The Bridal Quest. Candace Camp

and whoring that went hand-in-glove with his imbibing, of his many excesses, both financial and of the flesh. Lord Wyngate was a libertine, but worse than that, he was an often cruel man, one who enjoyed the trepidation that others felt around him.

      Irene had been taught, nevertheless, that she should love him, that he deserved her respect simply because he was her parent. It was not a lesson that she had ever truly embraced. She was not, she knew, a good-enough person to forgive him or to love him despite his faults, as her mother seemed able to. Nor was she so given to doing what was expected of one as her brother, Humphrey, so that she would offer him loyalty and respect simply because tradition required it.

      Irene was of the opinion that if someone had attacked her father, he had probably deserved it. Still, he was her father, and she could not allow this stranger to kill him.

      “Don’t you think it is a trifle late to be brawling in the foyer?” she asked in the coolly commanding tone that she had learned was best in dealing with her father.

      Lord Wyngate tugged down his jacket and brushed it off in the heavy-handed and supremely careful way often adopted by those in an inebriated state. He wiped his hand across his face, then looked down in apparent surprise at the blood on his palm.

      “Damn—I think you broke my nose, you jumped-up cardsharp!” Lord Wyngate glowered at the other man.

      His companion, however, did not so much as spare him a glance. His eyes remained on Irene.

      She remembered suddenly how she must look. She had not bothered to throw a dressing gown on over her nightdress when she had decided to search for a book to read. Her feet were bare, and her thick blond hair, released from its pins for the night, tumbled in wildly curling abandon over her shoulders and down her back.

      It occurred to her that the wall sconces from the floor above must be casting a light behind her, probably revealing the outline of her body, naked beneath the cotton nightgown. She blushed to the roots of her hair. Why would he not look away? Clearly the man was a mannerless ruffian.

      She tilted up her chin and gazed back at him, refusing to let this boor see that she was embarrassed. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she saw her father sneak back step and wrap his hand around a small statue that sat on pedestal against the wall. He raised it, starting toward the other man.

      “No!” Irene snapped, swinging the loaded pistol in her left hand toward her father. “Put that down this instant!”

      Lord Wyngate cast her a sulky look but set the statue back on its base.

      The other man glanced over at Lord Wyngate, his lip curling in contempt. He turned back and sketched a bow toward Irene.

      “Thank you, my lady.” His voice was deep and rough, his accent not that of a gentleman.

      “I do not care to have any more blood on the Persian rug,” Irene retorted tartly. “’Tis far too difficult to clean.”

      Her father leaned against the wall, still sulking, and refused to look at her. To her surprise, however, the other man let out a bark of laughter, and amusement lit his face, briefly warming and softening it. She was barely able to stop herself from smiling back at him.

      “’Tis past my understanding that this old goat should have so fair a daughter,” the man said.

      Irene grimaced, annoyed at herself as much as him. The man had an enormous amount of gall to grin at her that way. And how could she be tempted to return the ruffian’s smile?

      “I think you should leave now,” she told him. “Else I will be forced to call the servants and have you ejected.”

      He raised an eyebrow to convey how little her threat moved him, but said only, “Of course. I would not wish to disturb your peace.”

      He walked over to Lord Wyngate, who backed up a bit nervously. The man grasped Wyngate’s shirt front in one hand, clenching his fist in it to hold the man still, and leaned in a little.

      “If I ever hear of you bothering Dora again, I’ll come back and break every bone in your body. Do you understand?”

      Irene’s father flushed with anger, but he nodded.

      “And do not come back to my place again. Ever.” The stranger gave her father a long look, then released him and strode toward the front door. Opening it, he turned back and looked up the stairs at Irene.

      A faint sardonic smile touched his lips, and he said, “Good night, my lady. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

      Then, with a bow, he was gone.

      Irene relaxed, realizing now that it was over, how tense she had been. Her legs felt weak under her, and she dropped her hand back down to her side.

      “Who was that?” she asked.

      “Nobody,” her father replied, turning toward the stairs. His steps were weaving, and he had to grasp the railing to keep from stumbling. “Filthy lout…thinks he can talk that way to me…I ought to show him.” He looked up at Irene, his expression sly and calculating. “Give me that pistol, girl.”

      “Oh, hush,” she said, feeling suddenly weary, “Don’t make me regret keeping him from killing you.”

      She turned and started back up the stairs. Just to be safe, she thought, she would take the pistols to her bedroom, where her father could not get at them.

      “That’s no way to speak to your father,” Lord Wyngate bellowed after her. “You’ll show me respect.”

      Irene whirled back around. “I will show you respect when you deserve some,” she told him tightly.

      “You’re a poor excuse for a daughter,” he returned, his eyes narrowing. “And no man’ll marry you, with the airs you put on. What’ll you do then, eh?”

      “I’ll rejoice,” Irene replied flatly. “From all I can see, a life without a husband would be quite pleasant. I, sir, will never marry.”

      Pleased to see that her words had at least startled him into momentary silence, Irene turned and swept back up the stairs.

      CHAPTER ONE

      London, 1816

      IRENE COVERED A SIGH as her sister-in-law continued her description—in detail—of the gown she had purchased yesterday. It was not that Irene disliked talk of fashion; indeed, she was fonder than she cared to admit of conversations regarding styles and colors and accessories. It was listening to Maura converse about clothes that bored Irene to the point of unconsciousness, for anything Maura discussed was ultimately more about Maura and her own taste or perspicacity or beauty than it was about the subject at hand.

      Maura was, quite simply, the sun around which all interests and all people circled, at least in her own mind. She was unremittingly self-centered, which Irene would not have minded so much if she had not been thoroughly dull and prosaic, as well.

      Irene glanced around the room at the faces of the other women. None of their three visitors, she saw, looked as indifferent or bored as she felt. She wondered if her own expression conveyed as little of her inner reaction. It was difficult to tell, no doubt because all the well-bred ladies had been brought up, as she had, to convey a polite interest in other people’s conversations, no matter how tedious they were.

      Irene’s mother, Lady Claire, was one of the women now listening to Maura with a pleasant and interested look on her face. She would, of course, have considered it bad form to have allowed any other expression to mar her features, but Irene knew that more was involved; her mother was frightened to express a dislike for, or even a disinterest in, anything her daughter-in-law had to say. For the past year, ever since Humphrey had married Maura and brought her back here to live with them, Lady Claire had walked on eggshells, knowing that Maura was now the true power in the household, and could make her and her daughter’s life a misery.

      Of course, in Irene’s opinion, having to bow to Maura’s every whim already made life a misery,