“You!” she gasped. “Lord Blackwood!”

  His smile widened, showing his excellent teeth. “Why, of course it’s me. Were you expecting someone else?”

  The sound of clapping came from the ballroom as all the dancers revealed their identities. Little squeals of pleasure from the ladies and masculine laughs floated toward her ears. It was not possible that Lord Blackwood had deliberately sought her out for this moment.

  His smile died away and he looked puzzled. “Are you disappointed?”

  Patience felt fire race through her body as he leaned towards her, his lips too close to hers as he murmured, “Because I am not. I am overjoyed.”

  Her knees went weak, and she would have fallen except that he caught her around the waist and held her against his chest. “It was me you were expecting, wasn’t it?” His question held doubt, anxiety, and required reassurance.

  Patience pressed away from his chest with both hands. “I…I thought you sent a posy to Miss Hartley.”

  “Miss Hartley?” His expression was now completely bewildered. “But why would I send a posy to Miss Hartley when you carried my posy, thereby indicating you approved of my suit.”

  “I didn’t know it was from you!” Patience cried. “I thought there must be some mistake, and that a polite friend had sent it to me so that I would not feel left out.”

  He stared at her, as if trying to work out some complicated mathematical equation in his head. “Did you write the Valentine card that was delivered to me this morning?” he demanded. “Do you remember writing these lines?

  ‘My love belies my mien demure, while my soul demands a love so pure.

  As my heart burns with passion’s flame, my inner turmoil only you can tame.

  On this day of love, show me your faithful heart,

  So that for eternity we shall never part.’”

  He gazed at her. “There is more, but perhaps you cannot or refuse to remember? Let me refresh your memory.

  ‘Oh, my dearest, let me not in sadness pine,

  Please be my love, be my Valentine.’”

  He tilted his head in question. “So, Miss Cherwell, I ask again. Did you write that Valentine to me?”

  “Yes! I did but—”

  “But what?”

  “I thought I was writing it for Lorna to give to you!”

  He released her from the confines of his arms and stepped back to laugh out loud, even slapping one thigh. A few couples drifting past turned their heads and smiled at his amusement.

  “Miss Cherwell, are you familiar with the language of flowers?”

  Patience looked down at the posy she clutched. “I…er…I’m not sure.” Although she prided herself on knowing this kind of information, her mind went completely blank at that precise moment.

  He touched the flowers in the posy one by one. “Shame on you, Miss Cherwell. You failed to read my reply to your message. The pansy means love. I am not sure if one could say the love so pure that your poetry demands, but I would like to think so. The yellow iris means passion. The blue violet means fidelity. Anemone means unfading love, or else for eternity.”

  Lord Blackwood then caught her to him again. “My dear Miss Cherwell. You and I have both been the victims of Miss Hartley’s matchmaking. I confided to her my admiration of you—my sincere, deep, and heartfelt admiration. She encouraged me to endear myself to you and to get to know you better.”

  Patience gasped. “Why! She said the same thing to me. That I should get to know you better because it would please her so much. I thought she was in love with you, and you with her.”

  He shook his head. “No, I am far too old for Miss Hartley, lovely as she is.”

  “But you spoke to me of age differences in Richmond Park when we had the picnic?”

  “Because I am about ten years older than you, Miss Cherwell, and I wanted to know if that made a difference.”

  “And Lorna tricked me into writing a Valentine to you that was supposed to come from her.”

  He put one hand under her chin. “I loved that Valentine. Your words, such feelings. I felt as if my heart would burst with joy. I felt I could approach you with courage and not endure rejection.”

  “But—” Patience began.

  “You encouraged me to press my suit with the lady I love,” he said. “Your very words to me were, and I quote, ‘That man should rejoice in the knowledge that he is loved, truly loved with a burning passion that the lady might be too shy to reveal.’”

  “I…er…I did not think it was me you meant.”

  “So you encouraged me because you thought I loved someone else? For shame, Miss Cherwell, to be so forward on behalf of someone else.”

