His Heart's Delight
Read His Heart's Delight Online
Authors: Mary Blayney
Tags: #romance, #love story, #historical romance, #regency romance, #happy ending, #family relationships, #sweet romance, #happily ever after romance
The Braedon Family Series | Book One
His Heart’s Delight
Morgan Braedon is not the slightest bit
interested in marriage though his family thinks it’s essential to
his future. Morgan needs one more year at the gaming tables to
reach his financial goals and then he will walk away from gambling
forever.
Christiana Lambert is not the slightest bit
interested in marriage to anyone but her childhood sweetheart who
is fighting abroad. While he is away she is going to London to
party and avoid men with marriage on their mind.
Morgan and Christiana meet and plan a sham
courtship to fool his family and guarantee her an escort. But love
takes them by surprise and the game changes more than one life.
First published by Zebra, January 2002
Copyright 2002, 2014 by Mary Blayney
Digitally published by Mary Blayney at Smashwords,
2014
Cover design by
Tammy Seidick
Design
Digital design by
A Thirsty Mind Book
Design
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
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To my mom, Mary Simpson Saccardi,
for a lifetime of love and
for introducing me to the
Regency world of Georgette Heyer
Table of
Contents
Dear Reader,
The Braedon Family Series are my first five
Regency romances, originally written in between 2001 and 2004.
While I enjoyed writing contemporaries, historicals set in the
early 1800s felt like home. I love the research and consider the
Regency the beginning of modern life.
The Braedons are like any other family,
though wealthier than most and with a father that shaped their
lives with more challenge than encouragement. They find support
from each other and triumph over childhood adversity with the help
of the people with whom they fall in love.
Each Braedon sibling has their own story. The
Braedons and those who love them are varied and complicated people,
but they share two things that are at the heart of the world I
built for them: honor and family above all. They learn, not always
quickly, that when you find true love you must embrace it.
I am delighted to share the Braedon world
with you and wish you happy reading.
Mary Blayney
Braemoor, Sussex, 1797
Y
oung Morgan Braedon
sat stiffly in the chair near the bed and waited for his sister’s
ghost to make an appearance. He made himself say “ghost” aloud, for
Maddie was dead, and even if his sister did appear to him, she
would not be the same as she had been only a sennight ago.
His breath caught in a hitch. He
had
to see Maddie, even her ghost. He must tell her how sorry he was
that he had insisted she show him the place where the wood sprites
lived. That he had insisted that they sneak out in the fog and
damp.
He had not realized how easily Maddie could
catch a chill or how easily a chill could become a serious
inflammation—or how easily she could die. Tears filled his eyes. It
had been a tease, a silly joke that had gone monumentally
wrong.
He had spent last night by her grave. It was
good Maddie’s grave was right next to Mother’s. He noticed that the
trailing rose his sister Mariel had planted the spring after Mama’s
death would bloom this year for the first time. How many years
would it take before Maddie’s grave looked like something more than
a scar on the earth? Two years? Five?
Despite the cool April night he had stayed
until long after dark, but no one had come. He’d felt no presence,
no relief, no forgiveness.
Morgan stood up and moved toward the mantel,
his sigh long and wavering. He felt as though he would be alone
forever. Leaning his head against the marble, he closed his eyes
and tried to imagine Maddie in heaven. She would not have to wait
until dusk to see the sprites she was so sure lived in the home
wood. She could play with them in the sunshine. There would be no
chill to interrupt her pleasure.
And Mama would be with her.
Please, God,
he prayed,
let her be
with Mama and let her be happy. Give me all her aches and ills.
Give me all the things that make her sad. Give her the doll I broke
and the book I stole from her when she would not play a game with
me. I am sorry. I am so sorry.
He let the tears drip down his face. She
would not come. He had not believed in her wood sprites when she
was alive and now there would be no ghost to console him. It was
only fair.
He braced himself and walked toward the door.
He surveyed the room once more, determined to leave his grief
behind even if it meant leaving his heart there too.
He would go to the billiard room. Everyone
else would be there. He would teach Rhys how to hold the cue and
even be patient with Mariel’s inept play. And then he would
challenge James to a match. He would focus all his attention on
beating his brother, on winning. If he did that then there would be
no room in his brain for anything else.
Morgan shut the door to the small rose and
green bedroom and listened for the click of the latch.
Goodbye,
Maddie.
