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Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman
Julia Justiss
IS ONE NIGHT WITH AN INFAMOUS RAKE WORTH THE RISK? Wounded in action courageously fighting pirates, the notorious Greville Anders returns to society with neither the dress nor the conduct considered proper for a gentleman. Even more scandalous is the fact that well-brought-up debutante Amanda Neville finds this rogue irresistibly tempting…It was her mama’s last wish that her beautiful daughter should have a glittering London Season, shine on society’s stage and marry a lord… But now Amanda’s greatest desire is just one more secret rendezvous – with the most disreputable man in town!



Praise for Julia Justiss
FROM WAIF TO GENTLEMAN’S WIFE
‘An enjoyable read with absorbing characters and a slice of English history.’ —Debbie Macomber, New York Times best-selling author
A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH
‘Justiss captures the true essence of the Regency period in this sweet, gentle romance. The characters come to life with all the proper mannerisms and dialogue as they waltz around each other in a “most unconventional” courtship.’
—RT Book Reviews
ROGUE’S LADY
‘With characters you care about, clever banter, a roguish hero and a captivating heroine, Justiss has written a charming and sensual love story.’ —RT Book Reviews
THE UNTAMED HEIRESS
‘Justiss rivals Georgette Heyer … by creating a riveting young woman of character and good humour … [The] complexity and depth to this historical romance, and unexpected plot twists and layers also increase the reader’s enjoyment.’ —Booklist
THE COURTESAN
‘With its intelligent, compelling characters, this is a very well-written, emotional and intensely charged read.’ —RT Book Reviews
MY LADY’S HONOUR
‘Julia Justiss has a knack for conveying emotional intensity and longing.’
—All About Romance
Where a girl’s reputation was concerned, it wouldn’t do to trust any man … especially one as undeniably charming as Mr Anders.
His sincere-sounding compliments, combined with the devilishly appealing trait he had of seeming to focus his entire attention on what one said, made him very hard to resist.
She’d had a potent lesson on the terrace in just how easy it was to fall under his spell. Tantalising as she—still, alas—found the notion of kissing him, it would be dangerously easy to be lured into improper behaviour.
So she would just have to resist him.
Upon that firm conclusion, she entered the parlour to find Papa finishing his sherry. Beside his chair, sipping a sherry of his own, stood Mr Anders.
And another of those annoying thrills rippled through her …

About the Author
JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first plot ideas for a Nancy Drew novel in the back of her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After such journalistic adventures as publishing poetry and editing an American Embassy newsletter she returned to her first love: writing fiction. Her Regency historical novels have been winners or finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™, RT Book Reviews magazine’s Best First Historical, Golden Quill, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne Du Maurier contests. She lives with her husband, three children and two dogs in rural east Texas, where she also teaches high school French. For current news and contests, please visit her website at www.juliajustiss.com
Previous novels by the same author:
THE WEDDING GAMBLE
THE PROPER WIFE
MY LADY’S TRUST
MY LADY’S PLEASURE
MY LADY’S HONOUR
A SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL
SEDUCTIVE STRANGER
THE COURTESAN
THE THREE GIFTS
(part of A Regency Lords & Ladies Christmas anthology) THE UNTAMED HEIRESS ROGUE’S LADY CHRISTMAS WEDDING WISH (part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology) THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE (part of Silk & Scandal mini-series) A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH WICKED WAGER FROM WAIF TO GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

Society’s Most Disreputable Gentleman
Julia Justiss






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In memory of my mother, who read all my books and proudly displayed them on her shelves and who taught me a woman can do anything

Chapter One
A shake to his bad shoulder brought Greville Anders awake with a gasp. Through the stab of sensation radiating down his arm, he dimly heard the coachman say, ‘Here we be, now, sir. At yer destination. Ashton Grove.’
Trying to master a pain-induced nausea, Greville struggled to surface a mind he’d submerged in soothing clouds of laudanum to ease the agony of a long, jolting coach journey. The late-winter air spilling through the door held ajar by a man in footman’s livery helped dissipate the mental fog.
England. He must be back in England. No place else on earth had this combination of chilly mist and a scent of damp earth.
Like a tacking sail that suddenly catches the wind, his vacant mind filled. Yes, he was in England, at Ashton Grove, the home of Lord Bronning. The manor where, at the intervention of his noble cousin, the Marquess of Englemere, he was to stay after being transferred from his berth on the Illustrious to the Coastal Brigade, while the Admiralty sorted out the matter of his—illegal—impressment. And he finished healing.
Unfortunately, that also meant he must now attempt to convince his unsteady limbs to carry him from the vehicle into the manor, hopefully without having his still-roiling stomach disgrace him. Taking a deep breath, he staggered into the early evening dimness, then proceeded at a limping gait up to the entry and through a door held open by the butler.
Perspiration beading his forehead from the effort, he was congratulating himself on his success at reaching the stately entry hall when an older, balding gentleman walked forwards and bowed. ‘Mr Anders,’ the man said, giving him a strained smile. ‘Delighted to welcome you to Ashton Grove.’
The gentleman’s expression was so far from delighted that Greville bit back a smile before the unmistakable, swishing sound of skirts trailing over polished stone prompted him to carefully angle his head left.
That uncomfortable manoeuvre was rewarded by a vision lovely enough to raise a red-blooded sailor from the dead. A category into which, after the Illustrious’s action with that Algerian pirate vessel off the coast of Tunis, he’d very nearly fallen, he thought wryly before giving mind and senses over to the sorely missed pleasure of gazing at a beautiful woman.
For the first time in a long while, parts of his body tingled pleasantly as he took in an angelic vision of golden hair and a petite form wrapped in a flattering gown, just a hint of décolletage tempting one to peek down at an admirably rounded bosom. As he raised his gaze to the perfect oval of her face, large blue eyes stared back at him over a small, pert nose and plump rosebud-pink lips that were currently pursed. She frowned.
Greville suppressed a sigh. Angels generally did frown at him.
Long-inbred habits of gentility prompted him to attempt a bow, awkward as it was with the thick bandage still binding his chest and the fact that his equilibrium hadn’t yet adjusted to having a surface beneath his feet that remained firmly horizontal. ‘Lord Bronning, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘And …?’
‘My daughter, Miss Neville. Welcome to our home. I trust Lord Englemere made your journey as comfortable as possible—under the circumstances, of course,’ Bronning said, casting him a troubled glance.
The lovely daughter merely inclined her head, her frown deepening. Greville hadn’t seen his own face in a glass for months, but in his ragtag sailor’s gear, with an unkempt beard and what he supposed must be the pallor induced by his lingering fever, doubtless he looked nothing like the sort of gentleman Miss Neville was accustomed to receiving in her father’s grand hall.
‘Miss Neville, my lord,’ he replied, acknowledging the introductions. ‘Yes, Lord Englemere did … all that was necessary.’ Given his already disreputable appearance, he thought it best not to mention that his passage from Spithead through Portsmouth and thence by coach to Ashton Grove had passed in such a laudanum haze that he had little memory of it. ‘I thank you, Lord Bronning, for receiving one so completely unknown to you.’
‘Not at all,’ Bronning replied quickly. ‘I’m happy to oblige Lord Englemere—and your sister, Lady Greaves, of course. Her husband, Sir Edward, is a valued acquaintance. But we won’t keep you standing here with the evening chill coming on! You must be exhausted from your travels. Sands will have a footman show you to your room.’
His room. A real chamber with a bed that didn’t sway with the roll of the ship, doubtless located in a private space he wouldn’t share with a score of noisy, tar-begrimed, sweating sailors.
Heaven.
‘I should like that, thank you,’ he said, summoning his waning strength for the task of climbing the forbiddingly tall stairway towards which a footman was leading him.
‘And, Mr Anders,’ Bronning called after him, ‘please don’t feel obliged to join us for dinner. Cook will be happy to prepare you a tray, if you’d prefer to remain in your chamber to rest and repose yourself after your long journey.’
Rest and repose. He clung to the notion as a drowning man clutches at a spar after a shipwreck. Rest to finish healing his battered body, repose in which to put his fever-dulled wits to examining the implications of his abrupt transition from deckhand on a man-of-war to guest at an elegant English estate.
‘Thank you, my lord, I may do that,’ he said, reflecting as he tackled the stairs upon the irony of greeting the notion of solitude with such pleasure, he who not so very long ago would have done almost anything to avoid the boredom of having only himself for company.
Gritting his teeth in determination, Greville made his way upwards, Miss Neville’s soft floral fragrance still teasing his nose.
Amanda Neville felt disappointment and an entirely illogical sense of being ill-used replace her initial shock, as she stared after the newcomer hobbling up the stairs behind the footman.
Ever since Papa had told her they were to house a relation of the Marquess of Englemere, she’d been bubbling over with anticipation, hoping he would be someone she could meet again in London this spring when she made her long-delayed come-out—mayhap even a handsome young man who might be a potential suitor. She’d had Mrs Pepys prepare the best guest bedchamber and instructed Cook to create a sumptuous meal for the night of his arrival.
Stunned into silence by the appearance of the man who’d limped over their doorstep, she’d barely been able to nod a greeting. That grimy, battered man dressed like a common sailor was their guest? she thought again, still aghast and scarcely able to comprehend such a conundrum. Whatever had Papa been thinking, to agree to house such a person?
Before she could utter a word, however, her father grabbed her arm and steered her down the hallway towards his study. ‘Don’t give me that look, puss, until I can explain,’ he said under his breath. ‘That will be all for now, Sands,’ he added, dismissing the butler who trailed after them, interest bright in his eyes.
‘Really, Papa, I know better than to gossip before the servants,’ she protested after he’d shut the study door behind them. ‘But when you told me you were to host Lord Englemere’s relative—why, he’s a Stanhope, head of one of the most prominent families in England! Are you sure this … sailor is truly his cousin?’
‘He gave the name “Anders” and arrived in a private coach, as I was led to expect, so he must be. Though I confess, I was as shocked by his appearance as you.’
After depositing her on the sofa, her father took an agitated turn about the room. ‘Now that I think on it, though naturally I assumed so, the note from his lordship’s secretary never precisely said Mr Anders was an officer.’
‘He looks more like a—a ruffian!’ Amanda exclaimed, still feeling affronted. ‘A drunken one, at that! How are we to go about entertaining such a person? Is he to dine with us, be presented to our acquaintances?’
Lord Bronning’s troubled frown deepened. ‘Dear me, I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake, allowing him to come …’ His voice trailed off and he grimaced.
‘Now, Papa, you mustn’t upset yourself and bring on one of your spells,’ Amanda said quickly, concern for her father, who had not been in the best of health of late, quickly overshadowing her irritation and chagrin. ‘Come, sit, and let me pour you some wine,’ she urged, hopping up to guide her father to a chair and then fetch him a glass of port. ‘What precisely did his lordship’s note say?’
‘Only that Mr Anders had been serving on a warship and was being furloughed back to England after being wounded during a skirmish with privateers,’ her father replied, easing back into the cushions. ‘Apparently naval men injured too severely to perform their duties are sometimes posted to the Coastal Brigade while they heal. Having learned that Ashton Grove was not far from one of their stations, the marquess begged me to offer his cousin accommodations while he recuperated. Naturally, one does not say “no” to a marquess, especially one who writes so politely.’
Amanda bit her lip. ‘Nor, after installing this “Mr Anders” in the best guest bedchamber, will it be easy to move him elsewhere. In any event, he didn’t seem fit enough to appear in company, so for dining and entertaining, I suppose we shall wait and see.’
‘That would be best, I expect. Besides, he is also brother to the wife of Sir Edward Greaves, and after that unfortunate incident last spring, I should not wish to do anything that might offend Sir Edward.’