  Patience did not know what to say, except, “It seemed safe because it was not about me.”

  “Why, Miss Cherwell,” he said, his face now just an inch away, “are you telling me you did not mean a word of what you wrote?”

  “No!” said Patience. “I…er…I meant every word.”

  “Every word of enduring love? Every demand of eternal fidelity? Every mention of fiery passion?”

  Patience blushed. “Yes.”

  “I am so glad,” he said, “because I was hoping you felt the same way about me as I feel about you.”

  “But, sir!” Patience struggled a little in his arms. “What about Lorna? You spent so much time with her, talking about so many things.”

  He shook his head. “My dearest, we only spoke of you. Your good friend told me as much as she could about you—your likes, dislikes, what interests you, what you cherish in your relationships with others. Lorna saw in one glance that I was hopelessly in love with you from the first moment I saw you. I, for my part, could also help her by championing her cause with Captain Lyndon.”

  Patience gaped. “Captain Lyndon?”

  He nodded. “Yes. He and Lorna met in York, but her parents wanted her to meet more suitors before settling on a choice. Lorna found out that I am great friends with the captain, and my approval will go a long way towards obtaining her parents’ permission for him to court her.”

  “The sly minx!” Patience let out an exasperated huff.

  He clasped her face in his hands. “Lorna has been our Cupid, and if you feel as strongly about me as I feel about you, will you allow me to pursue my intentions to the noblest of ends?”

  Patience was strangely giddy. “And those are?”

  “For shame, Miss Cherwell, my posy is a poem in itself, with every bloom a reply to your written words. You did not see the sprig of orange blossom I was fortunate enough to acquire. Why the meaning is clear enough…marriage and living happily ever after,” he said as he kissed her.

  She pulled away, gasping, “Why, sir, what will people say about us skulking out here on the balcony, kissing like…like—”

  “Like this,” he said, yanking her into his arms again and stifling any protest.

  A while later, he said, “People will say nothing, my dearest, because they have all drunk a large quantity of my excellent champagne and are busy declaring their own feelings to their partners. Besides, I am the host of this ball and thereby claim the right to skulk anywhere I choose on my own property, and with whomever I choose!”

  He embraced her again, and this time she did not protest.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the sizzling sequel to Lord Blackwood’s Valentine Ball in The Lady’s Revenge.

  Revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Miss Letitia DeVere adopts this tactic when she returns to London after a mysterious two-year absence and is shocked to find her former admirer Lord Charles Blackwood on the verge of proposing to Miss Patience Cherwell. Lord Blackwood’s Valentine Ball proved to be the turning point in his fledgling romance with Patience. Lord Charles Blackwood and Miss Patience Cherwell have continued on their path of newfound romance, following Charles’ disclosure of his love for Patience at the Valentine Ball. Indeed, all indications point to their inevitable engagement and marriage. Letitia is not the kind of woman that gives up easily, as Patience and Charles soon find out. She stoops at nothing to achieve her aims. However, Letitia has a dark past, with secrets that threaten to return and destroy her newfound social success. When Charles proves less malleable than in the past, Letitia resorts to subterfuge, seduction, blackmail, and even violence to force him to propose. Will he see through her tricks and remain true to Patience, or will Letitia’s seductive wiles lure him back?

  One

  Henrietta Paisley fell backwards onto the sofa, fanning her flushed face with both hands. She panted, each breath forced as she gasped from the unfamiliar exertion of running. Patience was taken aback at this unusual sight. In general, Henrietta never ran anywhere. She proceeded through life at a sedate, orderly pace as befitted her status in life: a respectable widow of middling years with excellent social connections and superlative matchmaking skills. Right now, Henrietta resembled a woman who had run for her life from some disaster or perhaps even an escaped wild animal from a travelling circus. A torrent of words came out in between desperate gulps for air as she yanked at her bonnet ribbons and let the elaborate confection fall to the carpet next to her.

