Bewitching

The Novels of

Jill Barnett

The Novels of Jill Barnett

Now Available Or Coming Soon In Ebook

From Bell Bridge Books:

JUST A KISS AWAY

BEWITCHING

DREAMING

IMAGINE

CARRIED AWAY

WONDERFUL

WILD

WICKED

THE HEART’S HAVEN

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

THE DAYS OF SUMMER

BRIDGE TO HAPPINESS

Visit Jill at www.jillbarnett.com

and www.bellbridgebooks.com

Bewitching

By

Jill Barnett

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright 1993 © by Jill Barnett

2010 Electronic publication - Bell Bridge Books

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935661-64-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-935661-62-7

Originally published 1993 by Pocket Books, mass market edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact us at the address above or at BelleBooks@BelleBooks.com

Visit us at bellbridgebooks.com

Cover Design: Debra Dixon

Interior Design: Hank Smith

Artwork Credits:

Figure © Andjelka Simic | Dreamstime.com

Author name alphabet © Jaguarwoman Designs

Stars © Patslash | Renderosity

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Dedication

For Kasey, the Joy in our lives

Once upon a Time...

Do more bewitch me than when art

Is too precise in every part.

— Robert Herrick Delight in Disorder,

Chapter 1

There was magic in the air, yet few could see it. To the mortal eye there was nothing but a brash, bullying Scottish storm that blew like the Devil’s breath from the gray swirling waters of the Sound of Mull. Lightning splintered the midnight sky, and thunder bellowed. Rain poured down from the heavens, and the sea crashed against the huge granite rocks of the coast, splattering white sea-foam up the sharp cliff on which Duart Castle stood.

For five hundred of its six hundred years, the castle had been the stronghold of the clan MacLean and host to their cousins, the clan MacQuarrie. But the Battle of Culloden Moor had changed all that. On that dark, dank moor some sixty-seven years earlier, Scot stubbornness had caused many a clan to lose its holdings. The MacLeans had lost their stronghold to the Sassenach—Englishmen who cared not a whit for the braw, bold power of the place. The castle stood empty now, dark and abandoned.

Or so it appeared.

The skies bellowed and crackled, and the seas roared. To mere mortals it was only another storm, but to those who knew, to those of the ancient faith, it was more than just the heavens and the earth battling.

The witches were awake.

Now, there were witches, and there were witches. And then there were the MacQuarries.

‘Tis a sad tale, that of the MacQuarries, a tale that had begun hundreds of years before this night. An ancient forefather of the current MacQuarrie had been summoned to the fete of the Spring Equinox in what is now the south of England. There, on a wide plain, stood a massive stone temple where the witches and warlocks met to demonstrate their powers. On that special spring it had been decreed that the MacQuarrie warlock would have the cherished honor of making those most precious springtime flowers—the roses —bloom. Other witches and warlocks had already walked into the center of the temple and used their magic to bring life back to a winter-dead earth.

‘Twas a sight to see that day when, in a matter of moments, green grass broke through the sodden ground. Wallflower bushes, buttercups, and dandelions spread a frosting of bright yellow across the fresh green that had magically sprouted. Soon the barren branches of birch trees were dripping with silvery spring leaves and tall elegant alders burst anew. Oak, ash, and elm came back to life with little more than the casting of a spell, the flick of a hand, or the flashing snap of a witch’s magic. The scent of jasmine, primrose, marigold, and lavender filled the cool morning air, and suddenly it was spring. Birds and insects swarmed through the air and perched in the trees, and the melody of the lark, the hum of the bees and call of doves brought music to the land that had for too many cold, dreary months been silent.

Then, it was the MacQuarrie’s turn. The crowd parted as he made his way to the center of the stone temple. The room was silent, so silent one could have heard a blink, as each and every witch and warlock waited for that special moment. The MacQuarrie stood there for a long moment of quiet concentration. Slowly, he raised his hands toward the massive ceiling and with a snap of his fingers, let loose his magic.

No roses bloomed that day.

