About the Author
Jane Feather is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of Almost a Bride, The Wedding Game, The Bride Hunt, The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the South of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
England, January 1807
“Who’s the titian, Miles?” Nathaniel Praed put up his eye glass for a closer scrutiny.
Miles Bennet followed his friend’s gaze, although the description could apply to only one woman in Lady Georgiana Vanbrugh’s drawing room.
“Comtesse de Beaucaire,” he replied. “A distant cousin of Georgie’s on her mother’s side. They’ve known each other almost since the cradle.”
Nathaniel let his glass fall, commenting dryly, “Presumably there’s a Comte de Beaucaire.”
“Not anymore,” Miles said, somewhat surprised at this show of interest. In general, Nathaniel was indifferent to the charms of Society women. “He died tragically soon after their marriage, I believe.
Taken off by some fever very suddenly—all over in a couple of days, as I understand it.” He shrugged. “Gabrielle’s officially out of mourning now, but she still wears black much of the time.”
“She knows what suits her,” observed Lord Praed, putting up his glass again.
Miles had no fault to find with the observation. Gabrielle stood out in a room full of women in diaphanous pastels. Her dress of severely cut black velvet accentuated her unusual height and threw into startling relief the mass of dark red hair tumbling in an unruly cloud of ringlets around a pale face.
“Magnificent emeralds,” Nathaniel now mused, assessing with a connoisseur’s eye the jewels at throat, ears, wrist, and hair.
“Part of the treasure chest of the Hawksworths, I imagine,” Miles said. “Her mother was Imogen Hawksworth … married the Due de Gervais … they were both victims of Madame Guillotine in the Terror. Gabrielle was the only child. There wasn’t much to inherit after the Revolution, but her mother’s jewels were saved somehow.”
He glanced curiously at his friend. “Why the interest?”
“You have to admit, she’s a striking woman. She must have been a child in the Terror. How did she survive?”
Miles withdrew a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket and took a delicate pinch. “Her parents were killed at the height of the Terror, the end of ‘ninety, I believe. Family friends managed to smuggle Gabrielle out of France. She must have been about eight. That’s when she and Georgie became inseparable; they’re much of an age, and Gabrielle became part of the family until it was safe for her to return to France. She has powerful connections—Madame de Staél and Talleyrand, to name but two. She’s been living in France for the last six or seven years, with occasional visits to Georgie and Simon.”
“Mmmm. That would explain why I know nothing about her … and why you, my friend, as always, know everything.” Nathaniel laughed slightly. Miles was well known for the sharpness of the ear he kept to the ground and the reliability of his information.
“Georgie is my cousin by marriage,” Miles said as if defending the source of his information.
“Then you are perfectly placed to effect an introduction.” A silvery eyebrow quirked.
“But of course,” Miles agreed promptly. “You can hardly spend the entire houseparty without meeting each other. I own I’m interested to see what you make of each other.”
“Now, just what does that mean?”
Miles chuckled. “You’ll see. Come.”
Nathaniel followed his friend across the drawing room to where Gabrielle de Beaucaire stood in a small group by the window.
Gabrielle watched his approach over the rim of her champagne glass. She knew perfectly well who he was. Nathaniel Praed was her reason for being there, just as she was his, although, if Simon had kept his word, he didn’t know that yet. It pleased her that she should have the upper hand in this respect. It gave her the opportunity to make some assessments of the man unhindered by the role he would undoubtedly adopt once he knew exactly who and what she was.
“Gabrielle, may I introduce Lord Praed.” Miles bowed, smiled, gestured to his companion.
“My lord.” She gave him a silk-gloved hand as cool as her smile. “Delighted.”
“Enchanté, countess.” He bowed over her hand. “I understand you’re recently arrived from France.”
“My parentage makes me persona grata on both sides of the Channel,” she said. “An enviable position, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Her eyes were the color of dark charcoal, framed in thick black lashes beneath black eyebrows. It was a startling contrast to the red hair and the very white skin.
“On the contrary,” Nathaniel said, nettled by an indefinable hint of mockery in her gaze. “I would consider it uncomfortable to have a foot in both camps during wartime.”
“You’re surely not questioning my loyalty, Lord Praed?” The black brows rose. “The only family I have are in England … in this room, in fact. Both my parents and all my father’s family perished in the Terror.” A chilly smile touched the wide, generous mouth, and she put her head on one side, waiting to see how he would respond to being put in quite such an uncomfortable spot.
