The man dropped his eyeglass with a sneering smile and walked on. Peter pinched himself. He was awake, and his stomach felt full of stones. Unable to finish his breakfast, Peter stood up and unconsciously tugged on his waistcoat feeling naked.

At the back of the house, the hostess and older guests were seated around tables on the terrace, watching the younger members throwing horseshoes on the lawn. As Peter stepped outside onto the stone terrace, the morning birdsong was drowned by giggles and guffaws. Dressed in white muslin glacéed with yards of blue ribbon, Miss Carteret appeared to be wearing a marzipan-covered wedding cake. Doubt filled eyes turned to peek at him; kissable lips twisted in disgust as she looked away. Peter couldn’t move as Miss Carteret’s female companions in turn glanced at him in horror. Unlike the previous morning, there was no invitation for him to join them. Rejected and feeling stupid, he stood frozen to the spot until his hostess called him over. Adderbury, come sit with the ancients! Have this chair next to me. Peter bowed again and accepted the command. Praying his face didn’t show his unhappiness, he sat down and forced a polite smile. Are not the young one’s a pleasing sight? They must make you miss your sons.

No. Why?

Miss Carteret is looking particularly sweet this morning. That dress…it makes me think she’s been dreaming of wedding cake. Did you know she was engaged to be married last year?

No.

A young soldier…one of those rich silly creatures with more gold than sense. He forgot his pistol was loaded…a terrible loss. He was scratching an itch and accidentally pulled the trigger. Some unkind souls suggest he was desperate to escape the engagement, but it was rather an extreme exit. I understand your four eldest sons are out in society.

Yes.

If I had more beds I’d have invited them. I think they’d have enjoyed meeting Miss Carteret and the other young ones; don’t you?

A very private man, Peter had no intention of spilling his emotional entrails onto the tea table. I’m sure they would have, but they’re men. It would be unhealthy for them to live in my p-p-pocket.

Yes, but I don’t suppose you’d want your sons accompanying your desperate search for a wife. Competing for a young lady’s attention with one’s own sons would be unnatural. And young ladies never notice beautiful old men when there’s beautiful youth around, unless of course, the old man is rich, handsome, and free of the pox. The other guests, sitting around two other tables, burst out laughing as if their hostess had said something witty.

Any pretence of congeniality faded as Peter’s face contorted with his most frightening expression. I b-beg your pardon? What is so amusing?

A guest about his own age, already tipsy after two bottles of port, sat up and slapped his leg. What I want to know is how many sons you’d be happy to produce on Miss Carteret? Dem, that’s a frightening look…your poor sons…poor Miss Carteret…

Peter clenched his teeth as he eyed the cheerful drunk with contempt. If you were sober, I’d slap your face and d-demand satisfaction.

The man belched into his sleeve. Never sober…fine day what?

A widow, past her prime, with an exceedingly low décolletage, leaned towards Peter and tapped him on the arm before drawing his eyes to her breasts by touching them with her fan. My Lord, if you’re desperate for a wife might I propose you’d find more marital happiness with a mature and experienced woman? I’d happily apply for the position.

The drunk snorted in amusement, Dem right! Why bed a frigid child when you could be pleasured by Delilah? Dem, I know what I’d choose… The drunk winked at the abundant display of flesh.

Fans snapped open as various members of the group made a half-hearted attempt to hide their amusement. The hostess peered up at Peter, Delilah has a point. Count your blessings Adderbury, and cease breeding while you can. Five sons are more than enough to ensure your line. No-one in their right mind wants a daughter. Take my word, I had seven girls. Thankfully three died as babes. As soon as the first sweet creature turned thirteen, I thought I had been transported to the ninth level of hell. I used to wake up from nightmares that I’d never find a man mad enough to marry her. My surviving son has always been a perfect angel. Boys are much easier than girls. The company sagely nodded in agreement, even the drunk who’d never knowingly fathered a child.

Peter’s horror increased as he realised several of his most private desires had somehow become public knowledge. I b-beg your p-pardon?

The drunk leaned over and patted Peter on the arm, Me, I agree with you…’ Several hiccups interrupted his train of thought. …yes I agree completely. I wouldn’t wed a sour faced jade either. I’d bed her, but I wouldn’t wed her… Dem, I feel about to be birched…now if you were a woman…" The company guffawed with laughter as Peter sat there with a grim expression.

