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‘We think it would be best if you kept your distance from Lord Nicholas.’
‘And if I don’t?’ But in Thea’s heart she already knew the answer.
‘Maybe nothing. Perhaps you would fall in love and marry. But if he discovered the truth, would Lord Nicholas continue to look on you with love—or would he turn his back with condemnation and contempt?’
‘I could not bear that.’ A tear stole unnoticed down Thea’s cheek. She knew what she had to do. She must set herself to destroy any vestige of the relationship which might have begun to blossom between herself and Lord Nicholas. It should not be too difficult, should it, to give him a disgust of her if she really tried? To make him wonder what he had ever seen in her?
No one must guess. Not Lord Nicholas. Not ever Nicholas.
And, whilst Thea found herself reduced to the blackness of utter misery, Lord Nicholas Faringdon was equally prey to extreme emotions. Against all the odds he had fallen in love. He wanted nothing more than to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage. She fired his blood. She intrigued him. She entranced him. If he had his way, Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux would become Lady Nicholas Faringdon in the shortest possible time.
A smile of satisfaction touched his mouth. There was nothing in the manner of that lady towards him that might indicate that she would not welcome his addresses.
Dear Reader
In The Disgraced Marchioness, the first volume in The Faringdon Scandals trilogy, Lord Henry Faringdon succeeded in finding happiness with beautiful Eleanor in New York. This left Henry’s handsome younger brother, Nicholas, to administer the Burford estates in Herefordshire in the name of his infant nephew. I wondered what Nicholas’s future would be, bound as he would be by a sense of duty—and so was born The Outrageous Débutante.
Nicholas is a typical Faringdon, with dark good looks, unused to having his will thwarted, and driven by ambitions. What will happen when his path is crossed by Theodora, a delicious débutante who is just as strong-willed as he, and certainly given to outrageous behaviour? Will it be possible for Nicholas and Theodora to find any future together after so stormy a first encounter? And when scandal strikes again, far too close to home, can their love even be declared, much less survive? Nicholas has to face the grave demons of his past, Theodora the truths of hers, both of which have the power to wreck any love affair between them. It could all so easily end in heartbreak …
Still the Faringdon history is not complete. Sarah Russell has yet to find her destiny. Although not a Faringdon by birth, her fate will become involved with that of the notorious Lord Joshua Faringdon, the Black Sheep of the family, cousin to Henry and Nicholas. Look out for their turbulent love affair, in The Enigmatic Rake, coming soon!
I hope that you enjoy this passionate encounter between Theodora and Nicholas, as much as I did in bringing them together.
About the Author
ANNE O’BRIEN was born and lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. Here 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 Harlequin 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.
Recent titles by the same author:
RUNAWAY HEIRESS
PURITAN BRIDE
MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE
and in The Faringdon Scandals: THE DISGRACED MARCHIONESS
Don’t miss the third instalment of THE FARINGDON SCANDALS THE ENIGMATIC RAKE Coming, March 2006
The Outrageous
Debutante
Anne O’Brien
MILLS & BOON
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Prologue
The sun beat down from a sky so pale with heat as to be almost colourless. From the deep ochre sand and rock of the Syrian desert, ruins of a Roman town stood proud, as if grown from the earth. Arches lifted their broken heads to the heavens, columns rose with splintered capitals and walls crumbled into dust. They might have stood there since the beginning of time, and would continue to stand until the hot winds and cold nights reduced them once more to nothing but grains of sand. Nothing moved in the landscape except for a pair of lazily circling eagles and the lizards that basked on the hot stones. Nothing moved until two figures emerged from the distant heat haze, to fly across the firm sand towards the ancient town. A pair of fine Arabian horses, their riders crouched low as they encouraged them to pit their strength and speed against each other. Far behind followed a small group of riders, at a more sedate pace, leading well-laden pack horses.
The two riders drew rein before the remains of a magnificent triumphal arch. The animals danced at the curbing of their energies and tossed their heads. They were beautiful, both satin-skinned greys with the short curved necks and small heads of true Arab breeding. The riders controlled them with ease as the horses resisted the firm hands on the reins and fought to run.
As they finally settled and consented to stand, sides heaving, the riders dismounted. They walked towards the crumbling stonework and, securing the reins to fallen masonry, sank down in the shade. Then they proceeded to unwind the scarves that had been draped around head and face against the sun and sand and to loosen the all-encompassing robes that protected their clothes—to reveal that the riders were female.