Instead an enormous explosion, the like of which no one had ever seen, blew the temple walls and roof into the sky. When the dust settled and the air cleared and the witches and warlocks picked themselves up off the ground, the temple was no more. Nothing stood except a few circles of stone arches.

Modern mortals look in awe at the ruins they call Stonehenge, but mention the name Stonehenge to the witches of the world and to this very day they shake their heads in dismay and mutter about the shame of the MacQuarries.

And it came to pass that in the year of our Lord 1813 there were only two witches left in all of Scotland—a MacLean and, of all things, a MacQuarrie. So on this brash night as the storm battered the shore of the isle of Mull, as it rained on the crumbling ruins of a once-proud castle perched upon that jagged stone headland, as the mortals on that tiny island cowered by their fires and listened to the heavens wail, the MacLean and the MacQuarrie made magic.

Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie bent down to pick up the scattering of books on the tower room floor. Ten golden bracelets jangled like sleigh bells down her wrists and echoed in the tense silence of the room. She was thankful for the noise; it gave her a blessed moment’s respite from the impatient, penetrating glare of her aunt, the MacLean. With her face turned away from her aunt, Joy grabbed another book, tucking it under her arm as she muttered, ‘Twas only one wee tad of a word. She picked up another book, to the accompaniment of those same tinkling bracelets, but as they settled on her wrists she could hear a new sound—a distinct, agitated tapping.

Her aunt’s foot.

Joy peeked under her outstretched arm and winced. Her aunt’s arms were crossed, and she shook her golden head in disgust. But worst of all, Joy could see the MacLean’s lips move: her aunt was counting again.

Joy’s heart sank; she’d failed again. With a defeated sigh she quietly returned the books to their ancient oak shelf and plopped onto a wobbly wooden stool after pulling it closer to the trestle table that stood in the center of the tower room. She rested a small chin in her hand and waited for her aunt to reach a hundred—at least she hoped it would be only a hundred.

A slick cat with fur as white as fresh Highland snow leapt onto the table and wound itself around and through the three time-tarnished brass candlesticks whose tapers bathed the battered oak table in flickering golden light. As the cat meandered along the table, its tail cast strange shadows across the nicked tabletop. Entranced by the patterns, Joy tried to make imaginary letters out of those cat’s-tail figures, her mind wandering off on one of its frequent journeys of fancy. That was her problem. She was a witch with a wandering mind.

The cat, Gabriel, was her aunt’s familiar—an embodied spirit in animal form whose duty was to serve, attend, and in some cases, guard a witch. She glanced at her own familiar, Beelzebub, an ermine weasel whose coat was currently winter white except for wee spots of black on his tail and paws. The snowy fur covered a massive potbelly that made him look more like a plump rabbit than a sleek, almost feline weasel. He was at that moment, as at most moments, sound asleep.

She sighed. Beezle was the only animal who was willing to be her familiar.

Cats like Gabriel were proud, arrogant animals; they absolutely refused to be associated with a witch who couldn’t control her magic. Owls were too wise to ally themselves with someone as inept as Joy. And toads, well, they took one look at her, croaked, and hopped away.

Plump, old Beezle wheezed in his sleep. Joy watched his black-tipped paws twitch and reminded herself that at least she had a familiar, even if he was only a weasel. As if sensing her thoughts, he cracked open one lazy, brown eye and peered at her as if calmly waiting for the next disaster. She reached out to scratch his plush belly and promptly knocked over a pot of cold rose hip tea.

Gabriel hissed and sprang out of the path of the spilled tea. Beezle didn’t move that fast. Beezle seldom moved at all. The tea pooled like the tide around him. He blinked twice, looked at the tea seeping onto his white fur, and gave her a look not unlike the MacLean’s before he shook himself, sending a sprinkling of tea in every direction. He waddled over to a dry spot and plopped back down with a soft thud, then rolled over, paws in the air, plump white and pink belly up, and stared at the ceiling. Joy wondered if animals could count. Beezle opened his mouth and let out a loud wheeze, then a snore.

