Gail Eastwood Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Ad Card

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Author's Note

  Special Excerpt

  The Persistent Earl

  About the Author

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  SIGNET REGENCY ROMANCE

  An Unlikely Hero

  Gail Eastwood

  InterMix Books, New York

  INTERMIX

  InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  AN UNLIKELY HERO

  A Signet Regency Romance

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  SIGNET EDITION / AUGUST 1996

  INTERMIX EBOOK EDITION / JULY 2012

  Copyright ©1996 by Gail Eastwood-Stokes.

  EXCERPT FROM THE PERILOUS JOURNEY COPYRIGHT © 1994 BY GAIL EASTWOOD-STOKES.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-57118-7

  INTERMIX AND THE “IM” DESIGN ARE TRADEMARKS OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.

  To my dad, my best PR man!

  I love making you proud of me,

  and I love you.

  Chapter One

  “Sorry, old man, but I’m telling you ‘no’ is simply not an acceptable answer. You can’t keep your head buried in books all of the time. I want you to meet my sisters.”

  The son of the Duke of Roxley, Nicholas St. Aldwyn, Marquess of Edmonton, strode purposefully across the green by the River Cam, trying to keep pace with his longer-legged friend Gilbey Kentwell, Viscount Cranford. The late-afternoon sun cast exaggerated shadows of the young men upon the grass, as if to emphasize that while both were tall, Edmonton still did not quite reach the measure of his companion.

  The viscount made no effort to slow his steps, but for a moment he did allow a grin to light up his normally serious face. “My apologies, Nicholas. I should have said, ‘No, thank you ever so very much. It is more than kind of you to ask, and I am overwhelmingly honored by the invitation, but I must regretfully decline.’”

  Edmonton growled. “Dressing it up won’t improve it and neither will groveling.”

  “Just so! ‘No’ means ‘no’ any way it is offered. I have work to finish up here, and obligations to see fulfilled.”

  The two friends were headed toward the river and the newly built King’s Bridge, whose single arch was illuminated by dancing reflections of sunlight from the water beneath it. Beyond it the familiar Gothic spires of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge, rose majestically into a clear sky.

  The marquess made an extra push to catch up. “You have nothing that can’t be put off for two weeks or passed on to someone else. Of course you’ll come. You wouldn’t want to offend me—I’m far too valuable a friend.”

  Cranford’s laughter bounced off the stone buildings across the river. “That sounds suspiciously like a threat, my so-called friend.”

  “At least hear the rest of the guest list, Gilbey. I promise you this affair at my father’s will not be like any ordinary house party you have ever been to.”

  As they reached the bridge Cranford finally slowed and took stock of the determined expression upon his friend’s face. Nicholas had obviously forgotten, as he often did, the vast differences in rank, wealth, and experience that separated the two friends. Gilbey had only attended two house parties in his life, both in the past year and then only through Nicholas’s connections and in his company. Such meager exposure did
not provide much basis for comparison.

  “I’m sure the list is most impressive,” he began dubiously as they crossed over the river. Only the quacking protest of some ducks and the faint rattle of traffic on King’s Parade disturbed the surrounding quiet. “I might be more easily convinced if you can assure me that I would not be on anyone’s list of potential husbands. You know I have had enough trouble with women in this past year to last me for the next several.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “I suppose, in time. Nevertheless, I am not in the market for a wife, nor in the mood for a party, and I doubt very much that I would fit in amongst your father’s exalted guests. What, pray tell, would be the point of attending?”

  “Ah,” said Edmonton with a significant lift of his expressive St. Aldwyn eyebrows.

  He took hold of Gilbey’s elbow and as Gilbey began to head toward the residence halls at one side of the smooth quadrangle lawn, Edmonton gently but firmly turned him to the right and propelled him in an entirely new direction. Their shadows melded into a single long stripe that moved along beside them.

  “I say, Nicholas—”

  The duke’s son shook his head. “For one thing, it is imperative to improve your social cachet. Only a very select group are honored with invitations to parties at Rivington. Trust me, it will do you credit for many seasons to be numbered among the Duke of Roxley’s guests.”

  “But, Nicholas—”

  “As for the fair sex, you need not worry. You’ve learned not to fall passionately in love with opera dancers who neither expect nor desire you to love them, and you’ve learned how to avoid traps set by simpering young ladies who believe that they are passionately in love with you!”

  Gilbey sighed, recognizing a sense of impending doom. “You make it sound so simple. I am still greatly obliged to you for helping me out of both of those unfortunate episodes. But, Nicholas—”

  Edmonton shook his head again, still refusing to be interrupted. “I’m taking you for tea.” They had entered a narrow lane, deep in shadow at this time of day, and his voice echoed between the buildings as did the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. “There won’t be any opera dancers at Rivington and you will be relatively immune to all that will be going on. I’m asking you to come as my own personal guest. You can enjoy some fine fishing. And I promise that you will find my sisters fascinating.”

  “I’ll be immune?”

  “The point of the party is, after all, to provide husbands for my troublesome twin siblings. I suspect my father will not settle for anyone ranking lower than an earl. If you’ll forgive my speaking frankly, despite your admirable progress in restoring your estates, your fortune and title are too modest to interest either my father or the other marriage-minded guests who will be at this affair.”

  Gilbey was not even slightly offended. Instead, he felt relieved and he brightened considerably. Perhaps Nicholas had not lost his perspective after all.

  “I had not considered that,” he replied cautiously. He did not wish to offend Nicholas, certainly, and it did sound as if he could attend the party without complicating his life.

