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    The Lady Takes a Risk
    The Lady Takes a Risk
    The Lady Takes a Risk
    Ebook327 pages4 hours

    The Lady Takes a Risk

    By Blair Bancroft

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    About this ebook

    Lady Amelie Sherbrooke is not wanted. In fact, her future mama-in-law has refused to share a house with her. But Amelie, thoroughly enjoying her long-time role as hostess for her father, the Duke of Wentworth, has already rejected a score of suitors. With time running out, clearly a love match is out of the question. But desperation makes for odd unions . . .

    After six years of war, Marcus Trevor, colonel of the Royal 10th Hussars, has had enough. He buys a hops farm in Kent and retires to the supposed peace and quiet of farming, taking his daughter and a number of his officers and men with him. Alas, the solid citizens of Kent look upon the newcomers not as heroes of the war against Bonaparte but as invaders little better than the French. To complicate matters further, the daughter of a duke needs to be rescued from the man her father insists she wed. What is a poor man to do when his new world refuses to be the peaceful sanctuary he'd hoped for?

    Author's Note: To borrow a word from the 21st century, THE LADY TAKES A RISK is a "dramedy"—a mix of drama and comedy. Although it is Book 5 in my Regency Warrior series, the story stands alone, with only brief appearances by familiar characters from the past.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateJun 1, 2017
    ISBN9780996188760
    The Lady Takes a Risk
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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    • 3/5
      Great story but I felt it lacked warmth. So much of strategy and discussion on the internal skirmishes and so many characters but it just falls short.

    Book preview

    The Lady Takes a Risk - Blair Bancroft

    Chapter 1

    It is not easy to be the daughter of a despot duke. For that matter, Lady Amelie Sherbrooke was forced to concede, there were likely earls, barons, tavern-keepers, farmers, soldiers, sailors, tinkers, and tailors whose daughters considered them quite as despotic as the Duke of Wentworth. Which did her no good at all. Misery might love company, but as for finding a way to prevent her betrothal to most the most pretentious, fatuous, unbearable idiot in the ton . . .

    Just because his coffers rivaled King Midas . . .

    His face and figure put Adonis to shame . . .

    He set the fashion for gentlemen’s clothing . . .

    His manners were impeccable . . .

    But could he converse about anything beyond fashion, balls, routs, the latest on dits, and the dissection of fribbles of equal pretentiousness?

    Did he have any concept that some females—indeed, a great many females—were far cleverer than he?

    Did he, in truth, see females as anything more than ornaments . . . or walking, talking wombs?

    Lady Amelie very much doubted it.

    Yet here she was, waltzing with him, her father’s words still ringing in her ears: "I have indulged you far too long, young lady. I have been refusing offers for you since you were sixteen, but you no longer have a choice. I am marrying Lady Furnival, whether you like it or not. And she has no desire to share her household with the headstrong female who has been its chatelaine for the past seven years. An impossible situation, you must admit. Penhurst has an ancient title, more blunt than he knows what to do with. He is young, handsome, a scion of the ton. What more could you possibly wish?"

    What more indeed? Put that way, Amelie could only see herself as churlish. So here she was, feet flying to three-quarter time, while Cedric, Earl of Penhurst, imparted a running commentary—frequently derogatory—on each of the dancers, and more than a few chaperons, ranging from imposing dowagers to wilting lilies.

    No matter how waspish her suitor became, Lady Amelie kept her perfectly polished social smile firmly fixed in place. Cedric—a neighbor and childhood playmate—could not help being born to the most frivolous diamond of her day, or growing up without a father whose passion for hunting put him in his grave when Cedric was but four years old.

    And yet . . . Amelie fought back a sigh of despair.

    As the orchestra went into a final flourish, Lord Penhurst twirled his partner in a broad circle, forcing two waltzing couples into fast, and ungainly, footwork to avoid a collision. My lord! Amelie exclaimed.

    The earl, ever insouciant, ignored her concern. Ah, my dear, I do believe the musicians are taking a rest. Shall we go in search of a breath of fresh air? Amelie, anxious to avoid the darkling looks being cast her way by the displaced couples, readily agreed, her customary cool and contained manner slipping slightly as she placed her fingers on Penhurst’s arm. Truth be told, it was she who rushed headlong toward the tall windows opening onto the terrace. Cedric, except when waltzing, never moved faster than an elegant meander.

    She was supposed to marry this heedless buffoon . . . ?

