Laura admired her friend’s honesty. Emma knew what she wanted, and Laura hoped life would be good to her. “You wish to marry him?”
Emma grinned. “I can’t imagine any other way of discovering the answer, can you? Unless I become a trollop.”
“And we know what sad lives courtesans live,” Laura said, thinking unaccountably of Lord Debnam. If she had invited him to pursue her, that would have been what she would have become.
“Not all,” Emma said. “Remember Lavinia Fenton? She became the Duchess of Bolton.”
“A rare occurrence, I should think. Many fall into poverty when they grow older.”
Laura’s dreams might not have turned out as she’d hoped, but she would never agree to become a man’s mistress. She pushed the outrageous earl’s suggestion from her thoughts as the orchestra tuned their instruments and her and Emma’s partners for the gavotte approached them.
Despite everything, the hope remained that she’d meet a suitable gentleman. She might have given up on love, but not her wish to marry. She wanted children.
*
This evening’s entertainmenttook a surprising turn. Brendan Cowper, Earl of Debnam, had not expected to find Miss Laura Peyton so irresistible. There was something about her lack of pretense and clear blue eyes, like the sun shining on the lake waters at Beechley Park, that set her apart from the sophisticated women with whom he usually associated, ladies who often said one thing and meant another. It wasn’t a lie that he wanted her, although his intention had been to tease her. He wondered about her past. Like a sleeping beauty, she wasted her life in the pretentious marriage mart. He wasn’t blind to the way she responded to him, how her eyes darkened with desire. Had there been a man in her life once? He would like to have been that man, but as a baron’s daughter, she wasn’t available to him for a liaison.
More mature than the debutantes who came to London with the sole purpose of marrying a lord, Laura was different. She had character, humor, and wit. A pretty woman with creamy skin and a body to match. One he would give a lot to see naked in his bed. He couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t been snapped up. Brendan had heard Netterfield’s estate was in trouble, but surely, not every man looked for a handsome dowry. He sighed. But it was impossible. She looked for a husband and he merely wished to amuse himself, with no intention of making a commitment to any lady. The earldom was damned. He’d never wanted it. Let the title die out with him.
Chapter One
Longworth, Surrey, June 1819
Laura sat inthe parlor by the fire, Tibby, the family’s black cat, on her knee. She sighed as she stroked the soft fur, feeling the deep, appreciative rumble as Tibby purred. Almost two years had passed since she and her brother, Robert, had lost their parents to illness, and having cast off her mourning clothes, she’d returned to the London Season in March, with Robert as chaperone. But in April, disaster had struck again, forcing them to give up the lease of their townhouse—the family’s London house having been sold after their father had died—and depart London for Longworth, Robert’s country estate.
Robert entered the room, his face etched with guilt. “We must use the last of our money to finance your return to London before the Season ends.” He threw himself onto the sofa. “Once you marry well, our problems will be solved.”
Tibby jumped from Laura’s lap with a mew of protest. “Why can’tyoumarry?” she asked. “It is your fault we are in this predicament.”
Robert raked his hands through his blond hair. “Certainly. Tell me which lady with a wealthy papa will have me?”
Laura studied her tall, handsome brother. He resembled their father, but for the signs of dissipation, which had crept around his mouth. His blue eyes were bloodshot. He was, however, Baron Netterfield, even if he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. “You might marry an heiress in search of a title.”
“Ha!” There was no sign of amusement in his eyes. “They are thin on the ground this year, and my title rates near the bottom, barely above hereditary knights. Most heiresses look for a marquess or even a duke, not a baron with a drafty mansion and rundown estate. The creditors bombard me with threatening letters. If we lose Longworth, I’ll have nothing to offer.”
Laura suspected it was the pretty heiresses, not the title-seeking ones, who were absent this Season, but she felt too tired of arguing to mention it.
“Lord Wadsworth revealed a considerable interest in you back in March, Laura. It’s a shame we were forced to give up our accommodation and come home.”
She gazed at him, exasperated. It was because of his disastrous night playing dice at some gaming hell that their already struggling finances had worsened. If they failed to pay their debts, they would lose Longworth and end up in debtors’ prison with no chance of a reprieve. The news of their misfortune would already have spread among the tradesmen wishing to be paid. Laura would rather die than return to the Season under the scrutiny of theton. She wasn’t sure what she would hate worst, sympathy, or when those who had embraced her friendship now lost interest in her.
“Perhaps I could find a position as companion to a well-to-do lady.”
Robert stared at her. “Don’t be absurd.”
“No more absurd than me finding a wealthy husband in search of a bride to fill his nursery.”
“Men find you attractive, Laura. I’ve often witnessed it. Only the other day, Lord Fulton told me he desired to marry you, but you rejected him.”
She almost shuddered recalling the widower Fulton’s mean eyes and receding chin. “He looks for a mother for his children.” Was it too much to hope the father of her children would want her for herself? And if she did not love him, at least could she not be repulsed by him?
“There must be others. If you would only smile at them, make them think you might be interested.”
“They do not want to marry me. And I doubt what they do want would be of any help to you.”
“Don’t be cynical. It doesn’t become you. You never used to be this way.”
“Not when I was a girl filled with hope for the future. It started after waiting years for Edward Ryland to ask me to marry him, and finding my affection misplaced. Then caring for Mama and Papa after they fell ill, followed by the year of mourning. I turn twenty-six next month, Robert. Hardly a debutante. Close to being left on the shelf. Few gentlemen looking for a wife would consider someone my age. And by the way, my friend Emma Burton wrote to tell me Wadsworth has since become betrothed to Mary Greyburn. She is eighteen and has a handsome dowry.”