Braemoor, Sussex, 1809
M
organ Braedon was
not a man easily distracted. The billiard room smelled of old
leather, dust, and memories, but one sneeze had been all the notice
he had given. The rise and fall of the wind could be heard despite
the muffling cover of maroon velvet drapes, but he ignored it. The
tight fit of window and sash kept the wind without and the coals of
a warming fire curbed the cold. The blaze heated the room too
adequately. He’d shed his coat an hour ago.
But a new sound, the ominous click of sleet
against glass, succeeded in drawing his attention from the billiard
table and his next shot. If the insult of ice on the roads
progressed, it might well delay his return to London. It was not a
happy thought. Still, the weather had been mild of late. With a
little luck the sky would clear by morning. And Morgan Braedon
could usually count on Lady Luck.
With the single-minded focus of a successful
gamester, he eliminated consideration of the weather and once again
gave his full attention to the game at hand.
This match belonged to him. With his back to
his opponent, he smiled in anticipation. Despite his twenty-six
years, he still drew sweet satisfaction from serving his older
brother a dose of humble pie.
Circling the billiard table, Morgan measured
the shot to win. He could make a safe move and hope James missed
his next chance, but such caution did not mean victory, at least
not for him. Morgan took the long odds, whatever the stakes. For
reasons known only to the gods, his risk usually garnered the
prize.
He gave this play more attention than his
last love affair. Eliminating every other thought from his mind, he
aimed the cue and shot with confidence. With narrowed eyes, he
willed the ball to cooperate. It did, sinking into the leather
stocking with a satisfying thwap. Morgan looked up from the table
and grinned at the loser.
James raised his brandy in salute. “Been
practicing, brother?”
Morgan could not help the laugh that escaped.
The pure pleasure of victory drew it from him. And there was no
denying he had a use for the extra blunt. He left his cue on the
table and reached for his almost empty glass. “I do have my
reputation to uphold. I could hardly let it be said that my own
brother bests me at the game.”
Morgan split the last of the brandy between
their two glasses, inhaled the heady fumes as he took a sip, and
stretched out on the sofa, closer to the fire. A warm room and fine
brandy were one of the few pleasures to be found here these
days.
Years ago Braemoor had been different. His
mother had brought welcoming smiles and warmth and made it a home.
Her death had taken life from the old house as well; now it was no
more than a pile of stone and wood perfectly maintained by an
obsequious staff.
He would rather be alone in the London town
house for weeks than spend three consecutive nights here at
Braemoor.
He glanced at his brother and wondered if he
felt the same. Until recently James had never spent much time here
either, but ever since their father had taken ill he had been in
residence. So far he had not complained. As a matter of fact, his
brother was looking at him now with a speculative eye that eclipsed
Morgan’s maudlin thoughts and made him curious in a vaguely
uncomfortable way.
“The marquis has a task for you.” James
sipped his drink and waited.
Surprise gripped Morgan, followed by a
flutter of unease. “Father is speaking? I count two months since
his apoplexy. I thought words were beyond his power.”
James smiled. Morgan swore to himself,
knowing this was just the reaction James had anticipated. He hated
being predictable. “The marquis manages to make his wishes
known.”
Morgan summoned the nonchalance that suited
his gamester’s facade. “I imagine there is more than one bruised
footman about.”
“He wants you to find a wife.”
Morgan straightened and all but choked.
James maintained his casual pose, leaning
against the billiard table, no doubt enjoying the discomfiture he
had caused.
“He sees things differently now, Morgan. He
wants you to ensure the line. He wants a grandson.”
“Hell, James, why stop at one? He wants a
dozen grandsons. Why should I be the stud?” Anger pushed him on
despite the pain his question would cause. “What about you? You’re
the heir after all.”
“The marquis needs me here,” James answered
with his usual calm. “Besides, you know as well as I that he does
not want the Braedon line tainted with my mother’s blood. He sees
her every time he looks at me.”
So, James had bruises too. Not physical ones,
to be sure. But as Morgan well knew, bruises to the heart took much
longer to heal. “Nonsense, James. You are more Braedon than any of
us. You are as tall as any Braedon, your hair’s shades lighter than
mine, and that stubborn chin goes all the way back to the
Crusades.”
“None of that matters. It never has. My eyes
are gray. Not one of the rest you have gray eyes. They are direct
from my slut of a mother.”
“James, Annabelle’s elopement is decades old.
She died within the year. The story is old to everyone but father.
And yet you would be willing to go along with this absurdity? You
would sacrifice marriage and your own children because our father
demands it?”
“Since when has marriage been a goal worth
fighting for?” James laughed, a sound with more bitterness than
mirth. “I pick my battles very carefully these days, Morgan. A wife
and children mean as little to me as what Cook serves for
dinner.”