Count in their sleep, she amended, drumming her fingers on the table.

Whatever am I to do with you? the MacLean finally spoke, having taken enough time to count to a hundred twice. Her aunt’s stance was stern, but her voice held the patience that arose from what was almost a mother’s love.

That love made the situation even worse for Joy. She truly wanted to hone her magic skills for her patient aunt, as well as for her own pride’s sake, and she was miserable because she couldn’t get it right. She absently drew one finger through the dust on the table, then looked at her aunt and mentor. Can one word truly make such a difference?

Every single word is of the utmost importance. An incantation must be exact. Part of the power comes from the voice. The MacLean took a deep breath and clasped her hands behind her. The rest takes practice. Concentration! She paced around the circular room, her strong voice echoing off the stone walls like bagpipes in the Highlands. With the suddenness of a wink, she stopped and looked down at Joy. Now pay attention. Watch me.

Standing to Joy’s left, she raised her elegant hands high in the air, allowing the fine gold threads in her embroidered silk robe to catch the candlelight and glimmer like a twinkling of fairy dust. Joy caught her breath. Standing as she was, tall and golden with the midnight sky as a backdrop through the tower window, her aunt looked like a goddess. Her long straight hair, which hung in a gleaming satin drape past her hips to the backs of her knees, was the color of hammered gold. Her skin was as flawless as pure cream and appeared ageless in the muted glow of the candlelight. The MacLean’s robe was white—not the stark white of cotton or the ivory white of lamb’s wool but the same shimmering white that the stars shone, that lightning sparked, that diamonds glittered and the sun glowed.

A breath of cold Scottish wind whistled through the tower room, making the candle flames flicker. The sharp smell of hot tallow mingled with the scent of midnight rain and the brine of the roiling seas that rode the whisper of wind through the room. Shadows danced a jagged jig up the granite walls, and the sound of waves crashing against the sharp coastal rocks below echoed upward, blending with the mournful call of gulls that roosted in the tower eaves. Then, with the suddenness of a lightning flash, all was still... silent.

The MacLean’s deep voice called out, Come!

Magic quaked through the air—a live, animated thing, powerful, controlled, swarming toward the wall where heavy old leather-bound books stood on an oaken shelf. A huge brown book, cracked and tattered, slowly, inch by smooth inch, slid off the shelf, turned in midair, then floated to the MacLean. It hovered near her, waiting, until she slowly lowered one arm. The book followed her movement, lighting on the table as if it were a feather instead of a three-thousand-page volume.

Joy plopped her chin into her hand and sighed. You make it look so easy.

‘Tis easy. One must simply concentrate. Her aunt replaced the book on its shelf and turned to Joy. Now you try it.

With pure Scots stubbornness in her dark green eyes, Joy took a deep breath, closed those eyes, and with all the drama a twenty-one-year-old witch could muster, she flung her hands up into the air. Her bracelets flew across the tower room like soaring gulls. At the first clatter of metal hitting stone, she winced, then eased open one green eye.

Forget the bracelets! Concentrate... concentrate.

She tried to concentrate, but nothing happened. She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter.

Picture the book moving, Joyous. Use your mind’s eye.

She remembered the way her aunt had made the magic only minutes before. She threw her shoulders back and raised her determined chin, sending a thick cascade of wild and wavy mink-brown hair tumbling down to sway near the backs of her thighs. She opened her eyes and reached up higher. Taking one deep, cleansing breath for luck, she commanded, Come!

The book quivered, moved about two inches, then stopped.

Concentrate!

Come! Joy spread her fingers wide, bit her lip, and slowly pulled her hands back toward her, mentally picturing the book drifting toward her, then hovering in the air.

The book slid forward on the shelf, just reaching the edge.

Come! Joy shouted in a voice as deep as Fingal’s Cave. She opened her eyes, determined to move that book, then snapped her fingers for good measure.

Luckily, she saw it coming and ducked.

