Letters to a Lover, page 1
Letters to a Lover
Crime and Passion, Book 2
Mary Lancaster
© Copyright 2021 by Mary Lancaster
Text by Mary Lancaster
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition April 2021
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
Crime & Passion Series
Mysterious Lover
Letters to a Lover
The Husband Dilemma Series
How to Fool a Duke
Season of Scandal Series
Pursued by the Rake
Abandoned to the Prodigal
Married to the Rogue
Unmasked by her Lover
Imperial Season Series
Vienna Waltz
Vienna Woods
Vienna Dawn
Blackhaven Brides Series
The Wicked Baron
The Wicked Lady
The Wicked Rebel
The Wicked Husband
The Wicked Marquis
The Wicked Governess
The Wicked Spy
The Wicked Gypsy
The Wicked Wife
Wicked Christmas (A Novella)
The Wicked Waif
The Wicked Heir
The Wicked Captain
The Wicked Sister
Unmarriageable Series
The Deserted Heart
The Sinister Heart
The Vulgar Heart
The Broken Heart
The Weary Heart
The Secret Heart
Christmas Heart
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Fed to the Lyon
Also from Mary Lancaster
Madeleine
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
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
Epilogue
About Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
Only one guest remained in Lady Trench’s drawing room. Since it was the handsome Mr. Gunning, tongues would inevitably wag.
“We are alone,” he observed softly.
“Don’t allow me to detain you from more interesting pursuits,” Lady Trench drawled.
His eyes glowed in a familiar manner. “You know I have none.”
“Then you must acquire some immediately. Lest you become dull.” She smiled. “More tea, Mr. Gunning?”
He leapt from his chair and all but threw himself onto the brocade sofa beside her. “We are alone,” he repeated. “Where is the need for this sudden return to formality? Will you not call me George again?”
She stared at him, hiding her sudden unease. She could not remember being on such friendly terms with this stranger. Was it happening again?
“No,” she replied flatly.
He tried to take her hand from her lap. She moved it casually out of reach, pretending to pat her perfectly pinned hair into place.
“My sweet Azalea—” he began.
“I would rather you did not make free with my name,” she interrupted.
“That isn’t what you said before.”
Oh, God, please let it not be happening again… “I think perhaps you should go.”
“You are expecting your husband?” he asked quickly.
She stared at him. “No. I simply find your conversation tedious. I did warn you.”
The color of annoyance seeped into his face. “Dash it, Azalea, must you blow hot and cold so constantly? I’ve had enough.”
He lunged.
Azalea stood. “So have I. Good afternoon, Mr. Gunning.”
Azalea had been adept at dealing with over-amorous gentlemen since she was in her teens. But it seemed that at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, she had finally misjudged her opponent. He did indeed rise to his feet, but only to seize her in his arms.
Outraged, she grabbed the teapot from the tray, but blood was singing in her ears, and panic stole her breath. Had she invited him here? Something terrible surely must have happened, was about to happen…
As she froze, rigid, his open mouth latched to her throat, greedy, wet…disgusting.
She gasped, raised the teapot, and upended it over his head. At the same time, she stepped smartly back out of his suddenly loosened arms. The lid had dropped first, bouncing off his head onto the Turkish carpet and releasing a deluge of cold tea behind it.
He grunted with the shock and stood still, shoulders hunched, staring at her open-mouthed as tea dripped down his hair and neck and coat. A scattering of dark leaves had spattered over his shirt.
Calmly, Azalea lowered the pot, although she kept hold of it, for fury quickly replaced his astonishment, and the set of his mouth turned ugly.
He took a pace toward her. “Why, you little…”
“Dear me,” observed another, very different voice.
Azalea’s gaze flew to the doorway.
Eric Danvers, Viscount Trench, strolled into the room, filling it with his presence. He had always been a handsome man, tall and fair, with deep-set blue eyes and a well-defined mouth inclined to smile.
At the sight of her husband, the last of her panic fell away, drowned in a sea of very different emotion. She didn’t know if it was fear or gratitude or simple annoyance, but it was threatening to erupt as laughter.