Nathaniel didn’t miss a beat, and not a hint of his annoyance showed on the lean, ascetic face. “I would hardly be so impertinent, madame, particularly on such a short acquaintance. May I offer my condolences on your husband’s death. I’m sure he was a loyal supporter of the Bourbons even if expediency required token submission to the emperor.”
Now, that had taken the wind out of her sails. Satisfied, he watched the flash of surprise at this hard-hitting return of serve.
“He was a Frenchman, sir. A man who loved his country,” she replied quietly, and her eyes held his for a moment.
Nathaniel was of middle height, and the tall woman’s charcoal eyes were almost on a level with his own; despite this proximity, he couldn’t read the message they contained. But he had the unshakable conviction that Gabrielle de Beaucaire was toying with him in some way—that she knew something he didn’t. It was an unfamiliar sensation for Lord Praed, and he didn’t care for it in the least.
“Oh, I’m so glad you two have been introduced.” Lady Georgiana Vanbrugh glided toward them, a beautiful woman, her daintily rounded figure delicately clad in lilac spider gauze. She slipped her arm through Gabrielle’s and smiled with the genuine warmth and pleasure she always felt when she believed her friends were enjoying themselves.
“It’s such a pity Simon had to go up to town so suddenly, Lord Praed. He charged me most expressly to tell you how sorry he is not to be here to greet you. But when duty calls …” She smiled, lifted round white shoulders so that the graceful swell of her breasts rose from her décolletage. “He assured me he’d do everything possible to be here in time for dinner tomorrow.”
Two more different women would be hard to find, Nathaniel reflected, as they stood arm in arm, severe black velvet against lilac gossamer. The tall, white-skinned redhead with high cheekbones, cleft chin, and retroussé nose could only be called striking, if a man found clearly defined irregular features, a crooked smile, and a tall, willowy figure attractive. If he didn’t, then one would be inclined to dismiss her as without charm. Georgiana, on the other hand, by any standards, was conventionally lovely with soft feminine curves, a peaches and cream complexion, small regular features, and gleaming golden hair.
“Members of the government are not their own masters, particularly in wartime,” Nathaniel said easily.
“You speak as one who knows, Lord Praed,” Gabrielle said. “Are you also involved in government work?”
“Why did it sound as if she had some underlying point to make? He looked sharply at her and met a calm, cool gaze and that crooked little smile. “No,” he said brusquely. “I am not.”
Her smile widened as if again she was relishing some secret knowledge before she turned to Miles, a highly entertained but so far silent observer of the exchange.
“Do you hunt tomorrow, Miles?”
“If you do,” he said with a gallant bow. “Although I doubt I’ll keep up with you.” He gestured to Nathaniel. “Gabrielle’s a bruising rider to hounds, Nathaniel. You’d do well not to let her give you a lead.”
“Oh, I’m sure Lord Praed will take any fence that presents itself,” Gabrielle said, still smiling.
“I’ve never failed a fence yet, countess.” He made a curt bow and walked away, annoyed that he’d allowed her to provoke him, yet intrigued despite himself … almost like a rabbit fascinated by the cobra, he thought irritably as he accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a hovering footman. A distinct aura of trouble clung to Gabrielle de Beaucaire.
““You don’t appear to like Lord Praed, Gabby.” Georgiana looked half reproachful, half anxious. “Did he upset you?”
Oh, he merely killed the man whose life was dearer to me than my own. “Of course not,” Gabrielle said. “Was I rude? You know what my tongue’s like when it runs away with me.”
“I thought you’d find a sparring partner in Nathaniel,” Miles remarked. “And I suspect you’ll find him a worthy opponent.” He grinned. “However, I think you won that round, so perhaps I’d better go and smooth his ruffled feathers.” He went off chuckling with, the slightly malicious pleasure of one who enjoys stirring up the complacent.
“Miles is wicked,” Georgie declared. “Nathaniel Praed’s his closest friend, I don’t know why he so relishes making mischief.”
“Oh, dear,” Gabrielle said. “Should I beg Lord Praed’s pardon?” Her expression had changed completely. There was warmth in her eyes as she smiled at her cousin and a vibrancy to the previously bland expression. “I didn’t mean to disgrace you, Georgie, by offending your guest.”
“Stuff!” Georgie declared. “I don’t like him myself, really, but he’s a most particular friend of Simon’s. They seem to have a kind of partnership.” She shrugged. “I expect he’s something to do with the government, whatever he might say. But he’s such a cold fish. He terrifies me, if you want the truth. I always feel tongue-tied around him.”
“Well, he doesn’t intimidate me,” Gabrielle declared. “For all that his eyes are like stones at the bottom of a pond.”
