How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion)

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more historical romance… A False Proposal

  Highland Deception

  One Step Behind

  Less Than a Lady

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Harmony Williams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alethea Spiridon

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover art from Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-801-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2016

  For Gisela Below (1931-2016), my proudest supporter

  I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to read this one.

  Chapter One

  Late April, 1813

  “Is that Emily calling?” I twisted to look behind me, though unless I spontaneously developed the ability to see through solid objects, my view of freedom would remain impeded by the dull, black wall of the closed carriage.

  To my left, my boney sister Daisy leaned past me to peer out the coach window opposite the door. With a talent that only sisters possess, she elbowed me in precisely the same place as she had every other time she’d checked our progress. I winced.

  “I don’t hear her,” Daisy said.

  On my right, my friend Mary batted the stray strands of my sister’s straw-blond hair that fell into her face. She wore such a bitter scowl it darkened the closed carriage like we’d bottled up a coach full of the London smog to take with us. “Of course you don’t hear her. Why would your maid be calling? We’re still moving.”

  Daisy dug her elbow even farther into my stomach as she pressed forward. “Is that Lady Dunlop’s manor?”

  Please let it be the manor.

  The conveyance slowed. I vaulted past Daisy to the carriage door, trying not to trip over the legs of the two women in the seat opposite. Before the wheels came to a complete stop, I gathered my skirt and leaped for the ground. Freedom. I gulped in a lungful of clean air and bathed my face in the bleary sunlight drifting down from the overcast sky.

  I must look a fright. No worse than poor Emily. Seated on the high ledge next to the driver, her skin had turned a sickly shade of green-tinged white. Oh dear. As she shakily descended from the seat, I hurried to her side, careful not to spook the horses. The moment I slid my hand beneath her elbow, Emily’s knees gave way and she leaned against me.

  “I’ll be fine in a moment, now that we’ve stopped.” She spoke in a voice as insubstantial as she looked.

  I fumbled one-handed at the drawstrings to my reticule. “I have smelling salts.”

  “No.” The white rim around her lips grew as she pressed them harder together. “I’ll lose my lunch.”

  “Did you eat lunch?”

  “I’ll lose yesterday’s lunch.”

  If she felt well enough to make jokes, she wasn’t on death’s door. I stopped the driver as he pulled down the steps to help the others exit the carriage. They could wait a moment more. With my help, Emily crossed the packed dirt to sit on the sturdy steps. She leaned her elbows against the knees of her faded yellow walking dress, one of my cast-offs. I doffed my white shawl and wrapped her in it.

  She tried to shrug it off. “No, Miss Rose, I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you afraid someone will mistake you for me?” I smiled, inviting her to share the joke.

  The corners of her mouth barely twitched. Her blond hair, which caused many to think she was another Wellesley sister, hung limp at her temples. I wiped the sweat-matted strands away from her forehead.

  “You could have stayed home,” I murmured.

  “And leave you to fend for yourself? Never.” Her smile bared her teeth this time, though it didn’t reach her blue eyes.

  “I’m sure Francine’s maid wouldn’t have minded dressing me and her, if I’d asked.”

  Emily shook her head. “She’s afraid of you.”

  I recoiled. “Why?”

  Her dirty-blond eyebrows, a shade darker than mine, shot up. “You’re a lot to handle.”

  I am not. I opened my mouth, but shut it again. “You never complain.”

  A twinkle invaded her gaze. The corners of her mouth turned up. “I had practice with your sisters before they handed me off to you.”

  With a groan, Emily started to stand. The motion chased away what little color had returned to her cheeks. I shooed her back into place. “Sit. The others can wait a moment or two longer or jump down without the stairs.”

  “I have to direct the footmen in retrieving your trunk.”

  “I’ll do that.” I laid my hand on her shoulder to keep her from trying to stand while I found a footman. In the wide courtyard of churned, packed dirt that tipped the long drive cutting through the trees, too many footmen teemed. They moved in a dizzying mass of multicolored liveries between the rectangular stable to the west, the carriages parked under a long awning beneath the tree line, and the lofty four-story manor. Judging by the crammed space, we were one of the last guests to arrive. I blamed Francine, and the constant stops to examine plants throughout the two-day journey from London, even if they had given Emily a respite from her motion sickness.

  A mountain of a man loped from the row of carriages toward the manor. From the breadth of his shoulders, his plain brown trousers and white shirt rolled to display his brawny forearms, and the easy way he hefted the valise onto his shoulder, he was undoubtedly a servant. I shook out my wrinkled, mint-green skirt as I stepped forward.

  “You, there!”

  The man paused as he came abreast of me. By Jove, he must be taller even than I was. Not many men in England could boast that. He shook his head to banish the shoulder-length, blond hair from his eyes. Hair only a shade darker than mine.

