Jacquie D’Alessandro - Love and the Single Heiress

The second book in the Regency Historical series, 2004

I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable help and support:

My editors, Carrie Feron and Erika Tsang, for their kindness, cheerleading, and wonderful ideas.

My agent, Damaris Rowland, for her faith and wisdom.

Martha Kirkland, for always knowing the answers to my research questions.

Jenni Grizzle and Wendy Etherington for keeping me going and always being up for champagne and cheesecake.

Brenda DAlessandro, for being lots of fun, the worlds best shopper, and for walking three hundred city blocks without complaining (sort of).

Thanks also to Kay and Jim Johnson, Kathy and Dick Guse, Lea and Art DAlessandro, JoBeth Beard, Ann Wonycott, and Michelle, Steve, and Lindsey Grossman.

A cyberhug to my Looney Loopies Connie Brockway, Marsha Canham, Virginia Henley, Jill Gregory, Sandy Hingston, Julia London, Kathleen Givens, Sherri Browning, and Julie Ortolon, and also to the Temptresses.

A very special thank-you to the members of Georgia Romance Writers, JoBeth Beard, Ana Payne, Judy Wilson, and Jeannie Pierannunzi.

And finally, thank you to all the wonderful readers who have taken the time to write or e-mail me. I love hearing from you!

Todays Modern Woman should strive for personal enlightenment, independence, and forthrightness. The perfect place to begin this quest for assertiveness is in the bedchamber

A Ladies Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore

Scandalous, thats what it is, came an outraged male whisper. My wife has somehow secured a copy of that deuced Ladies Guide.

How do you know? came another gruff male whisper.

Damned obvious, what with the way shes been acting. Been spewing out nonsense about todays modern woman and independence like a steaming teakettle. Just yesterday she marched into my private study and proceeded to question me regarding my gambling markers and the amount of time I spend at Whites!

Sharp intakes of breath followed. Outrageous, muttered the gruff whisperer.

Precisely what I told her.

What did you do?

Why, I marched her right out of my study, called for a carriage, and sent her to Aspreys to pick out a new bauble to occupy her mind.

Excellent. I assume your strategy worked?

Unfortunately not as well as Id hoped. Last night I found her awaiting me in my bedchamber. Gave me quite a turn, I tell you. Especially as Id just left my mistress and was thoroughly worn-out. Bloody hell, a wifes not supposed to make such demands, or have such expectations.

My wife did the same thing just last week, came a third aggrieved whisper. Entered my bedchamber, bold as you please, pushed me onto the mattress, then well, I can only describe it as to say she jumped upon me. Completely deflated my lungs and damn near crushed me. As I lie there, immobile with shock, fighting for my very breath, she says in a most impatient tone, Bump your arse a bit. Can you imagine such undignified goings-on? Then, just when I thought I couldnt be more astonished, she demanded to know why Id never

The voice lowered further and Lady Catherine Ashfield, Viscountess Bickley, leaned closer to the Oriental screen that secreted her presence from the gentlemen on the other side.

This Charles Brightmore must be stopped, whispered one of the gentlemen.

I agree. A disaster of gargantuan proportions, thats what hes brought upon us. Why, if my daughter reads that cursed Guide, Ill never marry off the foolish chit. Independence, indeed. Completely insupportable. This Guide could well prove even worse than the uproar incited by that Wollstonecraft womans writings. Nothing but ridiculous reformists balderdash.

Murmurs of agreement followed that pronouncement.

Then the whisperer continued, And as for the bedchamber, women are demanding enough creatures as it is, always wanting a new gown or earbobs or carriage or the like. Tis outrageous that their expectations should extend to that. Especially a woman of my wifes age, who is the mother of two grown children. Unseemly, thats what it is.

Couldnt agree more. Should I ever find myself in the company of this Brightmore bastard, Ill personally wring his bloody neck. Tarring and feathering is too good for him. Everyone Ive spoken to feels certain that Charles Brightmore is a pseudonym, and coward that he is, hes refused to step forward and identify himself. The betting book at Whites is a frenzy of wagers on the subject of his identity. Damn it all, what sort of man would think, let alone write, such unseemly ideas?

Well, I stopped at Whites just before coining here, and the latest theory proposes the possibility that Charles Brightmore is in fact a woman. Indeed, I heard

The gentlemans low-pitched words were drowned out by a trill of nearby feminine laughter. Catherine inched closer, all but pressing her ear to the screen.

and if its true, it would be the scandal of the century She heard some more unintelligible mumbling, then, hired an investigator two days ago to get to the bottom of this. He comes highly recommended ruthless, and will ferret out the truth. In fact-oh, bloody hell, my wifes caught sight of me. Hang it, look at her, fluttering her eyelashes at me. Shocking, thats what it is. Appalling. And altogether frightening.

Catherine peeked around the edge of the screen. Lady Markingworth stood at the edge of the dance floor, her rotund proportions ensconced in an unfortunate shade of yellowish green satin that cast her complexion with a distinctly jaundiced hue, her brown hair arranged in a complicated coiffure involving sausage curls, ribbons, and peacock feathers. With her attention fixed on the opposite side of the screen, Lady Markingworth was batting her eyes as one might if caught in a dust-ridden windstorm. Then, with an air of determination, she marched toward the screen.

Egad, came a horrified, panic-filled whisper that Catherine assumed belonged to Lord Markingworth. Shes got that damnable gleam in her eye.

And its too late to escape, old man.

Bloody hell. A plague on that bastard Charles Brightmores house. Im going to find out who this person is, then kill him-or her. Slowly.

There you are, Ephraim, said Lady Markingworth, her greeting followed by a girlish giggle. Ive been searching for you everywhere. The waltz is about to start. And how fortunate that Lords Whitly and Carweather are with you. Your wives anxiously await you near the dance floor, my lords.

Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet floor as the group moved away.

Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection. Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very unexpected turn. All shed wanted was to avoid the approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom had dogged her footsteps since the moment shed arrived at her fathers birthday party and separately attempted to maneuver her into a tte--tte. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth had been followed closely by Sir Percy Whitenall and several others whose names escaped her, all of whom bore unmistakable-and unwanted-gleams of interest in their eyes. Good heavens, her official mourning period for her husband had ended only days ago. She could almost hear her dear friend Genevieves voice warning her just last week,