Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy)

“One of the best!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Julia Quinn

“A romance writer of mesmerizing intensity.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

“Winning, witty, and engaging . . . fulfilled all of my romantic fantasies.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

“Mary Balogh just keeps getting better and better . . . interesting characters and great stories to tell . . . well worth your time.”

—
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“A superb author whose narrative voice comments on the characters and events of her novel in an ironic tone reminiscent of Jane Austen.”

—
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Mary Balogh reaches deep and touches the heart.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Joan Johnston

“Mary Balogh at her riveting best.”

—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Thoroughly enjoyable.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Janelle Taylor

“Balogh once again takes a standard romance trope and imbues it with heart, emotional intelligence, and flawless authenticity.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

“[Balogh] writes with wit and wisdom.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“If emotion is the hallmark of romance, this is without doubt one of the most romantic novels ever written.”

—
Romance Forever

“Never content to produce the ordinary, Ms. Balogh fashions a remarkable romance laced with deep emotion and passionate intensity.”

—
RT Book Reviews

THE SURVIVORS’ CLUB SERIES

The Proposal

The Arrangement

The Escape

Only Enchanting

Only a Promise

Only a Kiss

Only Beloved

THE HORSEMEN TRILOGY

Indiscreet

Unforgiven

Irresistible

THE HUXTABLE SERIES

First Comes Marriage

Then Comes Seduction

At Last Comes Love

Seducing an Angel

A Secret Affair

THE SIMPLY SERIES

Simply Unforgettable

Simply Love

Simply Magic

Simply Perfect

THE BEDWYN SAGA

Slightly Married

Slightly Wicked

Slightly Scandalous

Slightly Tempted

Slightly Sinful

Slightly Dangerous

THE BEDWYN PREQUELS

One Night for Love

A Summer to Remember

THE MISTRESS TRILOGY

More Than a Mistress

No Man’s Mistress

The Secret Mistress

THE WEB SERIES

The Gilded Web

Web of Love

The Devil’s Web

CLASSICS

The Ideal Wife

The Secret Pearl

A Precious Jewel

A Christmas Promise

Dark Angel/ Lord Carew’s Bride

The Famous Heroine/ The Plumed Bonnet

A Christmas Bride/ Christmas Beau

The Temporary Wife/ A Promise of Spring

A Counterfeit Betrothal/ The Notorious Rake

A Matter of Class

Under the Mistletoe

Longing

Beyond the Sunrise

Silent
Melody

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is a publication of New American Library. Previously published in a Jove edition.

Copyright © Mary Balogh, 1998

Excerpt from
Indiscreet
copyright © Mary Balogh, 1997

Excerpt from
Irresistible
copyright © Mary Balogh, 1998

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Signet Eclipse and the Signet Eclipse colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about Penguin Random House, visit
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.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Names: Balogh, Mary, author.

Title: Unforgiven / Mary Balogh.

Description: New York City: New American Library, [2016] | Series:

The horsemen trilogy; 2 | Description based on print version record

and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016019523 (print) | LCCN 2016012466 (ebook) |

ISBN 9780698411845 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451477880 (softcover)

Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | First loves—Fiction. |

BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Romance / Historical. |

FICTION / Romance / General. | GSAFD: Regency fiction. | Love stories.

Classification: LCC PR6052.A465 (print) | LCC PR6052.A465

U54 2016 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019523

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

“I
AM
for bed,” Nathaniel Gascoigne said, yawning hugely as he lifted his brandy glass and noted with a look of faint regret that it was empty. “Now, if only I had legs to take me outsh—outside and carry me home. . . .”

“And if only you could remember where home is,” Eden Wendell, Baron Pelham, said dryly. “You are foxed, Nat. We are all foxed. Have another drink.”

Kenneth Woodfall, Earl of Haverford, raised his glass, which still contained an inch of brandy, and looked at the other two, who were sprawled inelegantly in two chairs on either side of the fire. He himself was propped against the mantel, to one side of it. “A toast,” he said.

“A toast,” Mr. Gascoigne repeated and then swore quite
profanely as his glass drew level with his eye again. “Nothing to toast
with
, Ken.”

Kenneth waited politely while his friend lurched to his feet, crossed unsteadily to the sideboard, and returned with a much-depleted decanter of brandy. He poured some into each of their glasses, succeeding with marvelous skill in not spilling any.

“A toast,” Kenneth said again. “To being foxed.”

“To being foxed,” the other two repeated solemnly, and they all drank deeply to their own inebriation.

“And to being free and merry,” Lord Pelham said, lifting his glass again, “and
alive
.”

“And alive,” Kenneth repeated.

“In spite of Old Boney,” Mr. Gascoigne added. “Devil take it.” They toasted the freedom they had each bought after Waterloo with the sale of their commissions in a cavalry regiment. They toasted the merriment that had followed their arrival in London. And they toasted their survival of years of fighting against Napoleon Bonaparte, first in Spain and Portugal and then in Belgium. Mr. Gascoigne added, “It don’t seem the same without old Rex here with us.”

