Autumn Rain

Autumn Rain by Anita Mills

When Elinor Ashton's debt-ridden father forces her into a loveless marriage with the elderly but enormously wealthy Lord Kingsley, she becomes the unhappiest bride of London society... and the property of a man whose jealousy leads him to concoct an unspeakable scheme.

Lucien de Clare is Regency England's handsomest and most brazen lord, a man whose scandalous behavior had closed the doors of polite society against him, making him the perfect pawn in Kingsley's despicable plot to secure an heir. But the scenario for deceitful seduction yields to true desire, as Lucien is overcome by Elinor's beauty and charm... and as Elinor opened her innocent heart to Lucien's demanding passion, releasing a rush of excitement, terror, and longing. And not even treacherous intrigue and vengeful deeds can temper the power of their hungry kisses... or dampen the fire that makes their love glow...

"YOU MUST WONDER WHY I HAVE COME," SHE BEGAN . . .

"You see, I am here because I need someone to hold me. I—"

She got no further. He was there in an instant, and his arms closed around her with an eagerness that matched her own. He buried his face in the knotted hair on her crown. He whispered her name over and over, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, "I've scarce thought of anything else." He stood there, holding her closely, savoring the feel of her.

"I don't want you to let me go, Lucien," she choked, clinging to him as though he were life itself.

"Do you know what you are wanting?"

She nodded. "More than anything in my life, Luce." She raised her head and parted her lips. . . .

ONYX

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

First Printing, February, 1993

Copyright © Anita Mills, 1993 All rights reserved

ISBN 0451403282

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to Martin L. Lovin 1935-1961 He was my Charley.

CHAPTER 1

October 10, 1807

The sound of water thrown by the wheels mingled with the steady beat of the rain on the hard-packed road. Outside the carriage, the wind-strewn autumn leaves along the roadside provided the only brightness in an otherwise dreary day. From time to time, Thomas Ash-ton sighed heavily and wiped a trickle of water from the cracked window before it could seep onto the faded upholstery.

Elinor Ashton's head lay back against the worn squabs as she feigned sleep rather than speak with her father. Never ever would she forget the humiliation she'd endured earlier, the indignity of having full half the other girls hear him quibble over the paltry sum of five guineas, six shillings—her tuition for another year at Miss Roberts's Select Academy for Females in Upper Tilton.

The quarrel had been a loud one, with the usually reserved Miss Roberts insisting that she did not run a charitable institution, and if he would not make at least a token payment, he would have to take "dear Nell" with him. After a great deal of blustering, he'd done just that. And under the pretense of great affection, the other girls had lined the hallway watching her meager belongings carried down in a single trunk. Oh, they had kissed her and murmured fond farewells, but she knew that beneath the display there was a certain smugness.

She crossed her arms against the damp chill, pulling the braided frogs that closed her too-small brown merino pelisse even tauter over her breasts. At least at home, she consoled herself, it would be scarce noted that none of her clothes still fit her. She'd grown two full inches in the last year, but all her pleas for new gowns had apparently wound up in the fire with the tradesmen's bills. If her papa paid anything at all, and she was not at all certain he did, it must have been his gambling vouchers.

"Hungry, Nell?" he finally asked her.

She would have liked to ignore him, but the grumbling in her stomach made her sit up. "Yes," she said simply.

There was no mistaking her disappointment in him, but he could not help it. If she only knew how terrible things were, that only one hundred pounds stood between him and utter ruin, she'd feel differently. She'd know he'd had no choice. He cleared his throat.

"Send you back next year," he promised. "A man's luck cannot be forever bad."

"No," she answered noncommittally, leaving it to him to decide which she meant.

He'd wanted her to tell him that she did not blame him for it, but she was different from her usually complaisant mother and from his other daughters. The eldest of his brood, she could still remember when times had been better, when Thomas, Baron Ashton of Edgehill, had been held in higher esteem, when there had been money to spare. But that was before... Guilt washed over him, followed by a need to justify himself.

"If it hadn't been for the Corsican upstart—" he began.

"Yes, Papa," she said wearily, hoping he did not mean to launch into another tirade against the evil Napoleon had wrought. "It does not signify. You could not help that."

Her tone was flat and utterly unconvincing. "You don't understand, puss—had too much of m'money in the 'Change, and with the French blockading everything— dash it, there ain't any way to keep it!"

She sighed. "Perhaps if you had not gamed so much—"

Stung, he bristled. "I got to play if I am to come about, Nell—much you know of the matter."

She knew more than he thought she did, she told herself, turning to stare out into the steady rain. How could she help but know?—the last time she'd been home on holiday, she'd heard her mother plead with him to stop casting good money after bad, to try to keep what little he still had.

