The Lord and the Wayward Lady. Louise Allen

      The Lord and the Wayward Lady Louise Allen

      Paying the Virgin’s Price Christine Merrill

      The Smuggler and the Society Bride Julia Justiss

      Claiming the Forbidden Bride Gayle Wilson

      The Viscount and the Virgin Annie Burrows

      Unlacing the Innocent Miss Margaret McPhee

      The Officer and the Proper Lady Louise Allen

      Taken by the Wicked Rake Christine Merrill

      For my fellow Continuistas –

       Annie, Christine, Gayle, Julia and Margaret – with love. What a wonderful way to meet!

       Chapter One

       January 5, 1814. London

      ‘Just look at that blue sky, guv’nor. Mornin’ like this, all’s right with the world and no mistake.’

      ‘You must be in love, Dan.’ Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate, observed as he looped his reins and took the corner from Piccadilly into Albemarle Street at a brisk trot.

      A waft of onions from behind him accompanied an indignant snort from his tiger. ‘You won’t find me shut up in parson’s pound, guv’nor. Nah, just look at it: all crisp and sunny and fresh. A perfect day—proper lifts the spirits. Nuffin’ could go wrong on a day like this.’

      ‘After a remark like that, a superstitious man would take to his bed, order the doors to be bolted and expect disaster.’ Marcus grinned, steadying the pair as they took exception to a large party proceeding along the pavement in a flurry of bandboxes and fluttering scarves.

      It was a damned good day, Dan was right. The sun shone, the air was crisp, the fog had lifted and the intriguing Mrs Perdita Jensen was showing unmistakeable signs of a willingness to accept his carte blanche.

      Yes, if one disregarded a father whose poor health was wearing down his mother’s spirits, one sister whose aim in life appeared to bring him to an early grave with worry, another whose sweet innocence was equally conducive to anxiety, and a brother who, when he was not putting life and limb at risk on the battlefield, was set on becoming the wildest rake in town, then one might, indeed, believe that nothing on earth could go wrong.

      Marcus contemplated the day ahead. Luncheon with the family, a meeting with Brocket, the estate manager, up from Hertfordshire with a bulging portfolio of estate business, dinner at his club and then a visit to Mrs Jensen’s discreet apartments to agree terms. Calm, ordered, satisfactory and predictable, just for once.

      ‘Take the curricle round to the mews, Dan. I won’t be—’ The door of the double-fronted town house burst open as a footman emerged at the run. ‘Peters?’

      ‘My lord.’ The man pulled himself up at the foot of the steps. ‘Lord Narborough—it looks like another heart stroke, my lord. Mr Wellow said I was to take a hack and fetch the doctor, urgently.’

      ‘Dan, take the reins.’ Marcus thrust them into the tiger’s hands as the young man scrambled round and into the seat. Marcus vaulted down and pushed the footman up beside Dan. ‘If Dr Rowlands isn’t at home, find where he has gone and bring him.’

      He took the steps two at a time and caught the closing front door. The hall was in turmoil. Richards, the youngest footman, was wringing his hands and declaring that it wasn’t his fault, the young lady looked respectable enough and how was he to know she was a murdering hussy? Wellow, the butler, was demanding of Felling, the earl’s elderly valet, where his lordship’s drops were, and at the foot of the stairs three young women were engaged in a noisy argument.

      Or, at least, Honoria, his elder sister, was arguing. Verity, the younger, was in tears. Marcus shrugged off his caped driving coat and strode across the black-and-white chequered floor to the one person who appeared to be calm. ‘Miss Price, what has occurred?’

      His sisters’ companion turned, relief at the sight of him clear on her face. ‘Lord Stanegate, thank Heavens you are returned. No, Honoria! If your mama says the young woman is to remain in the library until Lord

      Stanegate says what is to be done, then that is where she stays and you are not to speak to her.’ She put an arm around Verity and gave her a little shake. ‘Now stop crying, Verity. What good is that going to do your papa?’

      ‘None.’ Verity threw herself onto Marcus’s chest. ‘Marc! Papa is dying!’

      ‘Nonsense,’ he retorted with more assurance than he felt, disentangling his sister and setting her firmly on her feet. ‘Verity, Honoria, go and help Felling find Papa’s drops. Miss Price, where is Lord Narborough?’

      ‘In his study, with her ladyship,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hoby should be up at any moment with some sweet tea.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Marcus opened the door to the study and went quietly inside. His father was stretched out on the big leather chaise, his wife seated by his side, patting his hand. Marcus stopped dead, shaken despite knowing what to expect. The earl, always in poor health, was only fifty-four, but with grey hair and stooped shoulders he looked twenty years older. Marcus could barely recall his father as well and active. But now, with blue lips and his eyes closed and sunken, he looked a dying man.

      ‘Mama?’