Page 1 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
The Fairmont Ball heralded yet another hunt for those ladies and gentlemen seeking to marry this Season—or better yet, to fall in love. Except for Lady Marjorie Wilcock Whalen, who had no intention of marrying…again. Hidden in the shadows outside on the terrace, Marjorie’s singular purpose tonight was to identify a suitable scoundrel. A rake might do just as well, if she were to heed the advice of her fellow Wicked Widows, to accompany her to the Wicked Widows’ annual ball. She took in a deep breath and leaned back against one of the large cold stone pillars on the terrace.I can do this.The mission had sounded simple when she’d been alone pacing in her chambers a mere hour ago. It shouldn’t be difficult to spy on her peers, scout out a potential candidate. She need not even approach the man…yet. That would be a challenge for another day. She pressed the back of her head against the smooth column and repeated,I can do this.She wasn’t about to let down Charlotte Bennett, Lady Sylvan, one of the founding members of the Wicked Widows League. The woman had provided unconditional support during Marjorie’s first week of mourning. Her hands clenched in the flimsy skirts of her dreaded black crepe gown that did absolutely nothing to ward off the cool evening breeze.What was wrong with her?It was unlike her to be ill prepared, but then she hadn’t been exactly herself since the day she said her vows to a complete stranger and certainly not since the sudden death of her late husband—Maxwell North, Marquess of Whalen—a mere month before.
Marjorie counted to five. Her nerves remained rattled and her mind continued to race. Lady Sylvan’s cool, calm, and collected voice echoed through her thoughts. “You are a Wicked Widow now. Seize the opportunity to do as you please. Employ the freedoms a widow is afforded. But be careful… there are dangers in exercising the privileges that come with being a widow, especially for such a young widow as yourself.”
Arms crossed, she rubbed her hands over the pebbled skin. Best to get on with the task before she froze to death. She turned and peered around the pillar. Her gaze naturally searched out the section with the moniker spinster seating. Her cousin, Lady Daphne, and her close friend Lady Hazel were already tittering away, no doubt discussing the latest gothic romance they’d somehow managed to snare without their mamas’ notice. Marjorie searched the room for her former fellow wallflower, Miss Alice Kirkman, but failed to locate her. Marjorie rolled her forehead against the cool stone left to right and back. Searching out her former friends would do her no good; they did not attract and were unacquainted with the type of gentlemen she was in need of. She stood a moment longer, shivering in the shadows. She should move closer, but she couldn’t bring her feet to move. Men in general still made her extremely uncomfortable. Even after having been married for six months and discovering the stranger she’d married was one of the kindest and most generous men, she still could not banish the anxiety of having to stand beside a gentleman she knew little about. Etiquette required a minimum mourning period of twelve months. Twelve months. A shiver rolled down her spine. She didn’t wish to endure a year in isolation. Hadn’t Maxwell encouraged her to do as she pleased and not simply buckle to societal expectations? What harm could come of heeding the advice of her fellow Wicked Widows? Marjorie straightened and pushed away from the stone column to stand on her own. The knowledge that she was not alone, that there were other widows in the league who were at the ready to provide support and assistance bolstered her confidence. She need not approach the gentleman this eve, merely identify a potential candidate… or two. Preferably she’d find a rogue or a scoundrel that could make her heart skip a beat, but she’d settle for a rake who was easy on the eyes and would occupy her dreams at night.
She blinked and an image of her late husband, Maxwell, appeared in her mind’s eye. Marjorie let out a deep sigh. The truth was, she didn’t want to disappoint the man who had chosen her, out of all the eligible ladies, to become the Marchioness of Whalen. All alone most days, she’d had a month to reflect upon her short marriage to Maxwell. The man five decades her senior never once said a harsh word to her. In fact, he welcomed her company even if they spent it in silence. When they did converse, it often resulted in Marjorie’s confidence being bolstered tenfold. She would forever be indebted to Maxwell for providing her with words of encouragement and praise that she’d never before received from a man.
When Marjorie had been advised by her beleaguered mama she was to marry, her mother shared that the only reason a man like Maxwell at the age of five-and-seventy would willingly become leg shackled was due to duty. The duty to at least attempt to produce a legitimate heir. Except, Marjorie wasn’t certain that the one time they had shared a bed, on their wedding night, constituted an honest attempt to fill her belly. She might be an innocent, but having lived in the country during her formative years, she understood well enough that it required more than a peck on the cheek from her husband in order for her to become pregnant. She had failed her kind husband due to her meekness.
Anger rolled through Marjorie.
She clutched her blasted skirts and hiked them an inch higher as she crept closer to the terrace doors to spy upon her peers. It had been but a week ago that she had resolved to emerge from mourning a new person; surely she wouldn’t falter at her first real challenge. She had eleven months to transform herself, and with the support and encouragement of her fellow Wicked Widows, she was ready to begin her transformation. Ready to shed the persona of a wallowing wall flower, Marjorie was excited to embrace her new life as a widow—a Wicked Widow.
