A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore


Tonight he would begin his subtle, gentle wooing.

Andrew Stanton stood in a shadowed corner of Lord Ravensly’s elegant drawing room, feeling very much the way he imagined a soldier on the brink of battle might feel-anxious, focused, and very much praying for a hopeful outcome.

His gaze skimmed restlessly over the formally attired guests. Lavishly gowned and bejeweled ladies swirled around the dance floor in the arms of their perfectly turned-out escorts to the lilting strains of the string trio.

But none of the waltzing ladies was the one he sought. Where was Lady Catherine?

He sipped his brandy, his fingers clenched around the cut glass snifter in an attempt to stem the urge to toss back the potent drink in a single gulp. Damn it all, he hadn’t felt this nervous and unsettled since… never. Well, not counting the handful of times over the past fourteen months he’d spent in Lady Catherine’s company. Ridiculous how the mere thought of the woman, how simply being in the same room with her affected his ability to breathe straight and think properly… er, think straight and breathe properly.

His efforts to seek out Lady Catherine this evening had already been interrupted three times by people with whom he had no desire to speak. He feared one more such interruption would cause him to grind his teeth down to stubs.

Again he scanned the room, and his jaw tightened. Blast. After being forced to wait for what felt like an eternity finally to court her, why couldn’t Lady Catherine-albeit unknowingly-at least soothe his anxiety by showing herself?

The hum of conversation surrounded him, marked by peals of laughter and the chime of fine crystal goblet rims touching in congratulatory toasts. Prisms of light reflected off the highly polished parquet floor from the dozens of candles glowing in the sparkling crystal chandeliers, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Over one hundred of Society’s finest had turned out for Lord Ravensly’s sixtieth birthday party. Society’s finest and… me.

He reached up and tugged at his carefully tied cravat. “Damned uncomfortable neckwear,” he muttered. Whoever had invented the constraining blight on fashion should be tossed in the Thames. Although his expertly tailored formal black cutaway rivaled that of any noble gentleman in the room, part of him still felt like a weed amongst the hothouse flowers. Uncomfortable. Out of his element. And painfully aware that he stood far outside the lofty social strata in which he currently found himself- certainly much further than anyone present would ever have expected. His long-standing friendship with Lord Ravensly’s son Philip, and growing friendship with Lord Ravensly himself, as well as Lady Catherine, had secured Andrew an invitation to this evening’s elegant birthday celebration. Too bad Philip himself wasn’t here. With Meredith soon to give birth, Philip hadn’t wanted to venture far from his wife’s side.

Although perhaps it was just as well that Philip wasn’t in attendance. When he had given Andrew his blessing to court Lady Catherine, he’d warned Andrew that his sister wouldn’t be eager to marry again, given her disastrous first marriage. The last thing Andrew needed was to have Philip nearby, muttering words of doom.

He drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the positive. His frustrating failure to locate Lady Catherine in the crowd had afforded him the opportunity to converse with numerous investors who had already committed funds to Andrew and Philip’s museum venture. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth were eager to know how things were progressing, as were Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather, all of whom had invested funds. Mrs. Warrenfield appeared anxious to invest a healthy amount, as did Lord Kingsly. Lord Borthrasher who’d already made a sizable investment, seemed interested in investing more. After speaking with them, Andrew had also made some discreet inquiries regarding the matter he’d recently been commissioned to look into.

But with the business talk now completed, he’d retreated to this quiet corner to garner his thoughts, much as he did before preparing for a pugilistic bout at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium. His gaze continued to pan over the guests, halting abruptly when he caught sight of Lady Catherine, exiting from behind an Oriental silk screen near the French doors.

He stilled at the sight of her bronze gown. Every time he’d seen her during the past year, her widow’s weeds had engulfed her like a dark, heavy rain cloud. Now officially out of mourning, she resembled a golden bronze sun setting over the Nile, gilding the landscape with slanting rays of warmth.

