Rogues and Ripped Bodices

Rogues and Ripped Bodices

A Victorian Romance Boxset

Samantha Holt

Sinful Confessions

A Cynfell Brothers Novella

Samantha Holt

Copyright 2015 ©Samantha Holt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Warwickshire, England 1895

Bang, bang, bang.

Somebody was setting off fireworks inside of Julian Cynfell’s skull. He winced, cracked open an eye and peered around. The curtains were drawn and a blanket of gloom dominated the large drawing room.

What in the devil...?

He eased up from the chaise longue and groaned. There it was again. No fireworks though. The flashes of bright light bursting through his skull had merely been a product of the headache plaguing him.

Julian scrubbed a hand across his face and sat fully upright. He cradled his delicate head for a few moments and closed his eyes. Apparently some mischievous elves had taken up residence in his skull and were taking tiny hammers to it. Each movement felt as though they were renewing their efforts in protest of being jostled about.

Bang, bang.

The front door. That was where the noise was coming from. Well, that made more sense than fireworks in the main drawing room of Lockwood Manor he supposed. Cursing the little creatures inside his head, he stood and squinted into the darkness. A tiny slit of light slipped through each of the three sets of curtains, spilling onto the highly polished walnut furniture, picking out the gilded highlights of the soft furnishings and emphasising the strong patterns on the carpet. Julian curled his lip in distaste. Far too much for one’s delicate eyes to see after a night of heavy indulgence.

Whoever was at the door clearly had no intention of leaving. Where was the damned butler? Or the maids? Yes, he didn’t have many of those left but he could spare one member of his household to open a damned door, surely?

Feeling as though he had aged a hundred years overnight, he dragged himself to the hallway door and flung it open. Bright light greeted him and he groaned. At the smell of fresh flowers and a hallway that had certainly already been aired out, he hated himself anew. Even he could smell the fog of alcohol surrounding him. He needed a bath, a teeth clean and a swirl of mint tea.

Then he needed some strong coffee to help him sober up.

I’m coming, I’m coming, he muttered to the persistent visitor as the door knocker vibrated through the house again.

Julian took a moment to steady himself against the marbled banister of the staircase before heading to the large double doors that signalled the entrance to his house. Tall pillars in matching cream marble reached high up to support the ceiling and he had to stare at them for some time to realise they were not wavering from side to side. It was, in fact, he who could not stay still.

Damn. No more drinking.

He snorted. Who was he kidding? Besides it wasn’t as if he was a slave to the drink. He’d only indulged—what?—twice this week. Admittedly, he did like to indulge until darkness swallowed him and he could forget everything, but it didn’t normally matter. Normally he didn’t have visitors and he could sleep off any ill effects. Everyone was wise enough to stay away.

But not this person, damn them to hell. Didn’t they know who he was? Hadn’t they heard tell of his infamous reputation?

On wobbly legs, he edged over to the door and drew it open, readying himself to say something cutting before slamming it shut.

What in the—?

Instead of slamming the door closed as planned, he found himself opening it farther. The feathers caught his eye first. The white plumes of her hat drooped under the weight of raindrops. Though his front door stood under the shelter of several columns and a jutting pediment, this woman had clearly been a victim of quite the soaking.

He peered past her and saw that it was indeed a miserable day. Grey clouds weighed down the sky like lead and water filled the dips in the road leading to the house.

Julian turned his attention back to the soaked woman on his doorstep. The white feathers matched a long, white gown, shielded from the weather by only a pale blue jacket. She looked dressed for fine summer weather and certainly not spring showers.

When the woman lifted her head and took a long perusal of him, he stiffened. A shard of sensation twisted through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Underneath the huge brim of her hat sat bold blue eyes, a narrow but plump set of lips and a face that made his heart stutter.

Still drunk, he reminded himself. She could have been a hideous beast but the fog of alcohol made even the plainest of women beautiful.

He peered at her again. The strong nose wasn’t beautiful. However, when he stopped looking at it and took her face in as a whole, she was back to being spectacular.

