A writer of incendiary pamphlets for women's rights, Sibylla Chalfont is an embarrassment to her stepmother and two Society-obsessed stepsisters. Raised by a nearly revolutionary aunt, she has been taught that marriage is a trap, love is an illusion and no woman needs a man complicating her life.
Justin, Earl of Ashlington, has returned to England from America to accept the newly-inherited title. It is impressed on him that it is his duty to marry and beget an heir quickly, so his uncle Sir Peregrine Playfair has arranged an extensive social whirl for him, making sure that he can meet every eligible young woman in Town. Since all he wants to do is return to the beloved estate of Ashlings, which now belongs to him, Justin most reluctantly agrees to stay until Baroness Worsley's Christmas Eve ball before leaving.
These two young people would seem to be both mis-matched and incompatible, but they are no match for Lady Miriam Pontrefact-Watson, Sibylla's godmother, who is accustomed to arranging things as she wishes. Can she make her wishes come true this time?
Excerpt
“Things have changed, Letitia. You are Ronnie's widow. You may of course live in the Dower House. Clinton will see that you have a suitable home here in London, and of course you will be looked after financially as our fathers agreed in the marriage settlements, but there will not be any relationship between us except as brother and sister in law.”
Letitia's eyes opened wide. “But you always said...”
“And you chose to marry Ronnie and the title.” Justin struggled to keep his voice civil. “You are my brother's widow, and I will always treat you as such with all the respect you deserve. And nothing more.”
“Justin, what kind of a jape is this? I must tell you, I find such raillery in very poor taste.”
“You are a fine one to be speaking of poor taste!”
Anger flared in her dark eyes, which still could be considered fine in spite of the webwork of tiny wrinkles surrounding them. “How dare you!”
“Words that I should be speaking to you, madam, out of memory of Ronnie if not personal predilection.” Her grip on his arm had loosened, so Justin was able to slip out of it without any unseemly struggle to draw attention. Making her a bow, he turned to walk away, hoping she would not find something to fling at his back, when suddenly the world changed.
In the middle of the room stood a goddess, tall and slender and incredibly beautiful. From the top of her shining golden hair to her delicate white slippers she was seemingly clothed in light. Calmly she looked around her with the grace and reserve an anointed queen might when looking over her subjects.
Can it be? Justin wondered with incredulity, or was it merely wishful thinking that the plainly clad girl briefly seen in a bookshop could be at one of the Season's finest balls?
“Justin...” Letitia said, putting a hand on his arm, but he paid no attention, shaking it off as he would an annoying insect.
He had to move quickly; already seemingly every male in the room was being drawn towards her, just as a swarm of bees to a garden. It seemed every eye in the place, male and female, was looking at her.
Then he was standing in front of her, giving her a most profound bow and placing the ghost of a kiss on the back of her gloved hand. Around him there was a slight murmur of discontent from the surrounding males.
“Ashlington at your service, madam. May I entreat you for this dance?”
“But there is no music.”
It was she of the bookshop; it had to be. There could not be two such women in the world, let alone in London, and he had no intention of letting her leave his company. Making a grand gesture toward the musicians who, wise to the ways of the Quality immediately began to play a most romantic waltz, Justin extended his hand to the goddess.
To his dismay, she made no effort to accept.
“I am so very sorry,” she murmured in a voice so soft it was for his ears only, “but I have not been given permission to waltz.”
Inwardly Justin cursed the arbitrary and occasionally draconian rules of the Almack's patronesses who held it in their power to make or break the social career of any young lady of good breeding over something as trivial as a waltz.
“Then will you give me the inestimable pleasure of taking a turn with me around the room?” he asked without a break.
Her voice was soft and sweet, but not the least bit hesitant. “Gladly, sir.”
Gently she placed her hand on his arm and they walked toward the edge of the room. Justin was not pleased to notice that not only did they have to practically push their way through the surrounding crowd of aspirant swains, but that the accursed potential rivals followed them at much less than a discreet distance. Left adrift, Letitia and the young single ladies looked after the couple with such intensity that, if such an eventuality were possible, would have left nothing of either of them save a small charred mark on the polished parquet.