Page 1 of An Unwitting Alliance
Chapter 1
Mid-July 1821
Bellmont Manor, Brookeside, Yorkshire, England
Tom Harwood attended a ballfor one reason alone—obligation. No matter the impressive amount of candles shimmering from the chandeliers of Lord Kellen’s home or the indulgent number of sweets for refreshment or even the finest fabrics twirling at the women’s feet, only a man of little intelligence would voluntarily show his face without a compelling reason. He was certainly not there for political aspirations. Tom held high hopes that his father would live a long life before he himself would ever inherit the barony. And he was certainly not in the market for a wife. In other words, he owed his attendance to his mother. Pleasing her required suffering through the occasional trying social obligation.
Unfortunately, attendance alone would not prove sufficient for Mama. He must at least look like he was enduring it well. And so he stood on the edge of the dance floor, even though he had absolutely no desire to participate. He was practically begging for something diverting to happen before he began crying tears of boredom. He was in for a long night.
“Tom, my favorite and most reliable friend.”
He pivoted to face Ian, one of his closest friends. Ian’s blond hair was pushed up in front, and his tight expression emphasized the cleft in his chin. Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “‘Favorite friend,’ you say? Don’t lie, Mother Hen. It doesn’t become you.”
“No one in England would dare fashion me a nickname except you, and of course you picked the most insulting one possible.”
Tom grinned. “It is your own fault that you care so much for us, so you’re welcome.”
Ian huffed. “Never mind the nickname. I have a greater problem at present. I need a favor. And if you do it, the title of favorite and most trusted friend will be all yours.”
Heaven had a sense of humor. Tom had wished for something diverting, and Ian, the ever-serious leader of the Rebels, was his answer? Ian’s desperate gaze begged him to respond, but Tom would not sacrifice himself without good reason. “As much as I ache to carry such a title, I would prefer to hear the details of the favor before I commit myself.”
“Dance one set.”
Tom chuckled. “Did my mother send you? You are even more dutiful to her than I am. But no, I have no desire to dance tonight. I am in attendance strictly to say I have been here and nothing more.”
Ian grabbed his arm in a desperate grip and growled. “There isn’t time. As soon as this set ends, you must dance! Miles did not come tonight, and Lisette and Jemma would never take my side in this. You’re my last hope.”
Ian won every contest for his intensity, but Tom had him beat in physical strength. After several close wrestling matches over the years, he’d always came out the victor. And he knew what Society did not: Ian’s heart was as big as England. With that knowledge, Tom was immune to Ian’s intimidation, but for the sake of their lifelong friendship, he would generously offer his assistance this once.
He easily peeled Ian’s hand off his arm. “If it means that much to you, why did you not say so?” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose Iamup for a lark. I assume you’ve picked out my partner already. Who’ll it be? Am I to make someone jealous?”
“Why would I want to make someone jealous? No, you’re keeping her away from me. She keeps following me around, and I’m only free from her clutches now because I arranged the last dance for her as well. I’d hate to make a woman cry, but if she comes near me again, so help me...”
“Enough said. Your mother would have your head. She’s put too much into this night for you to scare away her guests.” Tom shook his head. If he was against marriage, Ian took his sentiments about such a union to an extreme. Maybe he should change his friend’s title from Mother Hen to plain Chicken. He was convinced Ian, who was afraid of nothing, actually feared marriage. “Who is she?”
Ian visibly relaxed. “I knew you would not disappoint me. Her name is Miss Smith. She’s just there, with the blonde curls and the red dress.”
Tom searched the moving figures for a woman matching Ian’s description. His eyes landed on a beautiful young lady, not many years younger than himself, with a stunning smile. Her head fell back in laughter, making her curls cascade across her shoulders. “Why would you want to be rid of her? She seems charming enough.”
Beautiful, in fact.
Ian huffed. “Your jokes lack humor. I suppose she’s tolerable enough to look at, but her mannerisms are insufferable. She’s clingy, and worse, she’s determined. You know I cannot abide a connection with a determined young lady.”
“Yes,” Tom drawled. “She might just make you fall in love with her. A crime of the worst sort.”
Ian elbowed him—and because it was Ian, Tom just laughed.
“Listen, Tom, whatever you do, she cannot enjoy this dance. She has to want to leave. I know you. You’ll try to make her laugh, and soon she’ll be more comfortable than ever. And since this is my house and I am forced to stay, she has to be the one to walk out.”
“We Rebels live to serve.” Tom dipped a bow. Anyone overhearing would think a name like Rebels meant trouble, but rebellion was often misunderstood. He and Ian belonged to the most respectable group of Rebels that Society had ever seen. Their actions promoted goodness and benefited many. He, of course, had been responsible for naming the group. He had a knack for such things. Besides, the irony of their title always made him smile. The Rebels put up their noses at the ridiculous rules governing their class and did their best to protect anyone who was wronged by said rules.
And they danced when they did not want to, if only to spare their friends from being harassed.
“It’s time.” Ian shuddered as the partners on the dance floor bowed and curtsied at the end of the set. “If you chase her from the room for me, I’ll be in your debt.”
“Ah, to have in one’s debt Lord Reynolds, the most menacing viscount in all of England...” Tom didn’t have to finish his sentence before Ian growled again. “Very well, let the introductions begin.”
His friend pointed across the room. “The master of ceremonies can have the honor. He is coming this way.” Ian was already backing away, ready to bolt.