Nose pressed to the glass panes of the terrace door, Marjorie peered into the bustling ballroom. It took but a moment for her to spy her two oldest and closest friends: Dorinda, Duchess of Fairmont, the hostess of the evening; and Elise, the Countess of Thornston. Dressed in gowns of the latest fashion, her friends waltzed through the crowd on the arms of their hale and extremely handsome husbands. Even after a decade of marriage, Benedict Brownstone, the Duke of Fairmont, never took his eyes from Dorinda’s flushed features, and Harold Greenfield, the Earl of Thornston, held Elise as if he would rather die than let her go. An ugly burning sensation settled in her stomach. She rejoiced in her friends' successful unions, yet the pang of longing remained. She’d endured eleven long Seasons until the reclusive Marquess of Whalen had sought out her papa’s permission to marry her.
Marjorie’s lips thinned into a straight line. She would not fail Maxwell again. Her husband’s last whispered words bolstered her resolve:My apologies, my dear, but I fear mourning shall be rather dull if you don’t venture out and seek out a companion. Don’t be shy; I shall be your champion from above.
She wiped the tear that had escaped the corner of her eye with the back of her gloved hand. Marjorie had not known her husband long, but the man, whose name would henceforth lend her a degree of freedom that neither of her friends would enjoy for many years, was a man she could have easily loved had he remained on the earth.
Her fingers tightly clutched the edge of her sleeve as she raised her arm and wiped the glass, cloudy from her warm breath. If she was to fulfill both her and her belated husband's wishes she’d best locate a likely candidate fast.
Marjorie’s smile returned as she remembered Maxwell’s advice: “Seek out a gentleman who is mature, but not as old or as handsome as I. Wouldn’t want the poor sod to have to measure up to me.” All traces of moisture in her eyes evaporated. He’d continued, “Avoid scoundrels and find yourself a man who is compassionate and wholehearted… like you.”
Maxwell may have meant well, but he was mistaken. She wasn’t wholehearted. Her heart had been broken many a time by the carelessness of men over the years. Smile gone, Marjorie reaffirmed her decision—she was here to find a scoundrel… a scoundrel without a heart.
She scanned the crowd milling about the dance floor until her gaze fell upon a group of four gentlemen all elegantly yet conservatively dressed for the evening's activities. Huddled together, they exuded an aura of mystery and exclusivity. None of them smiled. None of them even bothered to acknowledge the slew of women attempting to capture their attention. And none of them appeared to be the least bit interested in the evening's activities. She squinted and studied their profiles a moment longer while simultaneously trying to recall the images included in the last issue ofDebrett’sshe’d been forced by her mama to memorize two Seasons ago. Either her mind had gone to mush, or these men’s features had altered—mayhap matured—since the last issue she reviewed. Regardless, she was unable to place their names.Blast.She should have purchased the latest issue ofDebrett’sprior to the ball.
Lady Charlotte’s voice entered her thoughts once more. “As a widow,youare afforded the choice. Simply pick a man who catches your fancy, irrespective of his birth, rank, or title.”
Marjorie shook her head. How easy the woman had made it sound. Determined not to fail, she rose to her tip toes and placed a hand against the door casement to steady herself. There must be a scoundrel in attendance. Neck craned, she continued to search the ballroom.
She wobbled as the gentleman in the group of four facing her nodded in her direction and then three more handsome faces turned her way. None of the four were fresh faced and just reaching their majority, and yet none of them were familiar. She had spent over a decade sitting on the outskirts of the dance floor studying her peers. She should know the names of these striking gentlemen, except her mind went blank as the four men marched in unison toward the terrace doors—toward her. Scrambling to remain out of sight, Marjorie fell backward into the hedge.
Seated on the ground she muttered, “Blasted men!”
“May we be of assistance, Lady Whalen?” Four pairs of eyes gazed down at her. The gentleman with striking sky-blue eyes extended his hand to her.
She ignored the man’s offer for help and rolled to her feet. “It seems I’m at a disadvantage. You know who I am, yet I haven’t a clue as to who you are.”
“Apologies. Allow me to make the proper introductions.” The blue-eyed stranger waved his hand to his right. “May I present to you Lord Barrington, the Duke of Whistlestop.”
The gentleman standing before her was certainly older than the picture she recalled fromDebrett’s. His Grace, the Duke of Whistlestop, bowed. “A good evening to you, Lady Whalen. My friends and I have returned to London to pay our respects to your late husband. We apologize for our tardiness. Traveling through parts of the Continent is currently rather cumbersome.”
While her nerves were slightly set at ease knowing that these men were acquaintances of her late husband, Marjorie continued to assess the men, uncertain how they were acquainted with Maxwell. They were certainly not of the same age. No, these men were at least half her late husband's age. “The war does make travel across the channel rather dangerous. Were you close to Maxwell?”
“Aye. All rakes, young or old, share a unique and immediate kinship.”
Maxwell, the man referred to by his peers asOld Lord Whalen, had been a rake?
She blinked up at the blue-eyed man, who she instinctively trusted the most though she still had not learned his name. “Are you certain you are speaking ofmylate husband?”
The gentleman smiled and waved his hand to the left. “And this esteemed gentleman is the Earl of Hurlington, and to his left is the honorable Lord Foxton.”
Marjorie nodded sweetly to the gentlemen and then narrowed her gaze upon the man making the introductions. “And who might you be?” Shocked at her bravery and boldness, Marjorie thinned her lips together and performed a mental happy dance.
He lowered into a bow and then straightened. “Apologies. Alister Knight at your service.”
“While I’m glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Knight, Lord Foxton, Lord Hurlington, and Lord Whistlestop, I must leave before anyone else catches sight of me.”
