Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune

should very much like to meet your father, cousin, but my aunt expects me in Park Lane. I was meant to be there three quarters of an hour ago, and I am never late.”

      Abigail reddened. “It’s my fault you’re late now. I’m so sorry.”

      He smiled. “You’ve provided me with an excellent excuse for my tardiness, at any rate.”

      Though she in no way wanted him to go, Abigail was relieved when he did. Having one’s wits scrambled by a good-looking stranger was decidedly unpleasant. Much better to be left in peace with a cup of tea and a quiet volume of Wordsworth.

      Mr. Eldridge was more than happy to provide her with these comforts. He showed Abigail to the private sitting room and brought her a pot of tea and The White Doe of Rhylston. “I suppose my cousin, Mr. Wayborn, buys a lot of books for his wife,” Abigail remarked, idly opening the little green book to its title page.

      “Did Mr. Wayborn marry?” Mr. Eldridge replied, pouring her tea into a Worcester cup. “Oh, dear. I failed to wish him joy. Shall I put The White Doe on your account, madam?”

      “No,” Abigail said, arriving at a sudden decision. Closing the book, she held it out to him. “No, I think I’ll take the Blake after all, Mr. Eldridge.”

      “Very good, madam,” said Mr. Eldridge, pleased.

      When Mr. Ritchie arrived to collect his only child some thirty minutes later, he found her deep in thought over a book, staring at a picture of a smirking tiger. “Abby! You will never guess who I saw in Bond Street just now,” he said, in his thick Glaswegian accent. “My Lord Dulwich, that’s who. Someone’s getting sparklers for Christmas, I shouldn’t wonder!”

      Abigail smiled fondly at her father. The sole proprietor of Ritchie’s Fine Spirits, est. 1782, was not a gentleman, but he was still the best man she had ever known. He was also one of the richest men in the kingdom. “He certainly knows how to make an impression,” she tactfully agreed with him. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I didn’t marry him after all?”

      Chapter 2

      Heedless of her long black skirts, Juliet Wayborn ran down the stairs of her aunt’s town house to greet her brother with spaniel-like enthusiasm. The mourning dress and jet ornaments she wore in honor of the sixth Duke of Auckland became her quite as well as the white satin wedding gown she had ordered for her forthcoming marriage to the seventh Duke of Auckland.

      “Careful, monkey,” Cary said, laughing as she flung herself headlong into his arms. “You wouldn’t want to break your nose this close to your wedding day. Speaking of which, I saw the man’s grays being walked up and down the street. I take it he’s here?”

      She nodded. “Just back now—he’s been called to Auckland twice this month, poor lamb. I see you still have that horrid little muskrat growing on your chin,” she added severely. “And the earrings! You’re not going to wear earrings at my wedding. You look like a pirate!”

      “I’ve missed you, Julie,” said Cary, surprised how true it was. His rustic existence in Hertfordshire was a lonely one. In London, he had been something of a local celebrity, a man of fashion whose perfectly matched chestnuts had proved unbeatable in countless races, but in Hertfordshire he had few friends. Most evenings he sat alone at his fireside, his only company being Angel, a mongrel pup he had recently purchased from a gypsy for tuppence. “Anyway, it’s only one earring.”

      “Oh, that’s much nicer,” she snorted. “And don’t even think of wearing one of your shabby old purple coats, either! I want all the men in pearl gray. Go to Mr. Weston tomorrow.”

      “I shall have to come as I am,” he said, brushing what proved to be baker’s flour from his purple sleeve. “Mr. Weston won’t give me any more coats until I pay my bill.”

      “If you need money—”

      “Don’t,” he said.

      She didn’t.

      “You’re horribly late as usual,” she chided him as they walked arm in arm up the stairs to the salon where their aunt Lady Elkins received visitors when she was not enjoying a spell of ill health. “Ginger has eaten all the muffins, but I shall make him give you his all next week.”

      “I’m afraid I won’t be with you next week, Julie.”

      “What?” she cried in disbelief. “But it’s Christmas week, Cary. We’re all going to Surrey, same as always.”

      “Not this year, I’m afraid,” said Cary, wistful, but resigned.

      “No, you must,” she protested, digging her fingers into his arm. “Next year I shall have to be at Auckland, you know, and every year after that. It’s my last Christmas in our father’s house, Cary. We’re just making our final plans now, and you’re in them.”

      “Sounds ominous,” said her brother.

      “Ginger!” she cried, flinging open the salon doors. “Ginger, Cary says he won’t go to Surrey with us for Christmas. What are you going to do about it?”

      Geoffrey Ambler, the seventh Duke of Auckland, climbed to his feet. Juliet had not quite tamed the enormous redhead, but he now accepted being called Ginger by his future duchess without so much as a grimace of displeasure. The death of his father had hit him hard, postponing his marriage to Juliet, and plunging him, for the first time, into a world of tedious responsibility. Like Juliet, he was dressed in deepest mourning, and the ravages of new pressures and cares showed in the lines and shadows of his craggy face. Nonetheless, he gave Cary a quick, boyish smile that went a long way towards explaining Juliet’s adoration of the fierce-looking redhead. He said, with a lot of northern England in his accent, “I shall need a mallet and a very large sack, but I think I can manage to change his mind, my love.”

      Cary offered his hand. “Hullo, Auckland.”

      His future brother-in-law winced as he shook hands. His father had only been dead for eleven months and his new title was still a fresh source of pain to him. “Please don’t call me that. Auckland was my father. When I hear the name, I find myself looking behind me to see if he’s there. Geoffrey will do. We’re practically brothers, after all.”

      “I was just telling Cary about our plans for Christmas,” said Juliet brightly.

      “Which explains his refusal to go into Surrey,” the Duke said, his green eyes twinkling.

      “Nonsense! Everyone loves a good private theatrical, and Cary’s no different.”

      Cary snorted rather violently.

      “Twelfth Night,” Juliet went on bravely, undeterred by her brother’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’m to be Viola, of course, and Ginger will be my beloved Duke Orsino.”

      “You’re joking me,” said Cary. “Sir, is it even possible that this is true?”

      “If music be the food of love, play on,” the Duke said sheepishly.

      “You see?” Juliet said proudly. “He’s coming along very nicely, I think.”

      “Honestly, why do you put up with her?” Cary wanted to know.

      “Because he adores me, that’s why,” said Juliet. “And Serena has agreed to take the part of the Countess Olivia.”

      Cary started in surprise. Lady Serena Calverstock was seated behind him and he had not been aware of her presence until Juliet made it known. Given that she was wearing one of the new high-brimmed poke bonnets, it seemed a strange oversight. He could remember a time not very long ago when he had possessed an almost supernatural sense that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up whenever Serena was near. Now, nothing, despite the fact that, if anything, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He bowed to her impassively. “Madam. You’re looking well, but then you always do. Look well, that is.”

      The dark-haired