The book flew past her as if carried on a whirlwind; then the next book and the next book, then another and another, sucked from the shelf with the pulling strength of the sea tide. With a horrendous crack, the bookshelf ripped from the stone walls. It flew around the room, spinning and arcing, turning and turning, faster and faster. A dented tin pail spun off to Joy’s left, then clanged against the floor. A broom sped to the right; three stools twirled like dancers, then tumbled end over end to bang against a pitcher, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

Furniture crashed against the walls, splintering, cracking. Candles levitated up... up... up... The wind howled through the room, huffing and puffing and whirling. Instinctively Joy wrapped her arms around her head and hunched over. The teapot just missed her. From somewhere she heard a cat shriek, the patter of paws running. A coal bucket sent lumps of black coal flying through the room like rocks at a stoning. Then she heard a regal-sounding grunt—the MacLean.

Oh, rats! Joy clamped her hand over her mouth as a hundred gray rats scurried into the tower room, slithering down the walls, leaping from broken furniture, running amok.

Slowly the wind died down, growing softer until it was but a whisper, and after a long moment the air was still. The only sound in the room was that of the rats’ scurrying feet.

Joy heard a choked cough behind her. She straightened up and turned around.

Waving away the coal dust, a black-faced MacLean extricated herself from beneath what had once been a two-hundred-year-old throne chair. She cast a malevolent look at the rats running willy-nilly through the disaster-struck room and snapped her elegant black-smudged fingers, sending up a small cloud of coal dust. The rats disappeared.

The once-white Gabriel, outnumbered by the rats, let loose another screech and scurried in a black ball across the room and under the MacLean’s filthy gown where the hemline quivered for a long moment and a little dusting of soot sprinkled onto the wood-plank floor. The only sound in the room was Beezle’s wheezing. Sprawled on his back, he lay on the table, paws up, belly slowly rising with each wheeze.

He’d slept through the whole thing.

One tense but despairing stare from her aunt and Joy felt the weight of the world.

I’m sorry, She whispered, turning her guilty green eyes toward her aunt.

I cannot let you loose on the world, Joyous. I cannot. The MacLean dusted off her hands and surveyed the destruction. I cannot in good conscience let you live in England all alone for two years.

Her aunt looked thoughtful for a brief moment while she tapped a coal-blackened finger against her lips.

Of course, letting you live there might be just what the English deserve after Culloden Moor...

She glanced around the cluttered room with a scowl of disgust, then shook her head. No, no. The English are already burdened by a lunatic king and a regent who would rather play than rule.

But—

No. The MacLean raised her hand to silence Joy. I know you mean well, but all the good intentions in the world cannot control... this. She waved a hand at the mess in the room, shook her head, and went on, You need protection, my dear. Someone to watch over you.

With that she raised her sooty hands in the air, snapped her fingers, and zap! the room was back in perfect order— chairs upright and in position, stools and table and teapot all in their proper places; the pitcher in one piece, the broom and pail standing against the north wall, and all of the books lined up on the shelves like stiff English soldiers. The MacLean, suddenly spotless, was once again a vision of pure white and glimmering gold perfection.

Joy knew what her aunt was really saying: that Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie needed someone around to clean up after her, someone to undo the havoc her cockeyed magic wreaked. But Joy had lived with her aunt for fifteen years, and now she wanted a chance to live alone, to answer to no one but herself.

When she was alone, maybe she could learn to control her powers. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so tense and nervous because there’d be no one to let down but herself. She was deeply hurt by her uncanny ability to always disappoint the people she most wanted to please. She stood there, defeated, guilty, unhappy, feeling despair spread through her. She hurt; she had failed, and now none of her hopes would be fulfilled.

With her aunt leaving for a council position in North America, Joy was to be alone at last, a prospect she had anticipated eagerly. Duart Castle had been leased to a group of Glasgow doctors who planned to use it to house the battered and mind-shattered soldiers returning from war with Napoleon’s France.

