her to pen her own work, published in 1989. She lives in rural Ohio with her husband, two children, two cats and a stray dog that never left. She enjoys hearing from readers at the address below. For a reply, an SASE is appreciated.
Deborah Simmons
P.O. Box 274
Ontario, Ohio 44862-0274
For my editor, Margaret O’Neill Marbury
The marquis of Wroth was restless.
Waving away his driver, he decided to walk the few blocks to his London town house. It was nearly midnight, but the fashionable neighborhood still rang with the sound of coaches ferrying their glittering passengers from one ball to another, and Grayson Ashford Ryland Wescott, the fourth marquis, welcomed the chance to stretch his legs after a tedious hour spent among society’s elite.
Unfortunately, the exercise did little to curb the odd sensation that had been plaguing him for months now, escalating today, on the occasion of his thirtysecond birthday. He saw no reason for the unfamiliar ennui. In the years since he came into his title, at the tender age of fifteen, he had achieved everything he set out to do, attaining a position of wealth, power and prestige that was the envy of his peers. What more could a man want?
At first, he had put the vague discontent down to a lack of challenges in his life. He had gone as far as he wanted to politically, exerting enormous influence behind the scenes rather than in the House itself. Although his various businesses were thriving, he could easily hand over their management to one of his many capable employees. The pursuits of hunting, boxing and racing his curricle had palled as he grew older, and even gambling seemed little risk these days.
When the unnamed malaise persisted, Grayson had given some serious thought to settling down and establishing his nursery. It was high time he got an heir, and he found the notion of retiring to the country strangely appealing, if he could find a suitable wife.
His friends would have laughed at that, for his wealth and title had assured him a steady stream of women since adolescence, and despite his rather unsavory reputation as a breaker of hearts, mamas still threw their daughters at him. He did little enough to encourage them. His liaisons were more often with married women, attracted to his looks or his position, or members of the demimonde, who had no care for their reputations. Whatever their backgrounds, the ladies never held his interest for long, and he had never considered marrying…until recently.
Her name was Charlotte, and she had burst upon the London season like a breath of fresh air. Beautiful, innocent, intelligent and engaging, she was a vicar’s daughter, and Grayson had found himself drawn to her unique brand of honesty. It had soon become plain, however, that Charlotte was enamored of her sponsor of sorts, the stuffy earl of Wycliffe.
Once he discovered where her affections lay, Grayson had played his own small part in ensuring her happiness, and she had married the earl. What a waste, Grayson thought, and yet there was no denying that the two shared something special. Grayson stretched his legs, struck by an odd pang, before continuing on. Damn, but he was not jealous of that clock-minding Wycliffe! It was what the two had between them that he coveted.
Not that he believed in love or any of that nonsense, but the earl and his countess obviously shared a friendship based on common interests, companionship and simple affection that was rare among ton marriages. Wroth slowed his stride. That was what he wanted, but where to find it?
It seemed that all the women in London either were greedy and jaded or hadn’t a thought in their heads, while most of the country gentry he viewed as slow-witted, and homely, besides. His own vicar’s daughter was as plain as a rock, and just as exciting. A woman like Charlotte did not appear to exist, and Grayson wondered if he had somehow missed his opportunity and now was doomed to either go childless or settle for one of the grasping females of his acquaintance.
He was not accustomed to settling for anything.
Grayson’s pensive mood clung as he approached his darkened town house. He had given the staff an evening off after the impromptu birthday celebration they contrived this afternoon, but he had no qualms about putting himself to bed without the services of the butler, valet and footmen who normally swarmed the halls. In fact, he rather enjoyed the solitude that met him.
It was not the first time he had walked through the shadowed rooms alone, and he certainly felt no threat as he drew off his gloves and tossed them on an elegant satinwood table. His reputation as a ruthless opponent extended from political circles right down to the streets, and was such that even the pickpockets usually left him alone.
Still, he had not earned his hard-won renown by relaxing his guard, and when he stepped into his study, his senses were roused to alertness. A subtle presence tickled the back of his neck and made him move casually toward the desk drawer that held his pistol.
“Hold there, gent!” a voice barked, confirming his suspicions, and a figure stepped out of the shadows of the thick draperies. Grayson would have laughed at the sight of the begrimed urchin, except that there was nothing funny about the weapon trained upon him. The young man was either very brave or very stupid, to dare the marquis of Wroth’s own home.
Grayson found himself intrigued. Lifting one brow disdainfully, he eyed the ill-kept youth. “Do you think to hold me up?” he asked, incredulous.
His words seem to disconcert the boy, whose poorly fitting clothes and matted hair looked as if they could use a good wash. “I ain’t no criminal. It’s you who must answer for your foul deeds!”
Foul deeds? Grayson momentarily ignored the pistol, held in a surprisingly small but steady hand, and inclined his head in interest. “And to what, exactly, do you refer, young man? My opposition to the bill that—”
“I ain’t talking about your politics. I’m talking about your morals, or lack thereof!”
Lack thereof? The youngster’s speech held enough surprises to make Grayson study him closer. Despite his bedraggled appearance, the boy held himself straight, his feet spread in a ready stance for shooting. Yet there was something distinctly odd about him that Grayson couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“No one threatens me, pup,” he said. Although he did not raise his voice or change its tone, he conveyed a silky menace that had been known to make grown men shudder.
The urchin didn’t even blink.
“I’m here to avenge my sister, whom you seduced and got with child,” the young man said. Grayson could not mistake the accent this time, or the cool delivery. This was no ordinary guttersnipe. Who the devil was he? And what was this business about a sister?
“I can assure you, pup, that I do not consort with females of your family’s ilk,” Grayson answered smoothly.
“Don’t take that high-stepping tone with me! You liked her well enough when you ruined her. Now it’s time to pay the piper.”
“And that is you, I assume?” Grayson said, inclining his head in a contemptuous fashion that made the boy flush. Strange little fellow. Grayson couldn’t help admiring his heroics, however misplaced, but he had no desire to take a bullet for the sake of them. “Look here, I have no idea what you have heard about me,