He really ought to give up the drink. His mind was playing tricks on him.

The stranger lifted an auburn eyebrow. Several strands of hair that would likely be the same colour when dry clung to her cheeks. Those pouty lips parted.

Yes? he asked abruptly, aware he’d been staring at her for too long. His alcohol-soaked brain seemed to be working at a snail’s pace.

Her wet lashes darted over her cheeks several times before she spoke. Oh, hello. Um. Is the master home?

An American. He tried not to sound like his mother but the voice in his head had sounded distinctly marchioness-like. A brash, coarse, unsophisticated American. That was his mother’s voice too. Julian hadn’t met many American women so he couldn’t really be a judge of how brash, coarse and unsophisticated they were.

She looked at him, awaiting a response. Brash indeed. Most women withered and looked away under his darkest stares. In fact, most ladies wouldn’t even approach him. Too scared of him. After all, the Marquess of Lockwood had the touch of death.

The master is home, he drawled.

A smile slipped across those lips and he followed the movement of them. They were certainly narrow but, bloody hell, the cupid bow shape of them did strange things to his insides. He couldn’t remember any of his wives’ lips making him feel as though his gut was twisting into knots.

That is wonderful news. She thrust out a gloved hand. I’m Miss Viola Thompson. My friends call me Vee.

Viola Thompson. Oh Christ, the woman he’d been writing to in New York. The woman he’d been... well that didn’t matter. What the blazes was she doing here? He contemplated her hand for several moments until her fingers curled and she tucked them back against her side.

Could I speak with your master? she tried again, her voice holding a little less strength this time.

I have no master. He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. A little amusement first thing in the morning would do no harm.

But I thought... Colour seeped into her pale cheeks and confusion marred her brow.

Julian Cynfell, Marquess of Lockwood, at your service, Miss Thompson.

But... Her lips opened and closed several times while her gaze ran over him. You cannot possibly be.

He hadn’t considered what he looked like. If he looked down, he’d likely see his shirt was untucked, his feet were bare and he knew at least a month’s worth of bristle covered his jaw. What sort of servant she thought he was, he didn’t know.

Forgive me if I disappoint.

Viola clutched her travelling bag to her chest. No, no, forgive me. I didn’t realise... Well, anyway, she said brightly. Here I am.

Letting both brows rise, he ran his gaze from head to toe. What was he meant to do with her? Yes, here you are.

Can I come in?

Julian’s head pounded anew. All he wanted to do was have a coffee, eat something wholesome and go to bed—a proper bed. His back ached from having fallen asleep on the chaise. Instead, he had an admittedly stunning American woman on his doorstep, expecting him to do something with her.

He could think of several things he might like to do with her—it had been over a year after all—but he doubted those were the sort of somethings she expected. Viola Thompson was all of twenty-two and definitely innocent—that had been clear from her letters. Besides which, Julian didn’t do women anymore.

He scowled and leaned out of the door to search for a carriage or sign of a chaperone. No one. Nothing. Was Miss Thompson all alone?

How did you get here?

The mail coach dropped me off at the end of the road. She pointed in the direction of the end of the private road. It couldn’t be seen from the house as rows of large oak trees hid it from view.

And you walked all the way up here in the rain?

She nodded and a tiny shudder wracked her.

You’re alone? He did another scan of the area, wondering if someone was hiding behind the fountain or had decided to walk around the back of the house to explore the ornamental garden.

Yes.

You’re American. He didn’t ask, just stated. He needed to work his brain around several things and saying them aloud helped.

She squeezed her bag tightly to her chest. Well, yes, but you knew that. We’ve been writing to each other for six months now.

No, it’s just... did you travel from America alone?

Yes. She nodded again as though this was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Fingers to his temples, he levered himself away from the door frame.  For some reason, he had this woman he’d been writing to on his doorstep, alone, expecting something. And she’d crossed the ocean on her own. He opened and closed his eyes several times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but she remained, resolute and a little fragile-looking.

You can’t come in.

What? She almost dropped her bag and had to fumble to keep hold of it.

