another match. When she had gently tried to dissuade her admirers they had all, without exception, taken offence, as though it was impossible to accept that any one of their suits could not be irresistible to her. The whole experience had left Deb even more set against a love match and with the reputation for being as cold as ice. Under the circumstances, a business transaction had to be the best option.
Her appetite restored and her decision made, Deborah wolfed down the rest of the piece of toast and another one besides, which she larded with strawberry jam, before excusing herself and returning to the small study where she had left her father’s letter. It was a sunny day in late summer and she was itching to get outside. A ride would be most pleasant before the heat of the day grew too extreme. And that afternoon she had planned to walk over to Midwinter Marney Hall to see Olivia. But first she had a task to accomplish.
Drawing pen and paper towards her, Deb started to draft out her advertisement: Lady seeks temporary fiance…
She paused. That sounded a little abrupt. People might think that she was mad. She needed to be rather more subtle in her first communication. Still, she felt it should not prove too difficult to sketch out a suitable notice, for Mrs Aintree had told her that, of all the Walton family, she was the one most accomplished at her letters. She bent to the task again.
A half-hour later, she had come up with something with which she was almost satisfied.
A lady requires the assistance of a gentleman. If any gentleman of honour, discretion and chivalry will venture to answer this notice and despatch a reply to Lady Incognita at the Bell and Steelyard Inn, Woodbridge, Suffolk, then he shall have no reason to repent his generosity.
Deb bit the end of her pen as she considered the wording, then she blotted the page and sealed the note decisively. There was no time for hesitation. They were to depart for the wedding in Somerset in less than two months’ time, and, if she was to advertise and interview a suitable candidate, she needed to start at once.
She crept back in to the breakfast room, the letter tucked under her arm. Mrs Aintree had gone, but the newspaper fortunately remained and it was the work of only a moment to discover the address for advertisements and the price for a modest three lines of text. Deb rang the bell for the maid and placed the letter in her hand, with instructions for the gardener’s boy to take the gig into Woodbridge and deliver the letter at once. Then, feeling slightly breathless at her own audacity, she made her way upstairs to change into riding dress. She squashed an unworthy desire to run after the maid and snatch the letter back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And, after all, if she disliked the tone of any of the replies, she need not answer them. No one would ever know.
Within another half-hour she was out in the stable yard and was waiting for Beauty to be saddled. The fresh morning air restored her spirits. She decided to ride without a groom and whilst she was out, to consider the attributes that she required in a transient fiance.
She trotted down the drive and out on to the lane. Her fiance would have to be a gentleman, of course, or at least someone who could consistently act the part. She could not foist some upstart upon her family and expect them to accept him. On the other hand, he had to be biddable. She was the one in charge of this situation and required her betrothed to recognise that fact. He could not challenge her authority. He would do as she told him. Smiling slightly, she set Beauty at the fence and galloped off into the fields.
Lord Richard Kestrel had been cantering full tilt along the lane that passed Mallow House when he saw Mrs Stratton’s gig approaching, driven at a cracking pace by the gardener’s boy. The gig passed within two inches of him and one of its rickety wheels almost came clear of the road. The boy righted it without the least appearance of concern and continued on his way whistling. But a letter that had been on the seat beside him slid from the cart and came to rest on top of a tall spike of thistles at the side of the road. Richard bent down, plucked it from its perch and looked at it with interest. It was written in Deborah Stratton’s strong hand, which he had previously read on one memorable occasion, and it was addressed to the editor of the Suffolk Chronicle. Richard dusted the missive down, caught up with the gig and passed it over to the gardener’s boy, who stowed it away gratefully.
As Richard turned his horse, he wondered idly why the Honourable Mrs Stratton would be writing to the newspapers. Perhaps she was inviting more ladies to join the Midwinter reading group. Or more likely she was writing to the editor to complain about the preponderance of rakes in the Midwinter villages that summer. Richard knew that Mrs Stratton had no very good opinion of rakes in general and of himself in particular.
Richard took the green lane that passed to the east of Deb Stratton’s property and slowed his highly bred black hunter to a decorous trot. The horse flickered its ears with disappointment, but Richard had no wish to meet his maker on that particular morning and it seemed that almost everyone abroad had let the fresh summer air go to their heads. Tempting as it was to kick the horse to a gallop, Richard had an instinctive feeling that caution should be the order of the day.
The thought had scarcely left his mind when there was the tremor of hooves on the dry earth, and Deborah Stratton herself rode out on to the lane on a big brown mare that was almost a match for Richard’s hunter. The horse saw them before Deb did and it took fright, rearing up and pirouetting around. Deb brought the mare ruthlessly under control in a flurry of flying hooves and sat panting slightly, her hat askew, her cheeks stung pink with cool morning air and indignation.
‘Good morning, Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said. ‘Are you practising to join the Spanish Riding School in Vienna?’
He saw Deb Stratton’s pansy-blue eyes narrow on him with intense dislike. She always looked rather comical when she was angry, like a child having a tantrum. Her face was too pretty and too amiable to express annoyance convincingly, and for all that she was two and twenty, she looked much younger. From the thick, fair curling hair that rioted beneath her hat, to the pert nose, full mouth and resolute chin, she looked like a schoolroom chit who had been thwarted and was in a sulk.
‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said. She was having difficulty keeping her tone even slightly polite. ‘I would rather join a school renowned for its discipline than be a circus rider like you.’
Richard grinned. One of the many things that he liked about Mrs Stratton was that her nature was so open that she found it well nigh impossible to adopt the prevarications required by polite society. With him, she did not even try.
They had met two years previously and almost from the start Deborah had made it perfectly clear that she found him to be nothing but a rake and a scoundrel, and she would be the happiest woman on earth if she were never to see him again. Richard’s reputation, which had drawn so many women to him like moths to a dangerous flame, had done him no favours at all in her eyes. He had quickly realised that Deb was that most fascinating combination of qualities, a passionate woman who appeared to have the morals of a puritan. Her antagonism had only piqued his interest. And, being a rake, he had known at once that he had to have her.
Their acquaintance had developed in the most fascinating way. Richard had begun to suspect that, for all her protestations, Deb was not indifferent to him. He was too experienced with women not to recognise that her dislike was turning to reluctant attraction. The very fact that she deliberately avoided his company spoke of her struggle with her own feelings. The knowledge had prompted him to make a serious miscalculation. He had asked her to be his mistress.
It was unlike him to be so inept in matters of the heart, but he had assumed that he could overcome any scruples Deb might possess and persuade her into an affaire. A slapped cheek had demonstrated just how passionate her nature was-and how far he had misjudged the situation. Then, lest he had not quite understood her message, she had sent him a very sharp letter, telling him to keep out of her way in future. Ordering him, in fact.
Richard had had no intention of doing so and he was assisted in the matter by the fact that society in the Midwinter villages was small and they were forever being thrown into each other’s company. Deb had tried to ignore him and Richard had delighted in teasing her by straying close to the line that she had drawn. She had reacted disdainfully, yet underneath he had sensed that her reluctant attraction to him was still there and that it troubled her deeply. It also stirred in him a desire greater than he had ever known.
But then two things had happened to change the balance of the situation. Firstly, Richard had renewed his friendship with Ross Marney, under whom he had served at sea. Ross was his senior by several years and there had always been a mutual respect between the two of them. Now that they were living in the same neighbourhood, this quickly grew into a warmer friendship. Which made Deb, as Ross’s sister-in-law, firmly out of bounds to Richard. She became that most tempting but untouchable of creatures, the woman that he wanted but simply could not
