And the new earl would be rid of her three months hence, come hell or high water.
Rebecca rubbed her temples in frustration. What was she to do? She had no fashionable clothing. No knowledge of whatever was popular at the moment. No skill at flirtation—or even conversation. She had spent the past lonely years haunting the library, the billiards room, and the hedge maze behind the castle, should the sun chance to peek through the omnipresent clouds.
How would she possibly attract a promising bachelor’s attention, much less his hand in marriage?
Especially with Lord Stonebury under the same roof, right there to see her fail.
She cringed at the imminent humiliation. Saints save her. He was the only person likely to remember her name—and thus the only one who might be able to help a reclusive spinster without the slightest talent at coquetry obtain a marriage proposal before time ran out.
That settled it. She lifted her chin in determination. Swallowing her pride would be well worth the chance to attract a better man.
Who better than a rakish viscount to teach her how to snare a true gentleman capable of appreciatingher charms?
Chapter 2
October 18, 1811
Mayfair, London, England
Daniel Goodenham, Lord Stonebury, could scarcely hear himself think over the shrill of laughter and raucous shouts. His friends swirled into each other in a drunken quadrille in his front parlor.
In honor of his birthday, he’d had every carpet and every stick of furniture swept out of sight, and a small—yet astonishingly loud—six man orchestra brought in for entertainment. There was nowhere to sit and no one who desired to. There was too much good wine, too much music, too much food, too much mirth. Every room and corridor overflowed with friends and revelry.
It was, without a doubt, the most successful birthday celebration he’d had in the nine years since he had inherited the viscountcy. His townhouse overflowed with so many guests, he didn’t even recognize half of them.
They all wished him well, of course. At every break in the music someone would raise their glass in a toast to Daniel, and the subsequent moments would be a whirl of champagne and claps on the back and tipsy kisses behind the cover of painted fan.
He recognized his good fortune. After all, he might be a viscount celebrating a birthday, but the unmarried young ladies in the crush were celebrating being within arm’s reach of an eligible, twenty-six-year-old bachelor. He wished he enjoyed it.
To the debutantes, he was in possession of a title and in want of a wife—a circumstance from which they sought to save him. Daily. Hourly. He could barely catch his breath between encounters with this young lady or that, each of them hoping that her stolen kiss would be the one to bring the unattainable viscount to his knees.
It had been fun, he supposed. At first. Perhaps not nine years ago, when he’d inherited the title at seventeen years of age and hadn’t had the least idea what to do with it, much less what to do with a woman.
He’d learned quickly, though. On all points. He’d had to—sink or swim.
And now here he was. No longer a gangly youth terrified of living up to the Stonebury name. Now hewasthe Stonebury name. The viscountcy was a tight ship, Daniel’s arguments in the House of Lords concise and persuasive, and invitations to his fêtes eagerly anticipated.
Yet at some point, the fawning attention had ceased being flattering and had simply become part of the job. It was all automatic now. He managed his estate. Balanced ledgers. Looked after his tenants. Voted Whig. Fended off the flirtations of sixteen-year-old doe-eyed beauties hoping to crown their come-outs with banns and a marriage.
He wondered if he could slip out of the back door into his empty garden without anyone noticing him missing.
“My lord.” One of Daniel’s footmen stood unobtrusively behind a cluster of young ladies vying to entice him into a waltz. “A letter has arrived for you.”
“At last!” Daniel exclaimed, as if he had the slightest idea from whence the missive had come. He snatched the folded parchment from his footman’s outstretched palm. “Thank you, John. My dears, you’ll have to pardon my absence for the smallest of moments while I attend to this very urgent matter. There will be more quadrilles, never fear.”
Without awaiting a reply, he held the letter before him like a torch lighting his way, allowing its rain-smeared script and indistinct seal to part seas of well-wishers as he made his way out of the festivities and up to his office.
He closed the door, although no one would bother to follow him. Wine and music were on the ground floor. Business matters were boring.
Daniel lit a few extra candles, then angled the letter beneath their light.
Ah. Now he recognized the seal. The Earl of Banfield must have written, although Daniel couldn’t imagine what on earth for. He hadn’t set foot on the foreboding grounds of that old macabre castle in nine delightful, ghost-free years. He didn’t intend to ruin his streak.
With a small blade, Daniel sliced open the seal and unfolded the letter. Stark, bold handwriting covered the parchment.
Dear Lord Stonebury,
In regards to the matter of the unentailed estate of the late Jonathan Hambly, 10th Earl of Banfield, be advised that your attendance is urgently required at the reading of his lordship’s Last Will & Testament, to take place on the first of November of this year at Crowmere Castle in Delmouth, Cornwall.
