Alexandra Hawkins - Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (Lords of Vice)

Vices are often habits rather than passions.

Antoine de Rivarol

Contents

Chapter One

January 28, 1823

Never has God created a more devious creature, Christopher Avery Courtland, Earl of Vanewright, declared as he walked the vale of Blackmoor one early morning in January with his friends, the Marquess of Sainthill and the Duke of Huntsley, as they hunted hare. Cold and hungry, the earl, who was often acknowledged by the abbreviated version of his title, wished they had taken their horses on the trail hunt.

Squinting at the pack of baying harriers on the horizon, the duke spared a glance at Vane. What are you muttering on about?

Huntsley, or simply Hunter to his friends, was aptly named. He excelled at sports whether they involved pursuing game on the frost-crusted low-lying meadow or more challenging quarry, the ladies of the ton. Perhaps it was because his days as a free man were numbered. Though he rarely spoke of it unless he was deeply in his cups, his wily grandmother had betrothed her twelve-year-old grandson to a young girl barely out of her swaddling clothes to increase the familys landholdings.

Now that his own mother, the Marchioness of Netherley, had decided it was time for her surviving son to marry, Vane had nothing but sympathy for his friend.

Simon Wyndham Jefferes, Marquess of Sainthill, or Saint, on the other hand, did not possess the temperament or patience that his nickname implied. Having severed his ties to his family in his youth, the twenty-nine-year-old marquess lived only for himself. It was an enviable position, to be certain, when Vane could not seem to prevent his own family from meddling in his life.

Likely his new mistress, Saint said, the butt of his double-barreled gun nestled in the crook of his arm.

No, have you not been paying attention for the past hour? I am speaking of my mother, Vane said, scowling at Saint. She is determined to ruin my stay in London this season. I feel it like a damp chill in my bones.

Hunter looked askance at Saint. Care to wager on it?

Saints gaze sharpened with interest. Will a hundred pounds suffice?

Two hundred, Hunter countered.

Irritatedit was on the tip of his tongue to increase the wager to five hundred poundsVane kicked Saint in the calf, causing him to stumble. Hunter, regrettably, was too far away to punch. Have some respect, gents! This is my cursed future both of you are discussing with such disrespect. Not that either one of you seems to care. If my mother gets her way, I shall be wed by summer.

Hunter dismissed Vanes accusation with a casual wave of his hand. Your charming seventy-two-year-old mother has been determined to see you leg-shackled for the past two years. Nothing has come of it.

You have deftly avoided all her elegant snares, Saint pointed out. You will best your dear mother again. To Hunter, he added, And I am willing to wager three hundred pounds on our dear friends victory.

Hunters brows came together as he mulled over Saints terms. A reckless wager, to be certain. However, Ill accept. He sent Vane an apologetic look. No disrespect to you, of course.

Of course. Vane took no offense at the wager. The Lords of Viceas he and his six friends had been dubbed by the ton thrived on outrageous bets and impossible odds.

Hunter must have been feeling slightly guilty for not siding with his friend. His gait slowed as he added, Cynical as I may be of Lady Netherleys triumph, it would be rude not to offer the dear woman my support.

Vane gave the two men a morose glance. Both of you are underestimating my mother. Two failed seasons in London have made her desperate. As far as she is concerned, I am as unmarriageable as a toothless spinster without a penny to her name.

Hunter and Saint chuckled at Vanes absurd comparison.

Never yield to a woman, my friend, Hunter advised. Its an indisputable fact that they are ruthless if they believe they have the upper hand.

Chapter Two

March 20, 1823, near the village of Cotersage

Delia!

Thoroughly exasperated at her sisters ability to disappear at a moments notice, Isabel Thorne stood stiffly at the bottom of the narrow staircase as she awaited a response.

A lady never has to raise her voice to oversee the household.

Isabel mentally winced as one of her mothers pithy little sayings grated on her already frayed nerves. Had Sybil not retired early to her bedchamber to sleep off the tea she laced liberally with laudanum and brandy every afternoon, Isabel was certain she would have been scolded for her rudeness.

She forced a smile into place when their housekeepers face appeared over the polished wooden balustrade on the second landing. I have looked high and low, Miss Thorne. There is just no sign of her.

Thank you, Mrs. Dalman. You may return to your duties, Isabel said, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated where her sister might have wandered in an attempt to avoid the chores given to her. Delia, you cannot keep running off when it pleases you. This household is showing signs of neglect, and we cannot afford to hire more servants.

Of course no one was listening to Isabels quiet complaints.

With a sigh escaping her lips, she pivoted and strode toward the back of the house. There was the informal parlor to check, and the kitchen. Delia might have even escaped the house to flirt with one of the many gentlemen who seemed to show up at all hours of the day to court her.

Even though Delia accepted their small tokens of esteem and fluttered about prettily under their fervent regard, Isabel could have told all of them that they were wasting their time. Much like their mother, Delia had a high opinion of herself. As the granddaughter of Viscount Botly, her sister thought she could do better than a hardworking farmer or tradesman when it came to finding a husband.

Delia was certainly beautiful enough to aspire higher.

Isabel, Mrs. Willow said, stepping out from the study. There you are. I was just about to go upstairs and check on your mother.

The thirty-nine-year-old woman was a blessing. Widowed nine years earlier, she was a close friend of the Thorne family. When Isabel had difficulties handling her mothers bouts of melancholy, Mrs. Willow had always been on hand to assist the young girls.

Isabel smoothed an errant tendril of hair back into place. There is no need. Sybil retired with her tea. With luck, she will sleep the entire afternoon. Have you seen Delia? A thousand things need to be done, so naturally my sister has gone into hiding.

Have patience, Isabel, the older woman instructed. Delia is young. She will find a good man, marry him, and give up her flighty ways.

She did not share Mrs. Willows faith in Delia. Her sisters volatile moods and vanity reminded her too much of their mother. Sybil was a forty-three-year-old widow with two grown daughters and a dwindling annual income. If her responsibilities had not curbed her reckless nature, what hope did Delia have?

I almost forgot. Mrs. Willow offered the letter in her hand to Isabel. This arrived for you. I was going to put it on your fathers desk, but I was worried it might get overlooked.

Puzzled that anyone would be writing her, Isabel accepted the letter with a slight frown. I wonder who why, it is from Lady Netherley!

It was toward the end of summer that Isabel and Delia had had the pleasure of being introduced to the elderly Marchioness of Netherley. Distinguished visitors such as the marchioness were rare in Cotersage, so word quickly spread throughout the tiny village that Mrs. Whitechurchs cousin was spending the fortnight at her house.

When her mother had learned of the noblewomans visit, shed naturally insisted that the three of them call on their good neighbor. Sybil had argued that Lady Netherley would be insulted if she was not properly introduced to Viscount Botlys granddaughters. She was quite happy to ignore the unpleasant detail that their grandfather had disowned his only daughter for marrying a commoner. As far as he was concerned, his granddaughters did not exist.