The Love List Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The Love List

  Copyright 2012 by Deb Marlowe

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission by the author.

  For more information:

  www.DebMarlowe.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books in the Half Moon House Series

  One

  Nearly an hour I have sat here, trying to put quill to paper. Nearly an hour and just over three decades before that. Perhaps it is because it feels arrogant to write down one’s own story and expect others to read it. Perhaps it is because I expect a great many will read it for titillation instead of seeking the truths I hope to convey. But continue I must, if only in the hope that others will learn from my mistakes . . .

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  London

  March, 1814

  “Just an innocent stroll through the gardens,” Lady Sarah intoned. The eerie timbre of her voice clashed with the dance music swelling just beyond their corner. “We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Escaped the press of the crowd for a moment, relished the soft emptiness of the night and the slight brush of a breeze across flushed cheeks—never realizing what evil might lurk!”

  Miss Brynne Wilmott only just refrained from rolling her eyes. Lady Sarah had missed her calling. Clearly the earl’s daughter was born for the stage. She’d taken the latest scandalous tidbit making its way around Society and turned it into a thriller of a tale. The debutantes huddled about her were enthralled.

  “The moon’s glow, the smell of the night blooms, oh, how they must have filled the poor girl’s senses.” Lady Sarah breathed deeply, expanding her own modest décolletage. And without warning, she leaped, seizing the arm of the closest spellbound girl. “Like that, she was gone!” she hissed. “Snatched away by a sepulchral hand and dragged into the bowels of Hell!”

  The young ladies all screeched, atwitter with mingled terror and delight. Brynne merely sighed. Lady Sarah might have a taste for the gothic and a talent for showmanship, but even she could only extend the illusion so far—especially with the Dalton’s ball peaking into full frenzy just past the potted plants.

  Cool fingers trailed along her bare shoulder, and Brynne jumped.

  “Allowing them to get to you, are you?” Her friend Jane Tillney, still flushed from her last dance, nodded toward the fluttering girls.

  “Of course not.” Turning, Brynne lowered her voice. “They might shiver at skeletons in the dark, but I fear what that poor Russian girl actually endured might have been worse.”

  “Is that what Sarah is rattling on about—the kidnapped Russian girl? At least she was returned alive,” pragmatic Jane ventured. “And did you hear the whispers? About just who it was who rescued her? Lord Truitt Russell! I might endure some time in the bowels of Hell myself, should Lord Truitt promise to fetch me out.”

  “He is appealing, in that ever-so-charming rogue fashion,” admitted Brynne with a smile. “It’s a good thing I’m betrothed, my dearest Jane, or I might give you a run.”

  Her friend grinned. “He’d be worth fighting for. In addition to all that wit and charm, he’s known to be on the best of terms with the Prince Regent.” Jane patted her hand. “But only because I care for you so dearly, I’d let you have him. Then I’d set my cap for his brother, the Duke of Aldmere.” She sighed. “Handsome, with one of the kingdom’s highest titles, so irresistibly dark and aloof—and I heard that he’s actually here tonight.” Her voice lowered. “The duke so rarely ventures into Society, according to my last dance partner, the bowels of Hell might be feeling almost chilly this evening.”

  Brynne did roll her eyes this time, but Jane didn’t see. Her friend was scanning the crowded ballroom as she spoke again. “Come, you must hide me, before I find myself longing for the relative peace of the devil’s abode.” She shuddered. “Mother is on a rampage.”

  Brynne nodded and set out through the riotous crowd at once. “The retiring room, then?”

  “We should be safe there. For a while, anyway.”

  If they could reach it. Lady Dalton had achieved that pinnacle of social success: a crush. And there was something special about the atmosphere tonight. The mood was high, the laughter about them registering a tad short of frenzied, the flirting lifted a sensual degree higher by a pervading sense of relief. Gossip hovered in the air along with the scent of beeswax, buoyed by the certainty that the long wars were nearly over. For the tide had turned. Everyone knew it—with the notable exception of Napoleon Bonaparte himself, perhaps—and people all over England and the Continent had already begun to celebrate.

  “What did you do to set your mother off?” Brynne leaned close to make herself heard.

  “Announced that I mean to skip Lady Hertford’s gala in favor of attending Mrs. Montague’s charity musicale.” Jane grimaced. “And I said it in front of her gossiping group of cronies, no less.”

  Brynne winced. They’d nearly reached the ballroom doors. She surged ahead. “You can tell me about it in—”

  “Too late,” Jane moaned, staring ahead, over her shoulder.

  She whipped around to find Lady Tillney blocking their path and looking like a thundercloud.

  “There you are.” It was an accusation, not a greeting. The countess jerked her head and hustled the two of them to an empty spot between pillars. Her mouth had gone white with strain. “Has my daughter informed you of her attempt at social suicide?”

  Swallowing, Brynne nodded.