Joy was to go to her maternal grandmother’s cottage in Surrey and live in relative obscurity for two years. She was sure she could learn her skills by then. She was positive. She just needed to convince the MacLean. Besides, her aunt would be gone and never know if she made a mistake or two. And there was one other argument in her favor If protection is what I need, how about a familiar?

A loud feline scream cut through the air. Gabriel whipped out from under the MacLean’s hem and scurried underneath a chest. He cowered in the dark, a pair of darting, wary blue eyes the only clue to his hiding place.

"My familiar, she corrected, just as Beezle twitched and snorted in his sleep. Isn’t a familiar supposed to protect a witch?"

Joyous, the only thing that sluggish weasel will protect is his bedtime. You just cannot seem to concentrate—

Wait! Joy stood, suddenly hopeful. I have an idea! She rushed over to a small battered Larkin desk, opened it, and rummaged through until she found what she sought. Here! She spun around holding a piece of paper, a pen with a small black box of pen points, and a squat jar of India ink. I’ll write the incantation down first. Then I can see it, on the paper in black and white. You’ll see, I know I’ll be able to concentrate then, I know it. Please... just give me one more chance.

Her aunt watched her for a long, decisive moment

Please, Joy whispered, lowering her eyes and holding her breath while her mind chanted a litany: Give me one last chance, please... please...please... .

The MacLean raised her chin. One more time.

A smile bright enough to outshine the candle flame filled Joy’s pale face. Her green eyes flashed with eagerness, and she hastened to the table, sat down on a stool, and dipped the pen tip into the ink. Smiling, she looked up.

Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie was ready.

But England wasn’t.

Chapter 2

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

Hover through the fog and filthy air.

—Macbeth, William Shakespeare

London, December 1813

An elegant black carriage clattered over the damp, cobbled streets, its driver seemingly oblivious to the thick fog that hovered over the city. Past a ragman’s cart in front of Green Park, past a watchman with a gin-sotted whore clutched in one hammy fist, past the plodding sedan chairs and rickety hackneys that filled the streets; the driver sped as heedless of the crowded streets as he was of the inclement weather. The vehicle whipped in a flash of raven black around a corner where a lamplighter was raising his hooked flambeau and lighting the last of the iron street lamps on St. James. Quicker than a pig’s whisker the carriage stopped, and a green-liveried footman had the gold and green crested door open before the frothing four-horse team had settled to a standstill.

Alec Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore, had arrived at his club.

As his champagne polished boot hit the curb, a nearby shop clock struck five. It was Wednesday, and when in town, the Duke of Belmore could be seen in front of White’s at exactly five o’clock every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

It was ritual. It was routine. It was the way of the Duke of Belmore. In fact, only last season Lord Alvaney had quipped that he knew his watch had stopped when it read three o’clock as Belmore entered the club. The Haston Bakery turned its sign and locked its door when the black carriage rattled past, and many a wager had been recorded in Boodle’s betting book on Belmore’s town schedule. It was as predictable as English tea.

And today the Earl of Downe and Viscount Seymour accompanied Belmore. Richard Lennox, Earl of Downe, was a tall, handsome man with blond hair and dark eyes, a biting wit, and of late, a sharp acid view of the world; Neil Herndon, Viscount Seymour was shorter and leaner with hair as bright as a new copper ha’penny. Downe had once said that Seymour was so nervous and fidgety he could make a dead man twitch.

The three men had been boon companions for nearly twenty of their twenty-eight years, and yet neither Downe nor Seymour really understood what made Alec Castlemaine tick. It was one of the few things on which the two agreed.

They knew Alec could throw a deadly right cross with what looked like no more effort than it took to swat a fly. They knew that there wasn’t a horse alive that Alec could not control with the casual skill of the Devil himself. And they knew that whenever Alec desired something, he went after it and won it with what seemed to be determined ease. The Duke of Belmore had but to snap his fingers and the world jumped.

Many women had tried and failed to win the heart of Alec Castlemaine. All they had received for their efforts, no matter how valiant, was the ducal glare. Richard and Neil were the two people closest to Belmore, and even they could not elicit from him anything more than a cool friendship.