"I'll come about," he declared, scarce believing it himself. "It ain't your business to talk to your papa like this. If that's the manners the Roberts woman was teaching you, it's time you was coming home, anyways."

"Are you ever going to pay her?" she asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"For what? The woman insulted me, puss!" He wiped at the window again, then peered outside. "Blue Boar ahead," he muttered. "Won't stay—just eat. Got to press on to Edgehill tonight, lest your mama was to worry over you."

She knew that for a hum also. No doubt he did not want to spend the money to engage bedchambers for the both of them.

But the collection of carriages in the courtyard drew his attention. "Damme if it ain't young Townsend," he murmured. "Fellow plays deep. And Leighton! Well, now—ain't this something?" he added softly.

"Papa, I am not hungry," she lied, alarmed by his sudden interest.

"Thought you said you was."

"No."

"Well, I am." He rubbed his hands together and hunched his shoulders in anticipation. "Townsend," he repeated softly. "Luck's changing, Nell—I can feel it. Come on—got to get some food in you! Aye, and a warm bed for you also!"

The chamber was cold, the air damp, and she shivered beneath the bedcovers. She could do without a fire, her papa had insisted, but she knew it was because he would not pay for one. Her stomach still growled, for he'd ordered but bread and cheese for the both of them. Yet as she lay there, she could not help smelling the tantalizing aroma of onions and roasted meat wafting up the narrow stairs from the inn's kitchen. If only once he would think of food above his gaming...

Below, in one of the private parlors, she knew her papa played cards with a zeal born of desperation. It was folly, utter folly, on his part, for if he lost, she knew he could not redeem his vouchers. But "Bell Townsend is a plum ready to fall into my hands," he'd told her gleefully. "It's divine Providence, it is, Nell! A plum ready to fall into my hands!" he'd repeated. "Drinks too much—won't even know I'm fleecing him!"

Elinor pulled the covers more tightly beneath her chin and thought of her mother, wondering if she would worry when they did not arrive at home—or if she had already guessed what delayed them. Poor Mama. How disappointed she must be in her husband. Yet despite the quarrel Elinor had overheard, her mother never could be brought to criticize him before their daughters. All men gambled to excess, she maintained loyally, and Thomas Ashton was no different from the others. But Elinor knew that was not quite the truth—not all men wagered as much or lost as often as her papa. But someday it would not matter what he did, she told herself resolutely. Someday, she would make a brilliant marriage and take her mama and the girls away from Edgehill. And instead of scrimping for everything, she would give them pretty gowns and see her sisters properly launched. Someday she would be a great lady, surrounded by maids and footmen, with a grand carriage at her disposal. As farfetched as she knew the possibility to be, it was nonetheless a dream to be cherished.

For a time, she lay there, listening to the steady beat of rain on the roof, and tried to dwell on happier things, on times when everything did not depend on money. Finally, the chill ebbed from her body and she slipped into sleep to dream of a fairy world where she had exquisite, pretty things, where she was the Reigning Toast of the
ton.
In this netherworld, there were no other girls snickering behind her back because her gowns had been let out and still did not entirely cover her ankles.

The stairs creaked beneath heavy, unsteady footsteps, then there was a furious banging at the door. "Nell!" her father called out thickly, "Let me in!"

She came awake with a start, and her heart sank. Judging by his voice, his news was not good—he'd probably begun losing as soon as he'd sat down to play. Rising with an effort, she stumbled to draw back the bolt. He lurched past her, muttering something about "Thieves all—the pack of 'em, d'you hear me? Drew me in and fleeced me!"

"Oh, Papa! No!"

"And you—you'll hold your tongue, missy!" Casting

about wildly, he sought the means to vent his fury. Taking the porcelain ewer from the washstand, he threw it against the brick-faced hearth, where it shattered into pieces. "I am cheated again—again!" he shouted, kicking a chair leg, sending it sliding across the floor. "Had Townsend down—ready to take it all! Leighton had already thrown in his cards, and Longford out wagered me—wouldn't take m'vouchers even! He had no right— no right at all! It was mine, I tell you—mine!"

She could see he was beside himself, and despite her own earlier anger with him, she sought to soothe him. "You'll come about, Papa—you will. Here—sit you down, and—"

"The devil take him—aye, and his money also! Got no right—earl or no, he's got no right—" His voice dropped into little more than a moan, and the wildness faded from his eyes as he seemed to shrink before her. "It's over, puss—I am done up," he said hollowly. "Might as well end it now. Got nothing."

"End it—end
what,
Papa?" she demanded, alarmed.

"Put a period to my existence, puss. I am done up now—done up, I tell you."

"But perhaps not all is lost—Mama's jewels—"

"Paste!" he snorted. "Paste—every one."

