The villain in this tale is particularly heinous. How real was such a villain to the times?
Very real, actually. Although my villain isn’t drawn from any particular real-life incident or person, such malefactors existed then as they do now—sadly, villains of this stripe appear to be a constant in any civilized society. While the bulk of society plays by civilized rules, there are always those who believe such rules don’t apply to them. My villain in this book bears all the typical traits of a self-absorbed, power-hungry, yet charismatic character. The one aspect that distinguishes then from now is that then it was so much harder to catch and unmask such villains—they really did get away with dreadful crimes very often—because, of course, there was none of the CSI that modern crime fighting relies on to identify perpetrators. Back then, it was all a matter of careful deduction, and very often engineering a trap.
It seems that Mary, Henrietta’s sister, plays a pivotal role in her older sister’s love life—and Mary’s romance is to follow. Are these two books connected?
First, yes, Mary does indeed play a pivotal role in Henrietta’s story by insisting that Henrietta wear the necklace—and keep wearing it until she’s engaged, and can, properly and correctly, pass the necklace on to Mary, which in Mary’s eyes must happen at Henrietta’s engagement ball. Mary wants that necklace for her own reasons, but it has to come into her hands in the proper way, or it might not work as it’s supposed to. So from the very first scene in Henrietta’s book, we have Mary pushing Henrietta toward the altar—doing everything she can to get Henrietta to Henrietta’s engagement ball. And, of course, Henrietta finally gets there, and in the Epilogue we see Henrietta hand the necklace on to Mary. Essentially, the short scenes in Henrietta’s book, where she and Mary discuss Mary’s desire for the necklace and the reasons behind that and what happens in the Epilogue once Henrietta fastens the necklace around Mary’s throat, provide the back story to Mary’s romance. So yes, these two books are connected, but, as usual with my books, it’s perfectly possible to read them separately, or even in reverse order. The reader will simply have a more chronological view of events if they read them one after the other—Henrietta’s first, then Mary’s.
And read on for an excerpt from
THE PERFECT LOVER
by Stephanie Laurens
Available wherever books are sold
Late July, 1835
Near Glossup Hall, by Ashmore, Dorset
“Hell and the devil!” Simon Cynster reined in his bays, his eyes narrowing on the ridge high above Ashmore village. The village proper lay just behind him; he was headed for Glossup Hall, a mile farther along the leafy country lane.
At the rear of the village cottages, the land rose steeply; a woman was following the path winding up the berm of what Simon knew to be ancient earthworks. The views from the top reached as far as the Solent, and on clear days even to the Isle of Wight.
It was hardly a surprise to see someone heading up there.
“No surprise she hasn’t anyone with her, either.” Irritation mounting, he watched the dark-haired, willowy, ineffably graceful figure steadily ascend the rise, a long-legged figure that inevitably drew the eye of any man with blood in his veins. He’d recognized her instantly—Portia Ashford, his sister Amelia’s sister-in-law.
Portia must be attending the Glossup Hall house party; the Hall was the only major house near enough from which to walk.
A sense of being imposed upon burgeoned and grew.
“Damn!” He’d yielded to the entreaties of his longtime friend James Glossup and agreed to stop by on his way to Somerset to support James through the trials of the house party. But if Portia was going to be present, he’d have trials enough of his own.
She reached the crest of the earthworks and paused, one slender hand rising to hold back the fall of her jet-black hair; lifting her face to the breeze, she stared into the distance, then, letting her hand fall, gracefully walked on, following the path to the lookout, gradually descending until she disappeared from sight.
She’s no business of mine.
The words echoed in his head; God knew she’d stated the sentiment often enough, in various phrasings, most far more emphatic. Portia was not his sister, not his cousin; indeed, she shared no blood at all.
Jaw firming, he looked to his horses, took up the slack in the reins—
And inwardly cursed.
“Wilks—wake up, man!” Simon tossed the reins at his groom, until then dozing behind him. Pulling on the brake, he stepped down to the road. “Just hold them—I’ll be back.”
Thrusting his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he strode for the narrow path that led upward, ultimately joining the path from the Hall that Portia had followed up the rise.
He was only buying himself trouble—a sniping match at the very least—yet leaving her alone, unprotected from any wastrel who might happen along, was simply not possible, not for him. If he’d driven on, he wouldn’t have had a moment’s peace, not until she returned safe and sound to the Hall.
Given her propensity for rambling walks, that might not happen for hours.
He wouldn’t be thanked for his concern. If he survived without having his ego prodded in a dozen uncomfortable places, he’d count himself lucky. Portia had a tongue like a double-edged razor—no way one could escape being nicked. He knew perfectly well what her attitude would be when he caught up with her—precisely the same as it had been for the past decade, ever since he’d realized she truly had no idea of the prize she was, the temptation she posed, and was therefore in need of constant protection from the situations into which she blithely sailed.
While she remained out of his sight, out of his orbit, she was not his responsibility; if she came within it, unprotected, he felt obliged to watch over her, to keep her safe—he should have known better than to try to fight the urge.
