Free A Season for Love by Blair Bancroft Page A

surge of
emotion she had experienced when she thought he wished to escape
their betrothal was despair. The thought of losing him had yawned
like the proverbial black pit before her. If he had not wanted her,
she would have let him go. But since did want her—for whatever reasons—she would not
let pride stand in the way.
    For Susan’s sake. For her little girl.
    Fool! For Jen’s
sake. For Jen’s heart. For Jen’s eternal hope.
    “ Very well, Marcus,” she said to the
man whose eyes had never wavered from her face. “I will marry
you.”
     
    In spite of the fact that the bride was
a thirty-year-old widow with a child and the only dewy-eyed virgin
in the wedding party was the daughter of the groom, the marriage of
the Duke of Longville and Lady Eugenia Norville Wharton was
expected to be one of the great events of the Season of 1815. Not
even Napoleon’s escape from Elba or the massing of his former
armies in France could compete for the ton ’s attention. But no one had expected the
wedding to be a riot, with what appeared to be half of London’s
masses, as well as the elite not fortunate enough to be on Lady
Worley’s invitation list, attempting to crowd into Hanover Square
for a glimpse of the bridal party, and, most particularly, of the
young Marquess of Huntley. Not that the few who were tall enough,
or aggressive enough, to actually see something didn’t appreciate
the arrogant set of the duke’s shoulders, the sheer beauty of his
eldest child, the sturdy handsomeness of the Norville family, or
the pale but statuesquely regal presence of the bride. But the lad
. . . ah, the little lad caught everyone’s eye. Whether they
thought him a miracle or an imposter, the remainder of the bridal
party did not rate a second glance. How
like his father! A bastard, that’s what he is. Duke’s a rare fool,
if y’ask me! Not a bit of it—boy’s the very spit of ’im. Duchess
played ’im false, I tell ye . . . got to be all a hum, it is. Ah,
but what a handsome lad. Duke’s fair bustin’ with pride, can’t
y’see?
    There were more than a few glances, however,
for the little girl lifted from the Worley family coach by the
Viscount Frayne. When set upon her feet, she held her head high,
walking with dainty steps toward the entrance to St. George’s,
clutching her uncle’s hand, her dark hair, winsome face and dress
of pink dimity making such a charming picture that the unruly crowd
paused for a general sigh of approval. One voice rose above the
others: “Praise be, the little one’s not a great gawk like her ma
and grandma!” For a moment laughter rippled through the crowd,
echoing hollowly in Anthony Norville’s ears. Furious, he hurried
his four-year-old niece inside, hoping, probably in vain, that she
was too young to understand.
    Cruel, unfeeling
bastards! What was being said about young Huntley was
bad enough, but to mock little Susan’s mother and grandmother
directly to the child’s face. Not that the ton wasn’t almost as bad, Tony had to concede.
The buzz hanging over Mayfair was loud enough he was amazed people
weren’t in fear of attack by a swarm of bees. Although he had been
nearly as stunned by the news of an heir as his sister, Tony never
doubted the child’s legitimacy. Lady Longville’s long-kept secret
fit what he recalled of her eccentric personality. And Longville
was one of the sharpest men Tony knew. The possibility of the duke
being fooled by an imposter or a bastard was ludicrous.
Nevertheless, there were many—including those the viscount had
previously thought sober and sensible—who were far from ready to
accept the Marquess of Huntley as the duke’s heir. It would appear
that Longville’s solicitors had their work cut out for them. And
the scandal was bound to rub off on Jen. Almost, he could have
wished she had cried off.
    Then he would not find himself
uncle-by-marriage to Lady Caroline Carlington.
     
    On the afternoon after the duke’s arrival in
London, Tony had