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A LADY IN DISGUISE
START READING:
A LADY IN DISGUISE
Chapters
1. The Strange Gift
2. Jealousy at Milburn Place
3. The Book of Wordsworth
4. Living for Admiration
5. The Rendezvous
6. The Duke’s Rebuff
7. Unladylike Longings
8. The Scandalous House
9. Measures of Kindness
10. Reputations at Risk
11. Her Ladyship’s Cravat
12. Double Début
13. Challenge at Vauxhall
14. One Voucher for Almack’s
15. Triggering a Response
16. Trials and Triumphs
17. The Duel
18. The Hole in the Hat
19. Snaring the Duke
20. Betrayal of the Heart
21. An Eye-Opening Night
22. Confrontations
23. The Duchess’s Rooms
24. The Broken Window
BONUS Preview of A HERO’S HEART
Glossary
1. The Strange Gift
2. Jealousy at Milburn Place
3. The Book of Wordsworth
4. Living for Admiration
5. The Rendezvous
6. The Duke’s Rebuff
7. Unladylike Longings
8. The Scandalous House
9. Measures of Kindness
10. Reputations at Risk
11. Her Ladyship’s Cravat
12. Double Début
13. Challenge at Vauxhall
14. One Voucher for Almack’s
15. Triggering a Response
16. Trials and Triumphs
17. The Duel
18. The Hole in the Hat
19. Snaring the Duke
20. Betrayal of the Heart
21. An Eye-Opening Night
22. Confrontations
23. The Duchess’s Rooms
24. The Broken Window
BONUS Preview of A HERO’S HEART
Glossary
Chapter 1
The Strange Gift
“Look! There’s a woman!” whispered a surprised male voice.
“What, some servant picking berries? Come on, man. I say, you can’t pass a female without going into transports.”
“No, come and look—she’s lying on the ground.”
“Hmmm . . . she must be sleeping,” said the other, fingering his jaw.
“You’d be amazed at the freedom of these country girls. I’m going to investigate. There will be little other diversion to be had while I am here.”
“Leave her alone!”
* * *
Lady Briana knew, from a sudden prickling feeling, that she was not alone. Raising her cheek from the comforting grass, she brushed hot tears away, petrified that someone should chance to see a lady like herself in this prone, pitiful position.
With trepidation, she raised her bonnet brim a fraction, fully expecting to see the hem of her duenna’s faded purple gown with its black looping trim. But what she saw beyond the woodbine could in no way be Anselma, for gray leather boots were planted there.
She gasped in utter dismay. A man! And she, alone in the copse, far from anyone. Just look, said her conscience, what comes of dodging your faithful Anselma. You have not even come out into Society! You know nothing about dealing with the masterful sex.
With heart pounding, she willed herself to look higher. Pewter-colored tight pantaloons led to a waistcoat of apricot topped by a coat of deepest gray. Above a checked cravat, the man’s narrow cleft chin gave frame to sculpted lips. A tall beaver perched on streaked wavy hair, and his almond-shaped eyes regarded her with the utmost interest.
"Is something amiss?” His clipped words fell softly as he searched the damp, startled face of the dusky beauty beneath the black hat brim.
She raised herself quickly but gracefully to a sitting position on her shawl. “Nothing significant, Sir,” Briana replied with a beautiful disregard for her sparkling tears. “I’ve just . . .” The lustrous eyes danced around for an idea. “Poked my eye into the grass.”
“Ah, provoking, to be sure.” The gentleman’s lips curved into a smile, and he pulled a folded square from within his waistcoat. “Perhaps this will soothe it, Miss. Please! You would honor my handkerchief.”
For a man in his mid twenties and in this part of the world, he had considerable finesse, thought Briana. Even as she knew she should run away as fast as she could, something would not allow her to do so. To ease her grief today, she had read poetry, and what Wordsworth wrote about his Lucy hit home in Briana’s heart.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
On top of everything else, the words had brought an upsurge of loneliness to her heart. Now Briana was romantic enough to let herself believe for a moment that this concerned, handsome gentleman had been bidden by her longing heart.
Between dabs at her lashes, she thanked him while, with her artistic eye, she memorized his face. His ash-colored eyebrows rose and dropped in an intent expression, and his forehead, squared off at the temples, proclaimed his intelligence.
“Who are you?” she asked, trying to sound calm.
“Sir Reginald Channing.”
“But do call him Rex,” said a deep voice from the forest.
