The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae Read Online
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae
Stephanie Laurens
Contents
Family Tree
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Affiliate V
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Affiliate Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter 14
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter 16
Affiliate Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-3
Epilogue
The Wedding ceremony Planner
Nigh the Author
By Stephanie Laurens
Copyright
Virtually the Publisher
Affiliate I
June 1, 1829
Cavendish House, London
"Oh. My. God." Angelica Rosalind Cynster, standing to one side of Lady Cavendish'south salon with the bulk of her ladyship's chattering guests at her back, stared at the long windows giving onto the unlit terrace and the nighttime gardens beyond, at the reflection of the admirer who was staring at her from the reverse side of the room.
She'd get-go felt his disconcerting gaze some thirty minutes before; he'd watched her waltz, watched her express mirth and chat with others, but no matter how discreetly she'd looked for him, he'd refused to show himself. Irritated, with the musicians resting she'd worked her way around the room, moving from group to group, exchanging greetings and comments, smoothly shifting until she'd got him in her sights.
Eyes broad, barely daring to believe, she whispered, "It's him!"
Her sick-suppressed excitement drew a glance from her cousin, Henrietta, presently standing beside her. Angelica shook her head, and someone in the group to the side of which she stood reclaimed Henrietta's attending, leaving Angelica with her gaze locked on the nigh riveting man she'd always beheld.
She considered herself an good in the fine art of assessing gentlemen. From her primeval years she'd been aware of them equally "other," and years of ascertainment had left her with a audio understanding of their features and foibles. When information technology came to gentlemen, she had very high standards.
Visually, the gentleman across the room trumped every one.
He was continuing with six others, all of whom she could name, only she didn't know him. She'd never met him, had never even set eyes on him before. If she had, she'd have known, as she now did, that he was her i, the gentleman she had been waiting to encounter.
She'd always been unshakably convinced that she would know her hero, the gentleman fated to exist her hubby, the instant she saw him. She hadn't expected that first sighting to exist via a reflection across a crowded room, but the upshot was the same—she knew it was him.
The talisman that The Lady, a Scottish deity, had gifted to the Cynster girls to assist them in finding their true loves had passed from Angelica's eldest sister, Heather, to her middle sister, Eliza, who on her recent render to London with her new fiancé had handed the necklace to Angelica, the next in line. Composed of old gold links and amethyst beads from which a rose-quartz pendant hung, aboriginal and mysterious the talisman at present lay beneath Angelica's fichu, the links and beads against her skin, the crystal pendant nestling in her décolletage.
Three nights ago, deeming her time, her plough, had come up, armed with the necklace, her instincts, and her innate determination, she had embarked on an intensive entrada to find her hero. She'd come up to the Cavendish soiree, at which a select slice of the upper echelon of the ton had gathered to mingle and antipodal, intent on examining whatsoever and all prospective males Lady Cavendish, a lady with an all-encompassing circle of acquaintance, had inveigled to attend.
The talisman had worked for Heather, now engaged to Breckenridge, and had brought Eliza and Jeremy Carling together; Angelica had hoped that it would help her, as well, but hadn't expected such a rapid result.
Regardless, now she had her hero in sight, she wasn't inclined to waste another infinitesimal.
He hadn't noticed, from his position on the opposite side of the room possibly couldn't run into, that she was studying him. Her gaze locked on his reflection, she visually devoured him.
He was stunningly impressive, towering one-half a head taller than the men effectually him, none of whom were short. Elegantly attired in a black evening coat, pristine white shirt and cravat, and black trousers, everything about him from the breadth of his shoulders to the length of his long legs seemed in perfect proportion to his top.
His hair appeared solidly black, straight, rather long, only fashionably styled with windblown, slightly ruffled locks. She tried to report his features, but the reflection defeated her; she couldn't brand out whatsoever details beyond the sharply divers, austere planes of his face up. Nevertheless, his broad forehead, bladelike nose, and squared chin stamped him as the scion of some aristocratic house; only they possessed such hard, chiseled, coldly beautiful faces.
Her center was thumping distinctly faster. In anticipation.
Now she'd found him, what next?
If information technology had been in whatever style acceptable, she would have swung on her heel, marched across the room, and introduced herself, but that would be too frontward, even for her. However if after 30 and more minutes of watching her he hadn't made any move to approach her, then he wasn't going to, at least not there, non that night.
Which didn't arrange her at all.
Shifting her gaze, she scanned the gentlemen in the loose circumvolve in which he stood. He'd been listening to the conversations but rarely contributing, only using the interaction to cloak his interest in her.
Fifty-fifty equally she looked, one of the other men saluted the group and moved away.
Angelica smiled. Without a word, she quit Henrietta'south side and glided into the crowd thronging the salon'southward centre.
She caught the Honorable Theodore Curtis's sleeve merely before he joined a group of young ladies and gentlemen. He looked around and smiled. "Angelica! Where have you been hiding?"