Amanda felt her face flush. ‘I am sorry about that, Papa.’
Smiling fondly, her father patted her arm. ‘Never you mind, puss. You can’t help that you are just naturally too lovely and charming for any sensible gentleman to resist.’
Though Amanda felt a pang of guilt, she didn’t correct her papa. The truth was, she had quite deliberately sought to be at her most enticing when, after last year’s agricultural meeting at Holkham Hall, Papa had brought home to visit a man he’d often mentioned as being one of the most forward-thinking gentlemen farmers in the realm. She’d only thought to flirt a bit, seizing one of the few opportunities that came her way to practise her wiles on a single gentleman of noble birth.
Who could have imagined the quiet, rather stodgy Sir Edward, who had barely spoken to her of anything beyond a boring narration about crops and fields, would have possessed sufficient sensibility to become smitten?
She’d been surprised—and a bit ashamed—when Papa told her, after Sir Edward’s sudden departure, that the baronet had made him an offer for her hand. Thankfully, knowing well that the very last thing she wanted was to buckle herself to some gentleman farmer and spend the rest of her years immured in rural obscurity, Papa had spared her the embarrassing necessity of refusing him.
However, she reassured herself pragmatically, since Sir Edward had married within six months of his departure from Ashton Grove, she could not have wounded his heart too severely.
Still, she could not help but regret that her flirtation had put a rub in her father’s friendship with the man.
‘Of course, Papa, I’m as anxious as you to make amends to Sir Edward and dispel any lingering … awkwardness. Have you any idea how long Mr Anders is to be our guest? And … surely I am not called upon to nurse him?’
‘Of course not!’ her father assured her. ‘Even if it were not most improper, I would never ask you to do something so expressly designed to bring back … unfortunate memories.’
Abruptly, they both fell silent. Despite her papa’s hope to avoid it, she found her thoughts sucked inexorably back to the terrible spring and summer just past. Nightmarish visions chased across her mind: Mama’s cheeks flushed with fever; Aunt Felicia thrashing in delirium; both faces fixed in the still, cold pallor of death.
Shaking her head to dislodge the images, she turned to Papa and saw, from the stricken look on his face, that he must be remembering, too. Anxiety instantly replaced grief; Papa’s own health had nearly broken under the strain of losing both wife and sister, and he was still, she feared, far from recovered.
Before she could hit upon some remark that might distract him, Papa said, ‘Of course, Mr Anders is welcome to stay as long as he may need. Should it turn out that he requires further care, I shall consult with Dr Wendell in the village to obtain a suitable practitioner. But do not worry, puss …’ he reached out to pat her hand ‘… however long our visitor tarries, I promised your dear mama I would let nothing else delay the Season for which you’ve waited so long and so patiently.’
Amanda smiled her thanks and tried to refocus her mind on that happy event. London, this spring! Dare she even hope this time that it would finally happen? The Season, which she and her mama had planned and anticipated for so long, had been delayed by such a series of unfortunate events that sometimes it seemed Fate itself was conspiring to prevent her having any opportunity to realise her dreams.
Still, with her last breath, Mama had made Amanda promise that she would go this year, come what may. So perhaps the visit would take place after all.
Oh, to finally be in London, that greatest of English cities, where she would not have to pore over accounts of events already days or weeks old by the time the newspapers reached them. London, where her future husband, a man of substance and influence in his party, would sit in the Lords and help direct the affairs of the nation. Supported, of course, by his lovely wife, whose dinners, soirées and balls would bring together all the influential people of the realm, where policy would be discussed and settled over brandy and whispered about behind fans.
If no further disaster occurred to prevent it, in a few short weeks, she would be there. She could hardly wait.
Suddenly the study door opened on a draught of cold air and her cousin Althea dashed in. ‘Is he here yet? Have I missed him?’ she demanded.
Amanda swallowed the sharp words springing to her lips about the decorum a young lady should employ when entering a room. As she’d learned all too swiftly after Althea joined them at Ashton last spring just before the death of her mother, Amanda’s Aunt Felicia, the cousin who had once followed her about like an adoring puppy now seemed to resent every word she uttered.
Ignoring, as usual, the girl’s rudeness, Papa only said mildly, ‘Missed who, my dear?’
His own bereavement had made him more indulgent than was good for the girl, Amanda thought a tad resentfully. Papa never offered her tempestuous cousin the least reproof, no matter how deplorable her speech or actions, though he was perhaps the only one who might be able to correct her highly deficient behaviour.
‘Why, Mr Anders, the Navy man, of course!’ Althea replied. ‘He has arrived, hasn’t he? I saw a rum fine coach being driven round to the stables, one done up to a cow’s thumb!’
The girl must have been hanging about the stables herself, to have picked up that bit of cant. Swallowing a reproof on that point, Amanda said, ‘I fear you’ve missed him. Mr Anders did indeed arrive and has just gone up to his room.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Althea exclaimed. ‘I suppose I shall have to wait to meet him at dinner.’
A sudden foreboding filled Amanda, sweeping away her more trivial concern over their genteel neighbours’ probable reaction to having Mr Anders thrust among them. What if Althea, who already seemed eager to seize upon anything of which Amanda disapproved, decided to befriend this low sailor? Considering her current behaviour, it seemed exactly the sort of thing she would do.
Though normally she would never wish anyone ill, Amanda couldn’t help being thankful that, for tonight at least, Mr Anders appeared to be in no condition to join them for dinner.
‘I don’t think he will be coming down to dine. He appeared much fatigued from his journey.’
‘Fatigued—from riding in a coach? What a plumper!’ Althea replied roundly. ‘Not a Navy man! I’ll wager Mr Anders has steered his ship for hours in a driving gale and survived for months on hardtack and biscuits! More likely, he’ll be sharp-set enough to eat us out of table.’
While Amanda gritted her teeth anew at Althea’s vocabulary, Papa replied, ‘Perhaps, but he was wounded and is still recovering.’
‘Wounded in battle?’ Althea demanded, her eyes brightening even further. ‘Oh, excellent! Where? When?’
‘I believe it was off the Barbary coast, some weeks ago,’ Papa responded.
‘How exciting! He must be veritable hero! I cannot wait to have him tell us all about it. What a joy it will be to speak with a truly interesting person, someone who’s had real adventures, who doesn’t natter on and on about gowns and shops and London!’ she declared with a defiant glance at Amanda—just in case she was too dim to understand the jab, Amanda thought, struggling to hang on to her temper.
‘Uncle James, have you any books in your library about the Navy?’ she said, turning to Lord Bronning. ‘Oh, never mind, I shall go directly myself and look!’
At that, with as little ceremony as she’d displayed upon her precipitate arrival, Althea bolted from the room.
In the wake of her departure, Amanda sent her father an appealing look. ‘Papa, you must warn her off Mr Anders. If we’re not careful, she’ll be painting him as another Lord Nelson!’
‘And doubtless urging him to recite details of shipboard life in language not fit for a lady’s ears,’ Papa agreed ruefully.
‘I know you feel for her, having lost her mama so soon after her papa, but truly, you must counsel her about this. Heaven knows, I don’t dare say anything for fear she will immediately take that as a challenge to parade with him about the neighbourhood.’
Papa nodded. ‘She does seem to take umbrage at everything you say. Which I find most odd, since during Felicia’s visits when you girls were younger, Althea used to hang on your every word and copy everything you did.’
Amanda sighed. A smaller but no less stinging wound to her heart this last year was the, to her, inexplicable hostility with which her cousin now seemed to view her. ‘Truly, Papa, I have tried to be understanding. I don’t know why she seems to resent me so. Perhaps I did criticise her conduct overmuch when she first arrived—I really can’t recall—but with Aunt Felicia so ill and the house in such an uproar, and then Mama falling sick—’
‘There now, you mustn’t be blaming yourself,’ Papa said, patting her arm. ‘You were a marvel through that trying time, taking over the household so your dear mama need concern herself only with Felicia …’ His breath hitched and his eyes grew moist before he continued, ‘So strong and capable, I couldn’t be prouder of you. But Althea is young, and perhaps chafed at authority being assumed by one she’d considered almost a peer. She was distraught, and bereft, and grieving—not a felicitous combination for any of us.’
Amanda blinked the tears back from her eyes. ‘Indeed not, Papa.’ Papa might think her strong, but in truth she had barely managed to hold the household together and was still trying to recover her spirits. Oh, how she yearned to escape Ashton Grove, all its problems and sad memories, and lose herself in the distractions of London!
Though her younger brother had lately arrived to add to her anxieties, Althea remained the most acute of her burdens. Her own feelings depressed and raw after Mama’s death, Amanda couldn’t help wishing she might be rid of the troublesome girl—a desire Althea probably sensed, which did nothing to ease the tensions between them.
All her life, she reflected with another pang of grief, she’d been wrapped in a protective cocoon of love and affection spun by her mother and grandmother, buoyed along the floodtide of events by a happiness and security she’d taken for granted until the catastrophes of the last two years—losing first Grandmama, then Aunt Felicia, then Mama—had stripped it from her. Her longing for supportive female company had been sharpened by her difficult relations with her cousin, the only female relative left to her.
Small wonder she yearned to reach London, where she would be staying with Lady Parnell, her mother’s dear friend whom she’d had known since childhood. Perhaps the affection of this companion from Mama’s own début Season might ease her grief and fill some part of the void left by the last two years’ devastating losses.
‘So you will speak to Althea?’ she pleaded, hoping against hope Papa might be able to head off this new complication. ‘’Tis for her own good, you know. What would Aunt Felicia say if she knew we’d allowed Althea to pursue a most unsuitable friendship with a common sailor?’
‘Yes, I know I must reprimand her, and I will—gently, though.’
Her chest squeezing in a surge of love for her kindly sire, Amanda couldn’t help smiling. ‘I only ask that you try to guide her, Papa. You know as well as I you haven’t the heart to reprimand anyone, no matter how much she might need it!’
‘I suppose I have been too indulgent. But you’re quite right—it is my responsibility to my dear sister to protect her daughter and counsel her as best I can.’
‘Perhaps you could chat without my being present. She’d probably be more inclined to accept instruction if I’m not looking on. Well, I suppose I must go inform Cook about the changes in the dinner plans.’
‘I’ll escort you out,’ Bronning said, rising and coming to take her hand. ‘One of my prize mares is about to foal. I think I’ll take myself down to the barn and check on her.’
Accepting her father’s arm, Amanda walked back down the long hall to the marble entryway with him, her concern about Althea somewhat mollified. Given her cousin’s contemptuous disregard of her, there wasn’t much else she could do but leave the matter in Papa’s hands.
They had just reached the grand entry when the front door was thrown back so violently it banged against the wall. Staggering across the threshold, Amanda’s brother George stumbled into the room, waving off the footman who sprinted over to take his coat.
Her father stopped abruptly and eyed his only son with alarm. ‘George, what’s amiss? Have you suffered an injury?’
With his red face and bleary eyes, hair in disarray, neckcloth coming undone and his waistcoat misbuttoned, George did indeed look as if he might have been in an altercation—a fear Amanda initially shared, before a strong odour of spirits wafted to her.
Her initial concern turned swiftly to irritation as she recalled her brother had not appeared at dinner last evening. Most likely he’d not returned home at all and had instead spent yesterday afternoon, evening and today gaming—or wenching—at some low tavern.
A glance at her father’s face confirmed he had just reached the same conclusion. His expression of alarm turned to chagrin and a pained sadness, and unconsciously he raised a hand to press against his chest.
