Nearly a Bride (Lords of Hazard #2)

Chapter 1

London

When Giselle Bernard, accompanied by her mother, knocked at the town house door of Rupert Oakden, the Earl of Heathbrook, the grizzle-haired servant who opened it caught her by surprise.

“Mr. Renham!” she exclaimed.

“Mademoiselle Bernard!” the gentleman said. “What on earth are you doing in Mayfair? You said you were returning to Paris last time I saw you at Verdun. Three years ago, was it?”

“Yes, and I did return to Paris. But after Napoleon’s abdication this past April, Maman and I chose to leave France entirely.

All is chaos there.” She took her mother’s hand.

“Maman was worried about what might happen under a new regime. Besides, we have family in England.” Well, she did, anyway. “But why are you at the earl’s home?”

Mr. Renham puffed out his chest. “I am Lord Heathbrook’s butler now.”

“How wonderful!” It must suit him, for his tall, healthful appearance differed greatly from the gaunt and stooped fellow she’d once known.

“I am delighted you made it safely back to England. I was aware that Lord Heathbrook and his friends were offering posts to many Verdun detainees, but I did not realize you had received one. When did you return to London?”

“In April, when you did.” His eyes twinkled. “You probably don’t realize this, mademoiselle, but before my imprisonment in France, I served as underbutler to the Marquess and Marchioness of Tweeddale.”

“Very impressive!” She tapped her chin. “Isn’t that the couple who died of cholera a year after arriving at Verdun?”

He turned solemn. “The very same. So, knowing of my former post, the earl hired me on the spot when our mutual friend Mr. Beasley sent me over here to interview for the position. It seems Lord Heathbrook’s butler had left the family while the earl and his father were still prisoners in Verdun.”

Her mother, who spoke little to no English, asked in French, “What is he saying? Will we be allowed inside?”

Mr. Renham looked startled, then answered her in French.

“Forgive me, madame. We are merely reminiscing. Please, do come in, both of you.” He continued in French as he ushered them into a grand entry hall, waiting while she helped her mother make her slow way inside.

“I assume you are here to call on the earl?”

“Oui,” Giselle told him.

When she said nothing more, Mr. Renham looked concerned. “Is his lordship expecting you?”

“Not exactly.” They were here to ask a large favor of him. But she dared not speak of that to a former detainee who might know more about the situation than most.

Instead, Giselle paused to take in her surroundings.

She’d never been in the earl’s house but was not surprised to find the hall’s furniture looking ragged.

After all, his mother had died in London over four years ago and his father had passed away soon after, during his and his son’s detainment in France.

After eleven and a half years abroad, Lord Heathbrook had undoubtedly been too busy taking care of the family properties and arranging his financial affairs to bother with such things as wallpaper styles and the efficacy of bronze sconces.

“So, this is to be a social visit,” Mr. Renham said when it became apparent she would not reveal more.

“It is.” She cast him a bright smile that seemed to make him relax.

“Very well. This way, ladies.” Mr. Renham gestured to an open door. “His lordship will be with you in a moment. I’m afraid that today is not the best—”

“The man is an arse!” roared a voice down the hall.

It was the earl’s. Giselle frowned, having never witnessed Lord Heathbrook in a temper, at least not in England. She had only occasionally seen him that way in Verdun, the town where he and thousands of other English civilians had been detained for years at Napoleon’s whim.

That is, until Lord Heathbrook and his friends had attempted an escape three years ago and been packed off to the dungeon in Bitche for their trouble.

“Do not fret, my lord,” said a voice unfamiliar to her. “I swear—”

“Do not fret!” Lord Heathbrook cried. “Evan, Kit, and Zachary are still wards of my mother’s damn cousin. How can I ‘not fret’?”

At the sound of the word damn, the butler colored, then hastily ushered them into a drawing room and closed the door.

“If you will be seated, ladies, I will make sure his lordship knows you are here. But I don’t know if he will be free.

At present, he and his attorney are involved in a . . . er . . . discussion.”

“In France, we call that an argument,” Maman muttered, thankfully low enough that Renham couldn’t hear.

“We understand,” Giselle told the butler, forcing a smile, though she disliked men with hot tempers.