‘That was wonderful! So much light and space. I love the elemental heat of it—even when my nose is pink and I have sand in my mouth!’ The younger woman wiped the back of her hand over her dry lips as she watched the slowly approaching caravan, then turned her brilliant blue eyes on her older companion. ‘You have no idea how much I shall miss this place, Mama.’
Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux smiled her understanding, in complete accord with her daughter. ‘I, too, regret leaving it, Thea. And Sir Hector would not be averse to remaining at the Court of Constantinople for a few more years. But his position does not allow him free choice in the matter. We must make the most of the remaining days here.’
Theodora Wooton-Devereux pulled the long veil completely from around her head, to reveal the interesting fact that her hair was of a rich gold, a burnished cap in the sunlight and cut as short as any boy’s. She ran her fingers through the short strands where the wisps stuck to her heated forehead and cheeks. Unconventional it might be—shockingly so, some might say—but it drew attention to the face of a Beauty. Glorious deep blue eyes, the dark, elegantly arched brows, the fine cheekbones and straight, almost masterful nose. Miss Wooton-Devereux’s delicious mouth with its full bottom lip curved in unalloyed pleasure. She was without doubt a striking young woman.
‘What will it be like in Russia when Papa is sent to St Petersburg?’ she asked. ‘Cold, I expect.’
‘Not so much now in the summer months. But in winter, yes. A land of ice and snow, temperatures so low you could not believe it. Even the rivers freeze over.’ Lady Drusilla smiled at the memories, surrounded as she was by extreme heat and dust. ‘Your father and I spent a few months there—he was in a lowly position in the diplomatic ranks in those days, of course—before you were born, Thea.’
‘How exciting it must have been—you as a young bride. I shall like to see it. And the court of Tsar Alexander, of course. Do you suppose he is as handsome as they say? We shall need furs and woollen cloth, not these wonderful light garments.’ Thea leapt to her feet, unwilling to sit longer when energy surged through her veins, and strode around so the robes billowed about her, robes such as a Bedouin in the desert would wear, revealing that beneath them she wore wide breeches as the Turks might, tucked into the tops of long leather boots. ‘I think that wherever we go, this will always be my favourite place. Riding for ever with the distance never seeming to come any closer. Sleeping outside under the stars, which shine with such brilliance.’ She spread her arms and danced a few short steps of joy. ‘But I expect Russia will hold as many delights. How long do you suppose before Papa is transferred?’
‘A few months, perhaps as long as six. We should be fixed in London for the time and so will take a house for the Season.’ Lady Drusilla watched her daughter, unwilling to curb Thea’s delights. But she knew she must. It was more than time for her to remember her duties as a mother to this enchanting daughter.
‘Thea—I do not think that you should come with us to Russia.’ The words came out as a bald statement.
The dance across the sand stopped. The dancer turned, her face registering a sharp mixture of shock and surprise. A sudden fear.
‘Not come with you? But why not? I have always travelled with you. Saint Petersburg cannot contain more dangers than Constantinople, surely. And if you are to accompany Papa, there is no reason for me not to do so.’
‘It is not a matter of safety. That has never been an issue, as you are well aware.’ Lady Drusilla turned her eyes away, unwilling to see the hurt that she must surely inflict. She knew her daughter’s temperament too well. Had she not herself fostered the strong streak of independence, the love of travel and adventure? But there were now steps that must be taken. ‘It is time that you married, Thea.’ She kept her voice light and gentle. ‘You are now one and twenty, high time that you were wed. I had been married all of two years when I was your age.’
‘There is plenty of time for that.’ Thea came to sit beside her mother, intent on persuasion. In her short life she had rarely found it difficult to get her own way. But Lady Drusilla, fully aware of her daughter’s tactics, shook her head and resisted the clasp of the urgent hand on her arm.
‘No. We have been too selfish with you, my love. Enjoyed your company far too much. I shall miss you dreadfully.’ She closed her hand over Thea’s, to still the restless fingers. ‘But it is time that you had a husband and your own home. Children, of course. We must not leave it longer. It would be most unwise.’