Fury swept through her and she could have cheerfully throttled her brother. How could George be so stupid and thoughtless as to make his dramatic entrance in such a deplorable condition? It was almost as if he expressly desired to agitate and disappoint his already sorely troubled father!
‘Papa, why don’t you head out to the stables and check on your mare? I’ll see George to his room. Come along, now,’ she said to her brother, pleased she’d managed to keep her tone even when what she really wished to do was shriek her displeasure into her feckless brother’s ears.
Contenting herself with giving George’s arm a sharp pinch as she took it, she steered him towards the stairs. Nodding over her shoulder to Papa, who hesitated before finally approaching the butler for his coat, she began half-pushing, half-pulling her brother upwards.
‘I hope I shall not contract some nasty disease from having to haul you about,’ she snapped as she finally succeeded in wrestling him up the stairs and into his room. ‘How can you still be so drunk at this hour of the afternoon?’
‘Not drunk,’ he slurred, stumbling past her towards the bed. ‘Just … trifle disguised.’
‘Was it not enough that you had to distress Papa by getting yourself sent down from Cambridge for some stupid prank?’ she said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. ‘Must you embarrass him before the servants in his own home? Can you never think of anything beyond your own reckless pleasure?’
George put his hands over his ears and winced, as if her strident tone pained his head. She hoped it did.
‘God’s blood, Manda, Allie’s right. You’ve become a shrew. Better sweeten up a little. No gentleman’s goin’ to wanna shackle himself to a female who’s always jaw’n at ‘m.’
A pang pierced her righteous anger. Was that indeed how Althea saw her—as a shrill-voiced harpy always ordering her about? But she’d tried so hard to avoid being just that.
Before she could decide what to reply, George groaned and clutched his abdomen. Amanda barely had time to snatch the pan from beneath the bed before her brother leaned over it, noisily casting up his accounts. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Amanda retreated to the far corner of the room.
After a moment, George righted himself and sat on the bed, wiping his mouth. ‘Ah, that’s better. Ring for Richards, won’t you? I believe I’ll have a beefsteak and some ale.’
Amanda couldn’t help grimacing. ‘George, you are disgusting!’
‘Shrew,’ he retorted with an amiable grin—which, despite her irritation and anger, she had to admit was full of charm, even in his present dishevelled condition. This brother of hers was going to cause some lady a great deal of heartache.
But she didn’t intend it to be her—not for much longer, anyway.
‘If you must debauch yourself, at least have the courtesy to come in through the back stairs, so that Papa won’t see you. Can’t you tell he’s still far from recovered from Mama’s death?
‘Are any of us recovered?’ he flashed back, a bleak look passing briefly over his face before the grin returned. ‘What d’ya expect, Manda? There’s dam—dashed little to do in this abyss of rural tranquillity but drink and game at the one or two taverns within a ten-mile ride. I’d take myself off where my reprehensible behaviour wouldn’t offend you, but Papa won’t allow me to go to London while I wait for the beginning of next term.’
‘London, where you might spend even more on drink and wagering? I should think not! You’d do better to spend some time studying, so as to not be so far behind when you do return.’
George made a disgusted noise, as if such a suggestion were beneath reply. ‘Lord, how did I tolerate living in this dull place for years? Nothing but fields and cows and crops and fields for miles in every direction! It’s almost enough to make those stupid books look appealing.’
‘Fields and crops in prime condition, thanks to Papa’s care, that fund your expensive sojourns at Cambridge. And if you’d paid more attention to those “stupid books” and less to carousing with your fellows, you wouldn’t be marooned in this “dull place” to begin with.’
George squinted up at her through bloodshot eyes. ‘When did you become such a disapproving spoilsport?’
‘When will you become a man worthy of the Neville name?’ she retorted, her heart aching for her father’s disappointment while her anger smouldered at how George’s thoughtlessness was adding to the already-heavy burden of care her father carried. ‘Start showing some interest in the estate Papa has so carefully tended to hand on to you, instead of staying out all night, consorting with ruffians and getting into who-knows-what mischief.’
Anger flushing his face, George opened his lips to reply before closing them abruptly. ‘Maybe I’m not ready for that steak after all,’ he mumbled, reaching for the basin.
Realising he was about to be sick again, Amanda shook her head in disgust. There was probably no point in trying to talk with George now. ‘I’ll send Richards in,’ she said, swallowing her ire and willing herself to calm as she tugged on the bell pull and left the chamber.
She met the valet in the hall, where he must have been hovering, having no doubt been informed by the butler of her brother’s return—and condition. ‘I’m afraid he’s disguised again and feeling quite ill. You’d better bring up some hot water and strip him down.’
Feeling a pang of sympathy for the long-suffering servant, Amanda headed for the stairs. She paused on the landing, pressing her fingers against the temples that had begun to throb.
Between her irresponsible brother and her sullen cousin and having to watch Papa drift around the halls and fields, a wraith-like imitation of his former hale and hearty self, was it any wonder she longed to leave Ashton and throw herself into the frivolity of London? There the most difficult dilemma would be choosing what gown to wear, her most pressing problem fitting into her social schedule all the events to which she’d be invited. Her day would be so full, she’d tumble into bed and immediately into sleep, never lie awake aching and alone, yearning for the love and security so abruptly ripped from her.
Oh, that she might swiftly make a brilliant début, acquire a husband to pamper and adore her and settle into the busy life of a London political wife, seldom to visit the country again.
She only hoped, as she went to search out Cook and rearrange dinner, that their unwanted guest would not make the last few weeks before she could set her plans in motion even more difficult.

Chapter Two
With a bestial roar, the crewman tossed the boarding nets over the side of the pirate vessel. Fear, acrid in his throat, along with a wave of excitement, carried Greville over the side and on to its prow, into the mass of slashing cutlasses, firing pistols and thrusting pikes. Blood already coated the decks, thick and slippery, when he saw the pirate charging at the captain, curved sword raised and teeth bared …
Abruptly, Greville came awake, his heart pounding as the shriek of wind, boom of musket fire and howls of fighting men slowly faded to the quiet tick of a clock in a room where warm sunlight pooled on the floor beneath the windows.
Morning sun, judging by the hue, he thought, trying to get his bearings. Brighter than light through a porthole.
About the moment Greville realised he was in a proper bedchamber—a vast, elegant bedchamber—in Lord Bronning’s home at Ashton Grove, Devonshire, praise-the-Lord-England, he heard a discreet cough. Turning towards the sound, he spied a young man in footman’s livery standing inside the doorway, bearing a laden tray.
‘Morning, sir,’ the lad said, bowing. ‘Sands sent me up with something from the kitchen, thinking you’d likely be right sharp-set after so many hours.’
‘Have I been asleep long?’ Greville asked, still trying to recapture a sense of place and time.
‘Aye,’ the young man replied. ‘All the first night, the next day and now ‘tis almost noon of the next. Some of the staff was worried you was about to stick your spoon in the wall. But Mrs Pepys—that’s the housekeeper, sir—she’s done some nursing and she said as long as you was breathing deep and regular, there weren’t no danger of you dying and that you’d feel much the better for the rest.’
He did feel much better, Greville thought. Moreover, he realised suddenly, for the first time since his wounding over a month ago, he hadn’t awakened to the slow, strength-sapping burn of fever.
He was also, he discovered, truly starving. Contemplating what might lie beneath the plate cover on the tray, his mouth began to water.
‘You are right, I am very hungry,’ he told the footman.
‘Shall I put the tray on the bed here for you, sir?’
‘Yes, that would be fine. Thank you …’ He hesitated.
‘Luke, sir,’ the footman supplied. ‘Sands says I’m to assist you with dressing and such, if’n you need any help.’
‘I’d like a bath after I’ve eaten, if you would arrange that. I’ll be better able to ascertain how much assistance I’ll require then. Oh—and if you please, ask that housekeeper for some linen bandages. I’ve a wound I’ll have to rebind.’
‘Very good, sir,’ the footman said, depositing the tray in front of him. ‘I’ll go see about your bath. By the by, there’s a chest by the fireplace and a note sent by your sister, Lady Greaves.’
Greaves? He did not even know which of his sisters had married into that name.
After being gone so long from England, his time spent at hard labour in a job for which he’d had no preparation or training, the idea that he was part of a family beyond the wooden walls of the Illustrious seemed disorienting. Not that he’d paid a good deal of attention to his closest kin before his involuntary removal from British soil.
A frisson of guilt passed through him. Truth be told, he’d seldom troubled himself to think at all about the family that had pampered and sheltered him for the first sixteen years of his life, before his father and sisters departed for India, leaving him at Cambridge. He’d contacted Papa only when he needed him to call upon his Army contacts to arrange Greville’s service with the commissariat during the Waterloo campaign. And afterwards, wanting for some sort of position to support himself, he’d solicited his cousin the marquess’s help in providing one.
He shifted uncomfortably. He still had much to atone for in rectifying how that latter situation had turned out.
‘Let me have the letter before you go,’ he told the footman. ‘I’ll deal with the trunk later.’
After passing him the folded missive, the footman bowed himself out of the room. Greville’s growling stomach reminded him it had been many hours since he’d last eaten—he had only a dim memory of wolfing down some sort of stew sent up the night of his arrival. He put the letter aside, content to wait to discover which of his sisters was the mysterious ‘Lady Greaves’ until after he’d taken the edge off his hunger.
As he removed the cover from the plate, the wonderful odour of eggs, bacon, beef, potatoes, ham and kippers wafted up, along with the sharp aroma of hot coffee and the pungent tang of ale. Inhaling with rapture, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of consuming the first full hot meal he’d had since leaving England eight months ago.
The food tasted better than any breakfast he could remember. Of course, after months at sea on a diet that consisted mostly of hardtack, boiled beef and an occasional plum duff, it wouldn’t take much for Lord Bronning’s cook to impress him.
A short time later, his happy stomach replete, Greville broke the seal on the note and, still sipping the delicious ambrosia of hot coffee, rapidly scanned it.
The signature, ‘Joanna’, indicated his benefactress must be his widowed elder sister, who had obviously remarried. He vaguely recalled that she’d sent him word of her first husband’s death just after he’d taken over as manager at Blenhem Hill. Greville scanned his memory, but could not place any gentleman with the family name ‘Greaves’. Still, by adding ‘Lady’ to her name this time—more dignity than had been due her after wedding a mere younger son from the prominent Merrill family—she must have married well.
She might even rank higher now than some of the former in-laws who had snubbed her. Greville hoped so.
If Papa and the rest of the family were still in India—and he had no reason to suppose they had returned—it must have been Joanna who’d pieced together the mystery of his disappearance, then entreated his exalted cousin Lord Englemere to search for him.
Having dismissed Greville from the job he’d solicited as estate manager at Blenhem Hill for incompetence and embezzlement—the first charge deserved, the second not—Englemere himself was unlikely to have been concerned about, or even aware of, Greville’s precipitous and unwilling departure from England.
That Englemere had intervened, he was certain. Only a man with the influence and the prestige of a marquess, one who had the ear of the Admiralty board, could have effected his transfer, for the commanding officer of the Illustrious had categorically refused such a request.
He wondered how Joanna—assuming it was Jo—had discovered his abduction. The note didn’t say and his sister indicating only her relief that he was safely back in England, her hope that he would find the trunk of clothes she’d sent useful.
He felt another pang; absorbed in his own interests, it had never occurred to him to use the close acquaintances with young gentlemen of the nobility, acquired during his university days among them, to try to smooth his sister’s way with her first husband’s family. He was touched, and humbled, that though he’d been oblivious to her plight, she had learned about and concerned herself with his.
It would be good to visit her, he decided, a curious sense of anticipation stirring at the thought. Maybe the new Greville would learn to value family as his sister obviously did—even such a curmudgeon black sheep as himself.
