Let the Lady Decide Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Epilogue

  Also by Gemma Blackwood

  Copyright © 2017 by Gemma Blackwood.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  I love hearing from my readers! If you have any questions, comments, or just want to get in touch, please email me at [email protected].

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  Author's note:

  The events in this book begin shortly before and eventually catch up with the events of Taming the Wild Captain. The books can be read in any order.

  Prologue

  England, 1820

  Emily peered upwards from her carriage window as the turrets of Westbourne Hall came into view; a sprawling, glowering building of dark grey stone. The weight of its history and its ancient name pressed down upon her, telling her to turn back. Warning her to give up her quest.

  She was defying two powerful Dukes by daring to enter Westbourne Hall that day.

  But she would not turn back. The man she loved was inside that building, and she intended to find him.

  Late summer rain began to splatter on the steps leading up to the enormous wooden door. Emily bade her footmen wait with the carriage and hurried across the courtyard, lifting her cloak over her head against the shower.

  Her heart pounded as she raised a hand to knock on the door. She had no idea what she would find inside the Hall. She had no reason to expect a warm welcome.

  Only the intense pressure in her chest, the feeling half like pain and half like pleasure, forced her onwards. She knocked firmly, the sound frighteningly loud against the backdrop of silence and soft rain.

  To the devil with the Dukes – Westbourne and Rawly both. Let Society whisper what it wanted. Let her be ruined forever, if ruin was what it took.

  Emily had made up her mind.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Come now, Your Grace." James Marsden smiled as he popped a strawberry past his lips. "There must be something I can do to change your mind."

  The lips, of course, were part of the problem. James knew he had a handsome mouth, as gentlemanly mouths went. His lips were apt to draw attention from the most unwarranted directions. Too often, he found young ladies hanging off their every movement. Too often, they spoke words of love which he did not entirely mean.

  The Duchess of Rawly, wife of the formidable Duke and mother to the heir of the ancient Albemarle family, was immune to the charms of James's clever mouth – spoken or otherwise. She watched him eat her strawberry with an expression of extreme distaste, as though he were some slimy creature her gardener had dredged up from the bottom of the lake. A lesser man would have quailed.

  James smiled. A patented sunbeam of a smile. Lesser women would have swooned.

  "The decision is final," snapped the Duchess. "And I would thank you to leave my strawberries alone. You have not been invited to take tea with me."

  James had not been invited at all. A titleless Marsden of the Elmston Marsdens, son of another titleless Marsden – a second son, to make it all the worse – would never willingly be allowed an audience with the Duchess of Rawly. James had wrangled his way into the house on pretence of calling on her son, the Earl of Ramford, and had found his way into the Duchess's private sitting room, without permission, to make his case.

  "One more chance, Your Grace. That's all I ask. I'm sure I can find some way to be of service to you –"

  "It is out of the question, Mr Marsden. Your behaviour has been disgraceful. Neither I nor any other of the Lady Patronesses are of a mind to let you return to Almack's this century – let alone next week!"

  James widened his strikingly blue eyes. He knew he looked the picture of innocence – good-looking innocence – when he struck that particular expression. "My behaviour, Your Grace? Pray, tell me what sin I have committed."

  "You know very well," said the Duchess, who, not being a credulous young Miss, was not at all taken in. "I am referring to the matter of your waltz – a waltz, of all things! – with young Miss Collins."

  "Oh, that? I rather thought she enjoyed the experience." James could not help a grin curling up the corner of his mouth.

  "Whether she enjoyed it is immaterial. You did not have permission to waltz with her. You are not a suitable waltzing partner." The Duchess tutted and rearranged her skirts. "If that were your only crime, Mr Marsden, we might have been willing to overlook it – but the fact remains that you have never come to Almack's on your best behaviour."

  James looked injured. "On the contrary, Your Grace. I consider my behaviour at Almack's to be the very best I can manage." This was true. He had danced with any number of attractive young women and had caused enough small scenes to keep the ton talking through the winter. James could not personally imagine how he could have done any better. He was extremely disappointed to find the frivolous amusements of Almack's being denied him.

  The Duchess stopped an inch short of thwacking him with her fan. "Honestly! For a young man who enjoys such good fortune in life, I would have thought you'd possess an ounce of humility."

  "My good fortune," James mused. "By which you mean my brother?"

  James's elder brother had inherited the Dukedom of Westbourne via the death of a distant cousin. It had catapulted the family from poverty into the very top tier of Society. While Harry had a plethora of responsibilities to match his status, James had only money to spend and a wide array of amusements on which to spend it.

  It was unfair of the Duchess to imply that he didn't appreciate Harry's position. Indeed, no-one could possibly have enjoyed it more than James. What better way of showing his appreciation than by making full use of Harry's new wealth and title?