As a beautiful, wealthy Lord, Peter had almost forgotten the taste of humiliation tinged with fury. The only part of him that could deal with the crushing emotion was the fifteen-year old boy buried deep inside, and the boy’s response was to put up his fists and fight knowing he’d lose. Jumping to his feet he glared at the company from his full height of 6ft 5in. What the d-d-d-devil is g-g-going on? The words cleared the giant hedge around the property and floated into the ether. He had the entire company’s attention including the horrified Miss Carteret.

The hostess lowered her fan to fully display her displeasure. Honestly! What did you expect my Lord? A man who advertises his desperate need for a wife is bound to be laughed at.

Advertise? I haven’t ad-ad-advertised for a wife. The company turned to look at Miss Carteret and then back to the enraged giant.

The hostess raised both eyebrows. Well! There’s no need to frighten us with that awful look. If you didn’t advertise for a wife, then you have a most fiendish enemy. You’ll be lucky to find a young literate virgin who’ll have you now, but there’s always Delilah.

Yes, I’ll have you…happily! The widow’s eyes wandered from enraged black eyes half way down his anatomy. I’ve always wanted a…big man.

Peter ignored the breasts pointed in his direction. Where’s the news…?

The hostess snapped her fan shut. Lady Wessex, would you be so kind as to hand me the newspaper? Thank you Darling, it’s a pity your husband’s still alive or you could apply for the position.

Darling, Lord Adderbury is far too big. My head would be tipped back so often it would become fixed at a slant. Eight thousand a year before expenses is hardly worth the migraine. Giant men should marry giant women; otherwise the wedding portrait is unbalanced. However, if he had his legs blown off by cannon shot, or amputated for gout, I’d happily apply for the position…if I were free.

I know exactly what you mean. You’re very handsome my Lord, but you are rather big. Thankfully, there’s always Delilah. Peter’s expression became more fearsome as sharp words punctured his vulnerable heart. Was he too big? His little Katie had never seemed to mind looking up at him. He grabbed the paper off the table and tried to focus. It’s on the last page at the top.

Flipping to the last page, his eyes widened in horror. By the end of the fifth sentence, he was shaking with rage. I’m going to k-k-kill him! The roar made the company squirm in fear as Peter’s lips became two white lines of compressed fury.

His hostess, sensing a prime opportunity to acquire a choice piece of gossip, leaned forward. Kill who my Lord?

My helpful eldest son.

Oh…surely you aren’t going to deprive the ton of good breeding material? That would be such a waste. I hear he’s quite handsome… With the broadsheet scrunched in one hand Peter swivelled on a heel and shouted for his curricle. The company watched him march away without taking leave, and then turned to look at each other. Well Miss Carteret, I think you’ve escaped an unholy union. If the man’s son hates him enough to make him a national laughingstock, what must his poor wife have suffered? I think you’ve had a timely escape my dear. I should have known better than to invite a Smirke; he was bound to be a fiend. Don’t cry Miss Carteret, eight thousand pounds a year could hardly compensate for being crushed to death performing one’s marital duties.

Chapter 2

July 5 1818 (North of London)

The square room was a bower of songbirds, perched on oriental branches painted on yellow paper. A round table, black with age, was liberally dotted with yellow French porcelain as the four family members lingered over their morning meal. A baroque mirror, opposite the large window, reflected the morning light and a reverse view of parkland bordered by trees sculpted by generations of rooks. Beyond the trees, a church spire hinted at the village beyond.

Madame de Bourbon filled her son’s coffee cup for the third time, half-listening to her husband muttering in French behind his English newspaper. The tranquil interlude was fated to end in a clash of personalities. It was the same every morning. With her eldest four daughters married, the first meal of the day had acquired an eerie quality. Memories hung in the air of silly squabbles over long-discarded petticoats and fans, while her four eldest poured their own coffee far away in various parts of France.

Glancing at her youngest daughter, she sighed with maternal disappointment. At thirty-six, Isabel Désirée de Bourbon had little hope of finding love. Her large dowry and pretty face had drawn several earnest admirers, but she’d dismissed them all as being too short. A tall Englishwoman, Madame de Bourbon understood the novelty of looking up at a man, but her daughter was romantic to a fault. The way Isabel’s eyes glazed over with disinterest whenever she was introduced to eligible men of her own height suggested she was probably dreaming of being saved from bandits by a handsome monk. Madame’s gaze shifted back to her short husband, and the visible quarter of his handsome face. Time had etched the corners of his mouth with laughter and a steely strength of character many mistook for indigestion.