He was distracted from his musings by a scratch at the door, which opened to reveal Luke and two other footmen hefting a large copper tub. They deposited it before the hearth, several others following in their wake to fill it with bucketfuls of hot water.
Greville eyed the steam rising from the tub with as much anticipation as if a naked mermaid might emerge from the mists.
Well, maybe not quite that much. Still, anxious as he was to redress that lack in his life and much as the spirit was willing, his still-feeble body probably would make better use of the hot water minus a hot-blooded, willing wench.
‘Does you need help climbing in, sir?’ Luke asked.
‘I think I can manage. Is there someone who could trim my hair and beard after?’
‘I’m a dab hand at that, sir,’ Luke replied. ‘I reckon I could help you.’
Greville smiled to himself. Lord Bronning undoubtedly possessed a valet, but such an elevated gentleman’s gentleman would probably disdain to offer his services to as unprepossessing a specimen as Greville had appeared when he’d limped over the threshold at Ashton Grove.
After a moment spent wondering what his own valet had thought months ago, when he failed to meet the man at their lodgings in London as arranged upon leaving Blenhem Hill, Greville said, ‘Thank you, Luke. I’ll ring for you when I’m ready.’
The footmen dismissed, Greville climbed carefully out of the bed, shed the nightshirt into which someone had thoughtfully changed him the night of his arrival, unwound the binding at his chest and eased himself into the steaming water. Leaning his head back against the rim, he sighed in ecstasy.
For long delicious minutes he let his mind simply drift, finally returning to conscious thought with the resolution that never again would he go through life oblivious to the simple delights of hot water and nourishing food. After living for months at the brute edge of existence, he would savour every moment of comfort.
And every delight, he thought, bringing back to mind the lovely but disapproving face of his host’s daughter.
The one pleasure he had probably missed most during his involuntary sojourn at sea was the company of women.
Tall, short, slim, rounded, coy, sweet, even sharp-tongued, he appreciated them all. Though he prized most, of course, the deep euphoria of the ultimate intimate embrace, he also enjoyed the simple pleasure of feminine company.
Even with a talkative miss who was chattering her teeth off, Greville could tune out the soft voice and observe instead the rise and fall of a bosom animated by a lively discourse. Caress with his gaze the lady’s smooth skin, sparkling eyes and plump, kissable lips. Trace with his eyes the enticing curve of breast and hip. Breathe in her unique womanly scent.
Was Miss Neville a chatterer? he wondered, grinning at the notion. Somehow, he didn’t think so. No, Lady Bronning had greeted him in the hall—so Miss Neville must be her father’s hostess and chatelaine of his household. That would explain the proprietary, managing air he’d sensed during his one quick glimpse of her.
My, how perspicacious he’d become during the last eight months, he thought with rueful humour. Transitioning abruptly from being served to the one doing the serving—with swift and severe penalties for unsatisfactory performance—taught a man with amazing speed how to discern how much authority an individual possessed.
How much more pleasant to employ that new skill in contemplating a lady! Especially a female as lovely as Miss Neville, Greville thought, running the image of her through his mind again.
So slender and petite was she, the golden curls of her coiffure would probably fit just under his chin. He could readily imagine pulling her close, filling his nostrils with the sweet fragrance of warm woman and floral perfume. Smoothing one hand around that enticing round of derrière while cupping the plump weight of a breast in the other His palms itched with longing and his long-quiescent member rose stiffly in water, reminding him with a surge of urgency exactly how long he’d been without a woman.
Pleased as he was at this evidence that his body was finally recovering, still it would be best not to let his thoughts drift in this direction. Though in the past he’d not been above seducing a willing miss, this particular miss was gently born and his host’s daughter to boot. He didn’t debauch innocents.
Well, not often. And anyway, that part of his life was over. The new Greville, the better Greville he’d promised the Lord to become if he survived his time at sea, didn’t intend to indulge in debauchery at all. No, sir.
Now, if there happened to be a willing widow in the neighbourhood …
He hardened further at that arousing possibility. Then Greville pulled his clean, refreshed body out of the rapidly chilling water. Wrapping a towel about his naked hips, he took a few experimental turns about the chamber.
He could feel a pull to his wound as he paced, as though the lacerated muscles of his chest were somehow directly connected to his legs, but the discomfort was not as severe as the last time he’d attempted walking. Pausing in the strong light before the window, he inspected the cutlass slash, deep across his ribs where the ship’s surgeon had stitched the edges together, shallower where the weapon’s tip had caught his arm. The wound hadn’t stung when he immersed it in water, he realised suddenly. Thank the Lord, it must finally have closed completely.
The stitched edges were still a deep pink, but no longer fiery red and pulsing with torment. He’d put on more of the salve the ship’s surgeon had sent with him and had Luke help him bind it up again, but more to keep his garments from rubbing it this time than from a need to protect his clothing from its suppuration.
He moved from the window and took two turns about the room. He felt weak and light-headed—not surprising after having been fevered and confined to a hammock or cot for so long—but the knee he’d wrenched after he’d gone down in the fight was much improved, causing him barely to limp. All in all, he felt a sense of renewed vigour he’d not experienced in all the dark days since leaving England.
Stopping by the chair where Luke had deposited the trunk of clothes sent by his sister Joanna, he opened it and inspected the contents. The garments were new and of good quality, but hardly fashionable. As he removed each one and shook it out, he found himself grinning again.
Greville Anders had been famed since Cambridge for his sartorial flair. Possessed of impeccable taste, he sported the finest inexpressibles, wore immaculate linen and knotted the most complicated cravats at the neck of beautifully tailored coats that fit him like a second skin.
A year ago, he would have rejected everything in the chest with a disdainful sniff. But after months garbed in the cast-off gear from the sea trunks of deceased sailors, he’d become much less finicky.
And much more appreciative, he thought, sending his absent sister a mental thanks. Without Joanna’s intervention, he’d have been forced to put back on the soiled, bloodstained tatters he’d worn off the ship, he thought, grimacing with distaste.
It was only then that he noticed the small pouch at the bottom of the chest. Snatching it up, he opened the loop to find winking back at him a small cache of coins: pence, shillings, pounds, even a few golden guineas.
Swallowing hard at such unexpected largesse, he vowed to send his sister a written note of thanks as soon as he could obtain pen and paper. Of course, he’d arrived here penniless, possessing not even the few coins the servants would expect as the vails normally given by a guest. The service that could be expected by one who neglected to bestow such small tokens of appreciation would be dismal—and the respect he was accorded even less.
Filled with a renewed appreciation for his sister, he slipped into the small clothes, breeches and shirt, then rang for Luke. Though he was reasonably sure he could put on the coat without assistance—one benefit of wearing one that did not fit like a second skin—he’d have to wait until after his shave to don it, and tying the cravat was problematic. He feared his left arm would still be too tender to lift high enough to manage it.
Luke arrived a moment later. Though Greville had been initially dubious about the servant’s claim of expertise, the footman showed himself to be quite skilled with both razor and scissors and possessed a deft hand with the cravat.
When he complimented the man, Luke told him he hoped to be a valet some day, and cast him a lingering glance, as if implying he thought Greville might be able to assist him in that desire.
Might he? Greville wondered. His immediate goals not extending beyond mastering stairs and having the stamina to walk further than three circuits about the room, he wasn’t sure yet what the future would hold for himself, much less for the ambitious Luke.
The first step towards that discovery couldn’t be taken until after he presented himself to the Coastal Brigade office. Though he intended to make an appearance downstairs in the parlour today, he knew he wasn’t recovered enough to tolerate a several-mile jolting drive.
Luke offered him a mirror so he might inspect his new haircut in the glass. His reflection when he first glanced into a mirror before his bath had shocked him so much he marvelled that Lord Bronning had not taken one look at him and immediately had the coachman heave him back into the coach and spring the horses, dispensing with rubbish as quickly as the cook’s assistant tossing the crew’s refuse overboard.
Looking at himself now, he could not help being pleased at the improvement. Oh, he was still but a shadow of his former handsome self, he thought wryly. But with the beard gone, his auburn hair washed and trimmed, and wearing the clothing Joanna had sent, loose on his emaciated tall frame but quite respectable, he looked much more the sort of gentleman who might be invited as the guest of a rural baron.
Another thought struck him then, prompting another rueful smile. A year ago, he would never have considered accepting an invitation to a Devonshire estate that, from his hazy recollection, was rather remote, unless said estate came fully stocked with game for shooting, spirits for drinking and willing wenches for amusement.
Even his former meticulous self couldn’t have faulted the elegant appointments of this room, though, he acknowledged, giving the vast chamber an admiring glance. Bronning might be merely a baron, but he was clearly a rich one.
How would he find the rest of the estate? Probably a good deal better managed than the one that had been given into his charge, he reflected with another painful flash of honesty.
Greville’s lofty opinion of his own worth had taken as much of a beating during his time at sea as that pirate ship the Illustrious had boarded. He’d had months marooned within the small confines of a naval vessel with nothing to do but reflect, as the grit he holystoned over the deck cut into his knees or he took his turn hoisting sail or cranking the bilge pumps.
Those eight months had carved a divide as wide and deep as the cutlass gash in his chest between Greville Anders, pampered only son of minor gentry and distant cousin of a great peer, and the man he was now.
Along with his status as ‘gentleman’, the sea wind and grinding labour had worn away his former opinions, attitudes and values to such an extent that the face now gazing back at him belonged to a wholly different individual. One who’d gone from fury at his fate, to resignation, to a growing sense of pride as, with hard work and dogged persistence, he proved his worth to a sceptical crew … and to himself.
Not that he was sure yet what he’d do next, once Lord Englemere persuaded the Admiralty to release him from duty as a landsman with the Royal Navy. He did know, however, having lived among men who pledged their efforts and their very lives to a cause greater than themselves, that he could never stomach being idle again. He could not drift from estate to estate of his wealthy university friends, as he had after leaving Cambridge, his company valued as an amusing fribble who enlivened every party with his wit, his expertise at the gaming table and his ability to charm the ladies.
In addition to consulting Englemere about a new position, he had assurances from Captain Harrington that his former commanding officer would enquire about a place for him with his contacts in the Admiralty. On this fever-free, sunny English morning, Greville felt confident he’d find some honourable employment suitable for a gentleman’s son.
Exactly what was a puzzle he didn’t need to solve this moment, he thought with an echo of the insouciance with which he used to dismiss all problems. His only task now was to discern his true level of recovery by exiting this chamber and investigating his temporary residence.
‘What is the routine of the household?’ he asked the still-hovering Luke. ‘I should like to see Lord Bronning and apologise for my rudeness in remaining two whole days in my chamber.’
‘Don’t expect that were a problem. I imagine his lordship was happy to have you stay put. And heal, I mean,’ he added, the tips of his ears reddening.
Greville bit back a grin. Servants in a grand house being as fiercely proud of their master’s home and status as the owner himself, the reception of a man who looked as much like gallows-bait as he had upon arrival had no doubt been greeted with as much disapproving speculation belowstairs as above. He’d wager his host—and hostess—were thankful he’d remained abed, sparing them the dilemma of what to do with him.
‘It’s past time for breakfast, I see,’ he said with a nod towards the mantel clock. ‘Do Lord Bronning and his family take nuncheon?’
‘Lord B.’s off inspecting the estate, but Miss Neville and Miss Althea sometimes do. They’ll be in breakfast room shortly if they are. I can have Cook send in something, whether the ladies be eating or not, if you’re wishful.’
‘Yes, I should like that. Please tell Cook how much I enjoyed the tray you brought earlier.’