    Fie, Papa. I’ll not do it! A fribble, a useless fribble, that’s what he is. A man who does nothing but amuse himself from morn to night.

    And how does that make him different from every other gentleman of the ton? her inner voice mocked. Do you expect an earl to work?"

    Amelie looked out over Wentworth Priory’s extensive gardens and allowed a sigh to escape her. If not for the unwanted attentions of the Earl of Penhurst, this would have been a perfect evening. The June night was just crisp enough to cool the dancers. The full moon of the summer solstice cast glittering light on the fountains and pebbled pathways, rivaling the torches set along the garden’s primary walkways. It was glorious!

    Except Cedric was not the only worm in the woodwork on Midsummer Eve of 1817.

    Pagan! Lady Furnival had declared when she heard of the ball. To which Amelie had replied, rather too tartly, that the Priory had always given a ball on Midsummer Eve. It was tradition.

    As are bonfires, naked dancing, and wild goings-on in the shrubbery, the widowed marchioness had snapped in return.

    Amelie, truly shocked, had been wise enough to clamp her mouth shut, quietly pursuing the plans for the ball, as she had every year since they were out of mourning for her mother. As for next year, however . . . if Papa married a woman who would put him under the cat’s paw, the ball was not the only thing that must go. Amelie herself topped the list of discards. And the only place Papa had given her leave to go was into the arms of the Earl of Penhurst.

    Well . . . the devil fly away with them both!

    Horrified by her vehemence, Amelie silently begged forgiveness. Her temper would be the death of her yet. At least that’s what her old nurse had frequently declared.

    Somehow, while Amelie was thinking anything but loverly thoughts, Cedric had steered her down the flagstone steps and into a less well-lit part of the garden. After seating her on a marble bench in deep shadow against the garden wall, he heaved an elaborate sigh. "Ah, ma chère, je suis fatigué. All that dancing, don’t you know. Shall we indulge ourselves in a moment of quiet?"

    Amelie, who had been maneuvered into dark corners more than a few times in the past, came close to refusing the earl’s offer, but she needed to be able to tell Papa she had made a serious effort to accommodate herself to his wishes. However much the thought of becoming the Countess of Penhurst made her nauseous.

    Perhaps if she hadn’t known Cedric since she was five . . .

    Then again, a few moments of privacy might be for the best. A bit of conversation, a brush of hands, perhaps a chaste buss on the cheek . . . Enough to discover if she could do the unthinkable—tolerate a lifetime of touches from this dancing doll of a man.

    Amelie was still considering the matter when the earl attacked, sweeping her into his arms, covering her lips with his.

    Cedric? More surprised than alarmed, Amelie did not pull away. Frankly, she did not think he had it in him. There had to be a reason she’d overheard a mutual acquaintance call him a molly man. Although not certain what it meant, Amelie suspected it was the opposite of Corinthian or dashing rake. Sometimes she felt sorry for Cedric, truly she did. Then again, no one put hands on a duke’s daughter without her permission. A very few daring young gentlemen, sensing encouragement, had managed to steal a kiss, mostly to her hands or cheek, but Cedric was holding her far too tight, pressing his lips to hers. Breathing on her. He reeked of wine, snuff, and lobster patties!

    Amelie reared back, struggling to free herself. The earl tightened his grip, one hand palming the back of her head, the other gripping her waist. She twisted, squirmed, her fists pounding his back, her feet kicking frantically until she encountered solid flesh. She had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt, before abruptly breaking off the attempts of his wet, slobbering tongue to force open her mouth. Revolting!

    Demme, Amelie, what’s the matter with you? Cedric whined. I am only doing what your father told me to do.

    "He told you to attack me?"

    Even in the dim light Amelie could see his sullen expression. Said I needed to show you I’m a man, not a court card.

    Amelie huffed a breath. Believe me, Cedric, treating me like a doxie is not the way to go about it.

    But the duke . . . that’s not all he said.

    A heaviness in her heart told her she really shouldn’t ask, but inevitably the words tumbled out. Tell me, Cedric. I need to know.

    Sullen turned to petulant as he said, Told me you wouldn’t be so hoity-toity if I compromised you. Have to marry me then.

    The awful thing was, Amelie almost laughed. The thought of Cedric being able to compromise anyone was simply beyond her imagination. Which didn’t bode well for what she could expect of her marriage.

    Oh, dear Lord, he must have seen her reaction, for with a growl of rage, the earl’s lips were back, grinding against her mouth. His arms pinioned her in place, leaving only her feet free, kicking wildly at thin air.