"Surely there must be something—"

"Edgehill is entailed for m'heirs—all else is gone. No, I am done! Done! And now there is Longford to pay also! Two thousand pounds he has stolen from me!"

"Two—two
thousand
pounds?" She gulped at the enormity of the sum. "Oh, Papa! How—"

"Told you—Townsend plays deep," he muttered, looking away. "Had to give 'em my vouchers to stay in the game. Then in the end, Longford refused to take any more of 'em." He ran his fingers over his face as though he could wake himself from a bad dream. "Me. puss— me as holds a peer's patent from the Tudors! And he refused to let me play further! Thing is—can't pay him— cannot pay any of 'em." His shoulders sagged with the realization of what he'd done.

"Well, perhaps if we went home—if we left now—you could stall—and..." Her voice trailed off. "Well, I am not tired, you know," she lied, "and if you cannot pay— we could go home before he collects—"

"Go?"
he fairly howled, turning to her. "Go where? I tell you there's nothing! They'll be coming for m'furniture before you know it—and taking me off to prison!"

"Papa, there is my portion from Mama's mama."

"It's gone also," he retorted harshly. "No, I had the young fool where I wanted him—let him win a bit to get him there—and Longford—Longford—" Words failed him for a moment, then he seemed to regain his composure. His voice dropped. "Townsend was so disguised he could not count the spots on the cards, Nell, and Longford took the money," he recalled with disgust. "As if the de Clares need so much as a farthing—born rich, every one of 'em. You want to know the way of it, missy?" he demanded truculently. "Well, I'll tell you— them that has gets, and them that needs goes to jail!"

"Maybe if you went to this Longford and explained— that is, surely he would not expect to be paid before quarter day, and—"

"Surely,"
he mimicked her sarcastically. "Much you know of it, girl—bad fellow—blood's bad! Mad Jack de Clare's son! Much pity I could expect there. No, I got to pay him, else he'll take it out of my flesh. Devilish nasty fellow when he wants to be—got to think," he mumbled distractedly, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

"Maybe before we left—maybe I could speak with him for you," she offered. "If he saw what is happening to us—to Mama and the girls—"

"No. D'you think a man like Longford cares, puss?" But his gaze rested on her nightgown as though he were seeing her for the first time. "How old are you?" he demanded. "Sixteen?"

"You know I am fifteen," she reminded him. "I had my birth anniversary last month—September the seventeenth, to be precise. Mama made you sign the letter she sent." There was that in his eyes that disconcerted her, for there was nothing paternal in the way he regarded her. "I was born in '92."

"Pretty puss—say that for you," he mused slowly, his mind already racing. He walked around her speculatively. "Daresay the age could even be a help in the matter. Be the devil to pay if a fellow wasn't to do the right thing by an innocent," he murmured more to himself than to her. "Besides, some of 'em like a female as is green and biddable." He paused, his eyes on the front of her gown. His little Nell was no longer little at all.

"A woman grown, ain't you?" he said softly, making her acutely conscious of the thinness of the lawn nightgown. His hand reached to smooth her coppery hair where it spilled over her shoulder. "You've become a beauty, Nell, and I did not note it."

The change in him frightened her, making her step back. "As I am neither blond nor small, Miss Roberts quite despaired of me, Papa," she said, trying to speak lightly. "She rather thought I ought to be a bluestocking, for she was positive I would never take. 'Carrot-tops are not the fashion,' she said."

"The woman was blind, puss." This time, he caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him. For a long moment, he stared into brown eyes lightened with gold flecks around the pupils, making them seem to match the copper in her hair. Aye, there was no denying that with a little expense she could be an exquisitely lovely woman. As it was, she was going to keep him out of prison. "Would you fancy yourself a viscountess, Nell?" he asked, betraying his excitement.

"I am as like to be a royal princess, Papa—and well you know it," she retorted, pulling away. "You have just told me I have no expectations."

He could almost see the money in his hands. At best, Townsend would wed her, and at worst, the viscount would pay to scotch the scandal, for he could ill afford any more unpleasant gossip after that not quite hushed affair with Berkeley's wife. No, either way, Elinor was going to be her papa's salvation. He caught her shoulder, this time more roughly, and leaned into her face. "Townsend's so gone with drink that Longford had to have help carrying him up to bed. He's in no state to harm you."

She blinked blankly, trying to follow him. "Harm me? Papa, whatever—?"

"You can save me, Nell—you can save your papa—and Edgehill also." He spoke urgently, intensely, hoping to persuade her. "Aye, and you can provide for your sisters in the bargain."

"Me?"
Her voice rose incredulously. "Papa, I think it's you who are disguised!"