Briana whirled, unnerved at being startled by yet another stranger. From the mottled sun and shadows behind her emerged a dark-haired, golden-skinned man loaded with fishing paraphernalia. His black boots were worn, his legs muscular in close-fitting buckskins. Inky bracket-shaped brows marked his strong face, and his moustache gave him a look of the military. He cast her a cursory glance, propped his fishing rod against a moss-laden tree, and dropped a knapsack to the ground. His powerful shoulders set off a maroon waistcoat and white sleeves.
“Yes, certainly,” continued Sir Reginald Channing, lowering himself gallantly onto one knee, “call me Rex, Miss. All my friends do.” As Briana gave him a tentative smile, he added, glancing at the fisherman, “Even some impertinent servants do.”
Hands on hips, the recipient of this gibe returned the gleam in Rex’s eyes with a menacing squint. An undercurrent between the two left Briana uncomfortable, as though they shared a joke at her expense. She could sit there no longer with the two of them speculating as if she were some blowsy damsel.
Scrambling to free her shoes from her flounces, she was suddenly seized by her waist and set upon her feet. She turned a disbelieving look upon the bold servant who had hauled her up. Impulsive words would have issued from her lips if she had not spied the pained look that crossed his brow. “Is something the matter with you?” she inquired.
“If I would remember to stop lifting females, no matter how light they look, I would have no trouble at all,” he said, wincing.
That drew a laugh from Rex. But Briana, knowing she could not be called petite, stiffened. She noted the fisherman’s fingers working at his shoulder. “I am very sorry if I caused you such pain,” she said. Not knowing whether to smile or glare, she chose to gift him with the gaze that had caused the Adam’s apples of Shipston lads to bob. Her eyes were wide and superior, her cherry colored lips parted over white teeth.
The tall servant seemed undisturbed by her poise. She judged him to be nearly thirty, which must account for it. “No need to be sorry,” he told her. “It’s my own fault. I . . . ah . . . got into a scrap.”
Rex coughed to hide his grin.
“Were you victorious?” Briana inquired.
The hazel eyes glinted. “Yes.”
“By the size of you, I am not surprised. Who would have a chance? Well, excuse me, but I must be going.”
The servant stepped more or less into her path and regarded her, his black lashes shuttering his thoughts. Briana avoided that inscrutable look, noting instead that his jaw was dark with evidence that he had dispensed with a razor, and that he had a handsome nose, not perfectly straight. “Pray tell us first,” he said, “why Miss indulges in tears on such a glorious afternoon.”
“I was not indulging!” What impertinence!
“Then you do it often?” he persisted, with the ghost of a grin.
“No! As a matter of fact, I hardly ever— why, what concern is it of yours?”
“Touché,” inserted Rex.
Briana cast him a grateful look, stooped for her shawl, and flushed in shame that she had been betrayed into such schoolgirlish retorts to a servant, and in front of this nobleman.
The betrayer softly insisted, “But if we had not interrupted you, tears might still be flowing down those pretty pink cheeks.”
“They are not pink! That is, I am not in the habit of blushing.” In her confusion, Briana was afraid that, heaven forbid, she was blushing now.
Sternly, Rex admonished, “Leave the young lady alone!” His beaver lifted from his head in a sudden strengthening of the wind, and he reached to catch it, missed, and had to sprint after it. In the same gust, Briana’s hat blew down her back, allowing a cloud of dark tendrils to reveal her graceful neck.
“Forgive me,” continued her tormentor, his voice gentle as he moved closer. “I should not be contradicting a young lady.” As her bosom rose, he reached out ad removed a snip of grass that remained pressed into her damp cheek.
“Darnier!” shouted Rex in sharp rebuke, running toward them.
Briana stood stunned by the casual but vital touch on her skin, especially that last caress at the corner of her mouth. How dare he!
“Darnier, upon my word, leave the young lady alone! Go tie me some more hooks.”
The whiplash of Sir Reginald’s voice caused Darnier to touch his forehead in ironic salute and bend to draw a coil of fishing line from his leather knapsack. Under its flap, Briana glimpsed a fish, apparently the topmost of many.
“Are all of those trout from the brook?” she asked curiously of Rex as she retied her hat ribbons.
“Two hours’ work,” said Darnier. “I will give you half. Will that cheer you?” He shot Briana an inviting look. “In exchange for your name?”
“Darnier,” emphasized Rex, “the lady has not chosen to offer her name. Therefore, we should await her pleasure in that matter.” He paused and looked at her expectantly.
