Practice to Deceive

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  For Angie—

  One of the gentlest, kindest, and

  most courageous ladies I know.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practice to deceive!

  Sir Walter Scott “Marmion”

  Unwanted Kisses

  “Beast!” she hurled at him. “Horrid, impertinent—”

  The balance of her denunciation was smothered as his mouth came down upon her own. His lips seared hers in a long, hard kiss. The arm about her tightened until she could scarcely breathe, and his other hand was wandering down her throat, tracing the shape of her breasts, beginning to unfasten the buttons of her habit…

  With all her strength, Penelope tore free and boxed his ear.

  “Oho! What a firebrand! Yet you’ll make me a good wife, nonetheless!”

  Speechless with shock, she stared at him.

  “Aye—wife, m’dear! You are mine, sweet shrew. And before the month is out, I’ll have you…”

  PROLOGUE

  England. July, 1741.

  Hector John Montgomery, Fifth Baron Delavale, was a gentle and scholarly man, having a deep love of nature and little children. His hopes for a large family were blighted when his beautiful young wife survived a long and painful labour to present him with their second child but, never recovering the bloom of her health, became increasingly frail until she died, some four years later. Desolated, Lord Delavale sought consolation in his children. His fortune was moderate, but no necessity of life was denied them, and many luxuries given without contributing to the overindulgence that nourishes selfishness. At age nineteen, Geoffrey was a handsome, well-built youth of a good-natured temperament. Penelope, four years his junior, had inherited neither her mother’s daintiness nor her father’s good looks, and on the day she left the schoolroom her Aunt Sybil threw up her hands in despair and informed her spouse that his niece had little to recommend her.

  “For she is,” declared Mrs. Montgomery pithily, “at least seven inches too tall; she speaks her mind in a most vulgar way, does not hesitate to stare any gentleman out of countenance, and is besides always buried in a book! My heart goes out to poor Delavale! ’Twill be a miracle can he ever fire her off!”

  It was true that any one of these lamentable qualities was sufficient to condemn a debutante to a place among those unfortunates who occupied the chairs edging Society ballrooms. However, upon receiving an invitation that included his family, it was not the apprehension that his daughter might disgrace him that caused Lord Delavale to hesitate. He would take Geoffrey, of course. The boy was pretty-mannered and would be a credit to him. Penelope, however … My lord frowned uneasily. Despite his sister-in-law’s occasional waspish remarks, he was very aware that his allegedly plain daughter had an oddly compelling quality. Perhaps it was the warm, welcoming glow that came into her clear hazel eyes when she met someone. Perhaps it was her way of speaking very softly, but evincing an intense interest in what others had to say, or her eagerness to help any creature in affliction. Whatever the cause, my lord had lately become aware that although Penelope Anne did sometimes voice opinions rather more knowledgeably than was entirely feminine, and although her frank gaze was not always demurely lowered as it might have been, young gentlemen did not seem to find her unattractive. It was more than kind of Sir Brian Chandler, the closest friend of his boyhood, to invite them to Lac Brillant for so long as they should be able to stay. The estate was situated in Kent, not far inland from Dover, and was renowned for its magnificence. It would be a joy to present his children to such an old and dear friend after all these years. Only—there were two sons to be considered. The eldest, Gordon, was in his twenty-fifth year. The younger, Quentin, was two and twenty, and rumour whispered he was already a bit of a rascal with the ladies.

  One might be pardoned for supposing that a middle-aged widower with a plain daughter on his hands would welcome the opportunity to introduce her to the sons of a close comrade, who also chanced to be extremely wealthy. In Delavale’s case, such a supposition would have been unwarranted. My lord had an intense interest in birds. Regrettably, his heir did not share the fascination. To Geoffrey, birds were noisy little pests who woke him at an ungodly hour with their shrieked hymns to the dawn. It was Penelope who accompanied Delavale on his long country walks, who searched with him for nests and kept his records of sightings, migration patterns, and behaviour. It was she who sat with him hour after wintry hour in some damp and chill meadow to catch the first glimpse of wild geese flying south, or who helped him nurse some tiny scrap of fragile bone and scrawny feather that had slipped from a nest until, with care and luck, and perhaps an assist from the Almighty Hand, a sleek young bird was at length released to seek its fellows. No, indeed! Quite apart from the fact that my lord loved his daughter almost as much as he adored his son, he had no wish to lose Penelope. His loss would, in fact, constitute a minor disaster. Not that he was a selfish man. She must marry, of course. Eventually. But—she was only fifteen. And there were those two blasted sons.… If they took after their father … Thus, it was with considerable misgiving that Delavale yielded to his daughter’s importunities and allowed her to accompany him.

  When their two carriages turned on to the long, winding drivepath that led to Lac Brillant, Penelope was far too awed by the richly wooded slopes, the sweeping park, the magnificent gardens, the ornamental water and fountains, to pay more than fleeting attention to the young man who rode at the gallop to meet them, his welcoming shouts echoed by Geoffrey’s equally exuberant responses. The newcomer drew his black Arabian to a walk and reached up to shake hands with Geoffrey, who rode on the box beside Charles Coachman. Not until he fell back to greet the inside passengers and thus came between her and the view did Penelope withdraw her fascinated gaze from the distant roofs of the three semicircular blocks that constituted the main house.

