WANTON

ISBN: 9781483527178

5 February, 1814

Dear Amelia
,

If you are reading this letter, then I have passed on. I know my death will bring you great sorrow, but please do not grieve for me. I lived a long life, and I am happy to meet my Maker
.

You were expecting a monetary bequest from me, but you’ve been misled. I used the funds to purchase a husband for you, and I don’t apologize for it
.

As I arrive at the end of my days, I have many regrets. I never married or had children, and I am sad to discover that I wish I had taken a different path. I don’t want that same dreary path for you, Amelia. You are a beautiful, vibrant young woman, and it would be a crime against nature for you to remain a spinster
.

Due to your parents’ bad choices, you were denied your rightful place in society. As I’ve watched you grow and flourish, it’s clear to me that you deserve to be returned to that spot. I chose your family with great care. Your father-in-law is a very exalted man, and marriage to your husband will elevate you into the circles where you have always belonged. I have paid your dowry and signed all the necessary contracts. You need only travel to your new home and begin your new life
.

But nothing in this world comes easily, Amelia, and you will have to work to earn what you want. I know you can do it. I know you will continue to make me proud. Let me finish by telling you that—of all the girls who ever boarded at my school—you were always my favorite
.

Your dearest friend
,

Miss Peabody

CHAPTER ONE

“I’m here. I’ve arrived.”

Feeling overwhelmed and a tad lost, Amelia Hubbard called out her announcement to the empty bedchamber. But she was alone, so there was no one to hear or reply.

She’d been provided a grand, ostentatious suite—a sitting room, bedroom, and dressing room—located in a drafty, isolated wing of Sidwell Manor. A rented carriage had brought her to the estate, and after being deposited in the front drive, a maid had led her in and wound them through the quiet halls.

Her battered portmanteau was on the bed. It contained all of Amelia’s worldly possessions, and the bag looked terribly shabby and much too threadbare to have been carried inside. The maid had offered to unpack it, but Amelia had declined any assistance.

She hadn’t wanted the girl to see the pitiful condition of Amelia’s clothes. Then again, given the plain gray dress she was currently wearing, her penury was obvious. The posh décor only highlighted the odd contradiction created by her presence.

At age twenty-five, she’d spent the prior two decades at Miss Peabody’s School for Girls, first as a student, then as a teacher. She’d never precisely thought of herself as poor. She’d always had a roof over her head and food to eat. Once she’d become a teacher, she’d earned an income too. It hadn’t been much, but it had furnished a sense of independence and security.

Yet with her opulent surroundings revealed, she couldn’t help but be perturbed by her overt poverty. The stark disparity between her circumstances and that of her host unnerved her as nothing else had so far.

Hadn’t she been anxious from the start? Hadn’t she been disconcerted by the swiftness of events?

After a long and painful decline, Miss Peabody had died. Her attorney had visited to declare that the school would be shut down and sold, the students sent away. Amelia’s teaching position had ended as abruptly as a snap of the fingers.

During Miss Peabody’s last days, she’d told Amelia and the other two teachers—Rose Ralston and Evangeline Etherton—that she’d mentioned them in her will. They’d naively and foolishly assumed they’d receive a monetary bequest, that they could pool their funds and buy the school themselves.

So it had come as a huge shock to learn that their inheritances weren’t pecuniary at all. Miss Peabody had dowered them and arranged marriages to men they’d never met. She’d never wed or had children herself and, apparently, she’d regretted that fact and had wanted Amelia, Rose, and Evangeline to have a different option.

Amelia was an orphan with no prospects and no family except for her wayward brother, Chase. She’d never expected to wed, so it had never occurred to her that she’d have the chance, but she’d reluctantly agreed to Miss Peabody’s scheme.

With the school being closed, if Amelia hadn’t accepted the fiancé Miss Peabody had selected, she’d have had no money and nowhere to go. Matrimony had suddenly been a very good choice, and she’d grudgingly journeyed off to her husband’s home.

But now that she’d arrived...well...

Every part of the situation seemed wrong—as if there were factors in play of which she hadn’t been apprised.

Her betrothed was Lucas Drake, of the Sidwell Drakes. The name hadn’t meant anything to her and hadn’t concerned her much until the carriage had passed through the gates and rumbled down the orchard-lined lane to the manor.

It was a three-story mansion, perfectly placed on a sloping hill so the occupants could gaze out at the thousands and thousands of acres of their land holdings.

Her prospective father-in-law, George Drake, was
Lord
Sidwell, an earl and peer of the realm. Why would such a lofty person pick lowly, ordinary, and very common Amelia Hubbard to marry one of his sons? How could Miss Peabody have crossed paths with such an eminent individual? How was she able to persuade him that Amelia was a suitable candidate to join the Drake family?

Amelia’s mother had been a British actress, her father a French count. Supposedly, they’d been madly in love, but her father had already been married, so they couldn’t have wed. When her parents passed away from the influenza, Amelia and Chase had been disavowed by their French relatives who’d promptly shuttled them off to English boarding schools and never taken an interest in them after that.

Amelia had no antecedents that would recommend her to Lord Sidwell. The entire notion of her being welcomed into the wealthy, aristocratic family was bizarre and impossibly fantastic, like a princess in a fairytale.

