TO LOVE A SCOUNDREL
The fourth book in the Ashton/Rosemoor series

Eleanor sighed as she clipped a brilliant red aster and laid it gently in the basket she carried on her arm. A sparrow dipped beside her ear and she looked up, watching the bird's flittering path through the branches that fanned gently in the breeze. Tipping her face up to the sun, she smiled, allowing the golden rays to heat her skin. It was pleasantly warm for early September, with only the smallest trace of autumn chill in the air. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air redolent with the sweet scents of the garden around her. No sounds save the buzz of insects, the chirruping of birds, and the occasional bleating of sheep in the distance spoiled the fine afternoon.

And yet Eleanor was restless. Dissatisfied. Why did her life have to change so? She'd been happy enough with the sometimes dull routine of her days--too happy, in fact, to have taken a husband before now. Two Seasons had passed rather uneventfully, and yet she hadn't seen fit to accept any of the offers of marriage she'd received. Not that there had been all that many offers, but still...

She shook her head. Just what had she been waiting for? An offer from a duke? A handsome duke? One who would set her pulse leaping like Frederick Stoneham had, so many years ago? She hadn't sought love--that much was certain. Or at least she hadn't thought she'd sought love. It seemed to her that, more often than not, love was a one-sided affair, leaving one party unaffected and the other pining away miserably for an affection that would never be requited. Her own parents were a perfect example, and theirs was not what Eleanor would term an agreeable marriage.

Instead it seemed perfectly sensible to allow her father to choose her husband, now that two Seasons had passed unsuccessfully--at least her mother had termed them 'unsuccessful.' Eleanor had found them perfectly pleasant and diverting, even without an acceptable proposal. However had her father managed to choose the one man who would put his daughter in danger of suffering the same fate he did? Eleanor tried to deny any knowledge of her mother's infidelities whenever her brother was vulgar enough to bring them up, but she knew. And she knew how her father suffered for it.

There must have been a dozen eligible bachelors he could have chosen from, gentlemen who might have accepted her. Men who fit the carefully detailed description she'd given him of her ideal husband. Why had fate seen fit to play such a cruel trick on her?

The distant sound of hooves drew her attention toward the road. Perhaps she'd call on Selina today--it was nearly an hour's walk to Marbleton, but some exercise would do her good. Though Eleanor infinitely preferred the country to Town, she missed being able to visit daily with her dearest friend, as she had throughout the summer months. Still, she was grateful that, upon his marriage to Selina, the Viscount Henley had purchased Marbleton, so near to Eleanor at Covington Hall. She clipped another fragrant bloom and added it to her basket. Yes, she would go to Marbleton, but perhaps she'd take the carriage, instead. It seemed a silly indulgence as she generally enjoyed the walk. Yet her anxiety mounted most uncomfortably by the hour. Frederick was expected in less than a fortnight, and Eleanor was going mad with nervous anticipation. Surely Selina's soothing presence and sisterly advice would help settle her nerves and lend her the confidence needed to defy her father's wishes.

Were she to flatly refuse to marry Frederick, she supposed her father would not force her to do so against her will. No doubt his intentions had been well-meaning. Mama had simply told him that Frederick Stoneham was the most elusive and secretly desired bachelor for miles about, and Papa had no doubt delighted in securing such an eagerly sought match for his only daughter. Foolish, foolish man. But if she were to confess the truth to him--tell him exactly why she could not marry Frederick--then he would surely understand and extricate her from the agreement. Of course, to confess that she harbored such silly, romantic notions about a man who hadn't given her a second thought would be humiliating at best.

Yet the alternative--marrying Frederick--was simply out of the question. Her only hope was that the past few years had robbed him of his near-legendary good looks, leaving him fat, prematurely balding, and wholly unappealing. Entirely unlikely, of course, but if it were so, then perhaps she would be immune to his charms. As much as it pained her to admit to her own shallow nature, there was no denying that it was only his appearance that attracted her so, that stirred her blood beyond reason. Nothing more. For there was certainly nothing of merit to his character--nothing whatsoever to recommend him. Which, of course, made it all the more puzzling that her papa should think it a suitable match.

She resolved to speak with her papa immediately upon his return from Kent. When he'd first given her the news, she'd been far too stunned to put forth an affective argument against the betrothal. She must do so at once, before Frederick arrived. Grasping the stem of a flowering chrysanthemum, she savagely ripped off its blossom and tossed it into her basket with a scowl.

"Might I ask what that flower did to deserve such cruel mistreatment?" a decidedly male voice called out, surprising her so completely that she dropped the basket to the gravel path at her feet.

"Oooh, sir, you frightened me half out of my wits," Eleanor cried, bending down to retrieve the basket.

"Pray forgive me for startling you," the deep voice said silkily beside her ear, a hint of an Irish brogue vaguely evident. Their hands met on the basket's handle and, at last, Eleanor's gaze rose to meet the stranger's.

No! Eleanor snatched her hand back, rising to her feet with a small gasp. No, it couldn't be. He was not expected for a fortnight--Lord Worthington had said so quite plainly only two days past. Yet, inexplicably, there he stood--an older version of the boy who'd haunted her dreams. Lud, looking more darkly and devilishly handsome than she'd remembered.

Grinning at her discomfiture, Frederick Stoneham sketched a bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm--"

"I know who you are," Eleanor snapped.

One black brow arched in surprise. "Is that so? Well then, I see my reputation precedes me. Might you direct me to Lord Mandeville, then? We have some business to discuss."

Eleanor swallowed hard before replying. "I'm afraid Lord Mandeville is not at home. He and Lady Mandeville have removed to Kent, and aren't expected back for a sennight. Good day, Mr. Stoneham." More than anything, Eleanor wished to quit his company as expeditiously as possible.

"Ah, but you have me at a disadvantage, one in which I cannot abide. Would it be too much to ask for your name?"

"My name?" Eleanor asked, her voice faltering. Did he not remember her? Her fingers rose involuntarily to her lips, her cheeks burning with remembered shame and humiliation.

"Aye, I was under the impression that Lord Mandeville had but one daughter, and you are clearly not that lady." His eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid up her body, pausing briefly at her décolletage, then rising to her face. "Though there is a familial resemblance. A cousin, perhaps?"

Eleanor shivered slightly, uncomfortable under the weight of his impenetrable stare. His eyes, a darker brown than she'd remembered, unnerved her. Must he look at her so directly? She shifted her gaze lower, to his full lips, to his chiseled jaw in desperate wont of a shave. His unruly hair reached his shoulders--terribly broad shoulders--in soft black waves. He looked positively...uncivilized. She found herself taking two steps back, wanting to increase the distance between them. Looking around wildly, she realized she hadn't even a proper chaperone about.

And then the full weight of his insult descended upon her consciousness. She was clearly not that lady? He'd stolen a forbidden kiss when she'd been but a girl--a kiss that, try as she might, Eleanor hadn't been able to banish from her thoughts, even after all these years. And now he did not even recognize her? Had she changed so very much since then? Or was she just so utterly forgettable?

A heated flush climbed her neck as she straightened her spine and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "I am Lady Eleanor Ashton," she said, her voice as haughty and cool as possible. "And I'll ask that you remove yourself from my presence at once."

TO LOVE A SCOUNDREL
ISBN: 0821779818
Available now at: Amazon.com