The footman grinned. ‘No need to say nothing. She saw the empty plate and was happy to see you’re such a good trencherman! What with all the illness in the house, the master’s sister and then the missus herself passing on last spring and summer, Lord B.’s been pecking at his food and Miss Neville no better. Be a right pleasure to cook for someone with a healthy man’s appetite, she said. Breakfast room’s on the main floor, to the left from the stairs.’
Greville thanked the footman, who bowed himself out with a promise to make sure there would be something waiting to tempt his appetite. Taking one last look in the glass to adjust the knot Luke had fashioned in his cravat, Greville carefully straightened and set forth for the breakfast room.
With his whole concentration the evening of his arrival focused on simply making it up the stairs to a bedchamber, the size and furnishing of Lord Bronning’s house had made little impression. He soon discovered that the rest of the house was as luxurious and well appointed as his bedchamber.
Though related to the famous Stanhopes, the Anders family was not wealthy, Papa being merely a younger son of distinguished lineage. Like many younger sons, his father had been bundled off to the church, which he now served by ministering to the clerks and soldiers of the East India Company. But educated at Cambridge and having many friends among the wealthier of his class, Greville had visited enough elegant townhouses and grand country estates to recognise that Bronning’s family was not only wealthy, but of ancient lineage.
Although his bedchamber had been decorated in cream-toned plasterwork with the classical pediments and pilasters of the Adams style, the hallway down which he was now walking boasted beautiful carving, which to his critical eye appeared to be of Renaissance origin. The floor beneath his feet was solid oak planking, polished to a high gleam. An array of portraits of men and ladies in Renaissance and Cavalier dress hung at intervals above the carved wainscoting.
He reached the landing, which overlooked a large stonewalled entry, its walls hung with tapestries and its huge front door flanked by suits of armour, indicating that the space must have originally been a medieval tower. After carefully descending a grand stairway of the same elegantly carved Renaissance oak—and leased to arrive at the bottom after a minimum of teeth-gritting discomfort—he was drawn to light emanating from under an archway beneath the stairs.
Walking through to what must be a later addition, he discovered a set of French doors opening on to a broad stone terrace that descended several steps to a second terrace of closely clipped lawn. Two brick wings in the Georgian style flanked the terraces to the left and right, their graceful tapered ends punctuated by a trio of Palladian windows. Beyond the grass terrace, steps descended to a rolling meadow leading in the distance to thick woods that climbed steeply uphill.
He had to laugh and grimaced at the pull to his wound. After viewing the hall and grounds, he was even more surprised Lord Bronning hadn’t had him summarily carted back to his carriage upon arrival. No wonder Miss Neville had frowned at him!
Would she continue to frown today? he wondered. Though his entire view of the world and what made a man worthy had altered, Miss Neville doubtless shared the beliefs and values embraced by the majority of their class. According to these, any approval of the service he had rendered his country while aboard the Illustrious would be negated by the menial position he had occupied while serving there.
The old Greville had never met a lady he couldn’t charm. Now that he looked more like that old self, despite her inclination to dismiss such a low person, would Miss Neville prove immune to his appeal? Though his plans most certainly did not include courting the daughter of a wealthy baron while he marked time here waiting for his future to begin, it might be amusing to find out.
At that conclusion, he returned his attention to calculating which doorway down the left of the impressively long hallway might lead him into the breakfast room. Wishing he’d asked Luke for more specific directions, he set off.
His satisfaction at finding the correct door turned to pleasure when, halting on the threshold, he discovered the space within already occupied by two young females. The glorious Miss Neville, looking like sunshine itself in a pale yellow morning gown that echoed her golden hair, sat across from a younger, plainly dressed female, who must be the Miss Althea the footman had mentioned.
He made them a bow, further cheered by how much easier that gesture was today than it had been a few days previous. ‘Good day, ladies. May I join you?’

Chapter Three
Relieved to have company to break the tense silence that had fallen between her and her cousin Althea, Amanda was about to greet her father when she realised the deep masculine voice was not Papa’s. As she looked up sharply, the vision that met her startled eyes made her catch her breath and sent her senses leaping like a colt loosed in a spring meadow.
A man stood in the doorway, smiling faintly. Despite his casual stance, the tall, lean body radiated an aura of such intense masculinity that everything female within her came instantly to the alert. A little thrill of anticipation zinged through her as she focused her gaze on the rugged, vaguely familiar face: handsome, if a bit lean and tanned, with vivid green eyes that seemed to gaze into one’s soul and a beguiling smile playing about the lips.
That enticing smile coaxed forth an answering one before the truth of his identity struck her with force of a giant boulder, smashing her response at birth. The man wearing gentleman’s garb and standing at ease on the threshold could only be their long-absent guest, Mr Anders.
Before she could order her disjointed thoughts to summon a suitable greeting, Althea bobbed up like a fishing cork after a pull on the line. ‘Mr Anders, is it not!’ she cried. ‘How excellent to meet you at last! I’m so sorry I missed your arrival. You were ill, I’d heard, but are obviously better. Please, won’t you help yourself at the sideboard and come sit by me? I cannot wait to converse with you.’
‘How kind of you to solicit my company, Miss …?’ He paused, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Holton—Althea Holton. No one of importance, as Amanda would tell you,’ Althea said with a toss of her head in Amanda’s direction. ‘Lord Bronning is my uncle.’
‘His lordship is doubly fortunate, then, to have both a handsome daughter and a lovely niece.’
‘Prettily spoken, Mr Anders,’ Amanda responded, finally collecting her wits. ‘I, too, am glad to see you have recovered enough to join us.’
‘Are you indeed, Miss Neville?’ he replied, his dry tone and raised eyebrow telling her he doubted those polite words. ‘I am heartily glad to be able to join you. I hope I shall be less trouble for the remainder of my sojourn here than I’ve been the last two days—however long that sojourn may be.’
‘I do hope it will be extended!’ Althea interjected. ‘You are to report to the Coastal Brigade office, Uncle James said? What shall you do with them?’
‘On that head, Miss Holton, I have no more information than you. I shall not discover the extent of my duties until I report in, which I intend to do as soon as I can manage the journey.’
‘If you feel equal to the trip today, I can summon you a coach,’ Amanda offered.
He showed her that quirk of eyebrow again, as if he thought her remark implied an eagerness to be rid of him. Though she hadn’t intended to convey that impression—at least consciously—she supposed it was true.
A sudden shame heated her cheeks. She’d thought Anders too ill or cast-away to notice much upon his arrival—but had her less-than-enthusiastic reaction to his visit been so apparent? It must have, for he was treating her with an ironic courtesy that said he didn’t believe a single one of her politenesses.
Chagrin deepened the burn. Though plain, Mr Anders’s garments were undeniably those of a gentleman, and he wore them with the ease of long practice. His birth and connections were probably exactly as claimed, despite the low nature of his recent activities. Though she was still beset by problems and grieving, that didn’t excuse her being uncivil or unwelcoming to one of Papa’s guests—no matter how ill conceived she think the invitation.
‘A kind offer, Miss Neville, but I don’t believe I shall avail myself of it today,’ he replied while incoherent words of apology churned around in her head. ‘My emergence from the sickroom is so recent, I think it would be wiser to remain at Ashton Grove and try my luck exploring the house and grounds. From the few glimpses I had driving to the manor, both are magnificent.’
‘Oh, they are indeed,’ Althea chimed in. ‘Would you like to tour the estate? I’d be happy to drive you—if you are up to it. I was told you’d been wounded, but have no idea of the severity. What happened? Oh, I mean if it is not too rude to enquire. It’s just, I’m so fascinated by everything about the Navy!’
‘Why don’t we let Mr Anders eat before we press him to recount his history?’ Amanda suggested, embarrassed by Althea’s overly inquisitive behaviour.
Sparing Amanda only a quick dagger glance, Althea refocused her attention on Anders. ‘Do try the ham and cheese, it’s quite good,’ she coaxed. ‘Shall I assist you? Allow me to carry your plate.’
Goodness, Althea was acting as if their guest were an invalid or a child still in the nursery. Amanda’s experience with gentleman was limited mostly to her brother, but she knew George would hate to be coddled in such a manner. ‘Mr Anders probably prefers to fix his own plate, Althea,’ she said in as light a tone as possible.
It didn’t answer; the girl flashed her a resentful look. ‘I know he’s capable. I just want to help, if he wishes it.’
‘That’s most kind of you, Miss Holton, but I think I can manage,’ Anders replied, tactfully forestalling any further exchange. ‘I admit to being eager to try more of your cook’s skill. If the exceptional breakfast sent up this morning is any indication, you keep a fine table, Miss Neville. That is, I understand you run the household yourself? And do so with admirable skill for a lady so young.’
‘Yes, Amanda’s a paragon of organisation, as anyone at Ashton Grove will tell you. An exemplary manager and a beauty! No doubt she’ll have suitors lined up in the street when she makes her come-out in London this spring.’ Though the words themselves were matter of fact, Althea’s tone implied her disdain at such a goal.
Mr Anders either did not sense that, or chose to ignore it, merely replying, ‘So you will go to London, then?’
‘Yes, I hope to,’ Amanda replied. At least one of the ladies present could be politely brief, she thought with annoyance.
‘Indeed, Amanda can’t wait to escape the country!’ Althea exclaimed. ‘Whereas I think Ashton Grove is wonderful, and so rich in history. The original part of the house dates from the late fourteenth century. I’d be delighted to show you around—when you are sufficiently rested, Mr Anders,’ she added, directing another pointed look at Amanda.
‘After I sample some of that ham and cheese, I may take you up on that kind offer, Miss Holton,’ Anders said.
Althea insisted on walking to the sideboard with him, pointing out other dishes and offering to hold his plate or fetch him coffee. Amanda had to admit, Anders bore those ministrations with patience, tinged, if the wink he sent her over the girl’s head was any indication, with good humour.
Returning to the table, he seated himself beside Althea as requested. Eating slowly, occasionally closing his eyes as if truly savouring the food, he continued to focus a flattering amount of attention on the girl.
Amanda couldn’t fault his manners, and his conversation was skilful, too. With a few well-chosen phrases, he led Althea to describe Ashton Grove, the pleasant walks and rides to be had in the area, the fishing and hunting available, the route one took to reach the Devon coast, the beautiful red cliffs at Salcombe by the Coastal Brigade station at Salters Bay.
Probably he was Stanhope’s cousin after all. She’d love to enquire about that relationship—when she could do so with more polite discretion than Althea was displaying.
Not required to add a syllable to the discussion, Amanda settled back to simply observing Anders. Which, she had to admit, was certainly no hardship.
The improvement in his looks from the bearded, grimy man she’d met in the entry two days ago was little short of amazing. Though the limp was gone, he walked a bit stiffly, testament to the fact that he was still not fully recovered. In spite of that impediment, there was a sinuous, almost feline quality to his movements.
Something about his rangy grace recalled to her mind the jungle cats she’d seen as a girl in the Royal Menagerie—sleek and feral. Despite the subtle signs of injury, Mr Anders still radiated a sense of self-confidence and power.
This was not a man to tangle with, that prowling stance said, but one who would protect what was his and hold his own in a fight. Free to roam about as the menagerie beasts were not, she suspected Mr Anders might prove even more dangerous.
From the deliberate way he was holding the fork in his left hand and the rigid angle of his arm, she surmised that his wound must be on that side. Speculating about the size and location of the injury hidden beneath the coat led her to imagining how his chest might look, stripped of clothing.
That image sparked such a strong, unsettling flash of sensation in her belly that she immediately shut down the thought. Taking a steadying breath, she turned her gaze instead to a covert study of his profile.
