Chapter One

      A distinct lack of enthusiasm induced Robina to allow the half-folded garment to slip through her fingers, and her attention to wander aspeered through the window to follow the progress along the street of a very smart racing curricle, pulled by two superbly matched greys.

      Considering the Season had officially come to an end the week before, London remained surprisingly bustling with life, its many springtime visitors seemingly reluctant to return to their country homes, or to move on to those coastal towns which had become such fashionable summer retreats in recent years.

      It just so happened that she would have been more than happy to return to her Northamptonshire home, to sample once again the sweetly fresh country air, and be reunited with her father and sisters once more. She was not so foolish as to suppose that it would not take a little time to adjust to the tranquillity of the vicarage in Abbot Quincey again, after spending more than three months here in the capital, thoroughly enjoying all the delights of a Season which, even though she said so herself, had been something of a success.

      For a simple country parson’s daughter, with no dowry to speak of, she had managed to attract the attention of two very worthy gentlemen, either of whom, she didn’t doubt for a moment, would have made a very considerate husband. She had been encouraged by her mother to turn down both offers for her hand, which she had dutifully done without, she hoped, causing lasting hurt to either erstwhile suitor. And certainly none whatsoever to herself!

      Neither Mr Chard nor the Honourable Simon Sutherland had succeeded in igniting that illusive flame which every romantically inclined young woman longs to experience. She had come through what was likely to be her one and only London Season a little more worldly-wise and certainly heart-whole. An involuntary sigh escaped her. Whether or not she would be able to say the same by the end of the summer was a different matter entirely.

      Without the least warning she experienced it yet again: that sudden surge of blind panic. Why, oh why, hadn’t she flatly refused when the suggestion had first been put to her? Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded into accompanying the Dowager to Brighton, when she had in her heart of hearts known from the very first that what Lady Exmouth truly wanted was not a young companion for herself, but a biddable little wife for her son?

      Abandoning the packing entirely now, Robina slumped down on the bed, not for the first time cursing herself for not being a little more assertive on occasions.

      It wasn’t that she had taken the Dowager’s son in dislike. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Lord Exmouth was a very personable gentleman. If he was not quite the dashing, handsome hero of storybooks, he was certainly most attractive, blessed with a good physique and noble bearing. Just because he happened to be the wrong side of five-and-thirty was not such a drawback either, for older gentlemen, she had been reliably informed, tended to be rather more dependable.

      That he rarely smiled, had more often than not a cynical glint in those very attractive dark brown eyes of his, and frequently relapsed into periods of brooding silence were traits, she didn’t doubt, to which she would grow accustomed in time. What she knew she could never reconcile herself to, however, was always figuring as second best in the eyes of any man she agreed to marry. And that, she very much feared, would be precisely her fate if she was ever foolish enough to consent to a union with Lord Daniel Exmouth!

      A sympathetic sigh escaped her this time as the many rumours concerning the very personable widower filtered through her mind. If half the stories circulating about him were true then the poor Baron was a mere shadow of his former self.

      His heart, according to many, had died with