Madame was pouring herself a cup of coffee when her husband lowered the paper, his thin moustache twitching in amusement. Les Anglais are so bizarre! Little-man! Louis, their adult son, lowered his own paper, revealing a miniature version of his father. Would you advertise for a bride in le journal and embarrass les famille?

Non!

Monsieur looked up at his wife with adoring eyes and sat back. Your son, il est Français. He iz like me. When he finds a big woman who makes him feel like a big man, he will make love to her. Thiz Lord Adderbury iz without the heart. He does not think of hiz famille!

Isabel de Bourbon felt the blood drain from her face as she momentarily forgot to breathe. Had her father read the name correctly? Was the widowed Viscount Adderbury publicly seeking a wife? She felt for the vinaigrette, filled with smelling salts, that always hung around her neck. Isabel! She jumped in shock, her brown eyes swerving to look at her father. La belle femme who paints you once a year, waz she not Lady Adderbury?

Oui. The word was a panicked squeak. She’s his mother.

Her father’s eyes went wide with horror. Elle est Français!

Oui.

This man is half French? Zut alors! I am embarrassed. Écoutez! ‘After eight years of widowhood, the Viscount Adderbury is in desperate need of a wife. Outside a few grey hairs and laugh lines, he’s remarkably well preserved for forty-four years. He’s fathered five handsome sons, and would happily produce a few more, though he’d really love to have a daughter. He’s of a robust constitution and has the strength of a much younger man, as can be attested by his sons. He’s worth eight thousand a year, has no debt, and disapproves of gambling. He reviles drunkenness and has never lifted a hand to his family, though he does have a look that can chill the spines of errant offspring. Adderbury needs a wife, between thirty and forty, who is good-natured, witty, and healthy. Being in your twenties would not rule you out, but he might end up jealous of his sons and re-enact a Shakespearean tragedy. Applicants must be tolerable to gaze upon, but a kind companion with plain features would be preferred to a beautiful jade. Ladies with sour expressions and heavy frown lines need not apply. He requires a patient wife who won’t finish his sentences or laugh when he stammers as that infuriates him. She must be honest and chaste; Adderbury has no desire to catch the pox and end up in Bedlam. A dowry is meritorious, but not a necessity. Apply in person from July 6 at Adderbury House, Adderbury, or write a letter requesting an appointment. Be prepared to answer a few personal questions.’ Monsieur de Bourbon folded his paper and threw it on the table, Il est fou!

Isabel dropped her smelling salts and hid her trembling hands under the table. He’s not crazy Papa. I met him once. He’s…he was very kind.

Monsieur met his wife’s shocked expression before turning to gawp at his blushing unwed daughter. Not only was she defending a marriageable lunatic, her eyes were shining with hope. Monsieur pursed his lips in thought. Lord Adderbury might be a lunatic, but Isabel wasn’t immune to the lunatic’s charms. The crazy advertisement offered one last chance to pry the girl from the nest and find her some happiness. Bon! You will please me by ordering the carriage, travelling to chez Adderbury and applying for zis position directement.

The thought of her secret dream coming true after eighteen years made Isabel feel faint, Moi?

Oui! You need the husband. He needs the wife. C’est parfait.

The thought of rejection caused Isabel to shudder, I hardly see how it’s perfect. We’re perfect strangers. I only spoke with him the once.

Bah! You never know a man until you share hiz bed. It only matters that he makes your heart palpites. Is that not so Cherie?

Madame smiled as her husband kissed her hand, Oui. You still make my heart palpitate.

Ta Mère, she makes me feel like a big man. Thiz Adderbury…you like him non? You will make him feel like a big man aussi.

He is a big man. He’s at least five inches taller than me.

Her father shrugged as if disappointment was to be expected. That iz not his fault, he iz still half French.

I can’t show up at the man’s door expecting a wedding ring. Whatever would he think of me?

He will think you want to be his wife. Little-man will go with you to protect you. The man has five sons. He wants a woman of an age who can only have two or three babes. You have the fortune. You have the visage agréable. Once the man knows you are de Bourbon; he will look no further.