‘Mama—do I really need a husband? I would far rather come with you to Russia. Perhaps in a few years when—’
‘No! You are older than a traditional débutante for her coming out as it is, Thea, and that is my fault. You should have a Season in London—you deserve one. You are a beautiful young woman and should not be denied a formal introduction to London society. Besides, I want a rich and titled husband for you, so that you might be comfortable.’
‘But I am an heiress. I don’t need more wealth.’
‘Perhaps not. But you certainly need a husband. I do not wish to think of you growing old as an eccentric and lonely spinster, roaming the deserts with no company but your servants, the object of gossip and speculation from everyone you meet. That is not what any mother would want for her daughter.’
‘I would not be lonely. I should take a lover!’ The lady lifted her chin, deliberately intending to shock her mother, horrified at this sudden arrangement of her future life without any consideration for her own wishes.
‘You will do no such thing, Theodora. Your upbringing might have been somewhat out of the way in comparison with that of most young girls, but I will have no truck with the scandalous, the improper!’
‘I see.’ Thea lowered her chin, her mind working rapidly. ‘Does Sir Hector agree with this plan?’
‘Yes. Of course. We have talked of it.’
Of course they would have. And Sir Hector would undoubtedly be swayed by Lady Drusilla’s forceful arguments. All the joy, all the brightness, seemed to have gone out of the day. ‘Very well.’ What other could she say? ‘I suppose I shall have to be more conventional in London.’
‘Assuredly. I think I have allowed you far too much licence in the past.’ Lady Drusilla frowned a little at her daughter as she considered her sudden compliance.
‘No. Never too much. It has been wonderful, Mama. Can I gallop my horse in London?’
‘Certainly not. Nor wear the garments you enjoy at present, as you are very well aware.’
‘Or ride astride?’
‘Theodora! You must behave with decorum and dignity. Your purpose in London will be to attract a husband, not frighten him away with an exhibition of unseemly manners. I would not wish you to become an object of gossip or shunned because the ton considers you ill bred.’
‘Oh, dear! It all seems very dull.’
‘By no means. I wager that you will find it most entertaining.’
‘Well, I shall certainly do my best to make it so, as you know, Mama. I have never yet been bored. I suppose that London can offer as much to attract and occupy me as Constantinople or St Petersburg.’
‘Thea!’ Lady Drusilla warned as she recognised the glint in her daughter’s eye.
‘Don’t fret, Mama. Of course I shall behave.’ After a little thought, Thea’s good humour had quickly reasserted itself and she laughed. ‘Perfectly, in fact. I shall set my cap at a fabulously rich Earl and ensnare him, just to please you.’ Her eyes twinkled at the prospect, but she managed to keep an expression of innocent compliance in place. Perhaps London might not be so dull after all.
Chapter One
In the county of Herefordshire, far removed from the exotic delights and windblown sands of Arabia, Lord Nicholas Faringdon opened a letter with utmost reluctance, a letter that was destined to disrupt the unchanging predictability of his life.
His lordship had spent the morning, unaware of the devious workings of fate, in the company of George Dinmore, agent to the estate of Burford. A fine sense of optimism warmed his blood, as satisfying as the first real heat of early summer that brushed his skin. It was too early to tell if the harvest would be good but the crops were coming on well, the arable fields sheened with bright green. Now it was up to sun and rain and the will of God. There had been too many cold and wet summers of late. But the cattle and sheep were thriving, as were the horses on his own estate at Aymestry Manor. It could not be said that Lord Nicholas neglected his duty to his family in his role as trustee for Tom, his young nephew, who held the title and inheritance as Marquis of Burford.
The little town of Kingshall, its wood-and-plaster dwellings clustered around a central market square, hummed with life. Outside the Red Lion, Lord Nicholas had paused to listen to the landlord, who could be relied upon for knowledge of any local happenings. Nicholas made it his business to enquire and keep abreast of developments or hints of unrest. The local cottage industries were thriving well enough. There was no serious competition here from machines. He knew that if he rode down Back Lane, he would see the women who made the beautifully sewn gloves from the palest, finest of leathers, sitting working on their doorsteps in the sun. But another bad summer, another autumn beset by storms and heavy rain, would push up the price of grain. Lack of food, as Nicholas well knew, led to mutterings in the Red Lion over a draught of ale. The lord would be the easiest target for such discontent when tempers ran high. Lord Nicholas Faringdon had no intention of allowing his nephew’s inheritance to be destroyed or compromised in any way, even if his nephew was living in New York with Nell, his mother, and nearly four years old.
