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

The door to the gunroom at Burford Hall, deep in the west wing, opened on to a familiar and industrious scene. A young man in shirt sleeves, corduroy breeches and high-topped boots, all well suited to country life, presented his back to the visitor. A black spaniel at his feet, Lord Nicholas Faringdon leaned with hip propped against a bench on which were all the accoutrements necessary for oiling and cleaning the impressive array of sporting firearms. Head bent, he was intent on freeing the firing mechanism on a particularly fine but unreliable duck gun. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth.

‘So this is how you are spending your time. I might have known it. Planning a day’s rough shooting when you should be overlooking the acres!’

The young man’s head snapped up and turned at the sound of the soft voice. He stopped whistling. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then he abandoned the gun on top of the rest of the detritus on the bench and pushed himself to his feet, a grin warming his features.

‘Hal! I had no idea.’ He approached the gentleman, hand outstretched in formal greeting, and then thought better of it and seized his brother in a warm hug, all the time firing questions. ‘How long it has been! When did you arrive? Have you been back in England long? How long will you stay?’

Returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm, Henry—Hal to those who knew him best—pushed back and the brothers, Lord Henry and Lord Nicholas Faringdon, stood at arm’s length to assess each other. The family resemblance was strong. Both were true Faringdons. Dark hair, almost black and dense with little reflected light. A straight nose, lean cheeks, a decided chin and well-marked brows, they were a handsome pair. But whereas Hal’s eyes were more grey than blue, stern and frequently on the edge of cynical, Nicholas, some three years younger, viewed the world through a bright optimistic gaze of intense blue. Their smiles on this occasion were also very similar, but Nicholas’s mouth lacked the lines of experience, of ambition and sardonic humour that were engraved on Hal’s features.

‘You look well, for all your travels.’ Nicholas gave his brother a friendly smack on his shoulder. ‘Have you made your fortune yet? Is that why you are here, to brag of your exploits?’

‘Not quite.’ Hal shook his head, well used to the ribbing.

‘Ha! I wager you are too fine to have anything to do with a mere landowner now. Faringdon and Bridges, is it not? Should I ask who is in charge of the business? Are you controlling New York yet?’

‘No—and, no, you should not ask! Nat Bridges and I have equal shares and investment in this company. I see you haven’t changed, Nick.’ Henry looked at his brother, noting the faint lines of strain beside his mouth, until his attention was demanded by a nudge against his boot. ‘And who is this?’ He bent to pull the ears of the spaniel who had come to sit at his feet in a friendly fashion.

‘Bess. She’s young, but she’s hopeful. As soon as she stops chasing and scattering the birds rather than collecting them.’

The dog sneezed as if knowing she was under discussion. The two men laughed.

‘Hal. I don’t know what to say to you about all this…’ Nicholas was suddenly sober, as a cloud covering the sun, the smile wiped from mouth and eyes by a depth of sorrow.

Hal shook his head and turned away to run his hand along the polished stocks and barrels of the guns in their racks. It was all so familiar. But now it was changed for ever and he could do nothing about it. ‘Any problems with the estate?’ He kept his back turned.

‘No.’ Nicholas was relieved to return to plain reporting of facts. Emotions at the Hall were still too stark to allow for casual airing. ‘All neatly tied up. The entail stands. There are no inheritance problems and Hoskins had finished his affairs when I was last in London. Thomas always was thorough, of course. He left everything as it should be.’

At that, Hal spun on his heel, his voice and expression harsh with pain. ‘How the hell did it happen, Nick? A riding accident? I have never seen anyone sit a horse better or more securely than Thomas. And he was not even out hunting, if the letters speak the truth.’

‘No.’ Nick frowned at the problem that had faced him for the past few months. ‘He went out across the estate to meet the new agent, Whitcliffe. He never arrived. His horse returned here riderless. Thomas was found later that morning on the edge of the east wood, no obvious injuries, but his neck broken. The horse was unharmed too. It must have shied—a loose pheasant, perhaps—and thrown him. His mind must have been preoccupied and…well, you know the rest.’

‘Yes. Such a tragic waste of a life.’

‘I still can’t believe that he will not walk through that door and ask me if I wish to go…’ Nick’s words dried in his throat as the memories became too intense.

Hal saw and understood. He grasped his brother’s shoulder, with a little shake. ‘I know. Come to the library and tell me about everything. And a brandy would not come amiss, I think.’

‘Yes—of course. And I would wish to know what you have been about.’ Once more in command, Nicholas shrugged into his jacket and followed his brother from the room. As he turned to lock the door to the gunroom, the spaniel fussing round his feet, a thought came to him

‘By the by…have you spoken with Lady Faringdon yet?’

Hal came to a halt and turned, brows arched.

‘Who?’

