Author’s Note

      It is really exciting to be taking part in this new venture for Mills & Boon in the twenty-first century. I believe there are all sorts of gadgets available nowadays that you can download and read this story on…most of which would probably totally baffle me!

      I do hope you enjoy reading this love story, set in the days long before computers had ever been dreamed of, and life went at a much slower pace.

      Notorious Lord, Compromised Miss

      Annie Burrows

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Chapter 1

      Viscount Maldon ran a finger round the inside of his neck cloth, uncomfortably aware that by entering this place, he was putting his neck in a noose. He should have had a stiff drink before coming out. Everyone knew they did not serve anything stronger than lemonade in Almack’s Assembly Rooms. And lemonade was not going to do a thing to steady his nerves.

      The dancing was already under way, and the lobby was currently deserted, so nobody had noticed him yet. But once he set foot in that ballroom, there would be no going back. He would be at the mercy of every girl that men who could afford to be choosy had already passed over. The fat ones, the ones with annoying laughs, or bad breath, or, heaven forbid, facial hair…

      Breaking out in a cold sweat, Viscount Maldon veered sharply away from the entrance to the ballroom, and ducked into an alcove that was partially screened by the luxuriant foliage of a potted palm. A man required nerves of steel to walk, unarmed as it were, into the all-female domain of the marriage mart!

      How had Acton ever thought he could do it?

      “You have got to show your creditors you mean business.” The family’s elderly man of business wheezed as he pushed a piece of paper across the desktop with his gnarled forefinger. “Merely setting foot in Almack’s will send out a clear-enough message. But if you can manage to secure a dance with one or more of the females on this list whilst you are there…”

      Viscount Maldon had meekly pocketed the list. He had taken it home and studied it. He had learned all the names on it by rote.

      So there had been no need to put it in his breast pocket before setting out tonight. He had been somewhat surprised, when he had given his appearance one last critical appraisal in the mirror, that it had not distorted the fit of his cutaway coat: it felt like a ton weight against his heart.

      But he looked just as he always did. His spare frame elegantly covered in well-tailored clothing, his fair hair tidily clipped and neatly brushed. Only the clouds dulling his gray eyes might have given those who knew him well a clue that something troubled him.

      The list, that was what troubled him. The list of all the women Acton had ascertained might be prepared to accept his suit.

      “You are not free to gad about like a younger son with no responsibilities, now you have come into the title,” Acton had lectured him. “It is up to you to save the estate, and marrying well is the most effective way of going about it.”

      Marrying well! He grimaced. Pursuing some unattractive female for the sake of her dowry was not his idea of marrying well.

      But men with their pockets to let did not, as Acton had querulously pointed out, have the luxury of choice.

      Surely, Viscount Maldon thought mournfully, amongst all the eligible maidens upon the list Acton had given him, there must be one who was not too repulsive? At least, not too repulsive to dance with.

      He had to demonstrate that he was the man to sort out the muddle his father had created and his brother compounded, with their reckless gambling. It had to be done some time, and, since he had got this far, it might as well be tonight.

      Having talked himself into accepting his fate, Viscount Maldon peered through the foliage, towards the open door of the ballroom, and took his first real look at the assembled throng. By some cruel irony, the first face he recognized, amidst the swirling mass of humanity, belonged to Acton’s first choice.

      Dressed entirely in white, Miss Harriet Millbury was bouncing through the steps of a cotillion on the arm of an elderly earl, a muddy-complexioned man, who everyone knew was in search of a third wife to provide the heir his first and second wives had so signally failed to produce.

      Looking at her, he was put forcibly in mind of a ship in full sail, bobbing along on the waters of the Thames in a stiff easterly breeze.

      Repressing a shudder of revulsion, he shrank further back into the recess behind the potted palm. Plenty of men might find Miss Millbury quite attractive. Larger women, so he’d been reliably informed, provided a softly cushioned ride.

      But then, it was not only big women he had an aversion to. The second name on the list filled him with even more trepidation. He had met Miss Framlingham at a house party not long after she had emerged from the schoolroom. She had pale eyes and long features that had instantly put him in mind of a particularly irritable goat his great-aunt had kept. Her temper might not be as unpredictable as her face led him to believe, but since this was her third season and she was still single, despite her temptingly large dowry, there was definitely something about her that put men off.

      He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he need not actually propose to anyone tonight. He was only here, in London for the season, to buy himself a breathing space. He was only here, in Almack’s tonight, to demonstrate that he was following the sensible course that his man of business had recommended.

      He shut his eyes tight, concentrating on the task of breathing in and out, which had, just for a moment or two, proved unaccountably tricky.

      Only when he felt reasonably confident that he could enter that ballroom without betraying the repugnance he felt at the course he was about to take, did he throw back his shoulders, open his eyes and turn his head deliberately towards that fateful portal.

      Where another female caught his eye.

      What drew his attention to her was not her face, for he could not see it, but the fact that she was sidling, yes, positively sidling out of the ballroom, and was currently backing stealthily—straight towards the very potted palm he was hiding behind.

      Keeping her eyes fixed on the ballroom from which she had just emerged, she was feeling her way backwards with her feet. It was clearly not easy The nearer to him she came, the more she bent over from the waist, with her arms stretched out as though for balance. The irregular method of movement caused the fabric of her evening gown to slither over each buttock alternately, molding the flexing muscles like the caress of a lover’s hand.

      The unprecedented sight exerted a hypnotic effect upon him. It only occurred to him much, much later, that he could have coughed, or given the young lady some other warning that her deliciously rounded derriere was on a collision course with his thighs. But at that moment, movement of any sort was quite beyond him. Even if his innate sense of chivalry had come into play, he excused himself later, the