  He had heard of Nicholas’s sisters, of course. In the two years since their come-out they had become notorious for refusing all offers of marriage and for putting their suitors through all sorts of tests. As the twins were wealthy, titled, and supposedly quite beautiful, this behavior had only made them seem a greater challenge to certain gentlemen among the ton. To witness the contest might indeed prove interesting. Certainly, the chance to see Rivington, the duke’s famed country estate, would be compensation of sorts for the time spent. Two weeks!

  “To tell the truth, I could use your help,” Edmonton confided in a more serious tone. “My father does not take a very active part in these things once he has them all arranged to suit his wishes. As a chaperon I will be sadly outnumbered at this affair. My aunt is coming to help, but she is bringing my cousin Adela, and I suspect they will be husband-hunting for themselves. I know I can trust you—you could be an extra pair of eyes for me.”

  “Huh. You’re asking a man who wears spectacles.”

  “You happen to be extremely observant, my friend, when your head is not in a book. But you simply cannot go through life buried like that all of the time. I think you are wedded to this place.”

  “I’m not,” Gilbey said, but his friend’s comment had struck a sore spot. Gilbey’s own sister Gillian had just made that accusation in her latest letter to him. Nicholas’s invitation was the perfect way to prove her wrong. At any rate, Gilbey saw that he no longer had a choice. He owed Nicholas for so many kindnesses shown in the past three years, to refuse him this favor would be unpardonable.

  “All right.” He relented at last. “Right or wrong, no one is ever proof against your persuasiveness, Nicholas—as I of all people should know by now. God help our country the day you take your father’s seat in the House of Lords! So who are the poor victims on the official suitors list?”

  “Save us, you’d think my sisters were harpies with two heads.”

  “Knowing you, I think I’ll reserve judgment on that until after I’ve met them.”

  ***

  Little more than a week later the viscount found himself ensconced in Lord Edmonton’s elegant traveling coach, pondering the butter softness of the leather upholstery and the comfortable difference a fine set of springs could make as the Gloucestershire countryside rolled past the window.

  “We are nearly there, now,” Edmonton said offhandedly as the carriage turned into a lane. He nodded toward the window. “That’s the first entrance.”

  Gilbey peered out, anxious for his first view of Rivington. A low wall with modest gateposts marked their entry into the Duke of Roxley’s domain, but there was nothing else. The drive rose and dipped over several hills of increasing size without any visible hint of a dwelling. As the carriage climbed to the top of each hill, Gilbey could see another patchwork of fields and woodlands laid out below him, yet the road still led on with no apparent end in sight. Impressed anew with the gulf between his own station and that of his friend, Gilbey cleared his throat uneasily.

  “I am not convinced that this is the wisest idea that you have ever had, Nicholas,” he said.

  The young man sitting opposite him chuckled. “You imply that at least some idea of mine in the past has had some merit. I think I am flattered. But you will see. Do you not trust me? Have I not been your social mentor these past three years? You will get on famously with my father once he discovers your genuine interest in his Italian marbles. And I think because you are a twin yourself, you may well understand my sisters better than most people.”

  Gilbey’s uneasiness increased. Did his friend have some hidden expectations? He was not sure how to respond. Nicholas’s sisters were reputedly identical, although he had heard that among the ton they were irreverently known as “the lamb and the lioness.” Apparently they differed dramatically in temperament. Gilbey thought he could relate better to that difference than to the fact that they were twins. His own twin sister Gillian was petite, auburn-haired, and given to trouble, while he was tall, flaxen-haired, and peace-loving above all else.

  “I doubt that I can provide any special perspective,” he warned Nicholas, shaking his head. “My twin and I are as different from each other as twins can be. It was nothing more than a trick of nature that had us formed and born at the same time. Now that she is comfortably married, my life is certainly calmer.” He did not add that he missed her terribly.

  “Consider it an experiment,” Edmonton said. He edged forward on his seat and directed Gilbey’s attention to the window once again. “Here. If you watch carefully you will get a first glimpse of Rivington beyond that stand of trees when we come to the top of the next rise.”

  The note of anticipation in his voice told Gilbey volumes about his friend’
s pride in and attachment to his ancestral home. It seemed as if Nicholas’s public façade of the polished, bored man of the world had gradually slipped away during the carriage drive from London, where they had gone from Cambridge to procure suitable clothes. Gilbey knew Nicholas well, and was fond of the private man behind the façade. It pleased him to share this small moment with his friend, and he positioned himself close to the window where he could see. He pushed away his concern that the private Nicholas would disappear once they arrived at Rivington among the Duke of Roxley’s guests.

  “There it is!”

  Gilbey peered over the treetops and caught his breath as he made out the impressive outline of crenellated towers and what seemed like countless chimneys, gables, and ornamental roof finials in the distance beyond. Rivington appeared to be the size of an entire village. The sight quickly was lost again behind the trees, and several more minutes passed before the carriage rounded the last of a wide, sweeping curve and the entire massive structure of Rivington came into view, set in its own private valley, with the River Coln at its feet.

  Edmonton chuckled. “That first glimpse teases, but nothing can prepare you for the full effect of seeing Rivington from here.”

  Gilbey could not tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him. Built on a slight rise beyond a decidedly Tudor gatehouse, Rivington sprawled over its site with a majesty that defied convention. From this side it showed some attempt at architectural symmetry, for an imposing façade with a central entrance was balanced by equal numbers of window bays stretching off to either side and a matching pair of towers. But this had clearly been imposed upon an eccentric collection of earlier structures, whose irregular rooflines revealed themselves behind and at either end of the central section.

  “The oldest tower and part of the chapel dates to 1380,” Nicholas said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “The tower on the right was added later to provide a bit of balance.” He related a short history of the estate and his family’s three-hundred-year connection to it while the carriage covered the remaining distance to the bridge over the river and the ornate stone gatehouse.