Shortly after they met at Eton, the Earl of Downe had taken up the challenge of goading some emotional reaction out of Belmore, and over the years Downe had done his best to crack his friend’s icy facade.

This evening was no different.

Alec spoke to the carriage driver and then turned, only to find his path blocked by a rather remarkable-looking old woman no bigger than a ten-year-old boy. Her huge dilapidated red straw bonnet looked twice as big as her gray head, and her ragged gray velvet dress and a blue shawl hung loose from her narrow shoulders. She carried a wicker basket filled with fresh flowers, and in one gnarled hand she held up a small but perfect nosegay of English ivy and fresh violets.

‘Ave a lovely posy fer yer lady, yer Lordship.

Your Grace, he corrected in an icy tone that had been known to freeze many an unfortunate man in his boots.

The old woman, however, did not move. She just peered up at him out of crinkled gray eyes.

He moved to step around her, but the sweet, fresh scent of the flowers stopped him. He paused for a silent, thoughtful moment, then took the posy and tossed the crone a coin, figuring he’d give the flowers to Juliet tonight at the Linleys’ ball. He started to move toward the door when he felt a bony hand clutch his arm.

Fer ‘nother shilling, Yer Grace, I’ll tell ye yer fortune.

Uninterested in such foolishness, Alec shook her off, but Viscount Seymour—who was known to be the most superstitious young man on English soil—stopped him.

It’s bad luck to pass her by, Belmore.

The Earl of Downe leaned casually back against the door of the club, effectively blocking the entrance and resting his good arm on his injured one, which he wore in a sling. After eyeing Alec he reached into his pocket and tossed the hag a half crown. Best to listen to her, Downe said with a cynical smile. Don’t want to bring any bad luck down on the esteemed Belmore name.

Alec gave his friend a cool look, crossed his arms, and stood there as if he did not give a brass farthing about all the idiotic things the woman said. But even he had trouble looking bored when the woman started prattling on about his love life. Downe, however, was doing a poor job of repressing his mirth, and Neil appeared to be hanging on the hag’s every word.

Ye won’t be marryin’ the girl ye think ye will, Yer Grace.

Foolish woman, Alec thought. The announcement was to hit the papers the next morning. Lady Juliet Elizabeth Spencer, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Worth, would wed Alec Gerald Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore. He had made his marriage proposal. Lady Juliet had accepted it, and the business details of their marriage were being negotiated at that very moment. After that, Alec’s courtship ordeal would end.

Who will he marry? Seymour asked, glancing back and forth between Alec and the old woman with a worried expression.

The next girl ye meet, she said with an odd glint in her eyes. She held up one finger and added, She’ll ‘ave some surprises fer ye, that she will.

I am not going to listen to any more of this. Alec pushed past Richard, who was laughing, and jerked open the door. Yet over his shoulder he heard the woman’s parting words.

Ye’ll ne’er be bored again, Yer Grace! Ne’er again.

Striding across the parquet floor of the foyer, his boots making a series of sharp clicks, Alec pulled off his calfskin gloves with a distinct snap and handed them and his hat to Burke, the majordomo of the club, who in turn handed them to one of the ten footmen waiting to take the patrons’ coats to the valet room where it would be dried and cleaned.

Good evening, Your Grace, Burke said, helping Alec out of his greatcoat and handing it to the next footman. And how are you?

He’s annoyed, quipped Downe, who shrugged his coat off his injured arm and allowed Burke to remove the other.

I see. Burke replied in a tone that said he never saw anything, but said the proper thing anyway because that was his job. He took the other men’s garments, according them the same fastidious treatment all the club’s aristocratic members received.

Somehow I don’t think you do, Downe said quietly, trying to follow Alec as he strode with athletic ease up the Florentine marble staircase to the main salon.

Seymour caught up with Downe. Eyeing Alec’s broad back he whispered, What do you think he’s going to do about Lady Juliet?