  As he turned his attention to me, I flicked my hand to indicate the coach. “You’ll need help with the trunk. Francine’s packed her books in there. When you bring my bags to my room, be careful with the valise with the red ribbon on the handle. The contents are fragile.”

  The man’s eyebrows soared toward his forehead. His mouth twisted into a smirk. At least four feet of space separated us, but he
closed that marginally as he leaned toward me. “You might want to be more careful who you invite into your room.”

  Flabbergasted, my voice fled. I peered at the carriage door, but Mary didn’t magically appear to give him a scolding. What good was her notorious hatred of men if she didn’t ply it in my favor?

  The stranger’s smirk spread to cover the lower half of his face. I drew myself up, trying to match his height. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I doubt you’ve ever begged for anything in your life.”

  Untrue. I’d begged my father for one more week to find a husband of my choice, a man I loved, before he arranged a marriage. He’d refused. If I didn’t find a husband at Lady Dunlop’s notorious Week of Love, I’d find myself tied for life to a man I didn’t know or love—or worse, a man I’d already found I couldn’t love.

  I bit my tongue to keep from spouting the confession.

  The blond behemoth traipsed toward the manor’s front steps. At the top, a short, round woman warmly greeted a boney young lady dressed in beige. I turned away as the man reached the bottom step.

  When I faced the carriage, I discovered that Emily had vacated the steps. She clutched my shawl to her shoulders. I intercepted her before she reached the boot loaded with our trunks. “Why don’t you find our room and lie down?”

  She shook her head, but blanched at the movement and pressed her hand to her stomach. “The luggage?”

  “I’ll see to it.” Francine’s dusky maid scurried down the carriage steps. Her voice was soft, demure as she added, “You should rest.”

  I caught my maid’s eye. “Please?”

  Emily pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and nodded. “I think I will rest.” She slipped away to the manor, pausing to curtsey to the hostess before entering the house.

  A clamor behind me announced the emergence of my sister and Mary. “Hurry,” Daisy said from inside the carriage, her voice shrill with excitement. “We’ve arrived.”

  “I know,” Mary grumbled, her voice barely audible. Even in those two words, she managed to convey her reluctance.

  As much as I loved her company, I wished she had defied her godmother’s wishes and stayed home. Mary’s notorious notions of marriage—and how women shouldn’t give themselves to men as prized objects—would ruin my chances of securing a match. How was I supposed to fall in love when she glowered at all men present? That was if all the eligible men didn’t simply pack up and go home the moment they learned of her attendance.

  With luck, my sixteen-year-old sister would help to keep Mary occupied for the duration of the party. She worshipped Mary.

  Daisy poked her head into the air, now shaded with her bonnet. When she met my gaze, her grin fell away. She replaced it with a serene expression and gracefully descended the steps. Color turned her cheeks rosy, almost covering the smattering of light freckles over her cheeks and nose. She shook like a leaf in the wind, barely containing her enthusiasm over attending her first house party.

  She had all the luck. Four Seasons in, and this was my first invitation to the esteemed Week of Love party that led to several marriages at its close every year. I didn’t intend to let Daisy—or Mary’s sharp tongue—squander my last chance at love.

  “I’ll speak.” I didn’t want her to make the wrong impression on the hostess. Rumor had it, if Lady Dunlop took a shine to you she paid extra attention to playing the matchmaker. I needed her help if I were to fall in love by week’s end. No matter what, I couldn’t let Papa arrange a match. I wanted love.

  Mary jumped from the carriage without a care to her milk-white skirts. Her landing kicked up splatters of loose dirt from the ground. I sidestepped the mess, saving my skirts, as I waited for our last friend to join us.

  The minutes lengthened. My toe tapped a steady beat in the dirt. What was taking her so long? With a sigh, I stuck my head into the carriage.

  Francine hadn’t budged from her position in the corner. She squinted at the book in her hands—likely a dull botany text—and tilted it to better catch the light streaming from the doorway. When she scrunched her nose, her freckles, as dark as her riotous brown hair, melted together.

  “Francine, we’ve arrived.”

  She didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t even twitch. She licked her finger and turned the page.

  Beside me, her maid said, “I’ll get her, miss.” She shooed me to one side with her hands and mounted the steps into the carriage again.

  Sitting beside Francine, the maid gently tugged the book from her hands. “I’ll hold onto this for you.”

  Francine let her have the book with a reluctant frown. “Why? Have we arrived?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

  “Oh.” She glanced up, embarrassment splotching her cheeks with red color. Somehow, it made her freckles stand out. She adjusted her bonnet and scooted to the edge of the seat. “Forgive me. I was reading a fascinating passage on—”

  I forced a smile. “Perhaps you can tell me about it later. We must greet our hostess.”

