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Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer's Temptation / The Debutante's Awakening
Marguerite Kaye
Bronwyn Scott
TWO FORBIDDEN RELATIONSHIPS…ONE HOUSE PARTY TO REMEMBER!The Officer’s Temptation by Marguerite KayeColonel Fergus Kennedy must make a suitable match at the Midsummer Ball. But when this officer encounters sultry acrobat Katerina Vengarov he finds himself torn between duty…and heart-stopping, irresistible passion!"The Debutante’s Awakening by Bronwyn ScottKael Gage is the last person at the Midsummer Ball Miss Zara Titus should speak to – and anything more is definitely off-limits! But the notorious rake seems determined to awaken this innocent debutante’s every desire…"
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball (#u61c0b628-914d-54f4-9dbb-503280f49b57)
Suitable matches or salacious seductions?
The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are hosting the event of the Season—and arranging the most powerful marriages in England. But when two of their promising protégés decide to take fate into their own hands, scandal abounds!
Don’t miss this sizzling duet from
Marguerite Kaye and Bronwyn Scott
Read Fergus and Katerina’s story in
The Officer’s Temptation by Marguerite Kaye
and
Zara and Kael’s story in
The Debutante’s Awakening by Bronwyn Scott
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis—though not at the same time. Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://margueritekaye.com).
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball
The Officer’s Temptation
Marguerite Kaye
The Debutante’s Awakening
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u5e0c2ed9-df9d-541c-bca0-ff35c0fe8d92)
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball (#u1e0cab4f-c88b-5ee4-a977-605f9d1a29bb)
About the Authors (#u4484ed05-3ac1-59bf-b583-ff3c5352398c)
Title Page (#uea9364c2-d3ed-5ca5-a9ae-921d352d81a2)
The Officer’s Temptation (#u5c955059-c627-5ed0-9aac-3468e606e7b1)
Chapter One (#u197ed7bc-dc44-5e8d-97c9-c7341605ee4b)
Chapter Two (#u02f819fb-71a3-5e0f-8aa5-fff2c7928977)
Chapter Three (#u388e0f36-657b-5ef5-8404-bc0130bfb382)
Chapter Four (#u77f0425b-7366-5d54-b56c-22fc9c821cdf)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
The Debutante’s Awakening (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
The Officer’s Temptation (#u61c0b628-914d-54f4-9dbb-503280f49b57)
Marguerite Kaye
Chapter One (#ulink_d0dbd668-a03f-5e72-a4c2-c2a49ecb7427)
Saturday June 14th, 1817
Brockmore Manor House Party
Programme of Events
Welcoming Party in the Drawing Room
Exhibition by the World-Famous
Russian Acrobat Troupe
The Flying Vengarovs in the Ballroom
The drawing room of Brockmore Manor faced due west, looking out over the extensive formal gardens of the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s country estate. The heady scent emanating from the nearby rose arbour wafted in through the open windows on the faintest of breezes. A veritable cornucopia of English roses both inside and without, Colonel Fergus Kennedy of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot thought wryly, eyeing the fluttering groups of ladies, their pale afternoon gowns in stark contrast to the vibrant cobalt blue of the heavy painted silk wall hangings that gave the room the appearance of an underwater cave. The marine theme was continued on the blue damask sofas which lined the drawing room walls, where naked mermaids and grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs. Similar creatures were carved into the white Italian marble fireplace, and the works of art which adorned the walls had a maritime theme.
Fergus tugged at his starched neckcloth and edged closer to the open window. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was unseasonably hot. It seemed his host, who had a formidable reputation for scheming and machinations, had also organised the weather. He envied the ladies their light muslin gowns, so much more suited to the heat than his silk waistcoat and heavy dark-blue coat, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that he had correctly interpreted the ‘informal’ dress code stipulated for this welcoming party as being ‘London-smart.’
Fergus was not particularly in the frame of mind to be welcomed. In fact, the prospect was distinctly unwelcome. The truth was, Fergus was beginning to have some reservations as to the wisdom of accepting this invitation and the potential consequences.
‘I have made a small wager with myself that you are Colonel Kennedy. May I pat myself on the back and preen indulgently?’