“May he rest in peace,” Lord Pelham said, and they all lapsed into reverent silence.

Kenneth would have sat down if the nearest empty chair had not been some distance from the fire or if he could have been quite sure that his legs would carry him that far. He had progressed beyond the comfortable stage of inebriation. He had probably arrived there hours ago. They had drunk more than was good for them during dinner at White’s. They had drunk at the theater,
both during the intervals and in the green room afterward. They had drunk in Louise’s parlor before going upstairs with three of Louise’s girls who had sat with them there. They had drunk at Sandford’s card party, which they had joined after leaving Louise’s. And they had drunk here in Eden’s rooms—because it was too early to go home to bed, they had all agreed.

“Rex was the wise one,” Kenneth said, setting his half-empty glass down carefully on the mantel. He looked ahead with an inward grimace at the size of the headache he would be nursing when he woke up some time around noon or later. It was something he—and his friends—had been doing with increasing regularity for weeks now. All in the cause of freedom and merriment.

“Eh?” Mr. Gascoigne yawned loudly. “To take himself off to Stratton Park when he had sworn to spend the winter here with us, enjoying himself?”

“There is nothing for him at Stratton but respectability and work and endless dullness,” Lord Pelham said, loosening his already loosened cravat. “We promised ourselves a winter of self-indulgence.”

Yes, they had. And they had spent the autumn indulging themselves with every entertainment, excess, and debauchery that had presented itself. They expected even better of the winter: parties and balls, respectable entertainments to balance the less respectable ones. Ladies to ogle and flirt with as well as lightskirts to bed. Parson’s mousetrap to avoid.

Kenneth hiccuped. “Rex was the wise one,” he said again. “Unalloyed pleasure can grow tedious.”

“You need another drink, Ken,” Mr. Gascoigne said with some
alarm, reaching for the decanter, which he had set beside his chair. “You are beginning to spout heresy.”

But Kenneth shook his head. It never paid to think when one was drunk, but he was doing it anyway. They had talked endlessly, the four of them, about what they would do when the wars were over. They had talked about it at a time when it had seemed very probable that they would not survive at all. They had been close friends for years. Indeed, one fellow officer had even dubbed them the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse for their daring and often reckless exploits in battle. They had dreamed of going home to England, selling out, going to London, and giving themselves up to enjoyment. Nothing but enjoyment—mindless, unalloyed pleasure.

Rex had been the first to see that enjoyment for its own sake did not satisfy forever or even for very long—certainly not for a full autumn
and
winter. Rex Adams, Viscount Rawleigh, had gone home to his estate in Kent. He was settling in to life after war, life after survival.

“Ken is starting to sound like Rex,” Lord Pelham said, holding his head with one hand. “Devil take it, but someone should stop the room from spinning. And someone should stop
him
. He will be talking about going home to Cornwall next. Cornwall! The back of beyond. Don’t do it, Ken, old boy. You would die of boredom in a fortnight.”

“Don’t put ideas in his head,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “We need you, Ken, old chap. Though we don’t need your damned looks to turn the eyes of even the whores away from us. Do we, Ede?
On second thought, we would be wise to let you go. Go home, Ken. Shoo! Go home to Cornwall. We will write to tell you about all the gorgeous lookers who come to town for Christmas.”

“And fawn all over us,” Lord Pelham added, grinning and then grimacing. “We are heroes, you know.”

Kenneth grinned too. His friends were not such bad lookers themselves, though they were somewhat the worse for wear at the moment, sprawled as they were in their chairs, deep in their cups. Of course, in Spain they had always accused him of having the unfair advantage of being blond and thus more attractive than they to the Spanish ladies.

He had not given serious thought to going home, though he supposed he would have to, eventually. Dunbarton Hall in Cornwall had been his for seven years, since the death of his father, though he had not been there for longer than eight years. Even when wounds had brought him back to England six years ago, he had avoided going home. When he had left, he had vowed to himself that he would never go back.

“We should all go there,” he said. “Come with me. Christmas in the country and all that.” He lifted his glass to his lips and frowned when he saw his empty hand.

Mr. Gascoigne groaned.

“Country misses and all that?” Lord Pelham said, waggling his eyebrows.

“And country matrons and country squires,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “And country morals. Don’t do it, Ken. I take back what I said. We will put up with your damned handsome exterior, won’t
we, Ede? We will compete for the ladies with our superior charm—and Ede’s blue eyes. A man can look like a gargoyle and the ladies don’t notice, if he has blue eyes.”

There was no reason why he should not go back, Kenneth thought. Eight years was a long time. Everything would have changed. Every
one
would have changed. He was a different person. He was no longer an earnest and idealistic young man with romantic dreams. The very thought was amusing. God, but he wished he had not drunk so much. And he wished he had not gone to Louise’s—again. He was getting sick of casual beddings. And sick of endless drinking and gaming. It was funny really—for years the life he had lived for the past few months had been his dream of heaven on earth.