You’re alone. You cannot possibly come in.

But... Julian... Her eyes widened. I mean, my lord, I am cold and wet and hungry. I haven’t slept since my ship docked in Southampton.

Miss Thompson, he said slowly as though speaking to an imbecile, there is no room at the inn. No place for you to stay. No warm welcome here. May I suggest you find a hotel and find your warmth and rest there?

A crease appeared between her brows and she studied him for long moments as though trying to work out a puzzle. The nearest town is five miles away. I know that because that is where I caught the train to. Firstly, how do you expect me to get there? And secondly, I thought you were expecting me.

Julian found himself taken aback by her sharp tone. Coarse, definitely coarse. Also slightly appealing. None of his wives had ever spoken to him so directly—not even the last one.

I wasn’t expecting you.

But your letter... She tried to reach for the purse hanging off her arm by a metal chain but her travelling bag slipped and dropped to the floor with a thud. He half expected the overly-stuffed fabric to split apart and for her belongings to explode all over him. Viola thrust her hands to her sides and let out a small huff sound. And there, in her eyes, was the undoing of him. The little shimmer of tears that never failed to scour his insides and turn him into an utter weakling.

Come in for a moment. He said the words as low as he could, half-hoping she wouldn’t hear and she’d decide to run back to New York.

She brushed by him eagerly, not even waiting for him to step aside properly. Her arm breezed past his chest and a few feathers tickled his nose. Julian stepped back and shut the door. Viola removed her hat and lifted her gaze to the vaulted ceiling. Her mouth fell open.

Goodness, what a place.

Brash for certain. His mother would have delighted in meeting this woman and putting her in her place. He, however, couldn’t help but enjoy her open expression of pleasure. He supposed the house was impressive when you first saw it but he’d grown up in it. Lockwood Manor didn’t interest him. It was nice to see it appreciated, though. The few visitors he received usually did their upmost to appear entirely unimpressed and at ease with his grand home.

Come into the... No, he couldn’t put her in the main drawing room. The place would smell of alcohol and he’d probably left a few empty decanters lying around. She already didn’t have the best impression of him. Best not to add to that.

Though why did he care?

Come into the day room, he said, motioning to the door on the other side of the hall.

Julian supposed it was a relief to have someone who didn’t already have a bad opinion of him in his house. The rumours and gossip were the very reason he never set foot outside his house anymore, so if there were any ladies left who didn’t know all about him, he had never met them. Miss Thompson knew him as nothing more than some words on paper—nice words too. Honest ones. Their correspondence had been one of the more enjoyable aspects of his life.

He also supposed he owed her a more pleasant welcome, even if he couldn’t fathom why she was here.

When he pressed open the door, she slipped past him—again caring little for his personal space. Or hers. In spite of travelling all night presumably, she smelled floral and fresh. She began to unbutton that tiny jacket and work it off her shoulders as she did a loop of the room. No predatory glint hung in her gaze.

Normally, when women visited his home, they were weighing up his valuables. Gauging how much the paintings were worth. Deciding how they’d decorate the pale green room. In some ways, the death of his last wife had at least saved him from any more visits from mothers and daughters. None would go near him now.

This is a beautiful room. She shrugged out of her jacket and glanced around for somewhere to put it. It ended up draped over a Louis XV chair along with her hat. Very feminine.

Feminine. Yes. There was a lot of feminine in this room right now. However, it wasn’t the curves of the gilded chairs that drew his attention. It was the curves under Miss Thompson’s high-necked shirt that captured his eye. She did another loop, as though parading especially for him. Her skirt clung tightly to her hips and as near as he could tell, no bustle enhanced her behind. Everything fit tight, perfectly. Julian had ample idea what her figure was like. Long, lithe, with high, pert breasts. Of course a corset could be responsible for those breasts but this was a fantasy after all and his fantasy woman had breasts that were high and round and succulent.

Mother wouldn’t approve of course, which made it all the more appealing. His mother had designed this room and he imagined her lips curled in distaste at the idea of an American scattering her clothes over the furniture. Thank the Lord she was in Brighton.