Briana spied the faded purple frock of her spinster duenna crossing the lawn in the distance. “Lady Bri-a-na!” her reedy voice carried on the breeze.
“I see you are cheated,” said Darnier, “for now I know you are Lady Briana Rosewynn, and I still have the fish.”
“Keep them,” she retorted. Eyeing Anselma nervously, she said, “Please make yourselves scarce, gentlemen, or I shall be in the basket.”
“By all means, Miss,” said Rex. Briana, fearful of consequences, hid behind the trunk of the most spreading of the ancient elms while Darnier hunkered next to the elderberry bush, still tying his hook.
Anselma’s accents became sharper. “Lady Briana!”
Briana’s partners in stealth looked amused at her forbearance to answer the summons. They watched the fidgeting woman emerge from the brick pavilion trying to see against the afternoon sun, her eyes shaded by her bony hand, her bonnet resembling a dustbin with frills.
Briana’s curiosity grew as she watched the dark-haired Darnier complete an intricate knot and tuck the hook into his bag. “Do you serve Sir Reginald?” she whispered.
“Not usually, but now for a time he is a guest at Brocco Park,” came the low reply.
“You work for the Duke of Brocco, then?”
Darnier smiled charmingly. “Yes; I am most dedicated to serving him. Do take these fish, My Lady.”
“Bring them to your cook for the Duke’s table,” she returned. “Does His Grace enjoy trout?” He will likely require more than that.”
“The Duke has a definite preference for fresh-caught trout, but even he and his guest cannot put away sixteen. Here, half belongs to Your Ladyship, for I am a man of my word.”
Shyly, she capitulated. “Since I have not allowed myself to poach in His Grace’s brook . . .”
“An excellent reason to accept,” he concluded. Noting that Anselma’s back was turned, he reached quickly across the clearing between their trees and transferred the heavy string from his warm hand to Briana’s cool ones.
“Thank His Grace for me if he chastises you for too few fish,” she said. “We heard that he arrived last evening. One can only imagine how he feels, realizing that such a magnificent seat is all his.” Knowing what much of the mansion looked like for having decorated rooms there, Briana’s eyes shone. “Do you like being one in his army of servants?”
Scrutinizing her, Darnier responded, “I begin to like it more and more.”
Anselma rounded the clipped yew, the one shaped like a birdbath. Her bonnet was crooked and her temper in shreds. “Lady Briana, your tea!”
Rex lifted his hand to his hat brim and smiled farewell, for he was in a position to slip away. His parting look bore open admiration for her, which Briana found produced a pleasing sensation, and a rare one.
Turning back, Darnier’s eyes were fixed on her in an all-seeing way which made her feel suddenly vulnerable. “Thank you,” she mouthed, summoning a smile on behalf of the string of fish she lifted.
“Bon appétit,” he said, his handsome mouth twisting into a half smile. Briana backed away through the branches at the bleating of her name near at hand. But there, behind that compelling Darnier, lay her new volume of Wordsworth. She would have to return for it. She could not chance Anselma’s clapping eyes on the wildly attractive men lurking so near.
The Strange Gift
“Look! There’s a woman!” whispered a surprised male voice.
“What, some servant picking berries? Come on, man. I say, you can’t pass a female without going into transports.”
“No, come and look—she’s lying on the ground.”
“Hmmm . . . she must be sleeping,” said the other, fingering his jaw.
“You’d be amazed at the freedom of these country girls. I’m going to investigate. There will be little other diversion to be had while I am here.”
“Leave her alone!”
* * *
Lady Briana knew, from a sudden prickling feeling, that she was not alone. Raising her cheek from the comforting grass, she brushed hot tears away, petrified that someone should chance to see a lady like herself in this prone, pitiful position.
With trepidation, she raised her bonnet brim a fraction, fully expecting to see the hem of her duenna’s faded purple gown with its black looping trim. But what she saw beyond the woodbine could in no way be Anselma, for gray leather boots were planted there.
She gasped in utter dismay. A man! And she, alone in the copse, far from anyone. Just look, said her conscience, what comes of dodging your faithful Anselma. You have not even come out into Society! You know nothing about dealing with the masterful sex.
With heart pounding, she willed herself to look higher. Pewter-colored tight pantaloons led to a waistcoat of apricot topped by a coat of deepest gray. Above a checked cravat, the man’s narrow cleft chin gave frame to sculpted lips. A tall beaver perched on streaked wavy hair, and his almond-shaped eyes regarded her with the utmost interest.
