Within another half-hour she was out in the stable yard and was waiting for Beauty to be saddled. The fresh morning air restored her spirits. She decided to ride without a groom and whilst she was out, to consider the attributes that she required in a transient fiancé.

She trotted down the drive and out on to the lane. Her fiancé would have to be a gentleman, of course, or at least someone who could consistently act the part. She could not foist some upstart upon her family and expect them to accept him. On the other hand, he had to be biddable. She was the one in charge of this situation and required her betrothed to recognise that fact. He could not challenge her authority. He would do as she told him. Smiling slightly, she set Beauty at the fence and galloped off into the fields.


Lord Richard Kestrel had been cantering full tilt along the lane that passed Mallow House when he saw Mrs Stratton’s gig approaching, driven at a cracking pace by the gardener’s boy. The gig passed within two inches of him and one of its rickety wheels almost came clear of the road. The boy righted it without the least appearance of concern and continued on his way whistling. But a letter that had been on the seat beside him slid from the cart and came to rest on top of a tall spike of thistles at the side of the road. Richard bent down, plucked it from its perch and looked at it with interest. It was written in Deborah Stratton’s strong hand, which he had previously read on one memorable occasion, and it was addressed to the editor of the Suffolk Chronicle. Richard dusted the missive down, caught up with the gig and passed it over to the gardener’s boy, who stowed it away gratefully.

As Richard turned his horse, he wondered idly why the Honourable Mrs Stratton would be writing to the newspapers. Perhaps she was inviting more ladies to join the Midwinter reading group. Or more likely she was writing to the editor to complain about the preponderance of rakes in the Midwinter villages that summer. Richard knew that Mrs Stratton had no very good opinion of rakes in general and of himself in particular.

Richard took the green lane that passed to the east of Deb Stratton’s property and slowed his highly bred black hunter to a decorous trot. The horse flickered its ears with disappointment, but Richard had no wish to meet his maker on that particular morning and it seemed that almost everyone abroad had let the fresh summer air go to their heads. Tempting as it was to kick the horse to a gallop, Richard had an instinctive feeling that caution should be the order of the day.

The thought had scarcely left his mind when there was the tremor of hooves on the dry earth, and Deborah Stratton herself rode out on to the lane on a big brown mare that was almost a match for Richard’s hunter. The horse saw them before Deb did and it took fright, rearing up and pirouetting around. Deb brought the mare ruthlessly under control in a flurry of flying hooves and sat panting slightly, her hat askew, her cheeks stung pink with cool morning air and indignation.

‘Good morning, Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said. ‘Are you practising to join the Spanish Riding School in Vienna?’

He saw Deb Stratton’s pansy-blue eyes narrow on him with intense dislike. She always looked rather comical when she was angry, like a child having a tantrum. Her face was too pretty and too amiable to express annoyance convincingly, and for all that she was two and twenty, she looked much younger. From the thick, fair curling hair that rioted beneath her hat, to the pert nose, full mouth and resolute chin, she looked like a schoolroom chit who had been thwarted and was in a sulk.

‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said. She was having difficulty keeping her tone even slightly polite. ‘I would rather join a school renowned for its discipline than be a circus rider like you.’

Richard grinned. One of the many things that he liked about Mrs Stratton was that her nature was so open that she found it well nigh impossible to adopt the prevarications required by polite society. With him, she did not even try.

They had met two years previously and almost from the start Deborah had made it perfectly clear that she found him to be nothing but a rake and a scoundrel, and she would be the happiest woman on earth if she were never to see him again. Richard’s reputation, which had drawn so many women to him like moths to a dangerous flame, had done him no favours at all in her eyes. He had quickly realised that Deb was that most fascinating combination of qualities, a passionate woman who appeared to have the morals of a puritan. Her antagonism had only piqued his interest. And, being a rake, he had known at once that he had to have her.