  “Welcome, Miss Montgomery; my lord. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  As from a great distance Penelope heard her father answer courtesy with courtesy. It seemed to her that the carriage had ceased to rock, or the wheels to rumble. The panelled walls fell away and the door ceased to exist so that she looked unhindered upon a lithe, loose-limbed young man who rode with easy grace. A youth taller than she, to judge from his height in the saddle. He was clad in buckskin breeches and gleaming boots. A riding coat of dark green hugged his broad shoulders, and lace edged the cravat that was secured by a gleaming emerald pin. Thick hair of a rich chestnut colour, waving back from a high brow, was tied in at the nape of the neck. Heavy eyebrows arched at her enquiringly, and laughter danced into the brilliant green eyes. Penelope knew he had said something, but she made no immediate reply, her intent stare drifting down the lean lines of the high-cheekboned face, the narrow Roman nose, the well-shaped lips and firm chin. “How do … how do you … do,” she said faintly.

  Curiosity in his eyes, he reached out a gaunt
letted hand. Her mittened fingers drifted into it. They had come to a stop now, and he bowed in the saddle as gracefully as though he stood in a ballroom, and touched his lips to her hand.

  So soft a touch. So gallant and gentle. Yet a warm shiver ran down her back. Something deep inside her stirred and awoke, and she felt a tingling sensation, as though until this moment she had scarcely been alive.

  Straightening, he said in that rich, deep voice, “May I introduce myself? I am Quentin Chandler. I’m afraid my brother is in the North for the summer, but my father bids me assure you there will be other guests to spare you from ennui.”

  His strong clasp tightened slightly, and Penelope awoke to the fact that she had not withdrawn her own hand as she should have done. Drawing back, she felt her cheeks redden, and smiled shyly. Quentin Chandler returned the smile, his innate kindness deepened by interest.

  ‘We have met before,’ Penelope thought dreamily. ‘Long and long ago. But he does not know it. Yet.’ And in that one short interval, irrevocably, her heart was given.

  Lord Delavale had viewed his daughter’s behaviour with deepening alarm. She turned to him with an odd, almost guilty little start. As though, he thought, she had quite forgotten he was with her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and in her eyes was a new look, a sparkling joy that had in it also an awareness of her femininity. He groaned inwardly, and knew his worst fears had been realised.

  I

  June, 1746

  It began to rain in late afternoon and the wind, gusting fitfully over the rivers and scarps and chalk hills of Oxfordshire, carried on its breath the chill of northern ice-floes. Cold held no terrors for Penelope, but there was a limit, and when it became evident she would soon be soaked through, she patted the tired mare’s neck gently and turned her into the lane that led towards the eastern boundaries of Highview. Here, venerable chestnut trees met overhead to cast a shade that was pleasant on a hot day. This afternoon was gloomy even under the open skies, and the lane was dark and hushed, but at least they were protected from the rain to an extent and Missy could amble along with less effort than on the sodden fields.

  They soon came to the gate and the higher hedges that marked the start of the Highview preserves. Penelope reined to a halt, slid from the saddle, and gathered her wet habit over one arm as she opened the gate. She paused, her small gloved hand resting on the top rung as she looked nostalgically at the weathered wood. How many times she and Geoff had galloped this way. And wouldn’t he tease her, could he see her now, dismounting so staidly to open the gate they had been used to jump, neck and neck. She sighed wistfully and glanced up at the lowering clouds, wondering where her brother’s valiant spirit wandered today. He wouldn’t be here, she decided. Except perhaps out of love for her. Geoff had loathed Uncle Joseph and his opinion of their beautiful aunt had been couched in unequivocal terms. “The woman is a vulture!” he’d declared, his dark eyes flashing indignation. “She and that rascally uncle of mine could scarce wait for Papa to be decently buried before they descended on Highview to manage my affairs. Much I need their management! At the rate they spend, I shall be fortunate to have an estate left to manage by the time I reach five and twenty and am allowed to come into my inheritance!”

  But Geoffrey, tall, bronzed, and full of health and vigour in his twenty-third year, chafing against the constraints his father’s will had placed upon his taking full control of his estates, had quarrelled constantly with his rapacious aunt and uncle and had gone off to fight the King’s enemies in Scotland. Frightened by a letter notifying her that her brother had been wounded at the Battle of Prestonpans, Penelope was devastated the following day when a correcting communiqué advised that Captain Lord Delavale had been killed and buried by the Scots in an unmarked grave, following that rout. Still mourning her beloved father, Penelope was left to grieve also for the brother she had mothered and adored since childhood. Fat Joseph Montgomery was the lord of Highview now, and he and his beautiful wife no longer had to brood upon a future that must see Geoffrey taking over his full inheritance, and themselves dispossessed.