None of it made any sense, and if she’d had the financial resources to leave, she’d have hurried back to the village to wait for the first mail coach that went by.

Not that she had a destination in mind. Miss Peabody’s school was Amelia’s sole connection to her past. Her friend and fellow teacher, Rose Ralston, had left for her own wedding. Her other friend, Evangeline Etherton, was completing the last few chores to prepare the school for the new owner, then she’d depart for her wedding too.

Amelia was stuck at Sidwell, and she hoped Miss Peabody had arranged a viable conclusion. If the betrothal turned out to be awful, if it turned out to be some sort of trick or deception, Amelia didn’t know what she’d do.

She’d probably have to travel to London to find her brother, Chase, but he was a shifty, shady character, and she had no idea how she’d locate him.

A clock chimed the half hour, and Amelia jumped, realizing she’d been daydreaming when the most important interview of her life was about to occur.

For reasons that hadn’t been explained, her fiancé was not yet on the premises. Lord Sidwell hadn’t been present to greet her either, but she’d been ordered to attend him promptly at four o’clock in his library. She was terrified about the appointment and didn’t dare be late.

She rushed to the bed and dumped out the contents of her portmanteau. Briefly, she considered changing clothes, but she owned only three dresses—all of them a conservative gray with white collars and cuffs—so she had nothing more flattering or glamorous.

She went into the dressing room and assessed herself in the mirror. Her mother had been a great beauty, and Amelia had inherited her good looks, dark brunette hair, a slender, shapely figure. It wasn’t vanity to admit she was pretty, so she thought Lord Sidwell would be pleased. But still, no amount of beauty could conceal her faded wardrobe or general air of poverty.

The trip to Sidwell had left her pale and weary. Her green eyes—usually so vibrant and merry—appeared haunted and afraid. She pinched her cheeks, trying to add a blush, but it didn’t help so she abandoned the effort.

She walked to the hall and started off.

When the maid had delivered Amelia to her suite, she’d offered to return to escort Amelia down to the library. Amelia had insisted she could manage on her own, but she rapidly grew disoriented and became lost.

She was approaching a pair of double doors at the end of a hall that most likely led into another grand suite, when she heard a woman moan—as if she was injured or ill.

Amelia halted, listened, and heard the moan again.

She couldn’t decide if she should intervene or not. The manor contained hundreds of rooms and several wings, and since Amelia had arrived she hadn’t stumbled on another soul. If someone was hurt, she was the only person available to render aid.

The noises were emanating from the room directly in front of her. If she barged in, it might be a huge
faux pas
, and she was anxious to make a good impression and couldn’t commit a foolish act so early in her tenure. Yet if someone was in trouble, she couldn’t ignore the situation.

The moan echoed a third time, louder and more desperate by the moment. Without giving herself opportunity to reflect, she spun the knob and peeked inside.

It was a masculine space, decorated with heavy mahogany furniture, and dark maroon drapes and carpeting. The sitting room was empty, but there was movement in the bedchamber beyond. The door was ajar, and she caught fleeting glimpses of a man and woman who seemed to be wrestling. Was the woman being ravished?

Amelia’s initial sense was to run out and summon assistance, but it would take forever to find a footman. In the interim, the woman could be seriously harmed, which Amelia couldn’t allow.

She tiptoed to the fireplace and picked up the poker, worried that she might have to whack a miscreant on the head. Then she continued on to the bedroom door and peered through the crack. Only then did she realize that no assault was occurring.

The man and woman were avidly kissing. The moans were coming from the woman, but they weren’t cries of distress. They were cries of pleasure. Amelia was embarrassed to the marrow of her bones and weak with relief that she hadn’t blustered in and humiliated herself.

The two lovers were so involved they hadn’t noticed she was lurking and watching them. She needed to tiptoe out as quietly as she’d entered, and she had to do it quickly before they glanced over and saw her, but she couldn’t force herself away.

She’d been enrolled at Miss Peabody’s school when she was five, and even though she was now twenty-five, her upbringing had ensured she’d had very limited contact with men or amour.

She’d been kissed exactly three times, the episodes happening as an adolescent at the harvest fair. Those brief encounters had been thrilling, but also fraught with the danger of discovery. The embraces had been awkwardly groping and had proved so unsatisfying that Amelia had emerged from the experiences wondering what all the fuss was about.

As an adult, after she’d attained her position of teacher, she hadn’t engaged in any further flirtations, and she hadn’t witnessed any other people kissing, so she hadn’t understood that it could be so wild and feral.

They were clawing and scratching, laughing and biting, waging a sort of carnal dance that was as exotic as it was fascinating.

She studied their attire, attempting to figure out who they were. The woman appeared to be a housemaid. She was wearing a plain black dress, a starched white apron tied around her waist, but the man made short work of it. He yanked on the apron’s bow and tossed it away, then started in on the bodice of her dress, flicking at the buttons and pushing down the sleeves to reveal a spectacularly ample bosom.

“It’s nice that some things never change around here,” he said.

“I’ve been keeping them warm for you.” The woman grabbed the shapely mounds as if offering them to him.

“You knew I’d be back?” he asked.

“Of course. You never can stay away.”

Suddenly, a second female chimed in. “Stop hogging him. It’s not fair.”