Praise for

       Louise Allen

      The Earl’s Intended Wife

      “Well-developed characters…an appealing sensual

       and emotionally rich love story.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKclub

      “I liked the unusual location of Malta in this sweet book.

       I look forward to what Ms. Allen will write next.”

      —Rakehell

      “A sweet romance and an engaging story…

       the sort of book to get lost in on a lazy afternoon.”

      —All About Romance

       Chapter One

      The encounter that led directly to Colonel Gregory being disinherited by his father and to Miss Joanna Fulgrave running away from home in disgrace took place at the Duchess of Bridlington’s dress ball on the sixth of June.

      It was a very splendid occasion. As her Grace fully intended, it succeeded in both marking the approaching end of the Season and ensuring that any other function held between then and the dispersal of the ton from town seemed sadly flat in comparison.

      Joanna progressed as gracefully to the receiving line outside the ballroom at Bridlington House as the necessity to halt on every step and to guard her skirts from being trodden upon allowed. Beside her Mrs Fulgrave mounted the famous double staircase with equal patience. The Fulgrave ladies had ample opportunity to exchange smiles and bows with friends and acquaintances, caught up as they all were in the slow-moving crush.

      As always, mothers of less satisfactory débutantes observed her progress, and in undertones reminded their daughters to observe Miss Fulgrave’s impeccable deportment, her exquisitely correct appearance and her perfectly modulated and charming manner.

      If Joanna had not combined these enviable virtues with a natural warmth and friendliness, the young ladies so addressed would have long since begun to dislike her heartily. As it was, they forgave her for her perfections while their mothers poured balm upon each other’s wounds with reminders that this was Miss Fulgrave’s second Season now drawing to a close and she was still unattached.

      That was a matter very much upon her fond mama’s mind. No one, Mrs Fulgrave knew, could hope for a more dutiful, lovely, conformable daughter as Joanna. Yet not one, but seven, eligible gentlemen had presented themselves to Mr Fulgrave, were permitted to pay their addresses to Joanna and went away, their pretensions dismissed kindly but firmly. In every case Miss Joanna was unable, or unwilling, to provide her harassed parent with any explanation, other than to say she did not think the gentleman would suit.

      However, that very morning Joanna had refused to receive the son of her mama’s dearest school friend, a gentleman of such excellent endowments of birth, fortune and looks that her father had rapidly moved from astonishment to incredulous displeasure and Joanna discovered the limits of parental tolerance at last.

      ‘How can you say you will refuse Rufus?’ her mother had demanded. ‘What can I say to Elizabeth when she discovers you have spurned her son out of hand?’

      ‘I hardly know him,’ Joanna had said placatingly, only to meet with a snort from her parent. ‘You hardly know him: why, you said yourself that you had not met his mama for over ten years.’

      ‘You met Rufus Carstairs when you were six.’

      ‘He pulled my pigtails and took my ball.’

      ‘When he was ten! Really Joanna, to turn down the Earl of Clifton because of some childish squabble is beyond everything foolish.’

      Joanna had bitten her lip, her eyes downcast as she searched for some acceptable excuse. To tell the truth, the reason why she would have turned down anyone from a Duke to the richest nabob, was quite out of the question, but she was hesitant to wound her mama with the specific reason why she would not have considered Rufus Carstairs in any case.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘I do not like him, Mama, really I do not. There is something in his eyes when he looks at me…’ Her voice trailed off. Those penetrating blue eyes were the only clue to something burning inside the polite, elegant exterior that filled her with a profound mistrust. ‘It is as though I have no clothes on,’ she finally blurted out.

      ‘Joanna! Of all the improper things…I can only hope that your natural innocence has led you to mistake the perfectly understandable ardour of a young man in love for something which I sincerely trust you know nothing about!’ Mrs Fulgrave had broken off to compose herself. ‘Has he said anything to put you to the blush? No. Has he acted in any improper manner? No, I thought not. This is another of your whims and your papa and I are reaching the end of our patience with you.’

      Pausing yet again on the stairs, Joanna closed her eyes momentarily at the memory of her mother’s voice, normally so calm and indulgent. ‘You could not hope for a more eligible or flattering offer. I suggest you think very seriously indeed about your position. If you think that your papa can afford to support you in an endless round of dances and parties and new dresses while you amuse yourself toying with the affections of decent young men, you are much mistaken.’

      ‘Mama, I am not toying with Lord Clifton’s affections,’ she had protested. ‘I hardly know him—he cannot love me! I have not seen him since we were children…’ But her mama had swept out, throwing back over her shoulder the observation that it was fortunate that the earl would not be able to attend the ball that evening and risk a rebuff before Joanna had a chance to come to her senses.

      They climbed another two steps and came to a halt again. Mrs Fulgrave exchanged bows with Lady Bulstrode, taking the opportunity to study her daughter’s calm profile. What a countess she would make, if only she would come to her senses!

      Long straight black hair coiled at the back of her head and held by pearl-headed pins; elegantly arched brows, which only she knew were the result of painful work with the tweezers; wide hazel eyes, which magically changed from brown to green in extremes of unhappiness or joy, and a tall, slender figure. Mrs Fulgrave could never decide whether Joanna’s white shoulders or her pretty bosom were the best features of her figure, but both were a joy to her modiste.

      Madame de Montaigne, as the modiste in question styled herself, had excelled with tonight’s gown. An underskirt of a pale almond green was covered by a creamy gauze with the hem thickly worked with faux pearls. The bodice crossed in front in a mass of intricate pleating, which was carried through to the full puffed sleeves, and the back dipped to a deep V-shape, which showed off Joanna’s white skin to perfection. Her papa had presented