The Disgraced Marchioness. Anne O'Brien

       ‘Eleanor …’

      She turned her head. Slowly. As if it took all her effort of will to force her body to obey. To focus on the man who stood before her.

      ‘Eleanor. I presume that you had no suspicion of this terrible débâcle. Not the slightest hint that Thomas might have had a liaison elsewhere.’

      ‘No. How should I? I cannot believe it …’

      ‘Nor I. It does not sound like Thomas.’ Henry watched her carefully, aware of the white shade around her mouth as she skimmed the brink of control. Every instinct urged him to take her in his arms and let her cry out her frozen misery against his chest. But he could not, dared not, too unsure of her reaction to him if he made any intimate gesture. Too unsure of his feelings towards her. There was no place for pity here. And yet the bitter anger at her cold-hearted betrayal of his own love for her no longer seemed to weigh in the balance. A very masculine urge to protect took precedence.

      ‘That he should already have a wife and child when he … when he …’ Eleanor swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her lips to stop the words. Then, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

      ‘I will do all I can to help you.’

       Dear Reader

      In The Disgraced Marchioness I have recounted the intense but dangerous love affair between Lord Henry Faringdon and Eleanor, Marchioness of Burford—the widow of Henry’s older brother. The possibilities in their relationship fascinated me. A tale of mistaken rejection and betrayal, but above all a family saga of searing passion and undying love.

      The desire to write this first volume in The Faringdon Scandals mini-series was born out of an interest in marriage in Regency England—particularly in the circumstances that might prevent marriage between members of one family. Love decrees that Henry and Eleanor be together. The severe rulings of the law seem destined to keep the lovers apart.

      Henry, with his dark good looks, must assuredly attract the interest and admiration of any woman, but he is strong-willed, with more than a hint of the Faringdon pride. Beautiful Eleanor, spirited and headstrong, finds it difficult to hide a fragility that would stir the protective instincts of a lesser man than Henry. And with an intimate history between them, from which neither has emerged unscathed, Henry cannot turn his back on her.

      Just how will their relationship fare when scandal erupts, to threaten Eleanor with disgrace and cause the Faringdons to be snubbed by the contemptuous haut ton?

      The history of the Faringdon brothers doesn’t stop with this book, but is continued with Nick’s story in The Outrageous Débutante, coming soon!

      I hope that this dynamic, vivacious but remarkably devoted family will delight you as much as they did me!

      About the Author

      ANNE O’BRIEN was born and lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. Here she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Harlequin Mills & Boon^®. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches.

       Recent titles by the same author:

      RUNAWAY HEIRESS

       PURITAN BRIDE

       MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE

      Don’t miss the second instalment of THE FARINGDON SCANDALS

       The Outrageous Débutante

       Coming in December 2005

      The Disgraced

       Marchioness

      Anne O’Brien

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Chapter One

      The gentleman was apparently not expected by the inhabitants of Burford Hall. In no way discouraged by the silence, the lack of activity and the shuttered windows, he leapt down from the curricle with unhurried grace to stand on the gravel carriageway, as his groom ascended the shallow sweep of steps and rang the bell. With his back to the house, the visitor allowed his gaze to take in the familiar vista, noting little change over past months. Expertly and fashionably designed gardens with paved pathways and shaded walks. A rose terrace where fragrant blooms were just being tempted to open in the warm sunshine. Rolling parkland made enticing by groupings of trees, which had been planted at least a century ago for impact and perspective. All prosperous and well tended with the glaze of extreme wealth. The stables off to his left had been recently re-roofed and he could see the grazing herd of cattle, placid and fat, in one of the distant pastures beyond home farm.

      He did not need to turn to face the house to appreciate every inch of the elegant façade in intimate and well-loved detail. Every pillar, portico and decorated frieze, from balustraded terrace to dominant central pediment, all constructed in glowing local stone or faced with more fashionable brick. It was a beautiful house and home, gracious and welcoming, mellow with the happy memories of a shared childhood.

      Two years previously he had chosen to turn his back on it, to leave the guarantee of wealth and privilege, and social acceptance by the haut ton. Two years ago he had wanted to create for himself a quite different lifestyle. And nothing had given him cause to regret his choice. But now, by a mischievous and malicious quirk of fate, his life had been turned upside down.

      He supposed it was all his now: house, land, title and all they could bring in terms of comfort and consequence. His brother’s untimely death had, overnight, created him Marquis of Burford.

      The thought gave him no pleasure. I don’t want it. I would never have wanted it. Indeed, the deliberate rejection of his birthright screamed through his mind as he climbed the steps with outward calm to his ancestral home.

      The door was flung open at the insistent ringing to allow entry to the unexpected guest. The footman, a young man in neat black, casting an envious and knowing eye over the stylish equipage and well-bred bays drawn up on the gravel, bowed the gentleman in without a flicker of recognition, but accepting of his quality and his right to be desiring entrance unannounced to Burford Hall.

      ‘If I could take your coat, sir, I will inform Lord Nicholas of your arrival.’

      The guest looked at the young footman. A new acquisition to the staff since his last visit. He smiled in courteous recognition of the offered service. ‘Of course.’ He handed over his tall-crowned hat and shrugged out of an eye-catching caped greatcoat.

      ‘What name shall I give, sir?’

      Before he could give a reply, hesitant footsteps echoed on the marble tiles of the entrance hall and an elderly man emerged from the servants’ quarters. He hesitated on an intake of breath, blinked as if he did not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes, and then immediately quickened his steps.

      ‘My lord, my lord. Thank God you are here. We were not expecting you.’ The old man shuffled forward, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, to take the garment from the footman, and search the face of the gentleman with eyes suddenly moist with powerful emotion. ‘We did not know if the letters had reached you—perhaps you might not yet even be aware of the tragic events here.’