Downe stopped and looked at Seymour as if he had left his mind along with his coat at the club’s entrance. What the devil are you talking about?

The announcement. You know as well as I what a stickler he is for propriety. What’s he going to do when the wedding does not take place, especially after his plans have been plastered all over the newspapers?

Don’t be more of an ass than you already are.

You heard the old woman. She said Belmore wasn’t going to marry Juliet. I tell you I’ve had a bad feeling about that match ever since yesterday when Alec told us the arrangements had been made. Something is not right. I can feel it. Seymour paused and tapped his fist against his lean chest. Right here. He gave Downe a look of pure conviction.

You need to stop eating that pickled eel.

Grumbling, the viscount continued up the stairs, stopping when they reached the rose marble columns at the top. He turned and faced his friend. I don’t give a fig if you believe me or not. You wait and see. Whenever I have this feeling, something odd happens.

No girl, let alone one as intelligent as Juliet Spencer, is going to let the Duke of Belmore slip through her fingers. Trust me, Seymour, what that old woman said was folly, Downe said as the two men entered the grand salon, where Alec sat at his usual table, a steward at his side watching while he tasted a vintage wine.

One quick but subtle nod of approval by the Duke of Belmore and the steward discreetly disappeared.

To those who chanced a look at him, Alec epitomized the English aristocracy. His coat was cut of gray superfine, and the breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with padding. His stark white cravat was tied with casual elegance that bespoke the precise hand of the best valet on English soil, and his buff breeches clung to the hard thighs of an expert horseman and the long legs of a man whose stature matched the quality of his breeding.

As usual, his square jaw was set, which hinted at a stubborn English nature. His face was handsome, his cheekbones Norman-high, and his nose hawkish. His lips quirked into a hard sensual line that said this man had no softness in his life; his was a heart untouched. His hair, though it had once been black, was now generously streaked with silver gray, a fact that had nothing to do with age but instead with the strength of the Castlemaine blood.

For the last seven generations, the Dukes of Belmore had gray hair before they were thirty. Also, all of them had married in their twenty-eighth year, a Belmore tradition, and sired their first child—always male and the heir—with great dispatch. It had been said that fate seemed to cater to the Belmore Dukes. And Alec, it seemed, was no different.

The Earl of Downe slumped into his own seat. Seymour sat too, fidgeting with an empty wineglass while his boot tapped an aggravating tune on the table leg. He muttered something about fate and destiny and Alec, not necessarily in that order.

Alec signaled the servant to fill Seymour’s wineglass. Here, drink some wine so you’ll stop that infernal mumbling.

What’s wrong, Belmore? Downe asked, innocently staring into his glass. Worried about the future?

He looked up at Alec, his real concern for his friend tinged with a bit of amusement.

Alec slowly sipped his wine.

He should be worried, Seymour said. I am.

You worry enough for all of us, Alec replied nonchalantly. I’m not worried, because there is no reason to be. Our solicitors met this morning to agree on the marriage settlement. The newspaper will carry the announcement tomorrow morning, and in a month I’ll be leg-shackled.

The arrangements, then, are clean, precise, executed without a hitch. Exactly the way you prefer things done. Downe lowered his glass and shook his blond head. I don’t know how you manage it. Lady Juliet Spencer is the perfect future Duchess of Belmore. You come to town, attend one ball, and in two minutes you find the ideal woman. I’d say you had fine luck, but then, you generally do have all the luck.

Alec shrugged. Luck had nothing to do with it.

What did? Divine intervention? Downe gave a sarcastic laugh. Did God talk to you, Belmore, as he does to Seymour?

Seymour took immediate offense. I never said God talked to me.

Then I was right. It was the pickled eel.

I hired someone, Alec admitted, deftly putting an end to another of Downe and Seymour’s petty arguments.

Downe sipped his wine and set it down. Hired someone to do what?

To find the perfect woman.

Both men stared at Alec in disbelief.

He set his glass down and leaned back against the tufted chair. I contacted the firm that handles most of my London business. They did some investigating and then sent me Juliet’s name. It made perfect sense.