“I mean it,” he said. “Come to Dunbarton for Christmas.” He remembered Christmases as the merriest of times at Dunbarton, the house overflowing with guests, the days filled with parties—and the grand ball on the day following Christmas.

Mr. Gascoigne groaned again.

His mother would be delighted, Kenneth thought. She spent most of her time now in Norfolk at Ainsleigh’s. Viscount Ainsleigh was married to Helen, Kenneth’s sister. His mother would love to come to Dunbarton. She had written to him more than once asking him when he intended returning there, and when he intended choosing a bride. Ainsleigh and Helen and their children would come too, though Helen might not be too eager about it, he supposed. There were armies of relatives who would come, despite the rather short notice. He would invite some himself. He would give his mother carte blanche to invite others as she saw fit.

No, there was really no need to avoid going back to Dunbarton. Was there? He frowned and thought of one reason. But she would be eight years older than eighteen by now. The devil—he frowned in concentration over the arithmetic. Six-and-twenty? It was hard to imagine. She would be married with a parcel of children.
That
was hard to imagine too. He reached out to take his glass from the mantel—of course, he had set it down there—and drained its contents. He grimaced.

“He means it, Nat,” Lord Pelham said. “He is going.”

“He means it, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne agreed. “Tonight he means it—or do I mean this morning? Deuce take it, what time
is
it? Tomorrow—or do I mean today?—he will change his mind. Sobriety always brings sanity. Think of all he will miss if he goes to Cornwall.”

“Hangovers,” Kenneth said.

“He will miss hangovers,” Lord Pelham said. “They do not have hangovers in Cornwall, Nat.”

“They do not have
liquor
in Cornwall, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne said.

“Smugglers,” Kenneth said. “Where do you think all the best smuggled liquor lands? I’ll tell you. Cornwall, my fine lads.” But he did not particularly want to think about smugglers. Or about hangovers, for that matter. “I am going. For Christmas. Are you coming?”

“Not me, Ken,” Lord Pelham said. “I have wild oats yet to sow.”

“And I have to find a bed,” Mr. Gascoigne muttered. “Preferably my own. Cornwall is too far away, Ken.”

He would go on his own, then, Kenneth decided. After all, Rex
had gone alone to Stratton when they had all refused to accompany him. It was time he went home. High time. It seemed rather typical of him, though, that the decision should be made impetuously, while he was too drunk to think straight at all. There were all sorts of reasons why he should not go. No, there were not. Dunbarton was his. It was home. And
she
was six-and-twenty and married with a parcel of children. Had someone told him that?

“Come along, Nat,” he said, taking the risk of pushing his shoulder free of the mantel. “Let us see if we can weave our way home together. Rex has probably been in bed for hours already and will wake with the dawn—and with a clear head, the lucky devil.”

Both his friends winced visibly. Mr. Gascoigne stood up and appeared rather surprised that his legs held him, even if they did so rather unsteadily.

Yes, Rex was the wise one, Kenneth thought. It was time to go home. Home to bed and home to Dunbarton.

*   *   *

IT
was a beautiful day for early December: crisply chill, it was true, but bright and sunny, nevertheless. The sun sparkled off the surface of the sea like thousands of diamonds, and the wind that so often whipped across the water to buffet the land and knife through its inhabitants was a mere gentle breeze today.

The lady who sat at the top of the steep cliff, almost at its edge, in a slight grassy hollow of land that hid her from the road behind, clasped her arms about her knees and drew in deep breaths of the salt air. She felt soothed and invigorated both at the same time.

Everything was about to change, but surely for the better. How
could it be otherwise when she had thought herself beyond the age of marriage just two days ago—she was six-and-twenty years old—and was now awaiting the arrival of her future husband? She had told herself for the past several years that she had no wish to marry, that she was happy to live at Penwith Manor with her widowed mother, enjoying a freedom that most women never knew. But the freedom was illusory, and she had always known it. For longer than a year she had lived with insecurity and ignored it because there had been nothing she could do about it. She was a mere woman after all.

Penwith Manor had belonged to her father and to his father before him and so on back through six generations. But on her father’s death, it—and his baronet’s title—had passed to a distant cousin. In the fourteen months since her father’s death, she had continued to live there with her mother, but they had both been fully aware that Sir Edwin Baillie might at any moment wish to take up residence there himself or else sell it or lease it. What would become of them then? Where would they go? What would they do? Sir Edwin would probably not turn them out destitute, but they might have to move to a very small home with a correspondingly small income. It had not been a pleasant prospect.

But now Sir Edwin had made his decision and had written a lengthy letter to Lady Hayes to announce his intention of taking a bride so that he might produce sons to secure his inheritance and to care for his own mother and three sisters in the event of his untimely passing. His intention was to solve two problems at once by marrying his third cousin once removed, Miss Moira Hayes. He would come to Penwith Manor within the week to make his offer and to arrange for their wedding in the spring.