He possessed a straight, classical nose and the lips of a Greek sculpture. A determined chin, against which he was tapping one tanned finger, bronzed, no doubt, from performing all manner of tasks in heat and sun, as the calloused palm would also attest. At his brow and temples, a luxuriant curl of auburn hair, now cut and fashionably styled, inspired in her the oddest desire to run her fingers through it.
At the thought of him running one of his tanned hands through her unbound hair, she felt a little shiver. Despite the ravages worked upon him by his service at sea and his wounds, Mr Anders was still a strikingly well-made gentleman.
Unfortunately.
Though she had scarcely more acquaintance with personable gentlemen than her cousin, she was older and, she hoped, less impressionable than Althea, yet when Mr Anders had appeared on the threshold a few moments ago, he’d nearly stolen her breath. If Amanda didn’t mistake the look on her cousin’s face, now gazing up at their guest raptly, Althea had developed an instantaneous tendre for the man she’d already been predisposed to admire for his military connections.
How was Amanda going to prevent her impetuous cousin from hanging on Mr Anders’s sleeve, chattering in his ear and trying to accompany him on every walk, stroll or ride he took on Ashton Grove land and elsewhere?
‘Have I dripped egg on my coat, Miss Neville?’
Startled out of her reverie, Amanda realised Mr Anders’s deep-green eyes were now focused on her, his amused expression announcing he’d caught her staring at him. Quickly she averted her gaze, while, to her added discomfort, she felt a blush mounting her cheeks.
‘I don’t think so,’ Althea replied before she could respond. ‘If you had, she would have told you so directly. Amanda is a stickler for propriety and proper behaviour.’
‘Proper’ meaning dull, Althea’s tone said. Amanda suppressed a sigh and hoped her expression didn’t betray her irritation. Althea’s obvious attempt to disparage her in front of the object of her fascination might be humorous if it were not so annoying—and disquieting proof of just how mesmerised the girl already was.
‘For a young lady about to make her début, being a stickler for propriety is an unfortunate necessity, or so I’ve been told,’ came Mr Anders’s surprising reply. ‘It’s quite unfair that gentleman are allowed great freedom of behaviour, while ladies, especially unmarried ones, are so restricted.’
Amanda risked a quick, covert glance at his face, which seemed serious rather than mocking. It was only polite of him to have so deftly deflected Althea’s criticism, but could it be possible he really understood the truth of his remark?
Or was he just vastly experienced at leading young ladies astray? As of yet, she knew absolutely nothing about his character. Compellingly attractive as he was injured, she imagined his charm would be quite devastating when he was fully recovered. A rogue-in-sheep’s clothing, who cloaked illicit designs in properly conventional speeches, would be as dangerous to Althea’s heart and reputation as those jungle cats loosed among Ashton Grove cattle.
The idea of having to tangle wits with the gentleman to protect her cousin sent a sharp, and deeply disturbing, tingle of anticipation rippling through Amanda.
She struggled to suppress it, reminding herself that, alluring as he might be, even if Anders were the gentleman he seemed, his present circumstances rendered him entirely ineligible as a suitable companion for either her or Althea.
Meanwhile, her cousin eagerly latched on to his comment. ‘Quite right!’ she cried. ‘When I was younger, I used to ride astride, in trousers, which is so much more practical and comfortable than going side-saddle in a tangle of skirts. But after … everything that happened last summer, Uncle James has forbidden me to follow the hunt. Indeed, he insists I maintain the most dull, dawdling pace when I do ride, though now more than ever I need a hard gallop. And you cannot even imagine the dreariness of the lady’s academy they forced me to attend. Lecture after lecture about how a young lady must do this and mustn’t do that, all those silly girls chattering of beaux and gowns and needlework until I thought I must scream. How glad I was to leave.
‘And I’m not going back,’ she announced with a mutinous glare at Amanda, whose shock at that pronouncement doubtless showed clearly on her face. ‘I shall stay here at Ashton Grove and take care of Uncle James while Amanda goes to London.’
Though this was both a most unwelcome announcement and the first she’d heard of the decision, now in front of Mr Anders was hardly the place to debate the matter.
Unable to determine upon a reply that would not further inflame her cousin, Amanda was relieved when their guest smoothly continued, ‘What would you study and do, Miss Holton, if you were permitted to choose?’
As good manners, it was an impeccable move. Even more surprising, Mr Anders appeared to genuinely be interested in the opinions of this shabbily behaved schoolgirl.
‘I’d ride astride again. Learn to fence and shoot and hunt. Fish in my old clothes like I used to with Amanda, before she put off such “childish” things. Study politics and philosophy and … and Greek instead of china painting and deportment. Play billiards—and drink port and smoke cigars!’ Althea finished defiantly.
If she’d tried to shock him, she’d failed. Their guest merely shook his head and laughed. ‘I fear your relations would give you trouble, indeed, were you to embark on such an agenda. Though I should hardly wish for such a lovely girl to be miraculously transformed into a young man, it is a shame, for if you were on your way to university, you might indulge all those desires.’
‘How I wish I might attend university,’ Althea said wistfully—and Amanda suppressed a sigh of her own at virtually the only remark her cousin had made with which she agreed. How much more useful might a wife be to a husband with great responsibilities in government were she tutored as he had been in the intricacies of diplomacy and politics.
‘How does one go about making a career of the sea?’ Althea asked. ‘When we walk along the beach, watching the ships, I always wonder what it would be like to be out there, sailing on one of the vessels skimming by the coast.’
‘I am not making a career of the Navy, Miss Holton, although my short time in the service gave me a great admiration for those who do. Individuals who desire to rise to command must begin at a much earlier age. My captain, himself son of a commodore, went aboard his first ship as a “young gentleman” at the age of eleven.’
‘Does it take so long, then?’ Amanda asked, her interest piqued in spite of herself.
‘It does—and the training is rigorous. A “young gentleman” must serve three years before he can become a midshipman, then at least another six as midshipman before he can take the exam for lieutenant. There are never enough commands to go around, and with the war finally over, even fewer will be available, although much important work remains for the Navy. The French no longer hamper British commerce, but despite the recent agreement signed with the Bey of Algiers to prevent dealing in, ah … the abduction of European citizens, piracy remains a serious threat.’
His momentary pause, and the slight tinge of colour in his face when he pronounced the last phrase, sparked Amanda to wonder if he were referring to the agreement to end the white slavery trade about which she’d read in the London papers last year. If so, no wonder he’d been embarrassed, almost mentioning such a shocking subject to young ladies of sensibility. The titillating notion of slave girls and seraglios sent a thrill of the forbidden through her.
Fortunately, the mention of pirates had apparently distracted Althea from noticing his hesitation. ‘Was your ship engaged against the pirates?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is that how you were injured?’
Suddenly, Anders’s genial smile faded and his eyes took on a hard look. ‘Yes, but it’s probably best I not relate too much of that bloody encounter.’
‘Oh, but I should love to hear about it!’ Althea cried. ‘Every cannon volley and thrust. It must have been so thrilling.’
While Anders’s expression grew even more forbidding, her cousin opened her lips, looking as if she were about to entreat him again. ‘Althea!’ Amanda warned in a sharp undertone.
Finally sensing Mr Anders’s reluctance, her cousin flushed. ‘Excuse me,’ she mumbled. ‘Of course, I don’t wish to tease you to talk about something you prefer not to discuss.’
‘Should you like more coffee, Mr Anders?’ Amanda intervened to cover the awkward moment.
Mr Anders’s stern expression softened. ‘No, I’ve had sufficient, Miss Neville. Perhaps a knife to pick my teeth?’
The room went suddenly silent. Shock and dismay must have blanched her face, but before she could form some reply, Anders chuckled.
‘Belay that last,’ he said with a grin. ‘I believe I shall try a walk now. From what I observed from the French doors overlooking the terrace, a stroll through the gardens should be quite pleasant.’
Why, the … the wretch! Amanda fumed, feeling her face flame again. Not only had Anders obviously sensed her initial disdain for the man who’d stumbled across her threshold looking like the lowest of common sailors, he now had the audacity to tease her about it! Though as shabbily as she’d treated him as his hostess, she probably ought to tender him an apology … at some moment when her cousin wasn’t looking on.
‘Shall I show you?’ Althea offered quickly. ‘My Aunt Lydia’s knot gardens are most ingenious—like a maze in miniature made of clipped herbs. Just give me long enough to fetch my pelisse.’
‘That would be most pleasant, Miss Holton,’ Anders said.
Damn and blast, Amanda thought, Althea’s offer pulling her from her agitation to a more serious concern. It appeared her cousin did intend to dog the steps of their guest.
Except for that one remark about teeth-picking, Mr Anders had conducted himself like a gentleman. Polished behaviour, however, would be easy to affect by one who had grown up among the ton, as his lineage, if not his most recent associations, suggested. If he were a rogue, she was in for a difficult time, for judging by the adoring gaze Althea now had fixed upon the man, she would be deaf to any caution Amanda might utter about spending time alone in his company.
An even more dire possibility occurred to her. Despite her avowed interest in ‘manly’ pursuits, Althea was a girl hovering on the brink between child and young woman. If her adulation should turn in a flirtatious direction, the girl might throw herself at Anders’s head. Possessed of a sizeable dowry herself, Althea would be a plump prize for a man who apparently possessed neither wealth nor property of his own.
One further glance at Althea’s expression told Amanda that any attempt to prevent her from escorting Mr Anders about was doomed to failure. The girl would simply disobey a direct order to refrain from his company; if Amanda tried to assign her some task that would prevent their meeting, Althea would likely find a way around it.
Desperately Amanda wished that Papa were present, removing from her shoulders the burden of protecting her cousin. But though she didn’t wish to further offend their guest, she knew it simply was not safe for Althea to go waltzing about the estate with Mr Anders unchaperoned. And since her wily cousin was quite capable of fobbing off any maid or groom she tried to saddle with the task, the only person likely to successfully prevent that—was herself.
Reluctantly she forced the words through stiff lips. ‘I believe I’d like to take the air as well. May I join you in your walk, Mr Anders?’
Though he might immediately guess her purpose, in his guise as a gentleman, Mr Anders could hardly refuse to accept her company if he’d already agreed to Althea’s. Though the girl sent her a furious look for inserting herself where she was not wanted, Mr Anders replied with the only answer courtesy permitted.
‘Of course, Miss Neville. If having the escort of one lovely lady is a delight, having two would be doubly so. Shall I meet you both at the entry in, say, ten minutes?’
After her polite and Althea’s enthusiastic murmur of assent, the three rose from the table.
Amanda lingered in the breakfast room as the other two departed, fuming. With quarterly supplies to order, the household account books to review with Mrs Pepys, several ill tenants to visit and half-a-dozen other urgent tasks awaiting, the last thing she needed was to have to play unwilling chaperon to her equally unwilling cousin.
Amanda resisted a strong urge to hurl her unoffending coffee cup into the fireplace, merely to hear the satisfying crash.
There was no hope for it, though. Until she could transfer the responsibility for Althea’s protection to Papa or work out a better way to separate the girl from the object of her fascination, Amanda would have to intervene.
The regrettable fact that a little stir of anticipation coursed through her at the idea of spending more time in Mr Anders’s company only made her angrier.

Chapter Four
Some ten minutes later, Greville met the ladies in the downstairs hallway before proceeding through the French doors on to the terrace. The pale February sun gave an illusion of warmth and cast a mellow light over the lichen-coated stone ornaments, balustrades, steps and the soft salmon brick of the Georgian wings. Ghostly trees rose out of the mist that still lingered over the lawns, while in the distance a dark wood climbed the hazy outlines of a slope.