  The Duchess's nostrils flared. James bit the inside of his mouth, realising he had made a mistake in mentioning Harry. The first meeting between the new Duke of Westbourne and the incumbent Duke of Rawly had not gone at all well, and had been embarrassing all round.

  "If I promise to abide by your rules in future," he said, speaking in what he hoped was a humble tone, "and if I give you my word never to waltz without permission again, will that be enough?"

  The Duchess laughed. She had a very elegant appearance, and laughing from the belly was at odds with h
er embroidered silk dress and elaborate pinned-up hair. James waited patiently for her to finish.

  "You will never waltz at Almack's again," she said, raising a spotless white glove to her mouth to cover her laughter. "Even if you do gain entry – which will not happen on my watch – what on earth makes you think a gentleman like you could ever be considered a suitable partner for a young lady? I advise you to stick to your country dances. No father in his right mind would watch his young daughter engage in something as racy as a waltz with you."

  "That's hardly fair, Your Grace," James protested. "I have never ruined a lady. I never allow myself to get drunk in a lady's presence. I don't even gamble! What could be more respectable than that?"

  The Duchess narrowed her eyes at him. "You are an insubstantial flirt, Mr Marsden. I know men like you; they never change. Now, be off with you, before I call my footmen to escort you out."

  James knew when to stop pushing his luck. He rose and made the Duchess an elegant bow, adding in an extra flourish for good measure, and slipped through the door of her private sitting room into the high-ceilinged drawing room of Rawly's London residence.

  Jacob Albemarle, Earl of Ramford, was drinking coffee at one of the exquisitely-carved wooden tables. He lifted his cup in a rueful toast.

  "No luck, old boy?" he guessed, seeing James's expression. James flung himself onto the sofa. He had half a mind to pout, like a silly girl denied her favourite sweetmeat.

  "No luck at all. Your mother's a bit of a tyrant, isn't she!"

  Ramford made a face. "Did she give you a telling off? I don't mind admitting I'm terrified of her."

  "Heaven forbid she ever finds out what you get up to of an evening," James teased. Ramford gave a shudder.

  "Don't joke about it. Here, have a cup of coffee, will you? Or something stronger?"

  "Coffee will do nicely." James had never been fond of the champagne breakfasts favoured by the aristocracy, even now that he could afford them. He liked to keep his wits about him as the day wore on.

  Ramford made a careless gesture, and a livery-clad servant sprang into action, moving like well-oiled clockwork as he poured out a fresh cup of coffee and deposited it on the table at James's side.

  James could say this for the Albemarles. They knew how to show off their wealth. His eyes roamed over the heavy oak furniture, the glimmering harp in the corner, and the ornate chandeliers, concealing his admiration behind an air of lethargy.

  In the far corner of the drawing room his gaze met an object of interest, and lingered there accordingly.

  A young girl was sitting at a desk drawn up to the window. A pretty girl with a head of brunette curls which she had pinned back ineffectually, and which were tumbling in her eyes as she tried to concentrate. But it was not her porcelain skin or the sweet upturn of her nose which made her so fascinating. It was that look of concentration on her face. She had before her an easel and drawing materials and was so thoroughly absorbed in her work that she did not even glance up to see who was with her brother – or even at the older fellow, portly and bespectacled, who was watching her progress with interest.

  This must be Lady Emily Albemarle. Ramford's little sister. Twenty years old, and come to London for the first time that year. Her family had kept her hidden away on their Derbyshire estate, and James could certainly see why. She was mesmerising.

  He pitied the poor fool watching her draw. Whoever he was – suitor or relative – he might as well have been wallpaper for all the attention Emily was giving him. No doubt she was one of those young Misses who liked to make pictures for pictures' sake. James had never witnessed a pinch of artistic talent among the lot of them.

  A cough from Ramford jerked James back to the matter at hand.

  "What do you advise me to do next? How can I win the old lady over?"

  Ramford shook his head mournfully. "Give the matter up, Marsden. Once Mama's mind is made up, there's no swaying her. Besides, what's Almack's to you? You're not putting yourself out on the marriage mart, are you?"

  "Hardly," said James with a snort of laughter. "But it's the look of the thing. Entrance to Almack's denotes a certain…status. All sorts of doors will be barred to me without it. And I'd rather not have it taken away."

  "Jacob," said the girl at the window, with a melody in her voice that surprised James into sitting up straighter, "you have not introduced me to your friend."

  Ramford clapped his hand to his forehead. "Forgive me, Emily! Where are my manners this morning? May I present Mr James Marsden – brother to the new Duke of Westbourne, you know. Marsden, this is Lady Emily, whom I have the uncertain privilege of calling my sister."