  “Oh, my dear Patience. What can I say? A disaster. A tragedy, after all my dreams and expectations for you were realised only last week, or maybe it was longer, but anyway, it was a remarkably short time ago. In all my life, I’ve never heard of such a strange thing. It’s quite unbelievable.” She patted her greying curls back into place. “An act of God, one might say, although I’m not sure how much He has to do with modern life nowadays, and what with all the wickedness in the world I can’t see how people can expect divine intervention anyway.”

  Patience glanced at Lorna, and raised her eyebrows in bewilderment. Henrietta was excitable by nature, but her distraught behaviour and her recumbent position presaged an event of epic proportions. Even dropping an expensive bonnet to the floor was extraordinary, given Henrietta’s weakness for extravagant millinery. Patience gestured for Doris to hold the smelling salts under Henrietta’s nose, while Lorna, ever practical, chafed her hands. Patience sat next to Henrietta with a reassuring smile.

  “Please calm yourself, my dear Henrietta. Such emotional excitement can’t be good for you. Think of your blood pressure. Now, tell us everything. What has happened? Has there been an accident? Has someone died?”

  Henrietta sat bolt upright, grabbed Patience by the shoulders, and said, “No. Worse, if that’s possible. A return from the dead. A veritable Lazarus, I declare.” Her eyes bulged more than usual, and she fell back against the sofa cushions, moaning.

  “Help me raise her feet onto the other side,” Patience said to Lorna as she retrieved Henrietta’s discarded bonnet and placed it on a nearby table. She and Lorna arranged Henrietta more comfortably on the sofa. Henrietta gave a piteous moan.

  “Doris, leave the smelling salts. Run and get some feathers instead. I’ve heard that burning feathers works better than smelling salts.”

  The parlour maid scampered off to find the feathers while Henrietta uttered several loud wails and tossed her head from side to side. She squeezed her eyelids shut.

  “All I wanted was for you to be happy, my dear. I promised your dear departed mama I would do my very best to see you settled and happy in life. Now that creature, that…harpy…that viper has appeared to dash your dreams and all my hopes for you.”

  Since Mama’s death, Henrietta had made it her life’s work to secure a suitable husband for her oldest friend’s daughter. Lord Blackwood’s declaration of love and his intentions towards her at the Valentine Ball he had hosted only two weeks ago had seemed to be the culmination of both Henrietta’s plans and of Patience’s dreams. Patience glanced again at Lorna, who shrugged. Until Henrietta revealed the reason for her distress, Patience could only wait and hope the news was not too bad.

  “Mrs. Paisley.” Lorna patted Henrietta’s hands harder to attract her attention. “What has happened to upset you so much?”

  Henrietta’s eyelids flew open and she stared at Lorna, her face now chalk white with some deep anguish. “She’s back, Miss Hartley. Who would have believed it could happen?”

  “Who is back?” asked Patience.

  “Letitia DeVere.” Henrietta groaned. “Lord Blackwood’s almost-fiancée whom we all thought had died in Italy when she went on that tour of the art galleries two years ago.”

  Henrietta’s astounding and dreadful revelation came as a shock, as if someone had tipped a bucket of icy water over her head. Patience shivered, stunned by this news. Letitia DeVere was alive. In seconds, her world crashed around her. Dumbstruck and speechless, Patience stared at Henrietta in horror. With iron self-control, she maintained an impassive expression. It would not do to fall into hysterics, or cry, or give any indication how deeply this news had cut her. She must be prepared for the worst. Lord Blackwood had demonstrated his strong feelings for her at the Valentine Ball. He had asked outright if he could court her with a view to marriage. His ardour that night revealed the depths of his passionate nature. From all accounts of the distress he had suffered at the loss of his former love, there was no doubt he had loved Letitia DeVere with equal fervour. Perhaps he had loved her more since they were on the brink of announcing their engagement before her supposed demise. Letitia DeVere’s return might mean the end of all Patience’s expectations and desires. Her heart beat with loud, slow thumps and a strange buzzing sounded in her ears. This must be shock, because she was in perfect health.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Lorna whispered. Her face was ashen. “This is incredible.”