But Papa, his first wife was a short blonde. What if he prefers short women? What if he hates brown curly hair?

Bof! Il tu veut! The Frenchman had spoken. The crazy Lord Adderbury would take one look at the five feet, eleven inches of Isabel de Bourbon and fall in love.

I can’t go. I have nothing to wear. All my clothes make me look like I’m about to enter a convent.

A nun makes a man feel big. You will marry thiz man and find the romance. You will not need to spend the hours scribbling books romantique when you can make love to a man who has the blood Français.

I’m too old…

Bof!

I’d rather write a letter and ask for a…

Non! Her father leaned forward and gave her that look that promised someone would suffer if she refused. Seeing the worried look on her mother’s face Isabel could imagine her father driving to Adderbury and shooting the unsuspecting Peter Smirke. You will apply in personne. The men are not charmed by une lettre if they do not know the face of the writer. You leave in an hour with Little-man. The thought of her secret hero bleeding to death at her father’s feet was enough to inspire obedience.

Chapter 3

6 July, 1818

Late afternoon sunshine shone down on Adderbury House as Monsieur de Bourbon’s carriage squeezed through a red stone gate in the style of Inigo Jones, and stopped on the tight circular drive to allow the hot weary siblings to step down. The small man looked up at the house with a scowl. Lord Adderbury appears to have been inflating his worth. A man worth eight thousand a year wouldn’t live in this…tea caddy.

I think it’s charming, said Isabel.

Bof! Our English dower house is larger.

What’s the point of living in a maze?

You invite important people to stay.

Important people are boring. That’s what you always say.

Important bores can be useful. You’d know that if you lived in the real world instead of haunting the landscape of your lurid romances.

Why would you think they’re lurid? asked Isabel

Do you bore the family with your scribblings? Non!

You’re one to sneer! said Isabel. You’ve never offered to let me read that growing pile of scribblings you keep double-locked in your portable chest.

My scribbling is none of your business. Let’s get this over with, said Louis

With her brother’s hand on her arm, Isabel could only hope she was too late; that Peter Smirke had tired of interviewing ladies and had shut himself away in his study to contemplate his choices. Isabel would then be able to climb back into her carriage and ride away pretending the real Peter Smirke would rush to rescue an aging maypole from pirates, if given the opportunity.

Peter Smirke would take one look at her and dismiss her as too tall. The nervous storm in her heart threatened to blow her over in a dead faint. Faintly aware that her brother had rung the bell, she took a deep calming breath. Lord Adderbury would never guess he’d been haunting her thoughts and dreams for eighteen years. What was she to say? She couldn’t tell him that she wanted to marry him because they’d danced once when she was nineteen; that she’d fallen in love before the end of the song, before learning he was a married man.

Did he know she’d hired his mother to paint her once a year for the last eighteen years? The last sitting had ended with an effusive invitation to a house party where the artist promised to introduce her widowed son. Isabel could still taste her tears after spinning a tale that she was expected at a prior engagement. Why was she knocking on the man’s door? Her father sent her. That’s what she’d say. She was forced to make a spectacle of herself. Still, there was a slight chance he might look into her eyes and fall in love with her before learning her name… Isabel! She jumped at her brother’s voice near her ribs. The door is open. Entrer! The footman looked her in the eye and raised his eyebrows. She pursed her lips to explain that her father had made her come, but her tongue failed her. Isabel…you will not faint.

Non… Isabel ignored the white sparkling lights dancing past her eyes. If she collapsed at the man’s door, he’d think her enceinte with some footman’s child. She was being silly. Lord Adderbury was a gentleman. If he proved indifferent to her giant person and large dowry, he’d politely thank her for coming and send her on her way. As long as she didn’t faint, nothing bad would happen.

My sister, Mademoiselle de Bourbon, wishes to apply for the position of Lord Adderbury’s wife. My card… Propelled into the entrance hall, the splayed light shining through Peter’s windows heightened her senses as if the fact he owned the glass enchanted the sunbeams. There was a haunting scent in the air, as if happiness had been used to scrub the floors; it smelled of him. On the footman’s return from delivering her brother’s card they were requested to follow him. She followed on rubbery legs, her heart racing every clock she passed.