  “Yes, of course.” Francine squeezed out of the carriage with nearly as little care for her appearance as Mary. At least she didn’t jump to the ground. Peering around, she muttered, “The plants look well watered.”

  Oh, please tell me we weren’t in for a week of rain. I’d die of boredom if I were forced to stay inside.

  Mary adjusted her spectacles on her nose and wrestled her bonnet into place over her black hair. I strode forward, using my long legs to advantage to reach the hostess first. If I made an unseemly sight, at least no eligible gentlemen lingered to watch.

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs with a practiced smile and offered a dip to the hostess. Daisy followed my lead, but spread her lilac-hued skirts so wide they displayed the curve of her ankle. We weren’t meeting the Prince Regent. Mary capped the performance by inclining her head as though she was a man. I stifled a sigh.

  Francine offered no pleasantries at all but elbowed between Daisy and me to barrel up the steps. The hostess greeted her with open arms.

  “My dear Francine,” she said, her voice warm. She wrapped her arms around Francine, pulling her into a tight and choking embrace if the way Francine gasped for breath was any indication.

  When my friend managed to detach from her, she looked as wilted as one of her cuttings. In a strangled voice, she said, “It is lovely to see you, Lady Dunlop.”

  The woman shook her head. “None of this formality. You will call me Aunt Louise, just as you always have.”

  I opened my mouth twice before I found my words. “Francine, you never told me Lady Dunlop was your aunt.”

  Although Francine opened her mouth to respond, she didn’t get a single word in. Lady Dunlop added, “If not by blood, certainly by emotion.”

  The woman, in her fifties by my guess, pulled Francine into another tight embrace.

  “You’ve grown so much. I haven’t seen you since you were a girl.”

  “I haven’t grown much taller,” Francine said in a thin voice. She gulped for breath as the hostess released her once more. “Wider, maybe.”

  The hostess laughed, a light and joyous sound. “Nonsense. You’re the very peak of womanly beauty.” She linked her arm with Francine’s and drew her into the house.

  Inside, the hostess smoothed her maroon skirts as she turned a measuring eye to our party. She lingered on Mary. “You must be Francine’s friends. Miss Babington-Smith, I believe?”

  Mary stiffened. “I prefer Mary.” She hated being called Miss, as though the word somehow stained her.

  “Of course.” Lady Dunlop veered her scrutiny to me.

  I straightened my shoulders, clasping my hands at my waist and donning my most serene expression. Ladylike and poised, the persona I donned at every gathering. I’d practiced so many times over the past three years, the lie had almost become second nature. After this week, I wouldn’t have to pretend at maidenly behavior. Once I was married, I could finally
be myself. Falling in love this week would make that happen.

  “Thank you for your generous invitation, Lady Dunlop.”

  She frowned as her gaze swept over me. “You must be Miss Wellesley, but…”

  She craned her neck, trying to peer over my shoulder. The urge to dip my knees and appear smaller mounted. I held myself in place.

  “Where is your mother?” the hostess asked.

  I donned a practiced smile. Serene, poised, beautiful. I infused my voice with as much grace as I could muster with butterflies erupting in my stomach. “Mama sends her regrets that she could not attend. She is visiting my sister, who was recently married.” Five years ago. I kept that tidbit to myself. “Mama hopes you will accept my younger sister Daisy as a guest in her place.”

  I stepped aside to indicate my thin sprout of a sister. She clutched her bonnet to her bosom, displaying her straw-blond hair. She dipped her knees at the attention.

  So she was minding her manners. Good. I kept my smile in place by force of will.

  Silence stretched between us, a poignant contrast to the bustle of the house. Babble and footsteps drifted to the entrance along with the occasional clamor of objects, muffled by the walls.

  I cleared my throat. “I will be acting as Daisy’s chaperone, of course.”

  Lady Dunlop finished her inspection of my trembling sister and smiled. She stepped forward with her hands outstretched to clasp Daisy’s. She raised herself on tiptoe to press a kiss on Daisy’s cheek. My sister, a scant inch or two shorter than me, hunched over to make the move easier for her.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to contain my sigh of relief. Lady Dunlop didn’t hate us for the intrusion. Even Francine hadn’t gotten a kiss.

  The hostess continued to clasp Daisy’s hands. A little too firmly, judging by my sister’s strained expression. Not quite a grimace, but close.

  I raised my eyebrows at Daisy. Play nice.

  The hostess gushed, “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. How old are you?”

  A blush mantled Daisy’s cheeks. She shifted from foot to foot as she admitted, “I haven’t yet made my come out. I’m sixteen.”

  “You’re most welcome here,” Lady Dunlop said firmly. “In fact, this will be good practice if you do make your come out.”