The man who stood before him was of indeterminate age. Clad in what looked to Fergus like an emerald-green silk dressing gown emblazoned with gold-and-scarlet dragons, he carried a similarly painted fan. His skin was powdered, but he had a disconcertingly determined chin, and the pale-blue eyes which shone beneath the perfectly plucked arched brows were piercing.
‘You may do both if you so wish, though attempting them simultaneously may prove problematic. Fergus Kennedy, at your service. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.’
The thin mouth formed into a delighted smile. ‘I knew it! One look at those shoulders and that ramrod straight back, and I knew you must be a military man. What a shame you decided against wearing your regimentals, Colonel, the ladies do love a Red Coat. I’m rather partial myself. But where are my manners! Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Timothy Farthingale, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘How do you do.’ Farthingale’s exotic appearance was decidedly at odds with his firm handshake, Fergus noted. ‘May I ask if you are acquainted with our hosts? I have not yet introduced myself to them.’
‘Never fear, they will make an appearance directly,’ Sir Timothy responded with an airy wave. ‘Marcus and Alicia always choreograph their grand entrances carefully, and I believe we are still several guests short of a party. You have been based in London since Waterloo, I believe?’
‘I am, at the War Office, on Horse Guards.’ Fergus winced inwardly. How he hated that blasted desk in that poky office. Tedious did not begin to describe his administrative duties. Someone had to keep track of supplies and equipment but why did it have to be him? It had been bad enough when he was recuperating from the injury he’d sustained at Waterloo, but he’d been fighting fit for at least eighteen months now.
‘I am surprised our paths have not crossed before now, Colonel,’ Sir Timothy said, ‘I know everyone who is anyone. It cannot be a lack of invitations which keeps you squirrelled away, for I understood you to be one of Wellington’s brightest protégés.’
As had Fergus, though his belief had waned, as request after request for a transfer to active duties had been refused, and Wellington’s vague promises of saving him for the right appointment had remained unfulfilled. Until now. ‘You seem uncommonly well informed about a man you have never met,’ Fergus said.
Sir Timothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be well informed, Colonel. One never knows when the information may prove useful. That man over there, for example, the one who is dressed like a vicar with the face of a cadaver, is Desmond Falkner. A very rich fish indeed, though he reeks of the city. I might—or I might not—choose to dangle a little business proposition in front of him. The three young bucks standing beside him are Douglas Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, Jessamy Addington and Jeremy Giltner. Now, they are the duke’s ideal pawns—personable, popular, not too bright, not too dim, well connected and, I am sorry to say, utterly interchangeable.’ Sir Timothy smiled archly. ‘No doubt Brockmore has plans to match each of them up with one of the gaggle of young ladies over by the fireplace. They make a pretty picture, do they not? And don’t they know it!’
Fergus, who himself was required to have a particular interest in one as yet unidentified young lady, eyed the group with a mixture of dread and anticipation, though he made sure to keep a neutral expression, having quickly deduced that the apparently eccentric Sir Timothy was as sharp as the proverbial tack. ‘Your knowledge of our fellow guests is positively encyclopaedic,’ he said, knowing full well that the man would be unable to resist rising to the bait, thus providing him with much-needed intelligence.
He was rewarded with an indulgent smile. ‘But I have barely scratched the surface. The buxom blondes are, needless to say, the Kilmun twins, Cecily and Cynthia. Anything you wish to know about anyone—provided you cannot locate me—you will glean from them. The demure-looking lady in white over by the windows is Florence Canby. Don’t be fooled by those innocent doe eyes of hers, Colonel Kennedy. A kissing miss, who never misses a kiss, if you take my meaning?’
Fergus shifted uncomfortably. Sir Timothy tittered. ‘I see you do. I see also that one of the most lovely of the ladies has not yet arrived. Miss Zara Titus, are you acquainted? No? She is indeed a true beauty but, I regret to say, a jilt. Quite a scandal, our Miss Titus caused less than a month ago. I will wager you any amount that her mother will bag a husband for her before the week is out. There are a few candidates, though she would do well to ignore that tall, rather intimidating gentleman who has just joined the young bucks. That is Mr Kael Gage. I am not at all sure why he is here, but it is certainly not to make a match. I wonder, Colonel, if you could possibly be a candidate for Miss Titus’s hand?’
‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.
‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’
‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’
Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.
And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.
He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’
Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without the other—and on this, his commander-in-chief was implacable. ‘Such prestigious postings as this come up very rarely, Colonel. You may have to wait two, three, perhaps even four or five years before another becomes available. Do you really enjoy counting muskets that much?’
The Duke of Wellington’s smile this time had been thin. The threat was barely veiled. Sixteen years, Fergus had served obediently in the army. Now he must march to a different drum, or he might never march again. It stuck in his craw to be manoeuvred in this way, but if he was to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his service, he’d likely die of boredom. A wife, an apparently beautiful, accomplished and well-born wife, was a small price to pay for such an exciting posting. Egypt—that was the thing he had to keep in mind. Egypt and escape from drudgery. Though now he was here...
Now he was here, he’d better stop wasting his time wishing that he were not. Whatever doubts he might harbour about this arranged marriage, he had no doubts at all about Wellington’s judgement. If he said that his friend’s niece would suit Fergus ‘admirably’ then it was up to Fergus to make sure that she did, because the consequences, if he failed to make a match of it, were unthinkable.
The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore were now only a few feet away. Fergus braced himself. Looking across the room, he saw Sir Timothy Farthingale deep in conversation with a statuesque flame-haired woman of about thirty, clad in a scarlet dress which clung in all the right places to her voluptuous figure. Sir Timothy, he noticed with an inward smile, was having to work very hard to keep his eyes from that magnificent bosom. Maintaining an act was hard work, it seemed.
‘Colonel Kennedy, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard a great deal about you from my friend, Wellington. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Brockmore, and my niece, Lady Verity Fairholme?’
Fergus bowed first to the duke, then to the duchess, and then to the niece. Lady Verity’s hand was limp in his. While they made the usual introductory small talk her eyes glazed over and her gaze drifted to the painting behind his head. Suppressing his irritation, he nodded and smiled, responding automatically to the duchess’s remarks about the weather, the duke’s enquiries as to Wellington’s health. Lady Verity’s eyes continued to drift around the room. She fluttered her fan in the direction of the Kilmun twins. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to no one in particular, then turned her back, making for a large footstool in the middle of the room, where she ensconced herself, and was immediately joined by the twins.
‘It may be that my niece finds the heat trying,’ the duke said stiffly, for the affront was clearly deliberate. ‘I am sure she did not intend to be rude.’
‘Indeed not,’ Fergus said tightly. ‘I am sure that if Lady Verity intended to be rude she would make a better fist of it than a mere flounce.’
‘Touché, Colonel Kennedy,’ the duchess said with a forced smile. ‘Now, who else would you like to be introduced to?’
He had already met the one person he’d come here to meet, and it had been a far from auspicious beginning. His nerves had given way to a horrible flat feeling, as if he’d been waiting all day to confront an enemy who did not show up. Not that Lady Verity was the enemy—though dammit, she had appeared more enemy than ally.
One of the many lessons Wellington had taught him was that on occasion it was prudent to beat a strategic retreat and regroup. ‘Thank you,’ Fergus replied, making his bow, ‘but I’m finding the unseasonable heat a little oppressive myself. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire outside momentarily for some fresh air.’
* * *
The sun blazed down from a cloudless, azure sky. Fergus glanced at the handy little map he’d found in his bedchamber—another example of the Duke of Brockmore’s legendary attention to detail—and reckoned he was at the top of the steps leading down to the South Lawn. Sure enough, the waters of the ornamental lake glinted in the distance. It would be much cooler there. He’d be tempted to wander down, were it not for the fact that he’d be spotted from the drawing-room windows.
He descended from the terrace to a lawn so perfect he reckoned the Duke of Brockmore’s gardeners must have trimmed it with grape scissors. Behind him, the house itself seemed to glitter in the sunshine, looking as if it was constructed from spun sugar. The beauty of the country mansion could not be denied, with its pleasing symmetry, its surprising lack of ostentation. It reminded him of an Italian palazzo he’d been billeted in once. He couldn’t remember where, but he did remember it was summer, like this, and the marble floors had been blissfully cool on his feet, which were aching and blistered from long days of marching. There had been a lake there too, where he’d swum.