There was a long pause before either of the other men spoke. Then Downe said quietly, I wondered how you found her so quickly that first night. For months now I’ve been telling myself it was just the Belmore luck. Now I understand. You paid someone to find you a wife. The earl stared into his glass for a quiet moment. Efficient, Belmore, but cold.

One should think with one’s mind, not one’s gut. Alec calmly sipped his wine. Cold or not, I couldn’t care less. I need a wife, and this seemed like the simplest way to acquire one. It was good business.

Good thing she’s easy on the eye, Seymour commented. You could have ended up with Letitia Hornsby.

As if uttering the chit’s name would conjure her up, Richard suddenly looked ill.

I’ll leave her for Downe, Alec said, knowing that Richard was not comfortable discussing Letitia Hornsby, a girl who was so enamored with Downe that she was forever following in his shadow. Taunting his friend about the Hornsby girl was a bit of gentle revenge for the episode with the old woman outside.

Taking Alec’s lead, Seymour smiled broadly and added, That’s right. Seems everywhere you go, that Hornsby brat is hovering nearby.

" Hovering is not the word I’d use." Downe rubbed his injured arm and scowled.

Seymour burst into laughter, and Alec’s eyes glittered with amusement, for they both had been at the Seftons’ Christmas ball when Letitia Hornsby fell out of a tree in the garden and landed on Downe and his mistress, Lady Caroline Wentworth, who were in the process of doing that which they did best. The silly chit had dislocated the earl’s shoulder.

Actually, Letitia Hornsby ain’t a bit hard on the eyes, Seymour said with a laugh. She’s just hard on your body, Downe.

After a more of Seymour’s teasing, Downe pointedly changed the subject back to Lady Juliet’s fine looks.

Alec set his wineglass down. Beauty was one of the requirements on my list.

Just what else was on that list? Downe asked.

Excellent bloodlines, good health, gentle ways but also a bit of spirit—the usual things a man wants in a wife.

Sounds like you’re buying a horse. Downe poured himself another glass of wine.

I’ve always thought English courtship ritual wasn’t much different from horse trading—just longer and more tedious, Alec replied, remembering the rides in the park, the balls and fetes he’d had to attend while courting Juliet. In his opinion it was just a nuisance, a way of announcing to the nosy world of the ton exactly what one had planned. Is Almack’s or some chit’s presentation ball any different from the Newmarket auction? Each season’s new batch of females is paraded in front of prospective buyers, and you check the bloodlines, the gait, the color, and you look for enough spirit to keep you from getting bored—just as you’d do before buying a horse. Once you’ve found a suitable one, you buy it and ride it.

Seymour choked on his wine and Downe laughed out loud then asked, Did you check her teeth?

Yes, and her withers and hocks, Alec added, never cracking a smile as he picked up a deck of cards. Downe and Seymour were still chuckling when he deftly dealt the cards.

An hour later the note came.

A footman stood at Alec’s left holding a silver tray with a vellum note in its center. As Downe dealt, Alec casually opened the note, noticing that Juliet’s initials were pressed into the wax seal. He unfolded the paper and began to read:

Dear Alec,

I thought I could do it, but I cannot. I had thought I could live without love, for you are basically a good man. I thought I could trade joy for a title. I thought I could be practical and pick fortune over happiness.

I cannot.

I realize I could not bear the boredom of life as the Duchess of Belmore. For while you are, as I have said, a good man, with all to offer, there is no life in you, Alec.

You are predictable. You do that which is expected of you because of your own consequence as the Duke of Belmore. The precious Belmore name is first and foremost in your life. I want more, Alec.

I want love. I’ve found it. Although he is only a second son and a soldier, he loves me. As you read this I will be marrying the man who has given me those things.

Regretfully,

Juliet

Slowly, with quiet precision, Alec tore the note to pieces and dropped the scraps onto the silver tray. He stared at his friends for a moment, absently rubbing his coat pocket,