  “Well, I won’t have it!” Lady Tillney whirled on her daughter. “Do you think that your father is financing your Season so that you may muck about in charitable pursuits? You will attend Lady Hertford’s, where you will strive to make a favorable impression upon the Grand Duchess, Catherine. The Tzar’s sister,” she breathed the words with reverence. “You will curry favor with her, if you know what is good for you. For you know what that will mean.”

  Jane merely stared.

  Lady Tinney beseeched the heavens. “It means you will be ahead of the game when the rest of the dignitaries arrive. The Tzar himself! King Frederick of Prussia! Prince Metternich comes, Field Marshal Blucher, and more, besides. Oh, there has not been a Season such as this in years! Foreign dignitaries will swell our ranks and everyone who has not already flocked to the Continent will be here to meet them. There has not been such opportunity in ages—and you will make the most of it, Jane.”

  Brynne flinched as the countess rounded on her. “And as for you! This whole debacle is due to the influence of you and
your father.”

  There was no denying it. She nodded instead. “With the new economies of peace coming after the long frosts this winter and the late snows, Papa says that now is the time the people will need—”

  “I know what your Papa says,” Lady Tillney interrupted fiercely. “He has been spouting the same nonsense since I met him, twenty years ago.” She covered her eyes with a gloved hand. “Somehow your father has managed to poke his head out of his papers long enough to make you an incredibly advantageous match. I agreed to sponsor you because I loved your dear, departed Mama, and I feared you would have a difficult time navigating this betrothal without her. And I was right. Tonight you have not even noticed your betrothed shooting daggers at you across the room.” She sighed. “I don’t know what you’ve done to upset Lord Marstoke, but you had better find it out—and you’d best be quick about fixing it and making him happy again.”

  She divided her glare equally between them. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Brynne exchanged glances with her friend. “Yes, ma’am,” they responded in subdued chorus.

  “Good.” The baroness looked over Brynne’s shoulder and smiled reflexively. “Now, your marquess approaches.” The look she tossed at Brynne was heavy with warning. “I won’t complain to him about your unhealthy influence, but I will expect you—both of you—to stick to a young lady’s natural sphere of concern.”

  Brynne turned to watch the approach of her betrothed. She eyed him closely, searching for a sign of . . . displeasure, was it? Or perhaps recognition. Anything, really. But she could only detect his usual mien of inscrutability. She sighed. Lord Marstoke was indeed a concern.

  Lady Tillney spun back for a moment. “And Brynne, you are not to set a foot outside or think to wander off! Recall what happened last week—that poor Russian girl, one of the Grand Duchess’s own ladies, carried off by brigands! I don’t know what this world is coming to, when a lady cannot take a stroll in the garden without worrying about being abducted!” Still muttering, Lady Tillney dragged Jane off toward the dancing.

  The dense population in the room precluded movement in any sort of a straight line. Brynne watched as the marquess was obliged to curve his way through the crowd, coiling toward her like a great, dour snake. A bit of melodrama, perhaps, but it appeared that she was not alone in her fancy. Lady Dalton’s guests slid quickly out of the way as they grasped his identity. Tiny mice, they were, grateful that the predator amongst them had fixed his hungry eye on a plumper specimen.

  He halted in front of her. “Accompany me, if you please,” he said, extending his arm.

  “Good evening, my lord.” She eyed his arm, but did not take it. “Where would you like to go?”

  “A short stroll. We shall stick to the house. I’ve something to discuss with you.”

  Lady Tillney’s admonishments rang in her ears. She nodded and placed her arm on his. Immediately, he slid his hand back and gripped her elbow. He began to steer her through the crowd and away from the heated crush of the dance floor.

  Brynne struggled to maintain her composure. She’d been so nervous when her father first arranged the match, more than a little frightened at the thought of marrying a man so much older and more experienced than she. The first truly shy moment of her life had come the first time she was left alone with this tall stranger, and she’d stumbled and started her way through their first encounters. It hadn’t put him off, however. He’d appeared to be pleased enough with the match, if not enthusiastic, and gradually she’d regained her equilibrium. It struck her suddenly, as they made their way deeper into the house and away from the cacophony of the ballroom, that Lord Marstoke had become increasingly grim and disapproving even as she had grown more comfortable in her new role.

  She glanced up. The marquess was a handsome man, in a hard way. Tight and controlled, he boasted a trim figure and a full head of dark hair. Tonight he wore it slicked back from his face. A mistake, she thought. The harsh style served to emphasize the only soft thing about him; the first, slight sign of heavy jowls, emerging from the deeply rutted lines bracketing his mouth. She wondered if this one weakness vexed him, when he gazed in the mirror every morning.

  The thought of her every morning spent in his company brought her mind back around to Lady Tillney’s words. “My lord,” she asked suddenly. “What is your opinion on women and charitable pursuits?”

  He sighed. Just an infinitesimal exhalation, really, but somehow she knew it contained all the exasperation of one of Lady Tillney’s tirades. “Since you ask, I’m assuming it means more to you than a means to agitate your chaperone.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “Your father encourages such activity, I understand, but after we wed you will have little time for that sort of thing.”