‘Lady Faringdon. The Marchioness.’

‘You mean Thomas married?’ Hal asked in amazement. ‘I did not know…I had no idea…’

‘Why, yes. And he has a son. Tom—a splendid child. Just a little more than a year old.’

‘Well, now!’ Hal leaned his shoulders back against the panelled wall of the passageway and let his breath seep slowly from his lungs as he felt a ridiculous sense of relief begin to surge through his body. ‘So the child will inherit. He will be Marquis of Burford.’

‘Of course. What else?’ Nicholas eyed his brother quizzically and then his face cleared, became touched with sardonic humour as he realised. ‘You didn’t know! The letters after Thomas’s marriage never reached you. You thought it had all come to you, the title and the inheritance, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Hal closed his eyes at the enormous sense of release from an existence that had taken on the weight of a life sentence. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And are mightily relieved that it does not.’ Nicholas took Hal’s arm in a sympathetic grasp to urge him in the direction of the library and the brandy.

‘More than mightily. It is something I would never wish for. I will happily be a trustee for the infant, but Marquis of Burford? Not to my taste at all. In America I am now used to being Mr Faringdon. And I like it.’

‘Still the Republican, I see.’ Nick’s tone was dry, with more than a hint of amusement. ‘But you are safe from the inheritance. We sent to tell you of the marriage, of course, not so long after you left. The letters must have gone astray.’

‘Easy enough to do. They never reached me. I had no idea.’ Hal was still half-inclined not to believe this stroke of fortune. ‘Why did Thomas not tell me of his intentions before I left? I thought we were close enough. If he took a bride so soon after I took ship, surely he had already met the lady!’

Nick grinned. ‘I think not, from what I remember. It must have been love at first sight. Or at least a sufficiently strong attraction. Not that you would have noticed particularly—our brother was never one to wallow in sentiment, as you know—but Thomas would have a quick betrothal and carried it all off with highhanded determination.’

‘It must have been a shattering experience for him, to have fallen in love so completely.’ Hal frowned a little. The picture did not quite fit with his knowledge of Thomas, his brother’s overriding interest in sport and hunting to the exclusion of almost everything else.

‘I know it does not sound like the Thomas we knew.’ Nick shrugged in agreement, reading his brother’s thoughts with unnerving accuracy. ‘But come. We will postpone the brandy and I will introduce you to the Widow. I warn you, she is taking Thomas’s death hard, but she is very resilient and will come about. I expect that she will be in the blue withdrawing-room with her mother and the baby at this time of day.’

‘Then lead on.’

They walked through the house in close accord, Hal’s lightness of spirit, in spite of the untimely death of his brother, a shining bright strand woven through the dark skein of grief. He would not have to inherit the estates and the title. Thank God! He could return to his dealings in America with a clear conscience, leaving the care of the property with his fellow trustee Nicholas, who had no objection to rural life. The direction of his life had suddenly come back into clear focus, an enormous weight lifted from his mind. He was all set to be appreciative of and everlastingly thankful to his new sister-in-law who had produced so timely an heir.

‘What is she like?’ he asked Nick as they climbed the main staircase. ‘Is she pretty? Amenable?’

‘Not so. She is a Beauty. A Diamond of the First Water! Thomas showed far more taste than I would ever have given him credit for. But you will soon see for yourself.’

Nicholas opened the door into the blue withdrawing-room, a light attractive space with azure silk hangings that matched and complimented the fashionable blue-and-silver-striped wallpaper. The room had, Hal noted, been newly refurbished, remembering the previous drab greens and ochres of his mother’s occupancy. A fire in the hearth beckoned. Sun glinted on the delicate crystal chandelier and the polished surface of a small piano. It was undoubtedly a lady’s room, a lady of style and exquisite taste.

And the tableau within the room that met the critical gaze of the two men was equally attractive. A young woman was seated on the rug before the fire, her black silk skirts of deepest mourning spread around her. A baby in the experimental stage of crawling was in the act of reaching up to take a red ball from his mother’s hands, then tried to stuff the soft felt into his mouth. A grey kitten curled at their side. The lady laughed at her son, face alight with pride and delight in his achievements; she reached forwards to pick him up and cuddle him against her breast, pressing her lips against his dark curls. The baby chucked and grasped her fashionable ringlets with small but ruthless fingers.

It was a scene to entrance even the hardest of heart.

Then the lady looked round at the opening of the door.

‘Eleanor! I though we would find you here,’ Nicholas began. ‘Can I introduce you.…’

The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. It tightened, brittle as wire, sharp as a duelling sword, in the space of a heartbeat. The kitten arched in miniature and silent fury at the appearance of the inquisitive spaniel. The newly widowed Marchioness of Burford, always pale of complexion, became paper white, expressive eyebrows arched, eyes widening with shock, as they fixed on the gentlemen at the door. Her smile of delight for her baby vanished, leaving her still and wary. Lord Henry Faringdon simply froze on the spot, every sense coated in ice, spine rigid. His breath backed up in his lungs.