Gunning whipped around to face the man he had, presumably, been hoping to cuckold.
Eric glanced from him to his wife. “Has there been an accident, my love?”
“Why, yes,” Azalea managed. “Mr. Gunning has become covered in tea.”
Behind the vague concern, her husband’s hooded, sleepy eyes betrayed the kind of conspiratorial laughter she had always found irresistible. She looked hastily away.
“What appalling luck,” he said mildly.
Her breath caught. “Indeed.”
“Allow me to ring for the footman to—er—dry you off,” Trench offered, reaching for the bell pull.
“There is no need,” Gunning said shortly. “Forgive my hasty departure. My lady, your servant.” He bowed jerkily. “My lord.”
“You are very damp,” Trench observed as Gunning strode past him to the door. “Be careful you don’t catch a chill.”
Azalea shivered, for a distinct threat lurked in the amiable words. She hoped Gunning heard it, too. As his footsteps retreated to the staircase, Eric walked away from her. For a moment, Azalea thought with considerable pique that he was simply going to leave the room, until he closed the double doors.
Her heart gave a funny little twist.
Eric turned to face her. “You do enjoy flirting with disaster, do you not, Azalea?”
She tilted her chin as he walked deliberate
He came to halt on the carpet, right beside the tea stain and stood gazing down at her.
“Tell me,” he murmured, “how did Gunning become—er… covered in tea?”
“I poured it over him,” she replied candidly.
“For fun?”
“No, though I did quite enjoy it.” She held his gaze. “I misjudged him and my ability to deal with his advances. He is a vulgar fool, and I am ashamed not to have seen it.” Catching a certain flash in his eyes, hope sprang up once more. “Are you angry?”
“No,” he replied. “Merely surprised you did not actually hit him with the teapot.”
“I thought about it,” she confessed. “But it’s my favorite teapot. And truly, he is not worth that. Although,” she added in the interests of honesty, “I am glad you arrived when you did, or I might have been obliged to break it over his head.”
“That would have been a pity.” Eric bent and picked up the lid. As he took the pot from her, their fingers brushed. He laid both parts on the tray. “You need not worry about him anymore.”
She curled her lip. “I don’t worry about him now.”
He continued to regard her, his expression impassive although she didn’t think he was. “How was it, do you think, that he came to believe his advances might he acceptable to you?”
“Because he’s a coxcomb who thinks he’s irresistible? How should I know?”
“You are not a fool, Azalea,” he said dryly. “I imagine you might have an inkling.”
“He seems to think I encouraged him,” she blurted. “But I assure you, I did not. To be frank, I barely noticed the man.” Hidden in her skirts, she crossed her fingers.
An instant longer, he searched her eyes, his own unreadable. Then he walked away to the cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy, one of which he presented to her. She took it in some surprise and sat on the sofa.
To her secret delight, he chose to sit beside her, his arm resting along the sofa back. He sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “Perhaps you and I are giving the wrong impression. We are so much apart that a certain type of man might imagine you are fair game.”
She stared at him. “What am I? A pheasant?”
“A wife involved in an admiring social whirl that is mostly separate from her husband’s. If you do not hate the idea, perhaps we should show both—er…whirls a more united appearance.”
She regarded him cautiously over the rim of her glass. “You mean…spend more time together?”
“We are married. The idea should not be too shocking.”
“Why should you imagine I am shocked?” In fact, she was delighted, but they had been here before. “If you have no better plans, we could cancel our engagements and dine together tonight. To counter any talk about us, of course.”
His lips twitched. “Of course. But I believe I don’t need a reason to dine alone with my wife.”
“Of course not,” she managed. There was a glow in his eyes that suddenly made her as nervous as a bride.
His hand covered hers in her lap, his fingers clasped and held. Her heart thudded, for she had missed his touch, his attention…that particular spark in his deceptively sleepy eyes. His thumb caressed her wrist.
“We could do better together, Zalea,” he said softly.
She clung to his hand. “I would like to.”