  A mildly complaining whicker from Missy awoke Penelope to the fact that she was standing motionless in the rain. She squared her shoulders, fighting sorrow away as she led the mare through, closed the gate, then used the middle rung as an impromptu step to assist her climb into the saddle. Geoff had been gone for nigh ten months. It was no use grieving so. She must put her wits to better use than vain regrets. For instance, how much longer she could endure the humiliation of existence at—

  She ceased to adjust her long wet skirts and glanced about tensely. She was being watched. She knew it as surely as if she could see someone standing in the meadow. There was no sign of life, no movement of anything save for the wind-tossed branches of trees and shrubs. But someone was near, and if it was that horrid Captain Otton…! Her heartbeat quickened. She kicked her boot home with rather more urgency than usual, and Missy snorted and broke into a canter.

  The rain had settled into a steady drizzle, but by the time Penelope was halfway across the meadow it became a deluge and, again, she was obliged to change her route. The closest shelter was offered by Nurse’s abandoned cottage and a quick dash brought them to the copse and then the broken picket fence and weed-filled garden that the old lady had once kept so meticulously ordered. Penelope dismounted under the now empty woodshed at the side. She looped the reins around one of the support posts, promised the drenched mare that she would come back, and ran to the front door. It was locked, of course, but Nurse had always kept a key above the lintel and, braving dust and crawly things, Penelope groped for and found it.

  The door creaked open. Inside, there was a musty smell of disuse. Almost she fancied to catch a whiff of cheese on the air which was, she thought prosaically, mould rather. She went through the small entrance hall and looked about for something to use to rub down Missy. The curtains were closed in the parlour, and a grubby-looking cover of Holland cloth had been thrown over the sofa, this apparently having been judged the only piece of furniture worth protecting. Penelope pulled off the cover. Turning to the door again, she gave a little squeal of fright as something moved in the shadows. Her heart almost stopped. Knees melting with terror, she pressed the dusty cloth to her breast. And then, dimly, she saw the answering flutter and felt weak with relief. The movement that had startled her so had been her own reflection in the old mirror over the oaken sideboard—nothing more.

  “Stupid girl…!” she gasped, and tottered nearer.

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, and she was depressed by the bedraggled vision in the mirror. Her hat hung limply about her face, water dripping from the brim to trickle in little rivulets down her cheeks, and the feather sagging at a ridiculous angle. Black did not become her. She looked washed-out and colourless. “You are not a pretty girl, niece.…” Uncle Joseph’s unkind verdict rang again in her ears. She put down the Holland cover and rested both hands on the sideboard as she leaned forward, scanning her reflection. She sighed. There was no denying it was truth; she was not pretty. Of course, her hair was a straggling disaster at the moment, but even when it was well-brushed and neatly dressed, it was only a rather mousy brown. Unless she wore powder, which she seldom did in the country. She thought defensively that it did have honey-gold highlights sometimes, when the sun touched it. But … there were her eyebrows. Too straight, and since she refused to pluck them, lacking the fine, thin line that was The Fashion. Her mouth was full and well-shaped, but the most infatuated of swains could not have termed it a blushing rosebud. And below it, her chin was both too decided and lacking even the suspicion of a dimple. Still, her eyes were really quite good; wide-spaced, well-opened, deeply lashed, and of a rich hazel flecked with blue. Her hopeful look faded. Only yesterday her aunt had scolded that they were ‘witch’s eyes.’ “And if you persist in looking so directly at the gentlemen, instead of lowering your lashes demurely, as any female should, you’ll end a spinster, my girl! The Lord only kn
ows your uncle and I try to be patient, but whoever heard of a chit with your looks receiving three perfectly acceptable offers and spurning every one? Your poor papa must have been all about in his head to have borne with such high flights! On the day you put off your blacks, miss, there’ll be an end to such nonsensicality. Your uncle will accept the first respectable offer that comes your way—if you ever receive another at your age! So if you’re taken some unnatural vow to wear the willow all your days, prepare yourself! I’ve no mind to keep a spinster here, eating us out of house and home, and so I warn you!”

  Penelope had taken no such vow. To be a spinster was, in fact, quite the antithesis of her dreams. Her eyes softened and one finger traced a letter into the dust atop the sideboard. The letter Q. Five years ago she had indulged such glorious hopes. Five years ago next month, she and Geoffrey and Papa had spent that wonderful week at Lac Brillant. Despite all that had transpired since, she had only to close her eyes and she could see Quentin Chandler’s aquiline features, the beautifully chiselled lips always ready to quiver into a smile, the mischief that lit the deep green of the wide-set eyes, the grin that flashed white and irresistibly across his face, so that one had perforce to laugh with him. How easily he had slipped into familiarity with them, as though he had been part of the family. And what a golden time it had been, one happy day blending into the next while they rode or walked, or played croquet on Lac Brillant’s velvet lawns. A boat party and a ball had been given in honour of the visitors. There had been dances at the homes of neighbours, afternoon musicales and card parties, breakfasts al fresco. Laughter and joy, and that thrilling excitement that had made her heart race and brought a sweet new shyness whenever Quentin touched her hand, or smiled her way. Always, he had teased her gently, and she had gloried in his assumption that he had the right to do so.