Nicholas looked from Eleanor to Hal and back again. What in the Devil’s name was wrong here? He had no idea.

For an endless moment Nicholas stood uncertain between the two, his introduction brought to an abrupt and uncomfortable halt. He looked towards Eleanor where she still knelt on the rug for some illumination, brows raised. Once pale, her face was now flushed with bright colour, but he could not read the expression that flitted momentarily across her expressive features. Embarrassment? Perhaps. A flash of anger? But that seemed unlikely in the circumstances. It did not seem to Nicholas that it was grief. There was no enlightenment to be had here.

Meanwhile Hal, he noted, had no expression at all! His face was shuttered, unreadable, his eyes hooded, an expression Nicholas recognised with a touch of trepidation from their childhood and adolescence. His brother was a past master at disguising his thoughts and feelings if he chose to do so and could quickly retreat into icy hauteur. His lips were now firmly compressed. If he had been about to say something on his entrance, he had clearly changed his mind. He continued to stand, rooted to the spot, the open door at his back.

Nicholas gave up and, for better or worse, completed the formal introduction.

‘Eleanor. You must know that this is my brother, Henry. He received our sad news at last and is come to. Well, he is here, for which I am relieved.’ The bland stare from the Marchioness gave him no encouragement to continue. Hal’s enigmatic silence was no better. ‘Hal…this is Eleanor, Thomas’s wife.’

The silence stretched. The tension held.

Then good manners reasserted themselves as if an invisible curtain had been lifted. The lady placed the child back on the rug and rose to her feet with graceful composure, shaking out her ruffled skirts. Hal walked forward and bowed as the lady executed a neat curtsy and extended her hand in dignified welcome. He took it and raised it to his lips. All formal courtesy, appropriate to the occasion, all social graces smoothly applied. So why did Nicholas still feel that the banked emotion in the room could explode at any moment and shatter them to pieces?

‘My lady. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but I regret the occasion. May I express my condolences. Your loss must be very great, as is mine.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Your good wishes are most acceptable. I miss your brother sorely. You must know that I have received all possible support and kindness from your family.’

All that was proper was expressed with cool, precise formality.

But it was all wrong.

At their feet the child, tired of the red ball and lack of attention, began to fret and whimper. The lady immediately stooped and lifted him.

‘This is Thomas’s son.’ The Marchioness turned the baby in her arms towards the visitors.

Against his will Henry was drawn to approach the child. The Faringdon line had bred true again. The infant had thick, dark curls, which would probably straighten with age. And one day when the chubbiness of babyhood had passed, he would have the fine straight nose and sharply defined cheekbones of his father. Already the dark brows were clear, arching with ridiculous elegance in the infant face. But the eyes. They were not true. They were hers, his mother’s. As clear as the finest glass, as luminous as costly amethysts. The baby smiled and crowed at the attention, stretching out a hand to the newcomer. He had a dimple, Hal noticed inconsequentially as he allowed the baby to grasp his own fingers, smiling against all his intentions as they were promptly gnawed by tender gums.

‘His name?’ Henry had his voice well in hand.

‘Thomas.’ Eleanor did not. Her voice broke a little. ‘He is named for his father.’

Henry stroked the baby’s soft hair, his grief for his dead brother swelling in his chest.

Eleanor immediately stepped back with the child, putting a subtle distance between them. ‘Forgive me—I am a little overwrought and the baby will be tired and hungry. If you will excuse me, I will take him to the nursery.’

She turned away abruptly, never once allowing her eyes to meet Lord Henry’s, and began to walk towards the door.

‘My lady.’ Henry’s words stopped her, but she did not turn to face them as if the open door was a much-desired means of escape. ‘I would request a meeting with you. A matter of business, you understand, as a trustee of the estate.’

‘Of course.’

‘In an hour, perhaps, if that is to your convenience. In the library.’

‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘An hour.’

The Marchioness left the room, taking the child with her.

Lord Henry’s eyes never left her until her slim figure turned the corner round the sweep of the main staircase.

* * *

It was one of the longest hours of the Marchioness of Burford’s life.

After leaving her son with a doting nurserymaid, she paced the fine Aubusson carpet in the library, oblivious to the splendour and comfort around her. The richness of the tapestries that glowed against the panelled wood left her unmoved. The leather bindings of the books with their gold and red tooling might be sumptuous, but failed to catch her eye. The polished oak furniture, well loved by generations of the Faringdon family, went unnoticed. Nor could she sit, not even in a sunny window seat with its view of woods and distant hills and the parterre which she herself was in the process of planting. Nervous tension balled in her stomach. She felt cold, yet her hands were clammy with sweat, even as she wiped them surreptitiously down her black silken skirts.