Her stepfather had tried to bully both her and her mother from the time Giselle was small.

Mother had put up with it, although she had complained a great deal out of his hearing.

But past the age of twelve, Giselle had not tolerated her stepfather’s temper, and she certainly would not tolerate it from an Englishman.

Unfortunately, she still needed a favor from this particular Englishman. “If the earl cannot see us now, Mr. Renham, please ask him when he can. We would very much like to chat with him.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.” Mr. Renham hurried to the door and paused, as if listening for more shouting before he opened it. But Lord Heathbrook had apparently regained control over his temper, for the only thing they could hear was the murmur of voices. Thank heaven.

Mr. Renham flashed her a relieved smile. “I shall see that tea is brought.”

As soon as he had left, her mother used her cane to lower herself onto a settee of red toile de Jouy.

Someone in the household must once have had a fondness for French décor, because in addition to the classically French toile, the other pieces of furniture were of ornately carved and heavily gilded mahogany and rosewood.

The Parisian style made Giselle homesick.

Not that she wasn’t glad she had come to England.

Getting to know her British half sister, who had completely embraced her despite her illegitimacy, had been lovely, but sometimes she desperately missed the quality of light in Paris, the lazy drift of the Seine, the taste of French coffee and baguettes.

She missed having a garden. Their London lodgings had none.

“Why was the earl shouting?” her mother asked in French.

Surprisingly, Giselle knew the answer. “From what Jon has told me, Lord Heathbrook has been fighting for guardianship of his young brothers ever since he returned home in April.”

Her mother gave an exasperated shake of her head. “You should not call the duke ‘Jon.’ You should call him by his proper title.”

As usual, Giselle bristled at her mother’s admonitions.

“I refuse to call my brother-in-law ‘Your Grace.’ I knew him as Lord Jonathan in France because that is what Monsieur Morris called him, but apparently I can’t call him that now that he is duke.

” She drew herself up proudly. “Besides, he bade me call him ‘Jon,’ so that is what I do.”

She and Maman had this battle often. Giselle had grown up during the Revolution and thus possessed the lack of reverence for—or fear of—nobility that most of her French peers did.

Her mother, however, despite marrying a member of the bourgeoisie, was the daughter of a count, though few knew it.

Maman had never banished the images of the guillotine from her mind.

She was still terrified of being sent back to France, which was why she placated the English whenever possible.

And pushed Giselle to save them both from such a fate.

“Why does Lord Heathbrook not have guardianship already?” her mother asked.

“I have no idea.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It has something to do with English law. I do not understand what. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. But if this man has such a temper . . .”

The fierce set to her mother’s chin made Giselle force softness into her voice. “It will be fine, Maman. He is not generally that sort of fellow.” But just to be sure, she went to the door and cracked it open to see if she could hear anything.

Lord Heathbrook now stood in the foyer with his back to her, speaking in low tones with a gangly fellow. That man wore the white powdered wig of an English barrister and a simple suit of black wool with a white shirt and a black stock about his neck.

Nothing so dull for the earl, oh, no. He wore pantaloons—no, the English called those “trousers”—of an almond color. They were tight enough to show every line of his muscular thighs and calves. His tailcoat was of so deep a shade of green forest that it would surely match his dark green eyes.

His beautiful, teasing eyes. The man did have the loveliest eyes.

She shook off the thought, reminding herself she was only one of many women who had admired those eyes. And Lord Heathbrook had probably pursued half of them, too.

From what she could see of the back of him, she could almost guess the rest of what he wore.

A spotless and starched white shirt. A waistcoat of patterned white on white silk or some other popular design.

A snowy cravat tied in an elaborate knot about his neck.

And all that white accentuating the midnight-black of his straight, thick hair.

Indeed, even seen from the back, his whole ensemble was very stylish, very fashionable, as always.

Very delicious.

Her cheeks heated. No, she must not indulge her ridiculous attraction to the sinfully handsome earl or she would never last through this visit without making a fool of herself.

He had once, years ago, stolen a kiss from her, the most perfect kiss of her life.

The earl did have a way of setting the very bones of a woman aflame with just a look or a touch. It was most thrilling.