She waved to the windows. "Over at that place. Theo, who is that gentleman in the group you only left? The very tall man I've never met."
Theo, a friend of her family who knew her far too well to entertain thoughts of her himself, chuckled. "I told him it wouldn't exist long earlier the young ladies noticed him and came swanning around."
Angelica played the game and pouted. "Don't tease. Him who?"
Theo grinned. "Debenham. He's Viscount Debenham."
"Who is?" She gestured for more.
"A capital fellow. I've known him for years—same historic period as me, came on the town at the same time, similar interests, you lot know how information technology goes. His estate's somewhere near Peterborough, just he'south been away from the ton for . . . must be four years. Left because of family and estate business, and has only just returned to the cartoon rooms and ballrooms."
"Hmm. And so there's no reason you shouldn't innovate him to me."
Still grinning, Theo shrugged. "If yous similar."
"I would." Angelica took his arm and turned him to whe
re her hero, Debenham, nonetheless stood. "I promise to render the favor side by side time you lot want to steal a march with some new sweet immature matter."
Theo laughed. "I'll hold you lot to that." Anchoring her hand on his arm, he led her through the oversupply.
While they tacked by various groups, nodding and smiling, pausing only when they couldn't avoid information technology, Angelica conducted a rapid inventory of her advent, checking that her pale teal silk gown was hanging straight, that the lacy fichu that partially filled in the scooped neckline was sitting properly and adequately concealing the necklace. At one point, she paused to redrape her teal-and-silver silk shawl more elegantly over her elbows; she'd elected to brand do without a reticule or fan, so she didn't have those to fuss over.
Her hair she didn't dare affect. The slithering ruby-gold tresses were swept up in a complicated knot on the top of her caput, anchored by innumerable pins and a pearl-encrusted comb; from experience she knew that fifty-fifty a little jiggling could bring the entire mass cascading down. While no gentleman had ever minded her transformation to a clothed version of Venus rising from the waves, that wasn't how she wished to appear before her hero for the offset time.
He knew she was coming; she caught a glimpse of his face through the oversupply. His gaze still rested on her, but even though she was now closer, she couldn't read anything in his expression.
Then Theo pushed past the last pair of shoulders, drew her to the group, and presented her with a flourish. "Heigh-ho! Meet who I plant."
"Miss Cynster!" came from several throats in tones of pleased surprise.
"I say, delightful fashionable ladies e'er welcome, don't you know." Millingham swept her a bow, every bit did all the other men in the grouping, bar ane.
After acknowledging the greetings, Angelica turned to Debenham; Theo had helpfully inserted her into the group past Debenham's side. She raised her gaze to his face, eager to see, to study, to know . . .
From her other side Theo said, "Debenham, old son, allow me to introduce the Honorable Angelica Cynster. Miss Cynster—Viscount Debenham."
Angelica barely registered the words, captured by, trapped in, a pair of large, well-ready, heavy-lidded eyes of a stormy, pale-greenish-grey. Those eyes held her entranced; the expression, not in them and so much as backside them, spoke of shrewdness, assessment, and cool, articulate-headed cynicism.
Her hero was still watching her, coolly studying, examining, and assessing her, and she couldn't tell whether he was impressed with what he saw or non.
That last snapped her back to the moment. Lips curving lightly, her optics still on his, she inclined her head. "I don't believe nosotros've previously met, my lord." She extended her mitt.
His lips barely relaxing from their noncommittally straight line, he raised a mitt from where both rested, folded over the silver caput of a cane—something she hadn't seen from across the room—and clasped her fingers.
His grip was cool, however non impersonal, as well definite, too business firm to shrug off every bit the usual. She inwardly wobbled, some inner centrality tilting as, still locked in his eyes, she absorbed the unexpected sensation—and the subtle but undeniable impression that he was in two minds over letting her go. Lungs suddenly tight, she curtsied.
Those disconcerting eyes remained on hers as he bowed with a fluid grace unimpaired by the cane. "Miss Cynster. It'due south a pleasance to make your acquaintance."
His vox was and so deep his tones sank into her and wrapped sensuous fingers around her spine.
Combining with the outcome of the absurd fingers still clasping hers, that voice sent warmth sliding beneath her pare, set sultry heat unfurling in her belly. Close to, her hero was a sensual forcefulness, equally if he exuded some elemental male temptation that was directed at her and her alone . . .
Skillful Lord. She quashed an impulse to fan her face. She was tempted to requite thanks to The Lady at that place and then, only instead corralled her wits and retrieved her hand, sliding her fingers from betwixt his. He immune it—but she was intensely aware that he'd fabricated the decision. Certain alarms rang in her caput, but she would exist damned if she acknowledged, fifty-fifty to herself, that she might exist out of her depth with him; he was her hero, ergo she could go forward with confidence. Drawing in a tight jiff, she said, "I understand you've only recently returned to London, my lord."