She had dreaded this meeting, fully aware that it could happen—was almost inevitable to happen—at some time in the future. But she had hoped, prayed even, that it would never come about. Or be so far into the future distance that painful memories would have faded, emotions stilled. And she had deliberately closed her mind to the consequences. But when she had looked up to see him in the doorway, tall and dark and magnificent, it was as if all time had been obliterated. Her heart had leapt. Her pulse quickened and raced before she had sternly reminded herself of the events of the past.

And as she remembered again now, anger flared, all-consuming, raging through her veins so that she trembled with the force of it. He would receive no welcome here from her.

But what would she say to him? Or he to her? On a thought she realised that he was just as shocked as she, more so since he had apparently been unaware of her marriage. At least she had known of the possibility of this meeting and had been able to prepare. From the immediate tensing of his whole body on setting eyes on her, as if facing the barrels of a shotgun, he had been stunned.

She laughed with bitter eyes at her own predicament. You are a fool. You were not prepared at all. It took your breath away to see him again!

But now she had her own secrets to keep, whatever her personal inclination in the matter. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There was no room for guilt here. She would keep those secrets until the day she died. The only one who had shared them with her, who had understood their significance, was now dead, and she would keep faith with the vows made.

Eleanor set her mind to rule her heart.

When he came to her she was ready, standing before the long window, composed, confident, a glossy layer of sophistication. She would hold this interview on her own terms as Marchioness of Burford.

He closed the door softly, advanced and stood for a moment. They might have been strangers, distant acquaintances at the most, except that at least then he might have put himself out to be sociable. As it was he looked at her with apparent indifference in his cold grey eyes and the stern set of his mouth.

And surveyed her in a detailed assessment from head to foot with an arrogance that chilled her blood.

How right Nicholas had been, he thought. The Marchioness was not pretty. He had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Heart-stoppingly so. All that glossy brown hair with its autumnal tints, caught up in fashionable ringlets. Any red-blooded man would dream of unpinning it, of allowing it to curl in his hands or against his lips. He remembered exactly how it had felt. Her perfect oval face with straight nose and sculpted lips was lovely indeed. Calm and translucent as a Renaissance Ma-donna—until he looked at her eyes. Amethyst fire, fringed with dark lashes, and at this moment blazing with temper and wilful determination. Here was no simpering miss, he acknowledged. The pretty and naïve debutante of his memory had vanished for ever. She was tall. Taller than he had remembered, the crown of her head reaching well past his shoulder. And the black gown, extravagantly fashionable, complimented her elegant figure and the natural cream of her complexion. Assured and polished, she had grown into her new status since he had known her as Miss Eleanor Stamford. His brother had indeed shown excellent taste in his choice of bride.

Eleanor found herself flushing under the sustained regard. It had the whip of an insult and she raised her chin against it but she would not retaliate. She would not!

The silence between them had lasted too long for social correctness. But when the lady almost felt compelled to break it, it was he who did so.

‘My Lady Burford. I believe that you deserve my congratulations as well as my condolences.’ He bowed with cold grace. Another calculated insult. ‘At least I now know the answer to one of the many unsolved mysteries of this world! I have clearly been lacking in my understanding of the driving ambition of some of the members of your sex. I realise that with any real understanding of human nature, I should have been able to work it out for myself.’

‘My lord?’

‘You look surprised, my dear Eleanor.’ Lord Henry’s smile was an essay in contempt. ‘It is simply that I now find it perfectly plain why you chose not to respond to my offer of marriage, in spite of your previous…shall I say, encouragement of my suit. You had your sights set on a far bigger and more important fish in your small pond. And a far richer one.’ The slick of disdain could not quite disguise the underlying pain, but the words had the bite of a lash. ‘I could obviously offer you nothing in comparison. I am sorry that my brother’s death has caused all your planning to go awry, my lady! As widow of the Marquis of Burford, your social position will be far less glamorous than you had plotted and planned for—if my brother had had the consideration to live.’

Eleanor found herself unexpectedly speechless.

Whatever she had expected him to say, whatever tone she had expected him to use towards her, it was certainly not this.

‘I do not understand. You will have to speak more plainly, my lord.’ Eleanor managed with an effort of will to keep her response cool, with none of the confused bewilderment that resulted from his words.

‘I admire your composure,’ he continued in the same conversational tone, ‘but of course you must have anticipated that we would meet again at some point, given the family connection. Unlike myself, who had no notion of what you had achieved in my absence. Did you perhaps expect me to have the supreme good manners not to mention our past dealings? To behave as if nothing untoward had occurred?’

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