As soon as the pasture had opened up on the edge of the town he had urged the young chestnut mare out of her somnolence into an easy gallop. She had willingly extended her stride until they’d flown across the grassland in perfect unity, disturbing a small flock of Ryeland sheep. He rode well, could never remember not being at home on horseback. The speed, the breeze which had ruffled and tugged at his dark hair, the sun which had glittered on the still waters of the mere, had all served to lift his spirits, banishing the niggling worries that had plagued him of late.
He did not know why he had been so beset. There was no obvious cloud of concern on his horizon, nothing which could not be managed between himself, Dinmore and Hoskins, the family lawyer in London. Nicholas had frowned as he breasted a rise and the lovely, familiar view of Burford Hall had opened up before him, its mellow stone glowing in the sharp midday light. For some reason life was a little flat. Even a little lonely. The house was empty apart from himself and the servants and would be so as far into the future as he could see. His brother Hal and Nell, now his wife, were firmly settled in New York where the firm of Faringdon and Bridges occupied Hal’s business acumen. His eldest brother Thomas had been dead now more than three years. So the Hall was empty. As was his own attractive manor at Aymestry.
Perhaps a visit to town was the remedy for this vague sense of ennui. It was a year or more since he had last taken up residence for any length of time at Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square. The Season would be at its height with all the Polite World in town. It would not do for him to rusticate completely, to become nothing but a county squire, buried in soil and hunting with pretensions to neither fashion nor style. Nicholas smiled at his own harsh judgement. There was little chance of that. He could rise to the occasion as well as any and play the sophisticated man of fashion.
Lord Nicholas’s arrival on the sweep of gravel before the steps of Burford Hall had coincided with that of the post boy from Leominster, so that now he stood in the library, wine glass in hand, having leafed through the letters before casting them on to the desk. But not all. One of them, the fatal one, had caught his attention—he had recognised the handwriting immediately. It caused him to groan quietly. He might have wished for a change of pace and scenery, but that did not include the interference of Aunt Beatrice. He could guess at the content before he even unfolded the thin sheets of paper with Lady Beatrice’s distinctive scrawl. Carrying it to the window seat, he sat and prepared to read.
My dear Nicholas,
Although the Season has been under way for some weeks, it has come to my notice when visiting Judith in Grosvenor Square that Faringdon House has remained closed up with the knocker off the door and we have not had the pleasure of your company. I took the liberty of calling to ask Elton if he had any knowledge of your sudden arrival—which he had not. I am sure that it is not good for you to bury yourself in the country. You need to come to town, my boy.
I know that it will be no surprise to you if I suggest that matrimony should play a significant part in your planning. You are young, well set up with your own income and property, both of which are substantial, and I do not hesitate to say that you are not unattractive to the opposite sex. It is time that you took a wife—indeed, I consider it to be your duty. Now that Henry and Eleanor are settled in New York—although why that should be I cannot imagine—it behoves you to consider setting up your own nursery. I am sure that you take my meaning. I believe that life can be considered cheap Across the Sea.
How can you expect to meet anyone suitable if you are buried at Burford Hall? Not that it is not a delightful place—I remember exceptional house parties there in your dear mother’s day—but not in April when you should be in London for the Season.
I cannot insist that you come to town, of course—
Really! Nicholas’s lips curled in appreciation of his aunt’s forthright style, against which few members of the family were ever prepared to take a stand.
and I am sure that you can find any number of excuses why your time at Burford is invaluable, but it would please me if you would present yourself in Berkeley Square for my own ball in three weeks. I will take the opportunity to introduce you to this year’s crop of débutantes. Some very pretty well-bred girls, who would be valuable additions to the Faringdon family.
There is no need to reply to this letter. Merely arrive!
Your loving aunt
Beatrice
He cast the letter on to the desk to pour a glass of claret from the decanter, which the footman had brought in whilst he read.
Merely arrive!
Well, he had thought of going, had he not? But not if he was to be an object of Beatrice’s interest. Like a rare insect under a magnifying lens.
