Chapter 2
Near Porthleven, Cornwall
“Truly, Marguerite? You don’t want to go to London?”
Marguerite Easton lengthened her determined stride along the cliff, while her fifteen-year-old sister, Linette, hurried to keep up with her.
The stiff wind blew their cloaks behind them like billowing sails, the cool spring air tinged with salt spray from the pounding surf below. Marguerite’s blunt “No!” to Linette was all but drowned out by the near-deafening roar of the sea.
“But it’s going to be so lovely now that Lindsay has returned home to England!” Linette persisted as she looped her arm through Marguerite’s and strode with her away from the stunning view of Mount’s Bay. “She’s invited all of us to her and Lord Dovercourt’s London town house…you, me, even Estelle. Her letter said they would be residing there until renovations were completed at Dovercourt Manor in West Sussex, so it’s the perfect time to visit—Marguerite?”
Marguerite had disengaged herself from her sister and walked faster, dodging large, lichen-covered rocks even as Linette hastened to catch up with her.
She wished she’d done a better job of pinning her hair, her long auburn tresses whipping around her face and nearly blinding her. So much so that she didn’t see the rock half-buried in the thick grass until she struck the toe of her walking boot against it, crying out as she lost her balance. In the next moment she lay sprawled upon the ground staring up at the steel-gray sky, her dignity the worse injury as Linette sank into the grass by her side.
“Oh, Marguerite, are you all right?”
“Yes, Linette, yes…and if you’ll please stop tormenting me about London! It’s a horrid place and I had a horrid time there at last year’s Season, and I wish to never see it again!”
Instantly Marguerite regretted her sharp words as tears welled in Linette’s lovely brown eyes.
Usually so serious and more interested in reading books, Linette was clearly blossoming into a young lady that she would be so enamored by the thought of traveling to London. Just turned nineteen, Marguerite suddenly felt so old and jaded next to her…when last year she had been so eager to experience her first Season.
Romantic, starry-eyed, her head filled with dreams of glittering balls and handsome suitors.
That is, until as a lowly vicar’s daughter she’d been shunned by the ton and plagued by the most despicable sort of men interested only in the modest fortune left to each of the Easton girls by their French-born mother. A cache of jewelry that her elder sister, Corisande, had sold for what three years ago had seemed an immense sum, but when divided four ways and apportioned annually hadn’t been enough to interest but the most impecunious of fortune hunters.
Even the fact that Corie’s husband and Marguerite’s brother-in-law, Lord Donovan, was the younger brother of the Duke of Arundale hadn’t eased her path among the nobility. The sumptuously dressed women had been the worst with their polite fixed smiles upon introduction, only to snipe cruelly behind their fluttering fans as soon as Marguerite walked away.
Shuddering at the memory, Marguerite accepted Linette’s help in sitting up, both of them brushing damp bits of grass from her mauve merino wool walking dress. “I’m sorry for sounding so harsh, Linette, but there’s no need to feel downcast. You and Estelle must go with Corie and Donovan, and I’ll stay here to look after Papa. That town house will be full to bursting with all of you and little Paloma and the twins—”
“Oh, but it wouldn’t be the same without you there as well!” Linette protested as Marguerite rose to her feet. “Perhaps this Season will be different! Perhaps he will be there this time and you’ll meet him and dance with him—”
“He?”
For an instant Linette stared at Marguerite with surprise and then burst out, “The man of your dreams, of course! Don’t you remember Lindsay’s letter after she arrived with Lord Dovercourt in Boston…how happy she was, though she missed us terribly, and how you, Estelle, and I must not wed anyone less than the man of our dreams just as she and Corie had sworn to do?”
Marguerite didn’t readily answer, but set off with renewed frustration as Linette hastened again to catch up with her.
Oh yes, she remembered that lengthy letter and how she and her younger sisters had all gathered around with great excitement while Corie had read every line.