In a few agonising minutes she’d be face to face with her hero. With her vinaigrette pressed against her nose, she ogled portraits of dead Smirkes in silly clothes, amateur landscapes, and copies of old masters. And then, they were walking down a narrow corridor where her attention was torn between the view from each window and the sound of wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Her brother’s hand on her arm pulled her away from the sunbeams and forced her to follow the footman.

She came to a stop outside a closed door. The footman knocked a warning before opening it and waving the callers inside. Her heart played a drum roll against her chest as the prospect of social interaction with Peter Smirke became terrifyingly real. She would have turned and rushed back to the carriage, but her brother propelled her into the room. Expecting a middle-aged man, she was surprised to see five beautiful young men stand to greet her. It seemed rather odd that Peter Smirke would allow his children to meet his applicants, but their welcoming smiles put her at ease. The man was probably detained by some estate issue. She had a few more minutes to hope.

One of the young men, his straight blonde hair resembling a disturbed haystack, stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Mademoiselle de Bourbon? He looked her straight in the eyes and smiled before kissing her hand. Enchanté! Cecil Smirke, Adderbury’s heir, at your service… Monsieur! Her brother’s hand was solemnly shaken, and then the other four brothers were waved forward. This is George; he’s twenty-two. The second son was over six feet with hair as black as his excited eyes. This is Charles, he’s twenty-one and as you can see has the notorious distinction of looking like our wicked Uncle John.

She had to look down; he was at least an inch shorter. You do look like him, except you have kind eyes. Had she just insulted the man’s uncle?

The young man smiled, unaware of her faux pas. Merci Mademoiselle! Je suis enchanté!

Don’t kiss a hole in the lady’s glove! Move away so I can be introduced…

Shut up Cosmo! The good lady will think we were raised in the stables.

The young man ignored his brother’s rebuke and looked her straight in the eyes. Enchanté Mademoiselle… There was innocence in his enthusiastic kiss. She had to restrain herself from ruffling the golden brown hair.

And lastly our Robert who’s eighteen. Isabel’s heart throbbed as the tall slender boy kissed her hand, his charming worldly smile made her blush. In a few years, he’d look just like his father except he’d never need to advertise for a wife. He probably had so many lovers he had to fight them off to return home in time for dinner. Please sit down. Will you take tea?

Isabel could see herself fainting and spilling tea all over the carpet. No, thank you.

Cecil nodded, Frederick, tell Cook we won’t need a tea tray…

What if I want some tea? said Cosmo. I’m parched.

Then suck on your tongue, said Cecil. The lady doesn’t wish to hear you slurp your tea.

Cosmo’s eyes bulged in irritation, If you’d read Papa’s list of words never to repeat in front of a lady you’d know that using the word tongue…

Cosmo, you’re being an ass. If you want tea then go to the kitchen and ask Cook to make you some.

You know she can’t. Grandmother gave orders to refuse me food between meals; the heartless woman. If you wished to consume a jar of marmalade every hour between meals, she’d order the oranges from Spain and probably use my portion of the food budget to pay for them. No-one cares if the fourth son starves to death…

Forgive Cosmo; he was dropped on his head by a nursemaid.

Speak for yourself!

Please have a seat…

The young men waited in silence as she sat down and looked around. The small feminine parlour had suffered half a century of sunlight; the pink chairs and curtains faded half-white. The walls puzzled with sketches of laughing children and beautiful smiling youths. Her heart ached as she allowed herself to look at the painting over the mantle. It was a double portrait of a smiling twenty-one year old Lord Adderbury and his blushing bride, the housekeeper’s daughter. Isabel looked away, but every flat surface was cluttered with maternal souvenirs interspersed with tokens of a husband’s love. She was in their mother’s parlour. Have you had many…applicants?

No… All five replied as one.

Three young ladies called, but they all wanted to marry Cecil, said Cosmo with envy. I offered to marry one, but she left in a hurry after heartless Cecil told the girl to leave before she gave birth. The poor girl was fat.

Cecil eyed his brother with exasperation, You didn’t look at her from the side. Her waist extended out a good seven inches beyond her bust. She was at least eight months along with some other idiot’s child. If you’re so desperate for a woman, ask cousin Lucius to introduce you to one of his friendly widows.

Cosmo’s face turned bright red, I’m not desperate! The girl was crying. I was being a chivalrous gentleman.

You were being an idiot. She needs the father to take responsibility for meeting her behind a haystack. We want to help Papa find a wife, not scare off the one decent woman bound to apply.