Though the house and grounds had obviously been occupied for centuries, the alterations and additions had been made with care, the medieval tower and Elizabethan galleries flowing seamlessly into the Georgian wings.
‘The prospect is delightful,’ Greville said admiringly. ‘The handsome buildings, the broad sweep of terrace, the lawn marching into the hills—all combine to give the impression of timeless serenity.’
Miss Neville glanced at him sharply, her cerulean-blue eyes narrowed. Apparently deciding he was sincere, for the first time, the carefully neutral expression she’d been maintaining brightened.
‘Thank you, Mr Anders,’ she said softly. ‘It was the project of my mother’s life to complete the wings and construct the terrace and gardens to unite the styles of many generations into one elegant whole.’
‘She succeeded brilliantly,’ Greville replied, pleased to see her face brighten further at the compliment.
‘I find the medieval tower more interesting than the new additions,’ Miss Holton broke in. ‘Almost as fascinating as the remains of the original castle, which was built on a bluff overlooking the river. You must let me show you Neville Tour later, when you’re feeling up to a drive. But now you must see Aunt Lydia’s knot gardens, over there below the end of the terrace. These flagstones can be slippery in the damp. Here, let me assist you,’ she said, reaching out to him. ‘We wouldn’t want you to fall and aggravate your injury!’
Dutifully offering the girl his arm, Greville suppressed a smile at Miss Holton’s persistence in treating him like an invalid. But when he turned to share that amusement with Miss Neville, he saw the pleasant expression fade from her face as her cousin latched on to his sleeve. Her gaze fixed with obvious displeasure on the spot where Miss Holton’s hand rested, Miss Neville fell into step behind them.
From whence did that disapproval arise? he wondered. Perhaps, as the reigning beauty of the area, she didn’t take kindly to having her young cousin usurp the escort of the only gentleman present. Surely she couldn’t imagine he had any designs upon Miss Holton, who looked as if she were barely old enough to have escaped the schoolroom.
‘Have you visited Holkham, Mr Anders?’ Miss Neville was asking.
‘No, Miss Neville.’ Though, having been given charge of an agricultural property, a task about which he’d known next to nothing, he probably should have. ‘Regrettably, I haven’t much knowledge of agriculture. I’ve heard of the yearly Clippings held at Coke of Norfolk’s home, of course. I understand your father is also a skilful manager, which makes me even more eager to tour his estate.’
Progressing at the dawdling pace Miss Holton seemed to think necessary for a recovering invalid, they were nearing the garden end of the terrace when a groom sprinted towards them. Doffing his hat to the ladies, the man said, ‘Miss Althea, will you be needing your horse? Harry has him saddled and ready.’
Miss Holton bit her lip, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Oh, bother it, I completely forgot! I usually ride out after nuncheon when the weather allows,’ she informed Greville.
‘Should I tell Harry to walk him for you, miss, or …?’ The groom’s voice trailed off.
When Miss Holton hesitated, obviously torn between the pleasures of riding and her desire to show him around, Greville said, ‘Please, Miss Holton, don’t let me alter your plans. With the day promising clear, a ride should be most refreshing. I can view the gardens another day.’
‘Are you sure you won’t mind waiting? Amanda could show you, but I’m sure she needs to return to her many duties. If you prefer to continue now, I can always ride later.’
The girl obviously didn’t want Miss Neville to take over her place as his escort. Not wishing to be responsible for any increase in the tension he sensed between the two girls, Greville replied, ‘I believe I would prefer to wait. I’m a bit fatigued after walking this far and would just as soon return to the house. I shall count on you, Miss Holton, to show me around another time. You have such p—Ah, enthusiasm,’ he substituted rapidly for ‘passion’, ‘for Ashton Grove, it’s a pleasure to have you as my guide.’
He’d only intended to deliver a pretty compliment to the girl who seemed to resent her beautiful cousin—but even his milder phrase earned him a sharp look from Miss Neville.
Could she object to his using the word ‘passion’ with her cousin? Though the thoughts that word immediately conjured up did not feature Miss Holton.
No, the image erupting in his eager mind was of the infinitely desirable Miss Neville, drawn into his embrace. That small ripe body tucked under his chin, that soft, rounded bosom pressed against his hard chest … Heat washed through him as parts lower than his chest hardened.
Enough, he thought, dragging his mind back to the conversation at hand—schoolgirls, and words that might not be voiced in their company. Who knew a simple conversation could become so complicated?
‘Very well, I suppose I shall ride as usual,’ Miss Holton finally concluded. ‘I shall see you at dinner, then, Mr Anders?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ Greville replied.
After informing the groom she would meet him at the stables as soon as she changed into her habit, Miss Holton, with obvious reluctance, set off for the house.
With equally obvious reluctance, Miss Neville remained. ‘Shall we complete the circuit of this terrace before we go in, Mr Anders?’
Greville wondered why she wished to prolong a walk she seemed to have embarked upon so unwillingly. In addition to that idle curiosity, he had to admit to feeling a bit piqued that she was reluctant, given his strong attraction to her.
Had he been the Greville of a year ago, his hackles all too easily raised whenever he sensed he was being treated with disdain by one richer or more favoured by fortune, he might have tried to trade snub for snub. But the hot sun off North Africa seemed to have burned out of him any lingering resentment over the fact that a mere accident of birth had elevated his cousin Nicky to the rank of marquess, while he was only a younger son from a minor branch of the family, possessed of neither title nor wealth.
At present, he was more amused and curious than offended by her reticence. The new Greville could even concede, given his disreputable appearance upon arrival, that Miss Neville was probably justified in feeling time spent entertaining him could be better devoted to something else.
Mindful of that, Greville said, ‘Your company would be a delight, but as Miss Holton pointed out, I imagine you have matters to attend that are of greater urgency than supervising a gimpy old sailor on a promenade over the terrace.’
To his surprise, another blush coloured her cheeks. So she’d understood his mild jab at her disinclination for his company.
‘I should never wish to neglect a guest of Papa’s,’ she murmured.
‘I shall not feel neglected, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘Miss Holton seems both capable and interested in showing me around later. Unless … it’s my accompanying your cousin that disturbs you?’ he guessed.
Her startled gaze shot back to his, confirming that suspicion.
Torn between amusement and indignation, Greville said drily, ‘Though you may still feel it necessary to provide Miss Holton with a chaperon, I assure you, I have no intention of ravishing her in full view of the house—or anywhere else. I admit that the circumstances of my arrival may have given you good reason to doubt it, but I do in fact possess the morals of a gentleman.’
Nor was he yet physically up to the challenge of ravishing anyone. Though if the luscious Miss Neville were the prize, he might be forced to test the limits of his endurance.
But perhaps he’d been too blunt. He was thinking how he might soften that bald statement when Miss Neville said, ‘I fear I owe you an apology. If I appeared to give less credence to your scruples than you felt proper, please note that my cousin is in a delicate position, no longer a child, but still a year or more from her come-out. As you yourself remarked this morning, a young lady in such a position must take extreme care not to compromise her reputation. And so I feel I must protect her—whether she wishes me to or not.’
Greville nodded. ‘Point taken. Though I confess, I have difficulty seeing Miss Holton, with her enthusiasm for fencing, shooting and cigars, as a young lady ready to embrace London society.’
Miss Neville gave a rueful grimace. ‘Indeed! Unless something changes, I doubt she will be very enthusiastic about embracing it. But that’s not all. Let me further confess that, distressed by your … appearance when you first arrived, I did not greet you with the warmth and hospitality due my father’s guest. I do hope that, during the rest of your stay, you will allow me to make amends for that regrettable lapse.’
Of all the things she might have said, that apology was perhaps the most unexpected. In his observation, a Beauty was generally too complacent about her own worth and too absorbed by her own concerns to notice or care about the feelings of lesser beings.
Had some traumatic event—perhaps the tragic loss of her mother the previous summer?—spurred her to this unusual sensitivity? Whatever the cause, the perception and empathy she’d just displayed hinted at a character as sterling as her beauty.
A beautiful lady of gentle birth and sterling character who was already fully capable of managing a vast estate would be a prize indeed on the Marriage Mart this spring. The more discerning London gentlemen ought to fight each other to vie for her hand.
A pang of sadness flashed through him that in neither wealth nor title would he be considered worthy to enter that contest.
But then, he wasn’t in the market for a wife, certainly not a wealthy, well-born one eager to plunge herself into the London society, he now disdained. Shrugging off that stab of regret, Greville said, ‘Shall we exchange mutual apologies, then? I shall beg pardon for not initially appearing worthy of your hospitality.’
‘Very well, mutual apologies it is,’ she agreed with a smile.
Greville caught his breath. Frowning, Miss Neville had been lovely; uninterested, she was the handsomest woman he’d ever met, but with those tempting lips curved upwards, the smile adding a glow to her cheeks and an appealing softness to her countenance, she was magnificent.
The warmth of her expression flowed like molten honey over his cold heart, glazing it with sweetness. Smiling back, he glanced into her eyes and was captivated.
Ah, how mesmerising were the turquoise-blue depths, scintillating with highlights like a white-capped sea under a blustery fair sky! Greville could cast himself adrift in them for ever.
He felt almost dizzy, his equilibrium unexpectedly upended by a force too powerful to resist. He felt as if he’d been tossed to the deck by a ‘wind shot’, the blast of air from a passing cannon ball that could knock a man off his feet, though the ball itself never touched him.
The attraction was so strong, he instinctively wished to move closer, catching himself from doing so only at the last moment.
For several seconds they both remained motionless. Had the blast he felt affected her, too? he wondered. Certainly she had gone still and silent, her lips slightly parted but mute, her wide eyes staring back into his.
She was shaken, he concluded with a wild upswing of joy. Every sense exulting, he felt the nearly irresistible urge to close the distance between them and kiss her.
Mercifully, good sense intervened. He stepped back, making himself recall why kissing the daughter of his host was not a good idea, even though other parts of his body enthusiastically endorsed such a course.
She broke the fraught silence then, saying something about returning to the house that his still-dazed ears were barely able to comprehend.
Pull yourself together, Greville. Though initially he’d merely thought to amuse himself, tweaking this pretty miss with her superior sense of worth, he now felt the strongest compulsion to discover more about her.
‘Let me walk in with you,’ he said, deliberately slowing his pace while he reassembled his scrambled wits to produce some suitable conversation to prolong their interlude. ‘You’ll be wanting to return to your duties, which, I understand, are considerable. Luke, the footman who acted as my valet this morning, told me about the sad losses your family has recently suffered. Please accept my condolences, Miss Neville. However brilliantly you handle the household—and in my observation, that is very competently indeed—taking over for your mama under such circumstances must have been very difficult.’
The smile faded—and somewhat to Greville’s alarm, tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. ‘Yes, it was … difficult.’
There was no reason the sadness on her face should pull at his heart—but somehow it did. Hoping to distract her from that reminder of her loss, he said, ‘You are soon to depart to London for the Season, are you not?’
‘Yes, but you mustn’t think I mean to slight Mama’s memory. I would remain here in mourning, but before she … left us, Mama made me promise I would go to London as planned. My Season has already been so often delayed that, compared to the other young ladies, I shall seem practically at my last prayers.’
Greville laughed at the sheer absurdity of such a notion. ‘I assure you, Miss Neville, anyone meeting you will think only that you are one of the loveliest and most charming young ladies ever to grace London.’
Rather than preen coquettishly at his compliment, she blushed again and looked away, as if such gallantry made her uncomfortable. How wonderfully refreshing that a girl of her astounding beauty seemed to possess so little vanity! he thought, impressed despite himself.
Perhaps there were few personable or perceptive gentlemen in the vicinity of Ashton Grove, leaving her unaware of just what a Diamond she was—a circumstance that would certainly change once she reached London. She’d grow inured to flattery soon enough, he concluded with some regret.