Julian, however, rather liked the idea of more clothes being scattered. A shirt perhaps. Then a corset. A skirt and some drawers. Maybe he’d leave any stockings on. He bet she would look radiant in silk stockings.

Miss Thompson paused by the fire and held out her hands. Apparently some of his staff was around as it had been lit on this dreary morning. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Afternoon. Not morning. He’d slept that away it seemed.

While his visitor fussed with her auburn hair, drawing back the wet strands that were stuck to her cheeks, he rang the bell for tea. He had a limited amount of staff—yes the house took a lot of work—but he hardly needed anyone to care for him. However, there had to be someone around.

He eyed the back of her for a while. What to do with her? He coughed. Will you not... will you not have a seat?

She smiled at him. Any hint of that rebellious woman demanding entrance to his house had vanished. A warm fire and a dry room had done wonders for her temperament.

Easily pleased then. Very unlike wife number three.

Chapter Two

Viola twisted her hands together and offered the marquess a smile. She hoped her apprehension didn’t show. She should never have spoken to him like that. Lords were meant to be respected. Oh boy, should she have curtsied?

Her stomach felt as though she were on that awful ship again. Being thrown about, up and down, left to right. The journey across the Atlantic had been rougher than she’d expected and she’d spent many a day abed. She hadn’t been able to sleep on the trains either and had nearly gotten lost in London. Fatigue was beginning to make her head pound.

But no train or ship was to blame for this. No, it was the darkly handsome man standing in the corner of the room, looking as though he had little idea what to do with himself. Once she had gotten past his initial appearance, she’d begun to appreciate how he looked. After six months of correspondence, she was sure he would be handsome.

Though she had expected him to look after himself better.

She supposed a widower without a woman to take care of him couldn’t look refined all the time. That beautiful penmanship had indicated a proud and careful man.

Oh well, at least he wasn’t grizzled and ugly. Under the quite thick beard was a handsome face. She could tell. Grey eyes with a slightly wild look assessed her boldly. His light brown hair had streaks of grey at the temples and he appeared older than his two and thirty years. Nevertheless, those broad shoulders and trim waist were to be admired.

And his feet. Those were handsome feet. Wide, steady. Goodness, did lords always walk around barefoot in their homes? Surely their feet got cold on the marble floors? Though this pale cream carpet felt thick and... Oh dear Lord... were those her footprints? She had cut across the grass as the road up to the house wound around a corner. She had barely given a thought to her white skirts and certainly not to his cream carpets. Excitement at meeting the marquess had made her forget everything. But it seemed mud had splattered up her hem and left lovely round marks from her heels and soles on the pristine carpet.

Quick, she had to distract him before he noticed. Oh dear, did the marks go all the way around the room? Viola surveyed the carpet. They really did.

You truly have a beautiful home. She cringed inwardly. And what used to be a beautiful room until she stepped into it.

I rang for some tea, Lord Lockwood said, hands clasped behind his back.

Viola hadn’t even noticed him do as much but she noted the cord on the wall wavered back and forth.

Please sit. He motioned to the chair nearest the fire.

Remembering herself, Viola settled into the chair. It wasn’t at all comfortable. The hard frame dug into her arms and back and it felt as though it needed new stuffing. At least it forced her to sit properly. As the youngest child in a family of boys, her posture had always been lacking. And English women always had wonderful posture. Perhaps it was because of chairs like these.

Lord Lockwood—gosh, it felt odd to call him that. She had thought of him as Julian for some time—came to stand by the fire. He twisted two fingers around another finger—the one a wedding band should have been on. Twist. Twist. Twist. He was missing his wedding ring, she’d wager. He hadn’t told her much about his late wife, only that she had died over a year ago.

But, to think, she would soon be mistress of all this and she would take care of this English lord. It was like a dream come true. She glanced out of the window. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so grim and miserable in England though. It was spring after all. She’d imagined green fields with little lambs running about. Most of the sheep she had passed had been huddled under trees, looking as miserable as she’d felt riding in the mail coach.