Equally she spoke, she turned toward him, away from the group, compelling him to reciprocate; the adjustment left them still attached to the group, but able to converse more privately, leaving the others to their own amusements. Theo took the hint and stepped in to inquire Millingham about his newly acquired acres.
Debenham, meanwhile, continued to look downward at her, his heavy lids and lush black lashes largely veiling his gaze. Later on a fractional intermission, he replied, "I returned a week ago. Debenham Hall is no further than Cambridgeshire, but business has kept me away from the ton for some years."
Tilting her head, she openly studied his face and let the questions that were crowding her tongue—impertinent and unaskable—show in her eyes . . .
His lips curved—not a real smile but an unequivocal sign of understanding. "I've been managing my acres. I have the responsibilities that are mine very seriously."
Despite the lightness in expression and drawling tone, she felt certain he was speaking the accented truth. "Am I to assume that your estates are now prospering sufficiently that you no longer experience the demand to monitor them constantly, and and then accept returned to the diversions of boondocks?"
Again he considered her, as if his strange eyes could see straight through her confident, sophisticated social mask. Devil Cynster, Angelica'south cousin, and his mother, Helena, both had pale green optics, and they, too, had penetrating gazes. Debenham's eyes were paler, more changeable, more grayness mixed in with the pale green, and for Angelica's money, his gaze was even more incisive.
"Y'all might say that," he eventually conceded, "but the unvarnished truth is that I've returned to London for the aforementioned purpose that drives most gentlemen of my age and class to haunt the ton'southward ballrooms."
She opened her eyes wide. "You're looking for a wife?" Information technology was utterly shocking of her to ask, only she absolutely had to know.
His lips curved over again, a touch deeper this time. "Indeed." His gaze held hers. "Every bit I said, the most mutual reason of all for returning to the capital and the ton."
Because of the press of bodies, they were standing only inches apart; due to his height and her lack of it, she was looking up into his face, and he was looking downwards, into hers. Despite the proximity of the other men, their stance was peculiarly close, private . . . almost intimate.
His largeness, the sheer power of his body, admitting disguised in elegant evening wearing apparel, impinged on her senses; a tempting warmth, his nearness reached for her, wrapped insidiously around her, tempting her closer all the same.
The longer she stared into his eyes . . .
"Angelica—I idea I spotted you lot through the crush."
She blinked and turned to see Millicent Attenwell smiling at her from across the group, equally Millicent'southward sister, Claire, insinuated herself on Debenham's other side.
"I declare, even though information technology'southward June these events are still unmitigated crushes, don't you recall?" Claire angled an inquiring gaze up at Debenham, then smiled coyly. "I don't believe we've met, sir."
Theo glanced at Angelica, then stepped into the alienation. He introduced Millicent and Claire, then had to perform the same service for Julia Quigley and Serena Mills, who, seeing the Attenwell girls had found a devastatingly handsome new admirer, hurried to join the expanding circle.
Although non pleased with the pause, Angelica seized the moment to cool her overheating senses and reclaim her wits, suborned by Debenham'due south too-handsome face, mesmerizing eyes, and disconcertingly tempting body—a novel occurrence for her. She'd never suffered such an enthrallment before. She'd certainly never got lost in a man's eyes earlier.
>
Absolutely, he was her hero, which presumably explained his marked effect on her. Nevertheless, that he could so effortlessly capture her senses and steal away her wits left her wary.
Millicent, Claire, Julia, and Serena had claimed the conversation, animatedly performing, their bright gazes flicking again and again to Debenham, clearly hoping to appoint him, yet while he paid polite attention, he made no response.
Angelica slanted a glance at his face up. The instant she did, he looked downwards and their gazes touched . . . locked.
A heartbeat passed.
She defenseless her breath and looked away—at Julia, presently relating some thrilling story.
Debenham's gaze lingered on her face for a moment more, then he, too, looked at Julia—and shifted fractionally closer to Angelica.
Her centre leapt, then thumped heavily.
He felt it, also. He was as intrigued by the link betwixt them as she was.
Well and proficient. Now how to capitalize, how to gain them an opportunity in which to explore further?
A hidden violinist tested his strings.
"At last!" Millicent all but jigged. "The dancing's starting again." Her shining eyes shamelessly implored Debenham to enquire her to dance.
Before Angelica could react, he brought his pikestaff forward and leaned more heavily on it.
Millicent saw, realized she shouldn't force him to explain an injury that prevented him from dancing; enthusiasm undimmed, she turned her encouraging gaze on Millingham.
Who accepted the cue and solicited her mitt.
The other gentlemen stepped up to do their duty by asking the ladies abreast them to dance; accepting that Debenham wouldn't be swirling about the infinite clearing in the salon'southward eye, Claire, Julia, and Serena accepted with alertness, and the group dispersed.
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