Corie had revealed then the secret pact she and Lindsay had made after clambering atop one of these very rocks, shouting the words at the top of their lungs. And how Lindsay had insisted then that she and Corie pretend the man of their dreams was standing right in front of them as they imagined him to be…a handsome and bold adventurer for Lindsay while for Corie, an honorable man as passionate as she about righting wrongs and easing the lives of those around them.
They couldn’t have described Jared Giles, the Earl of Dovercourt, and Lord Donovan more accurately, but Marguerite hadn’t met anyone close to the man of her dreams last year in London.
The man of her dreams…
A shiver coursed through her at the memory she harbored of a tall strapping man with hair as black as night who had appeared out of the shadows to come to her aid in Roscoff, Brittany, after she, Linette, and Estelle had been abducted by wicked men.
A man so strikingly handsome Marguerite had lost her breath to look at him…or perhaps it was because he had squeezed her hand as if to reassure her after one evil captor was dead and his two accomplices fled. Even now she could still feel the warm, strong pressure of his fingers enveloping hers…and then he was gone, fading back into the shadows as quickly as he and his companions had come.
Only weeks later had they found out that their brave rescuers were Jared Giles and his men from the infamous Vengeance, including his second-in-command named Walker Burke.
The same Walker Burke who everyone knew now was the future Duke of Summerlin, thanks to Lord Donovan’s dogged help in restoring him to his rightful family and procuring royal pardons for him and Lord Dovercourt. Would Walker—no, Alexander Scott—have arrived in England yet to assume his new role as the duke’s last surviving son? If word had come for Donovan, Corie had not yet shared the news with them—
“Marguerite, you’re blushing!” Linette had once again looped her arm through Marguerite’s and grinned broadly at her. “You do have a man of your dreams—”
“I do not! And you’re too young yet to even be thinking of such things, Linette Easton! Now we’ll miss dinner if we don’t hurry. Come on, I’ll race you!”
She was blushing, Marguerite couldn’t deny it, feeling flushed from her scalp to her toes as she set off at a run across the gorse-covered heath toward where they’d tethered their horses. A laughing Linette was hard upon her heels, their reckless pace and skirts hiked above their knees most unladylike, but Marguerite didn’t care.
Anything to dispel thoughts of the humiliation she’d suffered in London…and of the stirring touch of a man who, as a future duke now, she doubted would scarcely look twice at her.
If he even remembered her at all.
***
“Of course you’ll be traveling with us to London, Marguerite! Lindsay is looking forward to seeing all of us again. It’s been three long years since she and Jared had to leave England after all. She would be crushed if you stayed at home, and we can’t have that, can we?”
Marguerite shook her head at Corisande’s query and pushed the savory chicken stew around her plate, her appetite all but fled. The bedlam around the immense dining table was making her head pound though it was no different than any other meal in the Trent household.
Linette and twelve-year-old Estelle were engaged in a lively discussion of all the sites they wished to see in London, while Estelle’s scruffy little dog, Luther, yapped at his mistress’s feet.
Lord Donovan’s five-year-old daughter, Paloma, adopted by Corie and beloved by all, had begun to sing an off-tune song for her father, while the two-year-old twins, Draydon and Dahlia, giggled and clapped their hands at Luther’s antics. Meanwhile servants bustled around the table and a nanny sat opposite the twins, ready to give assistance if Corie might require it, though she rarely did. Marguerite knew that Corie and Donovan loved the commotion and laughter of their growing family, and usually she did, too. Just not today…
“Of course I would like to see Lindsay,” Marguerite began with her voice raised to be heard over the din. “But someone should remain in Porthleven to look after Papa. What if Frances should become ill while we’re gone?”
“Ridiculous! You know that Frances is healthy as a horse,” Corie said as she wiped away mashed potatoes from Draydon’s mouth, not seeming to mind at all that a splatter had marred the bodice of her apricot-colored gown. “Papa will be fine.”