Did you not get my letter? she asked, shattering the silence.

No. About what?

About my visit. To arrange everything. You had said you wanted to finalise everything in April.

Julian pressed his fingers to either side of his head and rubbed them. April. He scowled. Right. I recall. But I didn’t expect you to come in person. Nor did I expect... he waved a hand up and down her, you.

Oh. She supposed fathers did these things normally but hers was too sick to travel at the moment. He was recovering well from a bout of pneumonia but there was no way her papa could have managed such a journey. You anticipated speaking with Father?

Well, yes, frankly.

He has been very unwell.

Which was how they came to write letters to one another. She couldn’t help but be grateful she had been put in charge of her father’s correspondence while her brothers ran their father’s shipping business. For the first time in her life, she’d been trusted to do something useful and worthwhile. And she had started communicating with this eloquent, enigmatic Englishman. Their letters had turned from coffee to cats to companionship. Her friends were riddled with jealousy.

When might we—? She was interrupted by a petite maid coming in with a tray of cups and biscuits. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

Where would you like it, my lord? the girl asked.

On the table. He motioned to the table in front of her that matched the ornamental chair upon which she sat.

The maid placed it down and began to pour. Viola eyed the steaming cups with appreciation. A shudder wracked her and as soon as the maid retreated, she snatched up a cup and cradled it in her palms. The damp fabric of her skirts clung to her legs and a few drips had crept under her jacket to trickle down her spine. Though her hair had been saved from too great a soaking by her hat, the tiny wet tendrils continued to send fresh drops over her skin. All in all, it was not the best way to meet the man she hoped to marry.

He eyed her with a raised brow before coming to sit opposite. Was it so very inappropriate for her to be alone with him? So much so that he wished to send her away? She couldn’t fathom his cool manner. The British men she had met in New York hadn’t been nearly so stiff, but neither had they been marquesses. What troubled her most, however, was how unlike the man in the letters he seemed. She wasn’t sure what she expected but she certainly didn’t anticipate him suggesting she find elsewhere to stay.

Viola sipped the tea and felt the warmth trail down to her stomach. Already her spirits began to revive. She reached for a macaroon and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing quickly. Her stomach grumbled—loudly. She winced and glanced at the stoic lord to see his reaction. His expression hadn’t changed. He watched her as though he couldn’t quite believe she was there, eating macaroons and drinking tea.

Perhaps he was nervous about asking her to marry him? Perhaps he had changed his mind? If he had expected to start marriage negotiations with her father before meeting her, he must be displeased she’d arrived to push things forward.

Well, she would have to prove to him she could be wifely material. He had to have fallen in love with her via her letters, even if he had not said as much. There was simply no way two people could communicate as they did without love. Already on the verge of love, it would only take a few kind words and actions for her to fall head-over-toes in love with him. Viola loved love. She poured it onto her brothers, who all thought her silly, and she doted on her father. The men in her life accepted her actions begrudgingly but she needed someone who could show her the same in return.

Julian, the tenth Marquess of Lockwood, had to be that man. Under those stiff British manners lay a man with a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She simply hadn’t met him yet.

She skimmed her gaze over the room and tried not to be daunted by its beauty and elegance. Is Patches around?

It seemed to take him a few moments to absorb her question. A tiny ripple of movement ran through him and he reminded her of a beast unfurling himself. He finally reached for a cup of tea and nodded. Yes, though he’ll be upstairs. He sleeps in the master bedroom for most of the day and does his stalking at night.

I recall. Does he still like to sprawl across your face in the mornings?

Yes. A hint of a smile teased his lips. His cat was apparently his weakness. What of Mittens? You left him at home, I see.

Oh yes, he wouldn’t have taken well to the travelling though I intend to bring him here next time. I miss him already.

No doubt he is missing you too.

Papa has promised to spoil him with lots of fish and sliced ham.

Their cats had been what had led to their correspondence back and forth. She had apologised on her father’s behalf when Mittens had chewed up one of Julian’s letters to her father and it was unreadable. So when she explained what had happened and asked him to resend his request, he had sympathised and said he understood well. Viola couldn’t help but be charmed by this Englishman and his love for his cat.