Marriage. Of course she would interest herself. Her advice in the letter was nothing new. But Beatrice—damn her!—had pricked at his sense of duty and he could not but acknowledge the weight of her argument. Even so, the prospect of dancing attendance on any number of young girls at Almack’s and other fashionable squeezes filled him with something akin to horror. Eyed, assessed, gossiped over by their avaricious mamas, his income, rank and future prospects a matter for public speculation. The daughters hanging on his every word, hoping for a declaration of undying love or at least the invitation to accept his hand in marriage and take up residence at Aymestry Manor. Or, even more enticingly, at Burford Hall in the absence of the Marquis. Thomas, with considerable aplomb and good humour, would have laughed it off and enjoyed the flirtation and the female fluttering for his attention. Hal would have simply made himself scarce. He, Nicholas, in the circumstances, could do neither. The bonds around him, the silken ties of family responsibility and duty, tightened around him even more. Unbreakable, even though constructed from love and care.
Nicholas poured another glass of claret and frowned into it. Hal had the right of it when he took himself off to New York. But, of course, he had Nell with him now, the love of his life.
He supposed he could simply stay buried here, as Aunt Beatrice had so tactfully phrased it. Offer for the hand of Amelia Hawkes, daughter of the hard-riding, hard-drinking baronet whose land marched with the Faringdon estate in the west. She would like nothing better than to be Lady Nicholas Faringdon, and many would see it as a good match. An excellent rider to hounds, well connected locally, Amelia would take over the running of Aymestry Manor with the same style as she had run her father’s establishment since her mother’s death. She had probably been waiting for an offer from him for the past half-dozen years, he decided, with more than a touch of guilt. Not that he had ever encouraged her to believe that marriage was in his mind—but neither had he discouraged her. With some discomfort he saw the situation from Miss Hawkes’s perspective. They met frequently in the hunting season. He stood up with her at local assemblies in Ludlow and at private parties. Her father, Sir William, certainly would have no objection to such a match. Why not offer for the girl and tell Beatrice that she need dabble no longer—it would be comfortable, easy, familiar?
No, he could not do it. He put down the neglected wineglass with a sharp snap. Poor Amelia. He had not been fair with her. The plain truth was that he no longer wanted comfortable, easy and familiar. She was an attractive girl and would no doubt make some man an excellent wife. He liked her well enough. But love? Amelia never caused his blood to run hot or his eyes to spark with the possessive emotion that he had seen in Hal’s when he turned his gaze on Nell. Nor was the lady blessed with a well-informed mind. They could exchange views on horses and hunting, the desirability of pheasant at the end of the season when stringy could be something of a compliment. But if he ever took the conversation into any other channels—the new ideas on farming—or, God preserve him, the political situation—her eyes glazed over and she had no opinion or knowledge to volunteer. And, he realised as the image of Miss Amelia formed in his mind, she had absolutely no interest in clothes and her appearance, spending most of her days in a riding habit. Nicholas, he discovered with some surprise, since it had never crossed his mind before, was sufficiently fastidious that his future wife must look and play her part with style, whether it be in a fashionable drawing room or on the hunting field.
No. Miss Amelia Hawkes would never be mistress of Aymestry Manor. He supposed it would have to be Aunt Beatrice and the débutantes. He hoped to God that since it was undoubtedly his duty to marry and his heart was clearly not engaged elsewhere, he could meet someone suitable, someone intelligent, stylish and conventional, within a few weeks of his arrival and get it over with. As long as he did not repeat the experience he’d had with Georgiana Fitzgerald. He’d thought he had been in love. The lovely Georgiana Fitzgerald had flirted and smiled, had led him to believe that she would look for more than a light friendship—indeed, a deeper, lasting relationship. For his part he had been entranced by a lively and confiding manner and lovely face. And then, when he had been on the point of declaring himself, she had thrown him over to become the object of interest to an extremely wealthy Viscount on the trawl for a wife. She had wanted a title and fortune, not the heart and devotion of a younger son with a mere easy competence. Nicholas, distinctly disillusioned, had been left to consider the folly of allowing his heart to become engaged when considering matrimony. But that did not make Miss Amelia Hawkes any more acceptable!
On which negative note, Lord Nicholas tossed off the remainder of the claret and left the haven of his library to give instructions for his visit to town. With perhaps, in spite of everything, a lightening of his heart.
