Chapter One
Chedworth, The Cotswold’s
April 1818
In her bedchamber,Thea raised her nightgown before the mirror. Only one chickenpox scar remained on her body. It was more like a dimple, really, near her navel. It would be there forever. For the span of her life. She would take it to the grave. She supposed it hardly mattered for a spinster. A gentleman would never see it. Unless, when she became a famous writer, she took a lover. Such a bold thought made her catch her breath, but she expected she’d grow used to the idea.
Smoothing down the hem of her nightgown, Thea sank onto the bed. Confined to her bedchamber for a month thanks to contracting this infectious disease from a cousin had been such a bore. An entire month she should have been in London. A whole month of the Season gone! And now she was well enough to go to Grandmama, who loved the Season and was happy to chaperone her, but Mama still wished to wait another fortnight to be sure she had completely recovered and looked her best. Thea was in such good health, she felt as if she was bursting out of her skin.
She had no wish to be accountable to a husband. She preferred her freedom to search for intriguing matters to write about and send to magazines and newspapers. Two years ago, fired up by the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft and inspired by her Aunt Margery who was a published poet, Thea planned to be a writer, not of poetry nor philosophical treatises, but to bring current stories of importance to readers in a personal sort of way, which they understood. Look how the Corn laws were handled. Surely something should be written about how it affected people. After all, bread was a staple. She’d spent her time browsing through everything in the library and her father’s newspapers while awaiting her trip to London, where she was sure there would be many subjects to choose from.
It was so dull here in the country! Anything worth writing about rarely occurred. She had penned a story about their previous vicar, who disgraced himself by drinking the altar wine and calling Mrs. Lamont a dreadful snob, but her mother ripped up the pages.
London was such a vibrant, busy place, teeming with scandals and skullduggery. She could not fail to find something significant there to make her eager to put pen to paper.
But her mother intended her to marry. Thea considered it essential for women writers to remain single. Husbands demanded too much. Just look how her brother Robert treated his wife. Violet gave birth to three children in three years and was always knitting small clothes. She talked of nothing but babies when she used to haveopinions. Even Thea’s father was content to have Mother fuss around him. No, a husband would be far too disruptive.
She stood and gazed wistfully at the garden. Sunlight danced on the pond, and the leaves of the gnarled old chestnut tree outside her window swayed in the breeze. The spring flowers were glorious this year. Mr. Thompson, their gardener, who worked so diligently on their behalf, deserved praise. And her mother forbade her to leave the house until she had recovered.
Thea felt dreadfully hemmed in. Here she was, having turned eighteen and still treated like a child! She rummaged in her cupboard and brought out a pair of rubber boots she’d borrowed from the gardener when it rained for weeks and turned the lawn to mud. Slipping her arms through the sleeves of her dressing gown, she firmly tied the belt. With her waist-length braid shoved over her shoulder, she mounted the windowsill. She tossed the rubber boots down. Then leaning forward, her foot found the nearest branch, and she climbed out. The cool breeze swept over her, carrying the sweet scent of lilacs.
How heavenly to be outside. The sun warmed her back, and sparrows fluttered around a nest in the topmost branches. Selecting a sturdy branch below, she descended cautiously. She’d climbed this tree many times and was as surefooted as a mountain goat. Down she went until, perched on the lowest branch, she gathered the folds of dressing gown about her knees, preparing to jump down.
A piercing shriek rent the air. That could only be her older sister, Catherine. She was sure no one but an opera singer could hit that high note. And for so little reason!
Oh bother!Cathy had spotted her. “Whatever is the matter, Cathy?” Thea called crossly. She couldn’t quite see her from the tree and leaped down. Her bare feet met soft, sun-warmed grass, and she flexed her toes appreciatively. “Why must you be so hysterical?” She turned toward the garden gate.
Open mouthed, her sister stood with her hand resting on the arm of her fiancé, Lord Crispin Braithwaite, who looked very stern. But then he always did.
Behind them, a very tall gentleman observed Thea, his dark brows arched over amused blue eyes. He removed his hat, his hair a glossy chestnut brightened by the sun, and bowed. He ran lightly over the ground and swooped up her rubber boots. “Your slippers, Cinderella.”
“Oh!”
For a long moment, Thea, mortified, stood as still as a stature, her mind racing. Then she grabbed them from him as Cathy’s annoyingly little terrier, Crosby, ran to investigate. Overly excited, he danced around Thea’s bare feet with sharp barks. Aware her face flamed as red as one of Grandmama’s pampered roses, Thea sprinted over to the open French doors without pausing for a word of greeting, the rubber boots hugged to her chest. While the deep chuckle of the mysterious gentleman made Thea want to cover her ears, her sister, so strictly correct in all things, apologized profusely, and led him and Crispin along the path to the front door.
Thea ran upstairs and gained her room, meeting their maid Sarah on the way. Thea held a finger to her lips to silence the giggling girl and shut her bedchamber door. The rubber boots discarded, she ran to the window and peeped from behind the curtain. Her sister still rambled on, talking nineteen to the dozen, as Williams, their butler, opened the front door. The stranger strolled slowly behind them. He paused before mounting the porch, and glanced up toward Thea’s window as if he knew she was there. As she darted back behind the curtain, the vision of his laughing blue eyes stayed with her.
At the washstand, she poured water from the jug into the basin and wrung out a flannel to cool her hot cheeks. How much had he seen of her as she came down from the tree? Nothing, surely! She frowned. Cathy was sure to complain. Thea would never hear the end of it! There was no point asking her sister not to tell Mama. Not even the promise she could wear Thea’s pearl earrings left to her by Aunt Wilmot would work this time. She groaned and held the flannel over her eyes. She would be in disgrace.
What form would her punishment take? Heavens! It didn’t bear thinking about. She sank back onto the bed. Who was that gentleman with Cathy and Lord Crispin? It was unlikely she’d meet him again. She certainly didn’t want to after he’d seen her bare legs and found her so amusing. She could ask Cathy who he was, but if her sister suspected Thea was interested, she’d clam up like an oyster or tease her unmercifully. She would have to ask Williams, who knew more about what took place in the Tothill residence than anyone else.
Saturday evening, Mayfair, London
Ashton Grainger strolledinto the Duchess of Worthing’s ballroom, accompanied by his friend Freddie Cooper-Jones.
“Another dull evening, where I must do my duty by Mother and dance with the debutantes,” Freddie said, his long face a picture of gloom.
“I’m sure Mrs. Rollinson will be happy to smooth your ruffled feathers later.”
“Damn right. And incredibly good she is at it, too.” Freddie raised his auburn eyebrows. “If the earl were here to observe you, Ash, he would force you to choose a bride. Hasn’t he ordered you to wed before he dies?”
“My grandfather remains in good health. Don’t sound so hopeful I’ll be called to task, Freddie.”
Freddie chuckled. “Misery loves company, my friend. Just look at the array of debs we have this year, not a beauty among them.”
Ash turned and cast a subtle glance over the young women dressed in white or varying pastel shades clustered together on benches. “They look anxious,” he observed. “Perhaps they’re no keener than you to dance.” One caught his eye, a remarkably pretty strawberry blonde, sitting apart from the rest, her glasses too big for her small, heart-shaped face. She looked vaguely familiar.
“Oh, I say,” Ash murmured when he remembered. He chuckled.