    Merciful heavens, had her flash of amusement propelled him into the unexpected role of rake? No, not rake. Rakes did not need to make frontal attacks; they relied on wit and charm and soothing lies. This was assault. Sanctioned by her father, exacerbated by her own idiocy.

    Amelie did the unthinkable. She bit him.

    Howling, Cedric let her go. Now you’ve done it, you . . . you witch! he cried. Then, as reality penetrated his sluggish understanding, his fury turned to cunning. Can’t claim you’re not well and truly compromised now!

    You are a fool, Amelie shot back. I cannot be compromised in the privacy of the garden. Compromise requires a witness.

    May I be of assistance, Lady Amelie?

    As the smooth baritone voice penetrated the darkness, the two figures on the marble bench froze. Go away, the earl declared. Your presence is not wanted.

    Amelie weighed the horror of being compromised into marriage with the earl against her need to escape him, and seized the lesser of two evils. Standing, she said to the dark silhouette of a man, If you would be kind of enough to escort me back to the house?

    I say! Penhurst protested. The lady is my fiancée— He broke off as the tall shadow approached, a recognizable face materializing out of the night. Trevor! This is none of your business, Colonel. Kindly take yourself off.

    Colonel Marcus Trevor, lately of the 10th Hussars, ignored him. Lady Amelie? He offered his arm.

    Gratefully, she linked her arm with his and set off for the house, leaving the Earl of Penhurst sputtering behind them.

    Colonel, Amelie said as they walked past a fountain casting liquid music into the night, if we follow the path on the right, we will come to a door that enters the morning room. I would wish to put myself to rights before I return to the ballroom. Obligingly, the colonel followed her directions. When they were safely inside the darkened room, Amelie paused and faced her rescuer. I don’t know how much of that scene you witnessed, Colonel, but I am very grateful you came along. My father and Lord Penhurst are urging marriage, but I . . . I need more time to accustom myself to the idea.

    Amelie paused, searching for words that must be said. The last thing I want is to be compromised into marriage. If I marry, it must be because I agree to it of my own free will. Therefore, I beg you, please do not reveal what you saw—

    My lady! I am an officer and a gentleman. You have known me since I bought Kirkwood Farm more than a year ago. Do you think me capable of being so crass?

    I beg your pardon, Colonel, but we have only shared an occasional dance, exchanged a few words when our paths crossed while riding, nodded to each other in church. I truly do not know you at all.

    A small silence. The colonel inclined his head. Granted, my lady. I stand rebuked.

    Oh, for heaven’s sake, I did not mean it that way! I only wished to be certain you would not . . . but of course you would not. You are far too honorable—I should have known that. Amelie bit her lip, hung her head. Forgive me, Colonel. It has not been my best evening.

    Lady Amelie . . . ?

    Yes? She looked up at the rugged face darkness forced her to conjure from memory. Hair black as a raven’s wing, eyes of obsidian, a face sculpted by long years of war—the face of a man who had seen death countless time over the course of his career. A man who would rescue a damsel in distress but who could not be expected take her problem with the Earl of Penhurst seriously.

    If I can be of further assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. And with that, Colonel Trevor proffered a bow and walked back out into the garden.

    Amelie stood for some time, looking at the door the colonel had closed behind him, before making her way to her bedchamber, where with the help of her maid she repaired the ravages of her encounter with the deplorable Cedric before returning, smiling graciously, just in time to hear her father announce his betrothal to Blanche, Dowager Marchioness of Furnival.

    Chapter 2

    Papa, I cannot! You know quite well Penhurst hasn’t two thoughts to rub together. His only objects of passion are the set of his cravat and the buttons on his coat. I swear I shall run screaming from the church—

    Enough!

    Amelie snapped her jaws shut, the glare marring her aristocratic features warning she still might erupt like a geyser at any moment.

    "Blanche and I will marry before the summer is out. You, Miss Defiance, must be gone from this house before that can happen. Therefore, you will marry Penhurst—or some beggar in the street for all I care—or you will go to your Great-aunt Matilda in Northumberland, where you may molder into spinsterhood. Is that understood?"

    It hurt. Indeed, it hurt. He was her father. And after all she had done for him over the years since her mother’s death. If this was what love did to a man, it quite shattered Amelie’s romantic notions of what that grand emotion should be. Had she refused a rather startling array of fine gentlemen for nothing more than a foolish dream of finding the grand passion so lauded in the pages of books? Or was she perhaps guilty of the sin of pride—relishing her role as a ducal hostess too much to give it up? No husband, after all, could offer the prestige of the position of hostess for the most powerful duke in the realm.