I shall introduce you later. He placed down his cup when she shivered. You are still cold.

A l-little. Now he’d reminded her, the chills seemed to increase, making her hand shake and her tea nearly spill into her lap. She placed the cup down before she had any more disasters. I swear the rain is colder here and it has soaked all the way through to my undergarments.

That eyebrow rose again. His expressions seemed to only go as far as mildly surprised to faintly astonished by her. Was she so very baffling? She would have to try harder to be more ladylike. Her friends had told her to watch her tongue and be more refined but growing up in a household of men—poor men for a while—had made her a little rough around the edges. It didn’t matter that she would inherit part of her father’s business one day and be a wealthy woman. No amount of wealth would make up for her past.

Viola certainly envied those with family wealth who had received training in how to behave. Perhaps when she returned home before the wedding she would ask father to invest in some help. A few weeks of teaching ought to do it. Then she could return to England and be the perfect bride of a lord.

He stood suddenly and strode over to the bell pull. She listened for some kind of sound but heard nothing. How did he know it had rung? But sure enough, the very same maid arrived within moments, looking flushed and a little breathless. She imagined lords like Julian didn’t worry that his staff might not hear him or come to him on command. He simply expected them to always be there to cater to him.

Jenny, Miss Thompson could do with a warm bath. Have one poured, will you? And see that her trunk is taken up to the Sunflower room.

Yes, milord. The maid turned to hurry away.

Jenny? Where the devil is Bramley?

In the village, milord. Mr Bramley didn’t think you’d be needing him today so he went in to collect the post and those books you ordered.

Very well. He waved a hand then called her name again. Will you take Miss Thompson up to her room now. Julian—no, Lord Lockwood—eyed Viola sternly. "When you are warm and dry, we’ll decide what to do with you.

A faint flourish of excitement crept into her belly. He wasn’t exactly warm as she had hoped and he certainly hadn’t greeted her with the expected passionate kiss but there was something darkly attractive about the man. His eyes said wicked things to her, even while his face remained expressionless.

She placed down her unfinished cup of tea. Perhaps he wished to be rid of her so he could make himself more presentable. He would look utterly divine in a necktie and formal wear. Coming to her feet, she offered a formal curtsey.

Good day to you, my lord.

A mildly bemused expression crossed his face before he nodded and turned his attention to the cup of tea in his hand. Had she curtsied wrong? She sighed as she followed Jenny out. She had a lot to learn about English gentleman and their etiquette.

Chapter Three

It’s so small.

Yes, miss, Jenny replied.

Aren’t there any bigger ones?

No, miss. This is the master’s one.

Viola tapped a finger to her lips as she eyed the tin bath. She was hardly the largest of women but she was tall. How would her legs fit inside that tiny thing?

Jenny poured in another bucket of water and handed it back to the maid who was bringing warm water up from the kitchen. The other maid looked to be a good few years older than Viola and not up to the task hauling bucketful upon bucketful of heated water from downstairs. She suspected that by the time the bath was full, the original water would be cold.

Do you not have indoor plumbing? Viola couldn’t resist asking. It was an inane question because surely if they did, they wouldn’t be running back and forth to fill her bath.

But she was entirely baffled by the lack of taps and baths. A house like Lockwood Manor would have all the latest in modern engineering surely? The vast building with its impressive columns, high ceilings and utter decadence had taken her breath away but she really had been expecting it to be less... old. And certainly less draughty.

These old houses aren’t easy to modernise, Miss, Jenny explained. Only new houses and hotels have indoor plumbing. I expect you have it everywhere in New York.

Well, yes, actually.

We do have it in London—not that I’ve ever been there, but my brother has. It must be wonderful to live in a city like New York. I’d love to visit it one day.

Viola sat down on the four-poster bed and gave the mattress an experimental bounce. It was soft—very soft. As old as the bed probably. It’s exciting but I do like your countryside. There’s no green fields where I live.