  There were several shocks contained in that short answer. She chose the obvious one to address first. “Why won’t I?” she asked.

  Marstoke stopped in front of a pair of heavily carved doors. “Your life will be very different. Your first duty will lie with me.” He pushed the doors open. “In here,” he ordered.

  It was a library, only dimly lit. The marquess dropped Brynne’s arm and crossed to a well-stocked side table. After sorting through several decanters he poured himself a drink. He did not offer to pour one for her.

  “I wish to speak with you about Lady Hertford’s gathering,” he said without preamble. “There is something I wish you to do for me.”

  Indignation began to outweigh Brynne’s nerves. “Actually, I thought to attend Mrs. Montague’s musicale, instead. With so many of the ton heading for Paris, she’ll be lacking donors. I—”

  “No.”

  Brynne blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “No. You’ll attend Lady Hertford’s.” He still had not looked directly at her. Taking his drink, he crossed to the window and rocked back on his heels. “Listen closely. When you are presented to Catherine, the Grand Duchess, I want you to turn the conversation to the sad plight of the Princess of Wales. Spin the tragic tale of her husband’s neglect, of his persecution of her in the papers, of her limited access to her daughter, and her near isolation.”

  She could feel the color climbing into her cheeks. Fleetingly, she wished she were one of those ladies who looked stormy and ravishing when they grew angry. She only got blotchy—but at this moment she didn’t give a damn. Through the rush of blood pounding in her ear, she heard her mother’s lilting voice. Begin as you mean to go on.

  She raised her chin. “I’m sorry,” she said to Marstoke’s back. “I’ve made a promise. I mean to keep it. I shall go to Mrs. Montague’s.”

  He stiffened. With calm precision he set down his drink and turned to face her. The unyielding set of his jaw made her question her mother’s wisdom. She was struck with the sudden fear that perhaps Lord Marstoke’s mother had taught him the same lesson.

  “You little fool.” He said it with mild amusement, an adult indulging the antics of a child. “You will do as you are told. And I am telling you to turn the conversation to the Princess. How misused and neglected she has been at the hands of her husband, how all the sympathy of the people lies with her . . .”

  He continued, and his eyes burned into hers, still strangely empty and faraway. She couldn’t look away. Yet neither could she just give in. “I’m not a child. I won’t be ordered about.”

  And there it was; the first trace of true emotion she’d caught him in. A hint of excitement, made ugly by the glint in his eye and the slow stretch of a malicious smile over his face. “Of course you will. Do you not understand your role in this game, my dear?”

  “I wasn’t aware that we were engaged in a game.”

  The smile grew. “Oh, but we are. All of us. But you are not to worry. You are not yet fit to be a player. Right now you are a mere commodity. Goods—bought and paid for. Mine in every way, to do with as I wish.”

  Brynne had to fight the urge to run, as far and as fast as her legs could carry her, away from the marquess—and this betrothal. But
some instinct told that that retreat would be the worst move she could make. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “What is it that you wish? Beyond my attendance at Lady Hertford’s, of course.”

  He paused. It was clear that her impudence pulled him between annoyance and approval. At last, he chuckled. “I wish to train you up, child. Make a player of you. I shall be your guide, but you have much to learn before you are ready to enter this particular game.” He indulged in a leisurely perusal of her person that set her to shivering. “You will resist at first.” His voice sounded light, eager. “But I see the greatest potential in you. You have a different sort of mind, my dear. Your father may be a fool, but he did well with you. Not many girls are taught to see the greater picture.”

  Brynne took a short step back. The picture she was beginning to see here was not a pretty one.

  But Marstoke was still speaking, almost to himself now, it seemed. “Oh, and I shall show you worlds upon worlds that you have never seen, never dreamed existed. You must go through the forge first, of course.” He lifted his drink again. She could see his fingers tightening around the glass. “Only through fire and flames are great weapons made—and you shall be the most splendid of my creations. Such grand scheming, I foresee, and it sets me aflame.” His breath hitched. “And in the meantime . . . ” He paused, and Brynne saw the effort he made to pull back into his usual detachment. “No, no. It’s too soon for that.”

  “For what?” she asked, suddenly afraid. The hubbub—and safety—of the ballroom felt very far away.

  But he had raised his glass high. “Or is it?” he asked. For a long moment, he stood, staring at the liquor as if it held the answer to his question. His voice had gone distant, his eyes unfocused. It was clear that he was not addressing her.

  “It would be different, would it not?” he mused. “And delicious. What if the innocent did know—this one time—what her future held?” His gaze pierced her, unseeing. “What would she feel, standing in the church, at the altar, knowing that she was selling her soul?” His breath began to come a little faster. “Yes,” he breathed. “This is the culmination of all that came before. It deserves something special. I like the notion. Both of us, side by side before God, fully aware of what lies in store for her.”