"Is something amiss?” His clipped words fell softly as he searched the damp, startled face of the dusky beauty beneath the black hat brim.
She raised herself quickly but gracefully to a sitting position on her shawl. “Nothing significant, Sir,” Briana replied with a beautiful disregard for her sparkling tears. “I’ve just . . .” The lustrous eyes danced around for an idea. “Poked my eye into the grass.”
“Ah, provoking, to be sure.” The gentleman’s lips curved into a smile, and he pulled a folded square from within his waistcoat. “Perhaps this will soothe it, Miss. Please! You would honor my handkerchief.”
For a man in his mid twenties and in this part of the world, he had considerable finesse, thought Briana. Even as she knew she should run away as fast as she could, something would not allow her to do so. To ease her grief today, she had read poetry, and what Wordsworth wrote about his Lucy hit home in Briana’s heart.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
On top of everything else, the words had brought an upsurge of loneliness to her heart. Now Briana was romantic enough to let herself believe for a moment that this concerned, handsome gentleman had been bidden by her longing heart.
Between dabs at her lashes, she thanked him while, with her artistic eye, she memorized his face. His ash-colored eyebrows rose and dropped in an intent expression, and his forehead, squared off at the temples, proclaimed his intelligence.
“Who are you?” she asked, trying to sound calm.
“Sir Reginald Channing.”
“But do call him Rex,” said a deep voice from the forest.
Briana whirled, unnerved at being startled by yet another stranger. From the mottled sun and shadows behind her emerged a dark-haired, golden-skinned man loaded with fishing paraphernalia. His black boots were worn, his legs muscular in close-fitting buckskins. Inky bracket-shaped brows marked his strong face, and his moustache gave him a look of the military. He cast her a cursory glance, propped his fishing rod against a moss-laden tree, and dropped a knapsack to the ground. His powerful shoulders set off a maroon waistcoat and white sleeves.
“Yes, certainly,” continued Sir Reginald Channing, lowering himself gallantly onto one knee, “call me Rex, Miss. All my friends do.” As Briana gave him a tentative smile, he added, glancing at the fisherman, “Even some impertinent servants do.”
Hands on hips, the recipient of this gibe returned the gleam in Rex’s eyes with a menacing squint. An undercurrent between the two left Briana uncomfortable, as though they shared a joke at her expense. She could sit there no longer with the two of them speculating as if she were some blowsy damsel.
Scrambling to free her shoes from her flounces, she was suddenly seized by her waist and set upon her feet. She turned a disbelieving look upon the bold servant who had hauled her up. Impulsive words would have issued from her lips if she had not spied the pained look that crossed his brow. “Is something the matter with you?” she inquired.
“If I would remember to stop lifting females, no matter how light they look, I would have no trouble at all,” he said, wincing.
That drew a laugh from Rex. But Briana, knowing she could not be called petite, stiffened. She noted the fisherman’s fingers working at his shoulder. “I am very sorry if I caused you such pain,” she said. Not knowing whether to smile or glare, she chose to gift him with the gaze that had caused the Adam’s apples of Shipston lads to bob. Her eyes were wide and superior, her cherry colored lips parted over white teeth.
The tall servant seemed undisturbed by her poise. She judged him to be nearly thirty, which must account for it. “No need to be sorry,” he told her. “It’s my own fault. I . . . ah . . . got into a scrap.”
Rex coughed to hide his grin.
“Were you victorious?” Briana inquired.
The hazel eyes glinted. “Yes.”
“By the size of you, I am not surprised. Who would have a chance? Well, excuse me, but I must be going.”
The servant stepped more or less into her path and regarded her, his black lashes shuttering his thoughts. Briana avoided that inscrutable look, noting instead that his jaw was dark with evidence that he had dispensed with a razor, and that he had a handsome nose, not perfectly straight. “Pray tell us first,” he said, “why Miss indulges in tears on such a glorious afternoon.”
“I was not indulging!” What impertinence!
“Then you do it often?” he persisted, with the ghost of a grin.
“No! As a matter of fact, I hardly ever— why, what concern is it of yours?”
“Touché,” inserted Rex.
Briana cast him a grateful look, stooped for her shawl, and flushed in shame that she had been betrayed into such schoolgirlish retorts to a servant, and in front of this nobleman.
The betrayer softly insisted, “But if we had not interrupted you, tears might still be flowing down those pretty pink cheeks.”
“They are not pink! That is, I am not in the habit of blushing.” In her confusion, Briana was afraid that, heaven forbid, she was blushing now.