Green fields are dull. Jenny swirled about the bath water with a hand and looked to her. I’d far rather be surrounded by shops and huge buildings.

The other maid returned with another bucket. Jenny poured it in, gave it a swirl and stepped back to eye the bath. We have no bath oils or salts, I’m afraid. The lord threw out everything like that after his last wife died.

His last wife? She knew he was a widower but hadn’t realised there had been more than one. How awful, losing two wives. He had written little about his wife in his letters, save that she had died just over a year ago. Was he still in mourning? Did that explain his surly countenance? And if he was, why had he implied he wished to marry her? Viola resisted the desire to put her head in her hands or probe Jenny for information. That would be the crass thing to do and she was trying to prove herself. If she could show that she was marchioness material, perhaps he would warm to her.

No doubt he had been expecting something else from her letters. Someone refined and intelligent perhaps. Viola was certainly not simple but she always felt she expressed herself better in writing. Was he disappointed in her?

Shall I help you undress, miss? Jenny asked, interrupting her thoughts.

No! She smiled. I mean, no I can manage, thank you. She’d certainly never needed anyone to dress and undress her. She wasn’t going to start now.

Very well. If you need anything, just pull that rope there.

Thank you.

Jenny backed out of the room and Viola finally gave into the urge to throw herself back against the bed and lay an arm over her face. If she became a marchioness, would she have to let people dress her? She shuddered—and not from the cold. In a house full of boys, privacy had been a rare thing so she treasured it when she had it. She was the only one with a separate room growing up—at least until her father made his fortune in coffee and moved them into a beautiful house with rooms enough for all of them. Except for Ralphy who had left home by then.

Fatigue made her lids heavy and she forced her arm back and her eyes open. The excitement and anticipation had left her, leaving her drained. Adding that to the chill in her body and she felt almost ill. And Viola Thompson never got ill.

But she had imagined this differently. Yes, the grand old house was more breathtaking than she could have dreamed possible, and Lord Lockwood certainly affected her breathing too. But there had been no romance, no being swept off her feet. She had anticipated him seeing her, falling desperately in love and carrying her up to his bedroom to make love to her then and there. Then they would get a special licence and marry as quickly as possible. How envious her friends would be to hear she was a marchioness. How dreamy her life would be to live in England, married to a lord.

She was a romantic fool. Her father would blame all the novels she’d read of England. She had hoped for her very own Mr Darcy but it wasn’t to be.

Well, he certainly had that aloofness she might have expected from an English gent.

Pushing herself up, she drew off her necktie and unbuttoned her shirt. She flung it aside then thought better of it. Viola retrieved it and hung it over the sky blue chair in one corner. She paused to peer out of the window. The nice thing about living in the middle of the countryside, she decided, is no one would care a whit that she was standing in only her corset and skirt. For many miles, huge green fields stretched out. From here she could see over the oaks that surrounded the house and spotted a few scattered cottages, presumably belonging to the farmers.

How much of this land was Julian’s? She had researched his family as much as she could, spending hours looking at his name in Debrett’s, but knew only that he was around the fourteenth richest man in England. She had to assume then, that much of this land was his.

As she slipped off her skirt and began to unlace her corset—something she was very adept at having grown up without a maid or mother—she pondered the other properties she knew he owned. Would he take her to Kent for the summer perhaps to stay in the house by the sea? Or up to Scotland so she could explore the mountains and castles?

She put her corset on top of her shirt and removed her skirt and combination. A chill swept across her skin. Jenny had apologised for the temperature of the room, explaining they didn’t light fires in the rooms that weren’t to be used. Though a fire now blazed in the hearth, casting golden light over the tin bathtub, the room hadn’t warmed yet.

Viola dipped a toe into the water and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t freezing but it certainly wasn’t as warm as she liked. To immerse herself in that seemed unbearable. How did these English women put up with these conditions? They had to be made of sterner stuff than her. Holding in a breath and drawing up her shoulders, she stepped fully in and sank down quickly.

The lukewarm water enveloped her and