  Emily made a face at Ramford's backhanded comment, but acknowledged James's bow with a smile. "Delighted. I've heard of you, Mr Marsden. I wondered how long it would take for us to meet once I came to London."

  "All good things?" asked James, without much hope. Emily's eyes sparkled.

  "I have a great number of female friends, Mr Marsden. I will allow you to draw your own conclusions."

  James winced and sat back down. "I can only pray you don't judge me as harshly as your dear mother."

  "On the contrary," said Emily. "I have found the tales of your exploits most…educational. I take it you did not succeed in your mission to regain entry to Almack's?"

  James recalled the Duchess's sharply narrowed eyes. Those same hazel eyes gazed out of Emily's face, but on her they were at once soft and mischievous. "The Duchess is a woman of strong opinions, I fear."

  "It is the trait I most admire in Mama."

  "Lady Emily," said the portly man sitting opposite her. "I hardly think this is a fit diversion from your studies."

  Emily nodded obligingly and returned to her paper. James was surprised. The man must be a tutor – a tutor for a girl of twenty! She must either be exceedingly slow or exceedingly fond of study. He got up, aware of Ramford's wary eye, and sauntered over to take a look at her artwork.

  "What are you drawing?" he asked. The tutor gave him a withering look.

  "Lady Emily is studying mathematics."

  "I am applying what I know of trigonometry to the architecture of St Paul's Cathedral," said Emily, without raising her head from her work. James glanced over her shoulder and saw that, rather than the charcoal and pastels of artistic frivolity he had anticipated, she had a set square and protractor which had been put to good use. Emily's architectural sketch was meticulously measured, and impressive in its accuracy.

  "I never saw a young lady with such a fine eye," said James automatically. He would have said the same regardless of the marks on the page, although in this case they were truly very impressive. He was speaking more to Emily's beauty than her skill.

  Unexpectedly, he found himself fixed with a sharp glare of disapproval. Emily pushed her hair out of her eyes to give him the full benefit of her displeasure. "It is not my eye but my calculations which you should compliment, Mr Marsden. Though I would prefer you not to compliment me at all."

  "And why ever not?"

  "Your compliments are too easily come by. I doubt you have given a moment's consideration to the work I have put in to achieve this level of skill in mathematical sketches. Therefore, since your words are empty, I would rather not hear them."

  "Lady Emily, please attend," sighed her tutor.

  "But I am finished," she said, laying down her pencil and passing him the paper triumphantly. The tutor adjusted his spectacles and began examining her work. Emily rose from her seat and walked towards the sideboard, where she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  "Come, Marsden," said Ramford urgently. "Let's go for a wander down to the coffee house in Covent Garden and leave Emily to it."

  "I would rather you didn't," said Emily, making impish eyes at her brother over her coffee cup. "I have a scheme to propose to you – well, to Mr Marsden."

  "I don't think I ought to allow you to converse with gentlemen of whom your mother disapproves," her tutor interrupted. Emily dismisse
d his concerns with a wave of her hand.

  "It is only Mr James Marsden. I am in no danger from him. I know his reputation and I am not silly enough to fall for his tricks. Besides, Professor Harrington, you are employed as my tutor, not my chaperone."

  Harrington let out a rumble of disapproval and returned to his marking. Emily sat on the sofa and patted the space beside her, inviting James to sit. He obeyed, rather overawed by such an imperious manner in so young a lady.

  "I am currently in some difficulty myself," she began, while Ramford shook his head at her vigorously. "I believe we can come to an arrangement which is mutually beneficial, Mr Marsden. I will help you gain favour with Mama, and you –"

  She glanced at her brother, awaiting his permission. Ramford threw up his hands.

  "Hang it all, Emily, you will have your way."

  "You will help me select a husband," said Emily, in a lower tone, as though imparting a deep confidence. James laughed aloud.

  "Select a husband! Have you a very great number of proposals to sort through?"

  "Not yet, but I expect them any day. You see, my father has decreed that I must marry as soon as I come of age. I will be twenty-one in six months' time. That gives me only six months to decide which of the men my father has approved for me is the most suitable – and whose proposal I should accept."

  She was so endearingly certain that the proposals would come! James was staggered by the confidence that came with being a Duke's only daughter. He had not yet heard the size of her fortune, but he could only guess that it was substantial beyond his wildest imaginings.

  "That seems a most enviable position," he remarked. Emily shook her head, curls bobbing. If her brother hadn't been looking on, James might have given in to the urge to twist one around his finger.

  "You misunderstand. I am not only looking for a husband who meets my father's criteria. I have needs of my own which must be met. There are plenty of men, I am sure, who would marry me for my fortune alone. Well," said Emily, looking fierce, "I am more than just my fortune!"