That was true, Marguerite thought with mounting resignation. Their long-time housekeeper, Frances, hadn’t known a sick day in her life, and she had far less to do since Marguerite and her sisters had gone to live with Donovan and Corie at the manor house.
Their father, the Reverend Joseph Easton, had been so shaken by their abduction three years ago that he had insisted upon it, though he had declined Corie’s offer to join them as well. He’d said only that he preferred the parsonage with its memories of his beloved wife, Adele, and their life together to surround him. Yet Marguerite knew he missed the hubbub that enveloped the dining room now as the dishes were cleared and an almond-studded pudding for dessert made its appearance.
The scent of oranges, vanilla, and cinnamon filled the air. Estelle, who adored sweets, squealed with delight while Paloma pounded her spoon upon the table. As Dahlia began to cry from all the noise, Marguerite wasn’t ready yet to admit defeat in avoiding another dreadful Season and raised her voice above the din.
“With you gone, though, Corie, who will visit the parish poorhouse to ensure all is running smoothly? You know how Mrs. Treweake depends upon you—”
“Frances said she would stop in to check on things for me—and it’s only for a week or two, then Donovan and I will return with the family while you remain in London with Lindsay.” Hoisting a now wailing Dahlia onto her lap, Corie threw Marguerite a look of annoyance. “She has her heart set upon your company, Marguerite! Jared will be traveling back and forth to Dovercourt Manor to oversee the renovations, and he’d prefer that Lindsay not be alone…especially now that another babe is well on the way. Marguerite, where are you going? Marguerite!”
Tears smarting her eyes, she had pushed away from the table so abruptly that her chair crashed to the floor with a bang. With Draydon adding his startled cries to Dahlia’s, Marguerite felt terrible for upsetting her nephew but fled all the same from the dining room and across the hall into the library where she slammed the door.
Sobs shaking her now, she sank into a leather chair near the fireplace and covered her face with her hands.
She’d never felt so miserable, no, not since last year when she’d begged Lindsay’s aunt Winifred, the Dowager Baroness Penney, to allow her to return home to Porthleven rather than remain for the rest of the Season.
Poor Aunt Winnie. The excitable older woman had been such a dear to invite her to London at Donovan and Corie’s request—insisting that Marguerite call her “Aunt” just like Lindsay. Yet in spite of her well-meaning intentions, Winifred had been oblivious to the slights Marguerite had suffered at every ball and assembly. With each passing day she had ached more for home, until at last she knew she could withstand the misery no longer.
She never told Aunt Winnie the truth of why she wanted so desperately to leave London, not wanting to distress her and bring on a swoon and the inevitable smelling salts.
Instead she had fibbed and said she must return home at once to help Corie with pressing family matters. Aunt Winnie had immediately summoned her own coach and four to carry Marguerite straightaway back to Cornwall, along with a lady’s maid to accompany her.
To Donovan and Corie she had said only that terrible homesickness had made it impossible for her to stay in London, and they hadn’t questioned her further. She realized now that she should have just told everyone the truth and spared herself this renewed anguish—
“Marguerite, whatever is the matter?”
Corisande sank in front of the chair to draw her sister into her arms, Marguerite’s sobbing cutting her to the quick. She glanced up at Donovan, who had accompanied her into the library, his handsome face etched with concern. He appeared as at a loss as she felt, which made her hug Marguerite closer.
“I’m so sorry if I was cross with you, truly. You must tell me what’s wrong. This isn’t like you at all.”
Indeed, Corie had never seen Marguerite cry so piteously, her sister’s lovely face pale and streaked with tears. The most beautiful of all the Easton girls with her auburn hair more a rich burnished red than brown, an incomparable figure, and angelic features that reminded Corie so much of their mother, Marguerite shook her head as if reluctant to answer.
“Come now, what has distressed you so? Please tell us. Donovan is here, too. We only wish to help—”
“L-London,” Marguerite finally offered, hiccupping. “I don’t wish to go—it was so awful last year—”
“Good God, Corie, what is this?” Donovan interrupted, his hands clenching. “Marguerite, did something untoward happen to you there? Someone behave in an ungentlemanly fashion—hell and damnation! If so, you must give me his name at once!”