‘You are too kind, Mr Anders,’ she said softly.
‘No, ma’am, merely truthful. But, if you don’t mind my asking, what has delayed your Season?’
She paused, a shadow passing over her face, and for a moment Greville thought she wouldn’t answer. ‘A succession of unfortunate events,’ she said at length. ‘Three years ago, Mama’s best friend, with whom we were to stay, ended up at the last minute having to remain in the country due to complications after her daughter’s lying-in. She and Mama had been bosom-bows during their own come-out year and had long planned to share mine; we preferred to delay a year rather than forgo her company. And practically speaking, by that late date, it would have been nearly impossible to find a suitable house to let, even if we’d wished to proceed alone.’
‘And after that?’ he prompted.
‘Two winters ago,’ she continued softly, a sorrowful note creeping into her tone, ‘my grandmother, who had resided with us for years, fell ill with a fever that lingered on and on. Though she urged us to go to London without her, of course we refused. We lost her that summer. You’ve already heard what transpired this past year, when my aunt, the household and finally Mama fell ill.’ She forced a smile. ‘In sum, a rather dreary tale.’
So in the space of two years she’d lost grandmother, aunt and mother, a succession of blows that would give anyone pause—and perhaps as effective as being sold to a press gang at making one revaluate the world and one’s place in it.
‘Heartbreaking, certainly,’ Greville summed up, once again unaccountably touched by the sadness in her magnificent eyes. He was trying to hit upon a way to redirect her thoughts when Miss Neville said, ‘I was ill myself for some time, during which Mama carried the entire burden of running the household and tending me, my aunt and numerous members of the staff who’d also contracted the disease. Perhaps if I’d recovered more quickly and could have assisted her, she would have had the strength to survive once she herself succumbed to the sickness.’
‘Surely you don’t blame yourself,’ Greville said. ‘Likely nothing you could have done would have made any difference. Life brings tragedies to everyone; more frequently, it seems, to the blameless. During my first storm at sea, one of the foretopmen, the lads who work the sails at the very height of the mast, was swept overboard. He was a skilled sailor, well liked by all, while the man beside him, an ill-natured creature who caused no end of trouble, was spared. Why young Henry rather than the ne’er-do-well? The Devil protecting his own, perhaps.’
‘You are likely right. Still, it’s hard not to feel responsible, somehow.’
Miss Neville fell silent, obviously still grappling with her grief. Greville felt an upswelling of desire to comfort her that was as strong as his previous urge to kiss her.
Well, almost as strong. He yearned to pull her into his arms and promise her the moon, let the warmth of his body chase away the cold desolation in her eyes, tease her or even annoy her until he banished the lingering thoughts of loss.
Kissing her would certainly distract her, his body suggested hopefully. Why not satisfy both urgings?
Such a ploy would likely distract her right into planting him a facer, Greville answered himself. Still, he had to struggle to silence that tempting voice and quell the immediate effect the idea of kissing her produced in his all-too-needy member.
While he was thus preoccupied, Miss Neville said, ‘Perhaps I should wait another year. But … there’s nothing at Ashton for me save sad memories, and I did promise Mama.’
‘Doing what your mama wanted is the important thing.’
‘I know, you are right.’ She uttered a strained laugh. ‘It’s ridiculous, but I am still so torn. Eager to embrace my future on the one hand, yet strangely resistant to leaving. It’s as if, as long as I remain at Ashton, I haven’t completely … lost Mama and Grandmama and Aunt Felicia. But once I go to London and embark upon my Season, the Season we spent so many evenings planning together, I can no longer escape the fact that they are truly gone … and I must live my life without them.’
‘Tied to a past that cannot be recaptured, yet uncertain about moving forwards?’ Greville said, thinking wryly he stood in almost the same position.
Her eyes widened. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly! How perceptive you are, Mr Anders.’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ve had some … perspective-altering experiences myself this last year.’ Like having his self-esteem and sense of position plunged into the maelstrom of the sea, to emerge eight months later, like a ship repaired after a storm, with a whole new rigging of attitudes about life and his place in it.
She nodded. ‘Are you finding it difficult to move forwards?’
‘My future plans are still … unsettled,’ he conceded. ‘About yours, however, there can be no doubt: you shall become one of the Season’s reigning Diamonds, intrigue a host of high-titled aspirants to your hand and choose one lucky man to be your husband.’
She chuckled. ‘That was certainly Mama and Grandmama’s plan. I was raised on tales about the dazzling Duchess of Devonshire, the premier light of society during Grandmama’s years in London. Both she and Mama set their hearts on my making a brilliant match to a gentleman of high rank and political influence.’
With a smile, she continued, ‘They made life in London sound so exciting! By the time I was sixteen, I was convinced I wanted to be just like Lady Georgiana—though not, of course, quite as much of a gamester. Or at least, not a losing one,’ she amended with a laugh.
That small joyous sound dispelled the lingering sadness on her face and left him wondering whether her smile or her vulnerability was more appealing.
‘You mustn’t think I value myself too highly!’ she added, her levity vanishing beneath a sudden seriousness. ‘I realise I’m not a duke’s daughter, nor one raised in political circles. I am, however, endowed with a very handsome dowry, which Grandmama said, for a gentleman with political or diplomatic ambitions, might well compensate for my lack of title and political connections. And the Bronning barony is a very old one. Both believed that, with my birth and dowry, achieving a grand match was quite possible. I hope you don’t think me vain to express such aims,’ she concluded, turning to him with an expression of concern.
‘Not at all. From my experience in society, your family’s expectations are quite reasonable.’
And they were. A young lady of Miss Neville’s remarkable beauty, who also possessed birth and fortune, might look as high as she liked for a husband. That fact alone ought to extinguish his smouldering desire for her company.
Though he conceded that the political set to which she aspired performed important work, the London society of which she spoke so glowingly was a world he now considered shallow and barren of purpose. While it might be harmless enough to establish a teasing friendship with her, he’d best keep uppermost in his randy mind a clear understanding of just how divergent her future and his would be.
He wondered if she truly was prepared for the London she was so eager to reach. Despite her beauty and wealth—indeed, because of it—she was unlikely to find it the vibrant milieu teeming with charming, intelligent and superior individuals she seemed to expect. Instead, she was about to plunge into an often shallow, vicious world of exacting standards meant to trip up the unwary, peopled by idle, self-important social arbiters ready to seize upon any mistake to criticise and disparage a newcomer.
Heavens, he thought in some surprise, when had his view of society become so negative? Perhaps it was a distillation of his previous resentment over his lack of status, combined with the clarity of vision brought about by his life among those at the bottom of the social scale, who, despite their lowly status, spent their lives performing a mission of much greater urgency than the endless rounds of parties, gaming, and self-indulgence that made up the world of society. And used to make up his own.
He hoped whichever Grand Dame had agreed to act as Miss Neville’s sponsor would be equal to the task of shielding her from the attacks of those who were jealous of her superior beauty, charm and fortune.
Deflecting the animosity she was likely to excite in London was not his problem, he reminded himself. Even if this curious protective instinct towards her persisted, unless cousin Nicky performed his magic quickly indeed, he would still be in Devon, serving at the pleasure of the Coastal Brigade, while she went to London for her Season.
He was smiling at the image of Greville Anders, younger son with no prospects, protecting one as perfectly poised as Miss Neville for rising to the highest ranks of society when she asked, ‘Are you familiar with London, Mr Anders?’
‘Yes. I often visited the city while at Cambridge, and spent several Seasons there after leaving university.’
‘Can you tell me about it, please? I’ve heard all of Grandmama’s stories, of course, but she hadn’t resided in the city for a decade. What is it like now? What sites and entertainments would you recommend I visit?’
When she looked at him like that, all innocence and persuasive appeal, he’d tell her whatever she wanted, Greville thought. Although, with her insidious presence beside him, it was very difficult to concentrate on any amusements other than the ones her potent physical appeal brought most strongly to mind.
Like kissing. With her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with enthusiasm, her lips slightly parted and the hint of a pink tongue tempting him, all he wanted to do was bend his head down and sample her. Taste those plump lips and chase her tongue back into the sweet warm cave of her mouth, tangle his with hers and lave and mingle and caress …
London, he told himself, jerking that delectable line of imagining to a halt. The only delights she wanted to sample at the moment were the city’s attractions.
Though he certainly did not mean to confess it, his sojourns in the city had usually been spent in diversions not normally mentioned in the company of ladies. Rapidly he scanned his memory for a list of activities suitable for a gently born female.
‘There’s the theatre—Covent Garden, which features the fabulous Mr Kean in Shakespearean roles, and the Theatre Royal at Haymarket, where the social activity in the boxes and among the crowds on the floor is often as entertaining as the action upon the stage.’
‘Yes, Grandmama particularly enjoyed the theatre! My sponsor keeps a box at Covent Garden, and I am most anxious to visit. What else?’
‘There’s Astley’s Amphitheatre for equestrian displays. The Tower, where for a small tip the Guard will give you a tour and show you the places where the ghosts of Henry VIII’s poor headless Queens, Catherine and Anne, are said to roam. Hatchard’s bookstore, if you are of a literary mind. Gunter’s for ices, and, of course, shops selling everything you could imagine.’
‘Yes, Mama intended that we go to town early to begin acquiring a wardrobe, as she insisted nothing country-made would do. Oh, the evenings we spent, poring over fashion plates while Mama and Grandmama described the wonders of Bond Street and Piccadilly! Modistes, cloth-drapers, bonnet-makers, cobblers offering slippers soft as a glove, gloves in every colour of the rainbow.’ Shaking her head, she said, ‘Now you will be thinking me the most frivolous individual!’
‘Fashion, frivolous?’ he replied with a grin. ‘Indeed not, Miss Neville. ‘Tis practically the stuff of life in London. There’s great artistry in the making of apparel that shows both the beauty of the material and the wearer to best advantage. It’s said Beau Brummell went through an entire stack of neckcloths before getting his cravat tied to perfection and had a standing order for champagne, just to add to his valet’s secret formula for blacking his boots.’
‘I am so looking forward to it all. And to renewing my relationship with Lady Parnell, Mama’s best friend, with whom we were to stay that first year and who will be my sponsor now.’
Surprise tinged with dismay banished Greville’s amusement. Lady Parnell, one of the doyennes of society, was said to have more influence than all the patronesses of Almack’s combined.
No need to fear that Miss Neville would fall victim to the petty cruelty of jealous schemers. No one who had any aspirations to society would be foolish enough to openly criticise the ward of so socially powerful a personage.
‘If Lady Parnell is to introduce you, your success is assured.’
‘Are you acquainted with her? She’s my godmother, as well as Mama’s best friend.’
‘I’ve not had that honour.’ Greville did not feel it necessary to add that this was hardly surprising, since the females whose company he’d normally sought while in the metropolis had been about as opposite as one could get from the virginal blossoms of society and the Grand Dames who sheltered them. ‘I did know her nephew at Cambridge.’
Of all the matrons in the city, it would have to be Lady Parnell, he thought with rueful chagrin. If he were still clinging to any foolish thought of attempting a friendship, the identity of Miss Neville’s sponsor ought to sound its death knell.
Not only was the lady wealthy, influential and needle-witted—and thus liable to allow only the wealthiest and most eligible gentleman to associate with her ward—she also had a keen awareness of everything that went on in London. He couldn’t rule out the possibility she might even know about some of the questionable activities in which he’d participated with her nephew.
Time to stop indulging in—and tantalising himself with—Miss Neville’s company before he grew too fond of it. What better way than to remind them both of his present position?

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