Of all the females he knew, she was unquestionably the most difficult, not least because she was also the most intelligent, yet here he was, trudging after her despite his certain reception; he wasn’t at all sure what that said of his intelligence.
Women! He’d spent the entire drive west considering them. His great-aunt Clara had recently died and left him her house in Somerset. The inheritance had served as a catalyst, forcing him to review his life, to rethink his direction, yet his unsettled state had a more fundamental genesis; he’d finally realized what it was that gave his older cousins and his sisters’ husbands their purpose in life.
The purpose he lacked.
Family—their own branch of it, their own children—their own wife. Such things had never seemed critical before; now they loomed as vital to his life, to his satisfaction with his lot.
A scion of a wealthy, wellborn family, he had a comfortable lot in life, yet what worth comfort against the lack of achievement he now felt so acutely? It wasn’t his ability to achieve that was in question—not in his mind, nor, he’d warrant, in any other—but the goal, the need, the reason; these were the necessities he lacked.
Crucial necessities for a satisfying life for such as he.
Great-aunt Clara’s legacy had been the final prod; what was he to do with a rambling country house if not live in it? He needed to get himself a wife and start building the family he required to give his life its true direction.
He hadn’t accepted the notion meekly. For the past ten years, his life had been well run, well ordered, with females intruding in only two arenas, both entirely under his control. With countless discreet liaisons behind him, he was a past master at managing—seducing, enjoying, and ultimately disengaging from—the wellborn matrons with whom he habitually dallied. Other than that, the only females he consorted with were those of his own family. Admittedly, within the family, they ruled, but as that had always been the case, he’d never felt constrained or challenged by the fact—one simply dealt with it as necessary.
With his active interest in the Cynster investment business together with the distractions of tonnish society,
with his sexual conquests and the customary family gatherings to season the whole, his life had been pleasantly full. He’d never seen the need to linger at those balls and parties graced by marriageable young ladies.
Which now left him in the unenviable position of wanting a wife and not having any useful avenue through which to acquire one, not without setting off alarm bells that would resonate throughout the ton. If he was foolish enough to start attending the balls and parties, the fond mamas would instantly perceive he was on the lookout for a bride—and lay siege.
He was the last unmarried male Cynster of his generation.
Stepping up to the top of the earthworks’ outer wall, he paused. The land fell away in a shallow sweep; the path continued to the left, leading to a squat, covered lookout set into the earth wall some fifty yards on.
The view was magnificent. Sunshine winked on the distant sea; the silhouette of the Isle of Wight was distinguishable through a soft summer haze.
He’d seen the view before. He turned to the lookout, and the female presently in it. She was standing at the railing, gazing out to sea. From her stance and stillness, he assumed she hadn’t seen him.
Lips setting, he walked on. He wouldn’t need to give any reason for joining her. For the past decade, he’d treated her with the same insistent protectiveness he applied to all the females of his family; doubtless it was her relationship—the fact she was his brother-in-law Luc’s sister—that dictated how he felt about her despite the lack of blood ties.
To his mind, Portia Ashford was family, his to protect. That much, at least, was unarguable.
What tortuous logic had prompted the gods to decree that a woman needed a man to conceive?
Portia stifled a disgusted humph. That was the crux of the dilemma now facing her. Unfortunately, there was no point debating the issue—the gods had so decreed, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Other than find a way around the problem.
The thought increased her irritation, largely self-directed. She had never wanted a husband, never imagined that the usual path of a nice, neat, socially approved marriage with all its attendant constraints was for her. Never had she seen her future in such terms.
But there was no other way.
Stiffening her spine, she faced the fact squarely: if she wanted children of her own, she would have to find a husband.
The breeze sidled up, whispering, coolly caressing her cheeks, lightly fingering the heavy waves of her hair. The realization that children—her own children, her own family—were what in her heart she truly yearned for, the challenge she’d been raised, like her mother, to accept and conquer, had come just like the breeze, stealing up on her. For the past five years, she’d worked with her sisters, Penelope and Anne, in caring for foundlings in London. She’d plunged into the project with her usual zeal, convinced their ideals were both proper and right, only to discover her own destiny lay in a direction in which she’d never thought to look.
So now she needed a husband.
Given her birth, her family’s status and connections, and her dowry, gaining such an encumbrance would be easy, even though she was already twenty-four. She wasn’t, however, fool enough to imagine any gentleman would do. Given her character, her temperament, her trenchant independence, it was imperative she choose wisely.
She wrinkled her nose, her gaze fixed unseeing on the distant prospect. Never had she imagined she would come to this—to desiring a husband. Courtesy of their brother Luc’s disinterest in pushing her and her sisters into marriage, they’d been allowed to go their own way; her way had eschewed the ballrooms and salons, Almack’s, and similar gatherings of the ton at which marriageable young ladies found their spouses.
Learning how to find a husband had seemed beneath her—an enterprise well below the more meaty challenges her intellect demanded . . .