    Over the years Amelia had learned to match wits with the best and brightest. She could discuss proposals for the latest legislation, the continuing threat of a French-style rebellion (a fear that lingered, even though Bonaparte had gone down to defeat at Waterloo). She could hold forth on the appalling labor situation as men who had served their country well came home to few opportunities to work, and even less sympathy. In both London and the country she played her role of Lady Bountiful with generosity and genuine empathy.

    When—if—she married, oh what a comedown it would be.

    Northumberland was worse.

    Therefore . . . a solution must be found. Beginning with humbling her expectations. Yet not far enough to marry a man with whom she could not carry on a sensible conversation. Erasing all emotion from her face, Amelie sank into a deep curtsy to her intransigent parent, before sweeping from the room, head high.

    Tucked up in a comfortably padded seat beneath a window open to June air redolent with the varied scents of a garden in full bloom, the buzz of insects, and the trill of birds who sounded as if their lives were considerably more satisfying than her own, Amelie contemplated alternatives to her situation. If only Bourne were here . . . Her brother, the precious heir, the Marquess of Stoneleigh, would support her, she knew he would. But he was off on a Grand Tour, long delayed by war. Not the traditional tour of the Continent but of the Canadas. Word of the duke’s impending marriage had been sent, but whether the letter had found the peripatetic marquess or whether he would be able to return in time was very much in doubt.

    Amelie heaved a sigh. There was no one to rely on but herself.

    She could run away, set up on her own—perhaps as a woman widowed by the long war. Plausible, but living on her own, with only a servant or two, after living a life of luxury and power . . . Alas, she could not picture herself in an obscure cottage in the country.

    Arrogance, thy name is Amelie.

    With an audible sniff, she told her inner voice to cease and desist. So . . .

    She was not without funds—since reaching her majority she had access to the modest income from five thousand pounds set aside from her mother’s dowry. But it was doubtful she would ever see a penny from her own dowry, and the rather staggering amount willed to her by her mother’s brother, who had spent a childless life in India, would not be hers until she was twenty-five. Or until she married.

    Or until she married. Ah-ha! Surely excellent bait for catching a husband of her own choosing.

    If she gave up her dream of marrying for love.

    If she settled for a man venal enough to marry her for her money.

    Anyone was better than Cedric! And at least the choice would be hers.

    But who? Amelie frowned. She had already rejected a goodly portion of the most eligible gentlemen in the ton. Nor did any of them look more appealing upon second reflection. Someone handy, someone in the neighborhood? Dullards all. Besides, Cedric, there was naught but a widowed baron with five children, and a knight who had already gone through three wives.

    Except . . .

    Ah! Delicious. Papa would have an apoplexy if she married a farmer. A hops farmer, at that. The duke would raise such a fuss the roof of Wentworth Priory would blow straight up to the heavens.

    Or some beggar in the street. That’s what Papa had said. And she would not hesitate to remind him of those ill-chosen words.

    But live at Kirkwood Farm after twenty-three years as the pampered daughter of a duke?

    She could. Truly she could. Anything was better than being married to a man who cared more for the fit of his coat than his wife. A man who had to force himself on a woman with all the finesse of a blundering bear.

    Tomorrow she would do it. Early, before she lost her nerve.

    But eons of convention loomed over her, every mother, grandmother, nurse, and governess through the ages looking down from the heavens and crying, You cannot do that! It’s unthinkable. ’Ware!

    But she would. Tomorrow she would ride to Kirkwood Farm and ask its owner to marry her.

    Colonel, sir! There’s a lady come to call. Former Sergeant-Major Thomas Meese of the 10th Hussars stood in the doorway to the room that served as the colonel’s office, broadcasting outrage from every pore.

    Marcus Trevor looked up from the account ledger he was studying and regarded his highly irregular butler with considerable skepticism. It’s too early in the day for humor, Meese. I’m busy. Go away.

    God’s truth, Colonel. There’s a real lady here to see y’. Says she’s the duke’s daughter.

    Marcus surged to his feet. Where is she? Don’t tell me you left her standing in the hall?

    Sergeant Meese hung his head. Reckon I did, Colonel. Don’t know much about doing the pretty, don’t y’ know.

