Regency
HIGH–SOCIETY
AFFAIRS
The Disgraced Marchioness
Anne O’Brien
The Reluctant Escort
Mary Nichols
The Outrageous Débutante
Anne O’Brien
A Damnable Rogue
Anne Herries
The Disgraced Marchioness
Anne O’Brien
About the Author
ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Mills & Boon. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches. You can find out about Anne’s books and more at her website: www.anneobrien.co.uk
The Disgraced Marchioness is the first book in Anne O’Brien’s exciting trogy, THE FARINGDON SCANDALS – look for The Outrageous Débutante next month!
And don’t miss Anne’s latest Regency from
Mills & Boon® Historical romance.
Compromised Miss is available next month.
Chapter One
The gentleman was apparently not expected by the inhabitants of Burford Hall. In no way discouraged by the silence, the lack of activity and the shuttered windows, he leapt down from the curricle with unhurried grace to stand on the gravel carriageway, as his groom ascended the shallow sweep of steps and rang the bell. With his back to the house, the visitor allowed his gaze to take in the familiar vista, noting little change over past months. Expertly and fashionably designed gardens with paved pathways and shaded walks. A rose terrace where fragrant blooms were just being tempted to open in the warm sunshine. Rolling parkland made enticing by groupings of trees, which had been planted at least a century ago for impact and perspective. All prosperous and well tended with the glaze of extreme wealth. The stables off to his left had been recently re-roofed and he could see the grazing herd of cattle, placid and fat, in one of the distant pastures beyond home farm.
He did not need to turn to face the house to appreciate every inch of the elegant façade in intimate and well-loved detail. Every pillar, portico and decorated frieze, from balustraded terrace to dominant central pediment, all constructed in glowing local stone or faced with more fashionable brick. It was a beautiful house and home, gracious and welcoming, mellow with the happy memories of a shared childhood.
Two years previously he had chosen to turn his back on it, to leave the guarantee of wealth and privilege, and social acceptance by the haut ton. Two years ago he had wanted to create for himself a quite different lifestyle. And nothing had given him cause to regret his choice. But now, by a mischievous and malicious quirk of fate, his life had been turned upside down.
He supposed it was all his now: house, land, title and all they could bring in terms of comfort and consequence. His brother’s untimely death had, overnight, created him Marquis of Burford.
The thought gave him no pleasure. I don’t want it. I would never have wanted it. Indeed, the deliberate rejection of his birthright screamed through his mind as he climbed the steps with outward calm to his ancestral home.
The door was flung open at the insistent ringing to allow entry to the unexpected guest. The footman, a young man in neat black, casting an envious and knowing eye over the stylish equipage and well-bred bays drawn up on the gravel, bowed the gentleman in without a flicker of recognition, but accepting of his quality and his right to be desiring entrance unannounced to Burford Hall.
‘If I could take your coat, sir, I will inform Lord Nicholas of your arrival.’
The guest looked at the young footman. A new acquisition to the staff since his last visit. He smiled in courteous recognition of the offered service. ‘Of course.’ He handed over his tallcrowned hat and shrugged out of an eye-catching caped greatcoat.
‘What name shall I give, sir?’
Before he could give a reply, hesitant footsteps echoed on the marble tiles of the entrance hall and an elderly man emerged from the servants’ quarters. He hesitated on an intake of breath, blinked as if he did not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes, and then immediately quickened his steps.
‘My lord, my lord. Thank God you are here. We were not expecting you.’ The old man shuffled forward, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, to take the garment from the footman, and search the face of the gentleman with eyes suddenly moist with powerful emotion. ‘We did not know if the letters had reached you—perhaps you might not yet even be aware of the tragic events here.’
‘They did. About two months ago.’ The gentleman stripped off his leather driving gloves with brisk efficiency. ‘But there have been difficulties in travelling—chiefly the vagaries of the weather—so it took me longer than I expected.’
‘We are so glad to see you again, my lord. So relieved. If I may say, you have not changed in all the time you have been away.’
‘Only two years, Marcle. Not so very long.’ The accompanying smile was understanding but designed not to encourage further comment.
‘Long enough, my lord. You have been missed here.’
‘But what about you, Marcle?’ The gentleman began to walk in the direction of the library, sure of his direction. ‘You look well. I see that you still hold the reins, in spite of your threats to leave to live in retirement with your sister.’
‘Not so bad, sir. I would not wish to leave the Hall. And certainly not now… But what a terrible occasion this is. I cannot tell you… An accident that no one could have foreseen…’
‘I know.’ The guest, clearly a very close and knowledgeable one, intimate with the family circumstances, touched the old man’s arm in a brief gesture of comfort, at the same time hoping against hope to dam the flood of painful detail and the threat of overt sympathy. ‘So Mr Hoskins informed me. And my brother. Both letters eventually found me.’
‘What a terrible homecoming, my lord…’
His attempts, it appeared, had been futile. He really could not take any more.
‘I will deal with it, Marcle,’ his tone now a little brusque but not unkind. ‘I presume Lord Nicholas is here?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler concentrated on the more practical direction given less than subtly to his thoughts. ‘He has spent some time in London, particularly with the lawyers, being a trustee, as you will be aware—but he returned last week. He is in the gun room, I believe. I will send a message that you have arrived.’ He motioned with a rheumatic hand to the young footman. ‘Silas…’
‘No. There is no need to trouble yourself, Marcle. I will go to the gun room.’
‘Of course, my lord. I would just wish to say that…’ But he was already bowing to an empty hall as the gentleman made good his escape.
Chapter Two