Sternly, Rex admonished, “Leave the young lady alone!” His beaver lifted from his head in a sudden strengthening of the wind, and he reached to catch it, missed, and had to sprint after it. In the same gust, Briana’s hat blew down her back, allowing a cloud of dark tendrils to reveal her graceful neck.
“Forgive me,” continued her tormentor, his voice gentle as he moved closer. “I should not be contradicting a young lady.” As her bosom rose, he reached out ad removed a snip of grass that remained pressed into her damp cheek.
“Darnier!” shouted Rex in sharp rebuke, running toward them.
Briana stood stunned by the casual but vital touch on her skin, especially that last caress at the corner of her mouth. How dare he!
“Darnier, upon my word, leave the young lady alone! Go tie me some more hooks.”
The whiplash of Sir Reginald’s voice caused Darnier to touch his forehead in ironic salute and bend to draw a coil of fishing line from his leather knapsack. Under its flap, Briana glimpsed a fish, apparently the topmost of many.
“Are all of those trout from the brook?” she asked curiously of Rex as she retied her hat ribbons.
“Two hours’ work,” said Darnier. “I will give you half. Will that cheer you?” He shot Briana an inviting look. “In exchange for your name?”
“Darnier,” emphasized Rex, “the lady has not chosen to offer her name. Therefore, we should await her pleasure in that matter.” He paused and looked at her expectantly.
Briana spied the faded purple frock of her spinster duenna crossing the lawn in the distance. “Lady Bri-a-na!” her reedy voice carried on the breeze.
“I see you are cheated,” said Darnier, “for now I know you are Lady Briana Rosewynn, and I still have the fish.”
“Keep them,” she retorted. Eyeing Anselma nervously, she said, “Please make yourselves scarce, gentlemen, or I shall be in the basket.”
“By all means, Miss,” said Rex. Briana, fearful of consequences, hid behind the trunk of the most spreading of the ancient elms while Darnier hunkered next to the elderberry bush, still tying his hook.
Anselma’s accents became sharper. “Lady Briana!”
Briana’s partners in stealth looked amused at her forbearance to answer the summons. They watched the fidgeting woman emerge from the brick pavilion trying to see against the afternoon sun, her eyes shaded by her bony hand, her bonnet resembling a dustbin with frills.
Briana’s curiosity grew as she watched the dark-haired Darnier complete an intricate knot and tuck the hook into his bag. “Do you serve Sir Reginald?” she whispered.
“Not usually, but now for a time he is a guest at Brocco Park,” came the low reply.
“You work for the Duke of Brocco, then?”
Darnier smiled charmingly. “Yes; I am most dedicated to serving him. Do take these fish, My Lady.”
“Bring them to your cook for the Duke’s table,” she returned. “Does His Grace enjoy trout?” He will likely require more than that.”
“The Duke has a definite preference for fresh-caught trout, but even he and his guest cannot put away sixteen. Here, half belongs to Your Ladyship, for I am a man of my word.”
Shyly, she capitulated. “Since I have not allowed myself to poach in His Grace’s brook . . .”
“An excellent reason to accept,” he concluded. Noting that Anselma’s back was turned, he reached quickly across the clearing between their trees and transferred the heavy string from his warm hand to Briana’s cool ones.
“Thank His Grace for me if he chastises you for too few fish,” she said. “We heard that he arrived last evening. One can only imagine how he feels, realizing that such a magnificent seat is all his.” Knowing what much of the mansion looked like for having decorated rooms there, Briana’s eyes shone. “Do you like being one in his army of servants?”
Scrutinizing her, Darnier responded, “I begin to like it more and more.”
Anselma rounded the clipped yew, the one shaped like a birdbath. Her bonnet was crooked and her temper in shreds. “Lady Briana, your tea!”
Rex lifted his hand to his hat brim and smiled farewell, for he was in a position to slip away. His parting look bore open admiration for her, which Briana found produced a pleasing sensation, and a rare one.
Turning back, Darnier’s eyes were fixed on her in an all-seeing way which made her feel suddenly vulnerable. “Thank you,” she mouthed, summoning a smile on behalf of the string of fish she lifted.
“Bon appétit,” he said, his handsome mouth twisting into a half smile. Briana backed away through the branches at the bleating of her name near at hand. But there, behind that compelling Darnier, lay her new volume of Wordsworth. She would have to return for it. She could not chance Anselma’s clapping eyes on the wildly attractive men lurking so near.
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