Their acquaintance had developed in the most fascinating way. Richard had begun to suspect that, for all her protestations, Deb was not indifferent to him. He was too experienced with women not to recognise that her dislike was turning to reluctant attraction. The very fact that she deliberately avoided his company spoke of her struggle with her own feelings. The knowledge had prompted him to make a serious miscalculation. He had asked her to be his mistress.

It was unlike him to be so inept in matters of the heart, but he had assumed that he could overcome any scruples Deb might possess and persuade her into an affaire. A slapped cheek had demonstrated just how passionate her nature was-and how far he had misjudged the situation. Then, lest he had not quite understood her message, she had sent him a very sharp letter, telling him to keep out of her way in future. Ordering him, in fact.

Richard had had no intention of doing so and he was assisted in the matter by the fact that society in the Midwinter villages was small and they were forever being thrown into each other’s company. Deb had tried to ignore him and Richard had delighted in teasing her by straying close to the line that she had drawn. She had reacted disdainfully, yet underneath he had sensed that her reluctant attraction to him was still there and that it troubled her deeply. It also stirred in him a desire greater than he had ever known.

But then two things had happened to change the balance of the situation. Firstly, Richard had renewed his friendship with Ross Marney, under whom he had served at sea. Ross was his senior by several years and there had always been a mutual respect between the two of them. Now that they were living in the same neighbourhood, this quickly grew into a warmer friendship. Which made Deb, as Ross’s sister-in-law, firmly out of bounds to Richard. She became that most tempting but untouchable of creatures, the woman that he wanted but simply could not have.

As if this were not bad enough, Richard had crowned his folly with a final piece of madness. He had fallen in love with Deb and his ambitions had changed. Now he wanted to marry her.

He was not entirely sure how or why it had happened. True, they were forever in company together and shared an interest in riding and the pleasures of the outdoors. Even so, it seemed inexplicable to him. He was not a man who had ever looked to marry, for his elder brother had the responsibility of providing an heir to the dukedom of Kestrel. More to the point, he had never met a woman that he wanted to wed. Until now. And now, of course, his choice had fixed upon someone who would barely give him the time of day, let alone her hand in marriage.

Richard had told himself many times that his ardour was the natural result of being denied something that he wanted. He told himself that he would soon overcome this temporary difficulty and be cured.

He knew that he deceived himself.

It was also clear that he had not a hope in hell of achieving his ambition of marriage to Deborah, for whilst he had been languishing like a lovestruck boy rather than a man of experience, Deb’s feelings for him had undergone no such radical change. She still despised his reputation and, as a result, would not let him close. It was barely surprising, given that he had marked his card when he had asked her to be his mistress.

Richard knew that he could not undo the past. For years he had revelled in his status as one of the most dangerous rakes in London. He had exploited it, enjoyed it to the full. Now it could deny him the one thing that he wanted above all else. It was an irony that he could appreciate.

And in addition there was another obstacle. Richard had heard from Ross Marney amongst others that Deb’s first marriage had been very unhappy and that she did not look to wed again. Taken all in all, the barriers seemed formidable. And yet Richard knew that he was going to try. His courtship would not be in the least conventional, but it was his most ardent intention to oblige Deb to admit her feelings and to persuade her that, despite her misgivings, they were meant to be together.

He brought his horse alongside hers and was amused when she twitched her reins to draw a little way away from him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was attempting to compliment your riding skills. You controlled your horse magnificently back there. But perhaps you do not care for compliments from a circus rider?’

Deb turned her face away so that all he could see was her charming profile beneath the brim of her saucy hat.

‘I certainly do not seek compliments from you, Lord Richard,’ she said. ‘They are as worthless as withered weeds.’

‘How poetic,’ Richard said. ‘Do you study the romantic poets at the Midwinter ladies’ reading group this summer, Mrs Stratton?’

Deborah’s voluptuous mouth pursed tightly, as though someone had pulled a drawstring. It made Richard want to kiss her. He repressed the jolt of desire that ran through him and soothed Merlin to a stately walk. The hunter tossed its head in disgust.