Isabel smiled as the five young men turned to stare at her with hope. She was about to reassure the five young men she wouldn’t let them down when her brother ruined the moment. I’ll wager my favourite boots, Lord Adderbury didn’t write that stupid ad.

The eldest son had the grace to blush, It’s true Papa has no knowledge of our advertisement, but he needs a wife in his…ouch!

George Smirke pulled his leg back from kicking his older brother, Our father finds it difficult to talk to people outside the family. He won’t find a wife on his own, not when he insists on discussing the weather every ten minutes. He’s not a bore. He does talk about other things…Cecil, what does Papa talk about?

I don’t know. Charles, what does Papa talk about?

He talks about…the latest events. He’s always asking me what I think about the justice of some man’s hanging or what crops I should grow in certain types of soil. I hope he’s not asking the ladies what they’d plant in clay…

He’ll be on safe ground if the lady enjoys gardening. I understand thousands of young ladies are conversant on the Latin names for garden flowers. I should have paid more attention to those boring lessons. What am I going to say if a young lady asks me if I prefer daisies or pansies using their Latin names? She’ll think I’m an idiot.

Cecil, please tell Cosmo to shut up before Mademoiselle assumes all Smirkes are inbred.

Shut up Robert!

Isabel, we should leave maintenant!

Cecil jumped to his feet and clasped his hands like a beggar. Please don’t go! Please Mademoiselle! Monsieur! Please stay!

What is the harm in answering a few questions? Knowing she wouldn’t be meeting their father meant she could relax and enjoy the possibility of being Lady Adderbury without fear it might actually happen. What would you like to know?

Who are your family?

My father descends from a French King’s bastard and my mother is the aunt of your Aunt Agnes. All five pairs of eyes widened with excitement. Unfortunately, I’ve never met your father while visiting my cousin Agnes. Isabel didn’t think it necessary to admit she’d only ever visited Agnes when she was certain Peter would be elsewhere.

Do you like children? Papa takes his parenting responsibilities very seriously. If you were to have children, he’d expect you to see them at least once a day.

I love children. The thought of sliding into Peter’s bed caused dangerous white lights to flash in front of her eyes. Her vinaigrette pressed against her nose; the smell of ammonia swept the naked Pierre from her thoughts. If I gave him three or four children you wouldn’t need to fear splitting up your inheritance. My children would share my dowry. I inherited eighty-thousand pounds. Five pairs of black eyes widened in shock. It seems rather odd that a woman with that sort of money would be answering an ad. My father made me come. On learning your father was a tall man…he thought your father and I would suit.

How can Papa not want to marry Mademoiselle? She’s perfect, said Cecil.

We still have to convince Papa, said George.

How can he not be convinced? She’s agreeable company, pleasant looking, and has eighty thousand pounds. She’s perfect! Robert Smirke pronounced his verdict. His father would marry Isabel and they’d be happy ever after.

Papa doesn’t care about money or whether the woman is a beauty. Some men value a woman’s heart more than her face. Charles tone made it clear he counted himself one.

And she’s half French and related by marriage. Let’s write and tell him he’s needed in Adderbury soon. Tell him Robert’s sick. He’ll come if he thinks his baby is ill. No-one cares when I’m ill.

Poor Cosmo…

Shut up Robert!

The pair of you… Cecil gave his two youngest brothers his most frightening look. Shut up before you frighten Mademoiselle away. Don’t give her reason to write Papa off before she’s introduced to the man. Isabel could see herself standing before the altar in a silver tissue gown; her head adorned with her silver and amethyst tiara. Standing next to her would be a tall dark handsome man in black smiling down at her… The vision ended as the door flew open, the door handle striking the wall with a sharp bang. The thin layer of red dust covering Lord Adderbury’s black hat and great coat made his enraged black eyes more frightening; as if he’d ridden through the flames of hell and survived to wreak vengeance. Cecil Smirke jumped to his feet and gaped up at his unhappy parent. Papa? What are you doing here? I thought you were attending a house party…

Her hero marched up to his eldest offspring and grabbed him by the collar, Cecil Francis Smirke, if you weren’t your mother’s son I’d whip you all the way to Greenwich. You’ve ruined everything! How could you p-p-publish that that p-p-pathetic advertisement? You’ve made me the laughing stock of England. You’ve ruined me!