Recollections of past arrogance—of all the chances to learn the hows and wherefores of husband selection and subsequent snaring at which she’d turned up her nose—fed her aggravation. How galling to discover that her intellect, widely accepted as superior, had not forseen her present state.
The damning truth was she could recite Horace and quote Virgil by the page, yet she had no real idea how to acquire a husband.
Let alone the right one.
She refocused on the distant sea, on the sunlight winking off the waves, constantly vacillating. Just as she was, had been for the past month. That was so unlike her, so at odds with her character—always decisive, never weak or shy—her indecision grated on her temper. Her character wanted, nay demanded, a decision, a firm goal, a plan of action. Her emotions—a side of herself she’d rarely been swayed by—were far less sure. Far less inclined to jump into this latest project with her customary zeal.
She’d revisted the arguments ad infinitum; there were no further aspects to be explored. She’d walked here today determined to use the few hours before the other guests arrived and the house party got under way to formulate a plan.
Lips setting, she narrowed her eyes at the horizon, aware of resistance welling inside, of a shying away from the moment—so aggravating yet so instinctive, so powerful she had to fight to override it and push ahead . . . but she was not going to leave without a firm commitment.
Grasping the lookout’s railing, she tipped her chin high and firmly stated, “I will use every opportunity the house party provides to learn all I can and make up my mind once and for all.” That was nowhere near decisive enough; determinedly, she added, “Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.”
There—at last! She’d put her next step into words. Into a solemn vow. The positive uplifting feeling that always followed on the heels of decision welled within her—
“Well, that’s heartening, I must say, although of suitable age and station for what?”
With a gasp, she whirled. For one instant, her mind boggled. Not with fear—despite the shadows in which he stood and the brightness of the day behind him, she’d recognized his voice, knew whose shoulders blocked the entrance arch.
But what in all Hades was he doing here?
His gaze sharpened—a disconcertingly acute blue gaze far too direct for politeness.
“And what haven’t you made up your mind about? That usually takes you all of two seconds.”
Calmness, decisiveness—fearlessness—returned in a rush. She narrowed her eyes. “That is none of your affair.”
He moved, deliberately slowly, taking three prowling steps to join her by the railing. She tensed. The muscles framing her spine grew rigid; her lungs locked as something within her reacted. She knew him so well, yet here, alone in the silence of the fields and sky, he seemed larger, more powerful.
More dangerous in some indefinable way.
Stopping with two feet between them, he gestured to the view. “You seemed to be declaring it to the world at large.”
He met her gaze; amusement at catching her out lurked in the blue, along with watchfulness and a certain disapproval.
His features remained expressionless. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a groom or footman waiting nearby?”
That was a subject she wasn’t about to debate, especially not with him. Facing the view, she coolly inclined her head. “Good afternoon. The views are quite magnificent.” She paused for only an instant. “I hadn’t imagined you an admirer of nature.”
She felt his gaze slide over her profile, then he looked at the view.
“On the contrary.” He slid his hands into his pockets; he seemed to relax. “There are some creations of nature I’m addicted to worshipping.”
It required no thought at all to divine to what he was alluding. In the past, she would have made some tart remark . . . now, all she heard in her mind were the words of her vow . . . “You’re here for the Glossups’ house party.”
It wasn’t a question; he answered with an elegant shrug. “What else?”
He turned as she
drew herself up. Their eyes met; he’d heard her vow and was unlikely to forget . . .
She was suddenly sure she needed more space between them.
“I came here for the solitude,” she baldly informed him. “Now that you’ve arrived, I may as well start back.”
She swung toward the exit. He was in her way. Her heartbeat accelerating, she glanced at his face.
In time to see his features harden, to sense him bite back some retort. His gaze touched hers; his restraint was almost palpable. With a calm so deliberate it was itself a warning, he stepped aside and waved her to the door. “As you wish.”
Her senses remained trained on him as she swept past; her skin prickled as if in truth he posed some potential danger. Once past him, head high, she glided out of the archway; with a calm more apparent than real, she set off along the path.
Jaw setting, Simon ruthlessly quelled the urge to stop her, to reach out, catch her hand, reel her back—to what end he wasn’t sure. This, he reminded himself, was what he needed, her on her haughty way back to Glossup Hall.
Drawing a long breath, he held it, then followed her out into the sunshine.
And on down the path. The sooner she got back to civilization and safety, the sooner his own journey would end. He’d driven straight down from London—he was thirsty; a glass of ale would not go astray.
With his longer strides he could easily overtake her; instead, he ambled in her wake, content enough with the view. The current fashion for gowns with waists that actually fell at a woman’s waist suited her, emphasizing the svelte lines of her figure, the slender curves, the very long lines of her legs. The purply blue hue of the light summer walking dress complemented her dramatic coloring—raven black hair, midnight blue eyes, and pale, almost translucent skin. She was taller than the average; her forehead would brush his chin—if they ever got that close.
The thought of that happening made him inwardly, grimly, laugh.