She paused to exchange a few words with a gentleman, and Andrew’s avid gaze noted the way the vivid material of her gown contrasted with her pale shoulders and complemented her shiny chestnut curls gathered into a Grecian knot. The becoming coiffure left the vulnerable curve of her nape bare…

He blew out a long breath and raked his free hand through his hair. How many times had he imagined skimming his fingers, his mouth, over that soft, silky skin? More than he cared to admit. She was all things lovely and good. A perfect lady. Indeed, she was perfect in every way.

He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough for her. In spite of his financial successes, socially he felt like a beggar with his nose pressed to the glass at the confectioner’s shop. But neither his mind nor his common sense were in charge any longer. She was free. And while he cherished the platonic relationship that had blossomed between them over the past fourteen months, his feelings ran far deeper than mere friendship, and his heart would not be denied. His sullied past, her noble lineage, his lack of lineage-all be damned.

His gaze tracked her slim, regal form as she made her way around the perimeter of the room, and his heart executed the same erratic hop it performed every time he looked at her. If he’d been capable of laughter, he would have chuckled at himself and his gut-level reaction to her. He felt like a tongue-tied, green schoolboy-quite deflating as he normally considered himself a man of at least some finesse.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles, he pulled in a lungful of air and prepared to step from the shadows. A firm hand grasped him by the shoulder.

“You might want to straighten your cravat before heading into the fray, old man.”

Andrew turned swiftly and found himself staring into Philip’s amused, bespectacled brown eyes. Frustration instantly gave way to concern. “What are you doing here? Is Meredith all right?”

“My wife is fine, thank you, or at least as fine as a woman in the final weeks of pregnancy can be. As to why I am here, for reasons I cannot fathom, Meredith insisted I make an appearance at Father’s birthday celebration.” He shook his head, clearly bemused. “I did not want to leave her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it is that only a fool argues with an expectant mother. So I reluctantly left her side and suffered the three-hour journey to London to bestow my felicitations upon Father. Meredith suggested I remain here overnight, but I flatly refused. My coach is being brought ‘round even as we speak. However, I couldn’t leave without talking to you. How goes the progress on the museum?”

“Very well. Hiring Simon Wentworth as our steward was one of the smartest things we’ve done. He’s extremely organized and keeps the workmen on schedule.”

“Excellent.” Philip’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “How goes the Charles Brightmore investigation?”

Andrew blew out a sigh. “The bastard doesn’t appear to exist, except on paper as the author of the Guide, but that only serves to intrigue me further. Trust me, I have every intention of collecting the impressive sum Lord Markingworth and his friends have promised me for identifying the author.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I recommended you. You’re tenacious and unrelenting when it comes to ferreting out the truth. And thanks to your ties to the museum and your association with the, ahem, exalted likes of me, you have access to both Society’s finest and persons of, shall we say, more humble origins. People would be far more inclined to confide in you than a Runner, and your presence at these types of soirees doesn’t raise a brow, as a stranger’s or a Runner’s would.”

“Yes, that is to my advantage,” Andrew agreed. “It has been my experience that clues are often inadvertently revealed during casual conversations.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt of your success. I only hope that revealing this Charles Brightmore’s identity puts a stop to this damnable Ladies’ Guide. I want that book pulled from the shelves before Meredith manages to secure a copy. My lovely wife is by far too independent as it is. Keeping her in check already requires nearly more energy than I can muster.”

“Yes, I’m certain that it’s your beautiful wife’s independence that drains your energy.” His gaze skimmed over Philip in a pointed fashion. “You do not appear to be suffering overmuch at her hands. But fear not-I intend to unmask this Brightmore person. I’ll not only have the pleasure of exposing the charlatan, but the money I’ll earn doing so will help further my campaign with regard to your sister. I have every intention of giving Lady Catherine the luxury to which she is accustomed.”

“Ah. Speaking of which-how goes the courting of my sister?”

Andrew looked toward the ceiling. “Rather slowly, I’m afraid.”

“Well, quit dawdling about. I’ve never known you to be anything less than relentless when you wanted something. Why are you dilly-dallying?”