  “Alas, goodness had nothing to do with this, Miss Hartley,” Henrietta croaked. “This changes everything.”

  “I think not,” said Lorna firmly. Colour returned to her cheeks as she spoke. “Letitia DeVere has been missing for two years. It’s not uncommon, given that her family did not receive any news from her for all that time, she would be presumed dead. In the interim, his lordship ceased to love her, because it is very difficult to love someone who apparently no longer exists. He has fallen in love with Patience and asked her permission to further his suit with serious intentions.”

  Lorna glanced at Patience for confirmation. She nodded but there was no guarantee Lord Blackwood’s feelings would remain constant after this astonishing news. Would he welcome the return of the woman he supposedly loved so deeply? Would his newfound love for Patience disappear with the resurgence of past passion?

  Henrietta laid one hand against her forehead and tried to sit up. Her normal florid colour had returned. Patience placed a cushion behind her back as she wriggled upright.

  “No, no, take those away,” Henrietta said when Doris thrust a fistful of scorched feathers under her nose. “I am quite recovered now. This foul smell is more likely to send me back into a decline.”

  “Thank you, Doris, you can take them away,” said Patience. “Would you like tea, Henrietta?”

  “Oh, yes, a cup of tea would be lovely. Just what I need to recover from the shock of what I heard.” She widened her eyes at Patience. “And you’d better have some as well. You look as white as a sheet. Can’t say I’m surprised. What a horrible thing to happen.”

  “Henrietta,” said Patience in rebuke. “What a dreadful thing to say. We should be thankful Miss DeVere is alive and did not suffer a terrible death. Think how pleased her family must be.”

  Henrietta shrugged and gave one of her disapproving sniffs. She groped for her bonnet on the nearby side table and put it back on. “I’m not so sure about that. I heard—and I didn’t encourage gossip—Miss DeVere was…er…is…quite a wilful young woman with ideas of her own about how one can behave. She might have altered during her absence, but you know people never really change their ingrained natures, as I have discovered over the years. I’m sure she gave her mama many grey hairs, if what I have heard is true.”

  A short while later, restored by several cups of hot, sweet tea and three small cakes, Henrietta happily divulged all she knew. Her bonnet waggled and her hands waved as she elaborated on the event that had taken London by storm, the news having spread like wildfire.

  “I was at Lady Spenser’s house, paying a morning call. You remember Lady Spenser’s daughter, Serena, from his lordship’s Valentine Ball. The shy pretty lass. I think, and I am speculating here, that Mr. Philip Dewsbury is very interested in paying his addresses to—”

  “We were talking about Letitia DeVere’s resurrection,” said Lorna in a sharp tone.

  Henrietta looked aggrieved. “Yes, Miss Hartley, I was coming to that. Anyway, there I was, sitting in Lady Spenser’s salon, and we had both just agreed Mr. Dewsbury is indeed quite eligible, when the butler came in with a note from—”

  She looked at Patience and Lorna with wide eyes. “Whom do you think?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Patience with a weary sigh. Henrietta loved an audience. Discovering the exact details of this news was taking a long time but, strangely, just listening to Henrietta chattering on helped her to assimilate the shocking news better.

  “Pray continue, Mrs. Paisley,” said Lorna, “and please tell us who sent the note.”

  Henrietta pursed her lips. “I know I should not repeat personal confidences—”

  “Speak!” Patience and Lorna raised their voices in unison.

  “It was from her friend, Lady Maria DeVere. Lady Spenser read the note, and then, would you believe what happened next? She fainted clean away. She’s such a sensitive soul, poor thing. Her cup went flying. The tea spilled on the floor, and luckily the butler was able to break her fall by grasping her arms as she collapsed.”

  “But how do you know what was in the note and who sent it?” Patience eyed Henrietta, who had the grace to blush. She coughed and assumed a defiant expression.

  “I…er…picked it up, of course, to prevent any of the servants reading it and spreading personal details Lady Spenser might want kept private. I thought it was my duty to do so.”

 

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