“No, no, just cruel—the women there. I’m a parson’s daughter! I didn’t fit in at all. Every outing, every ball was so dreadful…”
“Oh, dear, we should have been with you.” Sinking back on her heels, Corie smoothed a tear-dampened tendril from Marguerite’s face. “The twins were so young then, and we thought Lindsay’s aunt Winnie would make a fine chaperone for you, and properly introduce you—”
“She did…she was wonderful, and so kind…but she didn’t see their slights. My hair. My gowns. My country accent…nothing suited them! No voucher ever came from the patronesses of Almack’s, though Aunt Winnie said it would surely be the next week—and then another week passed, and then another. And only the worst sort would dance with me when we did attend parties…ill-mannered fortune hunters, all of them—ah, Corie! Let me stay here with Papa, please!”
Crushed by Marguerite’s renewed sobs and that she would have suffered so, Corie glanced again at Donovan to see he’d gone to sit at his massive desk and put pen to paper. As swarthy as a Gypsy, his grim countenance was truly ominous to behold.
“Donovan?”
“A letter to my brother, Nigel. Clearly Marguerite’s position as my sister-in-law was not enough to spare her such abuse, but I vow it won’t happen again. This Season it will be His Grace, the Duke of Arundale, who introduces her at Almack’s, and we’ll be there with her as well. Let those biddies dare to titter behind their fans and insult my beloved wife’s sister!”
Marguerite’s sobs had stopped and she stared with amazement at Donovan, while Corie flushed with warmth at the heated look he threw her.
How could it be that two people more like oil and water upon meeting could love each other so fiercely? So completely? More grateful than ever for the day she first saw him—threatening to skewer his agent, Henry Gilbert, with a pitchfork no less!—she turned back to Marguerite.
“There, you see? All will be well. You’ll have enough peers of the realm surrounding you that no one will dare utter even an unkind whisper. Now, will you accompany us to London, dearest sister?”
Marguerite felt such a welling of gratitude for Corie and Donovan that she could but nod, while anything more her sister might have said was interrupted by a knock at the library door.
“Enter!” Clearly still furious, Donovan’s raised voice made the footman open the door with some trepidation.
“A-a letter, my lord.”
“Come in, man!”
The footman hastily obliged him and, after handing the letter to Donovan, as quickly left the library.
A letter. Could it be…? Her heart beginning to pound, Marguerite peered through damp lashes at her brother-in-law, whose countenance now appeared more than pleased.
“It’s from Walker Burke. He’s at Summerlin Hall with his father—but will leave for London within the week. Excellent! After three years, I look forward to conversing with him in person rather than by correspondence. What a memorable Season it will be! The future Duke of Summerlin, Andrew’s long-lost brother. Jared Giles, once the hated Phoenix. No doubt the Prince Regent will make an appearance as well to personally greet them and soothe any feathers still ruffled by his royal pardon.”
Donovan strode from the desk to help Corie to her feet, his arm going around her waist to hug her close to him as he smiled down at Marguerite.
“And you, sweet sister. None there will be lovelier—well, other than my beautiful wife.” Donovan pressed a fervent kiss to Corie’s temple; no matter that she was taller than most women, he still towered a head above her.
The moment seemed so personal as the two of them met each other’s eyes that Marguerite rose, too, to excuse herself. She’d never felt her face so aflame, though it wasn’t because she’d been weeping or from the intimate look that passed between Corie and Donovan.
Walker Burke—no, Lord Summerlin!—had arrived in England…and would soon be in London, too. Suddenly Marguerite felt her fingers burning as when he’d squeezed her hand three long years ago.
Oh, Lord.
She murmured her thanks to Corie and Donovan and then fled from the library, not surprised at all that they didn’t follow her.