His head dipped, almost as if he would kiss her, and those butterflies in her stomach took flight in anticipation. How long since he had kissed her? Really kissed her? Too long…
But he paused, the faintest smile flickering on his lips. He raised her hand and kissed her fingers instead. “Then I look forward to dinner.” He clinked the bottom of his glass off hers, drained it, and stood.
Disappointed though she was, she watched his graceful stroll from the room with the kind of hope that had eluded her for months, even years. Had Gunning done her a favor after all, induced her husband to look at her again as a desirable woman? As the wife he had once loved so passionately?
Perhaps he still does love me. Perhaps.
*
Lady Azalea Niven, eldest daughter of the Duke of Kelburn, had never wanted for suitors. Added to the advantages of her birth and wealth and the considerable political influence of her father, she had been endowed with great beauty and personal charm. Or so everyone told her.
Certainly, Azalea had taken to Society like a duck to water. She had laughed and chatted, danced, and flirted her way through her first two London Seasons with thorough enjoyment. Lauded by all, she knew that she was London’s darling. Sometimes she felt a fraud. Sometimes she was sure the adulation was faked. Either way, she enjoyed the game, a bright, enchanting fairytale that ended, as it was supposed to, with marriage to the handsome prince.
Of course, her prince was actually a viscount, and she met him just as the fawning of other suitors was beginning to pall. But after the first evening she had encountered the teasing, mercurial Lord Trench, the rest of the world had paled into nothing. He had courted and won her with a great deal of fun and no resistance.
They had married and traveled across Europe in a haze of love and lovemaking. For Azalea, young and innocent, had never dreamed of the physical joys of married life until Eric had taught her, with patient tenderness and clear delight. Azalea had adored his passion from the beginning and indulged him so often that it was not surprising she was already expecting their first child when they came home to Trenchard, his country estate.
It had given them little time for adjustment, but Eric had proved a considerate husband and a loving father to their firstborn son, Michael. Their life had been perfect.
So where had their idyll gone wrong?
Azalea pondered the mystery yet again as Morris, her maid, helped her dress for dinner. Things had never been the same, she acknowledged, after little Lizzie’s birth. She loved both her children and her husband, and yet some blackness had seemed to fall over her, making her lethargic and snappish, so unlike herself that it frightened her.
Eventually, in desperation, she had begged Eric to take her to London again for the Season, and there, she had forced herself to laugh and play her old part until, gradually, it became real again. She was Azalea once more, adored and just a little fast. Eric had been wonderful then, too, giving her all the space and freedoms of a married lady and never criticizing. And yet…and yet they had grown apart.
She had only realized it one day when she had arrived late to a ball she hadn’t even known he was attending and found him waltzing with the beautiful Mrs. Mayfield. There had been no real reason for Azalea’s jealousy—why go to a ball and not dance? But the green-eyed monster had forced her into her own flirtation. She had left early for another party, escorted by a man she could no longer remember.
And when she and Eric had met again, he did not even seem to have noticed.
Silly, foolish incidents, minor in themselves. But amounting to something close to estrangement. And pain. And, on Azalea’s part, a determination to win back her husband.
At last, they had an evening alone together. And now, perhaps, they would talk again, as they had used to.
So, it was with rising excitement that she watched Morris dress her hair. She chose her jewels with as much care as if she were going to the largest ball of the year. She knew by Morris’s smile that she looked well, and so she smiled back and rustled off to say good night to the children.
Morris would probably have been aghast at the risk to her artistry as two ebullient children hurled themselves at her from across the room. Elsie, the nursery maid, merely smiled.
Laughing, Azalea knelt to receive her offspring. Michael landed like a cannonball against her, while Lizzie flew into her lap and climbed. Azalea forgot her determination to look her best and simply hugged them, asking and answering a babble of questions all at once.
Only after several moments did another movement in the room catch her eye, a very un-Elsie movement. A man was rising from a large heap of toy building bricks like a monster from the deep, while the disturbed bricks spilled around him.
The children howled with delight at the sight of this monster in elegant evening dress, who complained, “You forgot about me.”
“Only for a moment,” Michael assured him, grinning. “I knew you were in there.”