    Never mind. The colonel strode past him, racing down a long corridor to the vision standing in his modest-sized entry hall. Lady Amelie Sherbrooke was not a woman who would ever be described as beautiful or a diamond of the first water. She was too regal for that. Her nose was a bit long, her cheekbones high, her eyes neither blue nor gray, but an attractive shade all her own. Her hair, too, was neither blonde nor brunette but a shade in between. Which did not keep it from shining as bright as a halo and making Marcus wonder what it would be like when falling free over her shoulders. Over her naked shoulders.

    Calling on his long years of military discipline, Colonel Trevor ruthlessly dismissed all salacious thoughts. Lady Amelie, welcome to Kirkwood Farm. My apologies for your being left in the hall. I fear my sergeant is still learning his duties as butler. Please join me in the parlor—I fear that is the best this house can offer in place of a drawing room. As he led her toward the room at the front of the house, he turned to his former sergeant-major. Tea, Meese. At once.

    Yes, sir, Colonel, sir. The sergeant, who had remained unflustered through six years of war, turned smartly and walked into the edge of the door. Cursing softly, but not so softly he could not be heard, he scurried out, closing the offending door behind him.

    I have shocked your—ah—butler? Amelie said as she seated herself on a well-worn burgundy plush sofa.

    I did not think it possible, the colonel agreed, but I fear you have offended his ideal of a fine lady’s behavior. Wiping away his half-smile, Marcus said, Forgive my humor, my lady. I fear the problem must be truly dire for you to call at Kirkwood Farm at ten in the morning. Tell me, how may I serve you?"

    Amelie had practiced what she would say. Indeed, she had gone over it several times, making small changes here and there. But now that she was here, the words refused to be spoken. Yet the colonel’s politely enquiring dark eyes were pinning her in place. Something must be said. Colonel—Amelie drew a deep breath and plunged ahead—I have sat at the head of my father’s table for years. I have just spent my fifth Season in London. I am known for my ability to converse on any topic, yet I find myself speechless. That I should have had the temerity to come here, to even think . . .

    I cannot help you if I don’t know the problem, the major pointed out with what Amelie considered perfectly maddening logic. And I do want to help. I have told you that.

    Yes, well, I don’t think what you have in mind is at all the same as what I have in mind, Amelie returned, more than a little tartly.

    Try me.

    Slowly, she nodded. You are, of course, a man of action, with no use for shilly-shallying. Which is surely part of why I am here. Amelie studied the gloved hands in her lap, pulled in a ragged breath, raised her chin and looked straight into the colonel’s dark eyes. My father has placed a time limit on his ultimatum to me. He plans to marry this summer, which means I must be disposed of immediately. And since I cannot believe Lord Penhurst and I would suit—

    Was that a snort she heard? But the colonel’s face revealed nothing. He appeared as coldly unemotional as if reviewing troops on parade. Amelie plunged ahead. If I go against my father’s wishes, it is possible he will withhold my dowry, some fifteen thousand pounds. But I have access to the income from a portion of my mother’s dowry—five thousand pounds. And if I marry, my uncle’s entire estate comes to me—somewhere in the vicinity of sixty thousand pounds, I’m told. I am, therefore, an heiress of considerable wealth.

    Surely you know I would never ask for recompense for helping you escape Penhurst.

    Amelie, appalled, heard the hurt in his voice. Not the way she had hoped to break through his soldier’s iron façade. No! she burst out. Oh drat, couldn’t he hear what she was trying to say?

    Squeezing her hands tight, Amelie ducked her head, fighting back panic. Duke’s daughter or no, the urge to run from the room was strong. Colonel . . . what I am attempting so very awkwardly is an offer of marriage. To me.

    Silence.

    He was going to say no, she knew it. How could she have been so arrogant as to think money would sway a man like this?

    I had a wife, the colonel said so softly she had to strain to hear him. She died of fever the winter before we crossed into France.

    Amelie jumped to her feet. My apologies, Colonel. I had no idea. Please forgive me for intruding. She bolted for the door.

    Stop!

    Thoroughly shocked by the peremptory command, Amelie skidded to a halt. Colonel?

    You will forgive me for addressing a duke’s daughter in such a fashion, but we are not done here. You still have a problem which must be solved, and I, God help me, offered to do just that. So kindly be seated, and let us consider the matter.

    Amelie remained where she was, quivering with a panoply of unaccustomed emotions, while attempting to reconcile a lifetime of aristocratic privilege with the reality of her situation.

    Did the princes of Europe have the good sense to include you at the negotiating table in Vienna, Colonel Trevor?

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