Lady Rosabella's Ruse. Ann Lethbridge
alt="cover" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#fb3_img_img_1f9dfa46-efa1-5372-af56-ef4fb3696fe5.png"/>
Garth bowed. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. I did not see you.’
He glanced at Lady Keswick for an introduction and she waved an indolent pudgy hand. ‘Mrs Travenor.’
Married. Garth didn’t quite believe his instant flash of disappointment.
‘My dear, meet the worst scapegrace in London,’ the old lady continued. ‘Mrs Travenor is my companion.’
A widow, then. He cheered instantly. Illogically.
He inclined his head. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Travenor.’
A shaft of sunlight released by a passing cloud gilded the young woman’s warm-coloured skin, illuminating the quiet purity of her expression. A virginal widow? Hardly likely. But a woman best avoided.
She was the kind of woman who expected the parson’s mousetrap at the end of the day. He had walked that path once already. He didn’t want a wife. The thought made him shudder.
‘Enough, Stanford.’
Garth realised he was still staring at the widow and dragged his gaze back to Lady Keswick.
The elderly woman smiled at her companion fondly. ‘Rose doesn’t deserve your kind of trouble.’
AUTHOR NOTE
When I first met Garth in THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN I just knew I needed to write his story. He popped up again in THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER (Mills & Boon® Undone! eBooks) to remind me of my promise. As all bad boys do, he finally got his way. I do hope you enjoy learning more about him and Rose as much as I did.
If you would like to know more about me and my books you can find me at my website: http://www.annlethbridge.com. Drop me a note. I love to hear from readers. If you would like to join me as I explore Regency England on my blog you can find me at http://www.regencyramble.blogspot.com
About the Author
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
Previous novels by this author:
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
WICKED RAKE, DEFIANT MISTRESS CAPTURED FOR THE CAPTAIN’S PLEASURE THE GOVERNESS AND THE EARL
(part of Mills & Boon New Voices … anthology)
THE GAMEKEEPER’S LADY
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
(linked to The Gamekeeper’s Lady)
LADY ROSABELLA’S RUSE
(linked to The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan)
and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:
THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER
THE LAIRD AND THE WANTON WIDOW ONE NIGHT AS A COURTESAN UNMASKING LADY INNOCENT
Lady Rosabella’s Ruse
Ann Lethbridge
I would like to dedicate this book
to the bad boy in my life, my husband Keith, who knows beyond any shadow of doubt he is the model for all of my heroes.
I would like to thank Joanne Grant, my editor,
and all the wonderful staff at Harlequin Mills & Boon for their help and support, for without them there would be no book.
And finally a big thank you to the readers who keep reading.
Chapter One
The weight of tedium hung heavy in the air. After only one hour at Lady Keswick’s Sussex mansion, Garth Evernden, eighth Baron Stanford, was bored. Summer house parties were all the same, deadly dull or wildly hedonistic and utterly predictable.
As he prowled in the wake of his hostess’s butler along a corridor lined with every Greek god known to man, he wondered why he hadn’t gone to Brighton. A fleeting thought of Prinny and his cronies produced a yawn.
Why had he accepted Lady Keswick’s invitation? Ah, yes, now he remembered his purpose. Having delivered Clarissa her congé last month, he needed an occupant for his discreet town house in Blackheath. A woman who would entertain his nights and stay out of his days. This gathering of philanderers and fast widows might provide such a woman, but now he was here, hope seemed elusive.
The butler threw back a pair of French doors. ‘The terrace, my lord, where you will find everyone gathered.’
‘No need to announce me.’
The butler grinned. ‘Hadn’t planned to, my lord. No standing on ceremony at The Grange.’
He’d forgotten Lady Keswick’s refreshing informality. Perhaps his stay wouldn’t be so bad.
A group of five or six men in dark coats and women in pastels hung over the terrace’s grey-stone parapet gazing at the lawn.
‘Look at Fitz go!’ one of the men hooted. Hapton. A slender brown-haired dandy of about forty summers, with a penchant for fast women and outrageous wagers. ‘I’ll wager a pony on him.’
The woman in yellow at his right turned her back on the view and laughed up at Hapton. Mrs Mallow made an enchanting picture with her lovely, if somewhat hard, face framed by luxurious chestnut curls and a lavender parasol. ‘My money is on the gardeners. Fitz is all go at the start, but in my experience, he has no stamina.’
General laughter along the rail met the sally.
Seeing Garth, Mrs Mallow waved. Hapton turned to look, grimaced, then swung back to whatever had their attention on the lawn. Taller than most, Garth peered over Hapton’s shoulder. It was a human wheelbarrow race. Two gentlemen against two brawny young men in homespun. Garth sighed. God, they were childish. He hoped this wasn’t the pinnacle of the entertainment to come.
Having not yet greeted his hostess, he turned away from the view and spotted her seated in a chair on wheels in the shade of a cluster of potted yews. A monstrous red wig battled with the purple of a sarcenet gown cut low enough to reveal an expanse of enormous breasts. Struggling to keep his gaze on her face and not the jiggling mass of flesh, he made his bow. ‘Lady Keswick, your servant.’
‘Lord