Isabel started muttering urgent Hail Marys through trembling lips as stars flashed before her eyes. She had to leave. She managed to stand up, but her knees locked. Her brother was tugging on her arm, but her eyes were fixed on Peter Smirke’s back. The strong arms that had saved her in countless adventures couldn’t be used to kill his children. Romantic heroes were at heart sensible creatures.

Greenwich? Cecil’s eyebrows met in confusion. Why Greenwich? The young man squeaked in discomfort as he was yanked off the ground.

Did I not t-t-tell you to mind your own b-bloody b-b-business?

Yes, but…

George Smirke bravely stood up to face his irate father. It was my idea Papa. Lord Raynham found a magical wife by advertising in the papers so we thought we’d find one for you. You’ve been searching for years without any luck. You need help… Releasing his eldest son, Lord Adderbury transferred his rage to his second child whose face twisted with displeasure. Papa, please don’t hold me by my coat like I’m some thieving footman. It’s making me feel unloved.

George Eugène Smirke, how could you publish my personal details? My d-d-desire for a daughter? My income? What were you thinking? Those papers will be sent around the world. I’ll be fending off toothless hags till I’m sealed in a lead coffin and dropped into the vault. My name will become a b-byword for a lovelorn loser. Who the b-blazes will marry me after reading that…that feckless advertisement?

George looked past his white lipped father to make sure Isabel’s pale features were still present. She will! Mademoiselle de Bourbon is practically family, and she has a sense of humour. If you’ll stop scowling like the devil I’ll introduce you…

We’re leaving Isabel. If I have to kill that big lunatic in self-defence you know they’ll hang me like a dog because I have a French nose. Isabel heard her brother say something, but the words were muffled as if spoken through a thick winter scarf. Isabel’s eyes were fixed on wide muscular shoulders encased in black. You’re not fainting… Blast! Isabel flinched as the man of her dreams turned enraged black eyes in her direction. He couldn’t be staring at her face in horror. He couldn’t be looking her up and down as if revolted by her person. He couldn’t. Her heart froze as she gasped for air.

Chapter 4

Blinking with shock, Peter watched the tall woman clutch her throat. The pretty face, the large brown eyes, the delicate shaped lips that could beguile him with the sweetest smile; he’d kissed them in a thousand dreams. For eighteen years this woman had been haunting his sleep, tempting him beyond endurance.

Peter clenched his teeth as his five senses sparkled with electrifying clarity. He had no memory of meeting her, but he knew her intimately. Somehow this woman had succeeded in persuading his sleeping brain to break his marriage vows while his wife lay dying in the next room. She was the mistress he swore he’d never have, the woman he clung to when his wife no longer had the health or desire to perform her conjugal duties. His face burnt as he remembered waking that morning wishing she was still in his arms, and here she was in the flesh.

Looking her up and down he was torn between self-disgust and the insane desire to take her in his arms and cover her with kisses. The longer he stared the more he could see. In his dreams, she was younger and always dressed in diaphanous white muslin. This giant old maid looked as though she was on her way to a convent.

Papa, did you hear what I said? Mademoiselle de Bourbon is related to Aunt Agnes… Peter could only hear blood rushing through his veins as he was trapped in a mad daydream. His dream mistress had been forced against her will into a French convent with thick stone walls. If he didn’t save her, he’d never see her again. She was in the middle of taking her vows of chastity as he pulled a cannon up to the front entrance and blew away the large door. Inside he shoved away hordes of angry nuns and ran to the chapel where he found her kneeling before the altar dressed as a novice. Scooping her into his arms he carried her back to his waiting carriage, the horses galloped them away to safety as she thanked him with heavenly kisses.

Is Papa going to kiss her hand or play statues? said Robert. Maybe he’s too old for a wife. Maybe we should have advertised for a nurse.

Peter covered his embarrassment by filling his lungs with air and spoke without thinking. Get out of my house! Brown eyes rolled back into her head as the woman swayed forward like a sapling chopped down with one blow of the axe. The woman appeared to be trying to engender pity by pretending to faint. Against his judgement his arms reached out to catch her, but a boy wearing a miniature straw hat leapt forward and grabbed her before she hit the floor. The fact the boy happened to find smelling salts hanging around her neck made it seem even more like a performance. Do you expect me to applaud this p-p-pathetic charade? Out! What was he saying? He

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