You may have heard the phrases in stories set in the early
nineteenth century--the toast of London, the belle of the ball, an
Incomparable, a diamond of the first water.
What sort of young lady do those phrases describe? Well, real-life examples vary, but here are
some characteristics to consider:
- She is invited to all major social events and may
indeed be the first person on the hostess’s guest list.
- Her drawing room is constantly filled with
fawning gentlemen and giggling lady friends because how could they possibly
pass the day without a moment of her company?
- She receives the coveted vouchers for Almack’s,
London’s famous ladies’ club, without any manipulation or begging on her part.
- She garners more than one offer from an eligible
bachelor for her hand in marriage within a short time frame.
- Her very name is synonymous with good taste,
elegance, and sophistication.
Rather tall order to fill, isn't it? Yet Priscilla Tate, the best friend of Lady
Emily Southwell in Art and Artifice
(formerly La Petite Four) masters
each of these traits within the first month of arriving in London. She has to. You
see, Priscilla must go big or go home.
Her family is punting on tick, about to end up in debtor’s prison, if
she doesn't marry well.
But the toast of London is about to get burned.
Priscilla is well on her way to wringing a proposal out of
the Season’s most eligible bachelor, the Duke of Rottenford, when blackmail
notes start arriving, threatening to expose a dark secret unless she ceases her
pursuit. It’s up to Emily and her dear friends Ariadne and Daphne Courdebas to
help her uncover the mastermind before disaster strikes. But more than one
secret is waiting to be revealed, not the least of which is Priscilla’s growing
attraction for a most unlikely ally, Nathan Kent, the duke’s personal
secretary. But will Nathan, no, no, the duke, understand if her secret comes
out?
Here’s an excerpt:
Nathan Kent set his top hat on his head and descended the
steps of the town house with an unwelcome feeling of defeat. He glanced back
with a frown. Lady Emily, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Emerson, seemed
such a levelheaded young woman. He had been quite impressed by the way she’d
regained her composure after the contretemps at her debut ball a week ago. Between
her personality and her place in Society, Lady Emily would have made an
exceptional liaison for His Grace the Duke of Rottenford. A shame her interests
obviously lay elsewhere.
He allowed himself a sigh. He was running out of suitable
matches, which meant Miss Priscilla Tate was going to be a problem. Oh, there
was no doubt she had the presence to make an excellent duchess. And no man
alive could complain of her looks.
He supposed if he searched in Belgium or Flanders he might
find a woman whose hair was as golden or possessed of such luster and vitality
that it begged to be touched. It was possible some Irish lass might have eyes a
more vibrant shade of green and capable of exuding the warmth that beckoned a
man like a fire on a cold winter night. The women who had modeled for the classic
Greek sculptors could have had figures that rivaled the one Miss Tate showed to
advantage in her stylish gowns.
But somehow he doubted any other woman in England combined
those traits with such cunning and will as he had seen in her. She had thrown
her considerable armament against the wall of His Grace’s bachelorhood,
determined to capture the duke’s affections. Nathan could not allow her to
succeed.
He turned to the front again, his duty stiffening his spine,
and found the very woman he’d been contemplating standing in his way. Nathan
blinked.
Miss Tate blinked.
For a moment, he almost thought he was mistaken in her
identity. Stripped away were the polished airs, the coy smiles. The color in
her cheeks came from high emotion or exertion, not rouge. The downturn of those
rosy lips spoke of dismay.
He put his hand to her elbow before he thought better of it.
“Miss Tate. Is everything all right?”
He watched as the woman withdrew behind the mask. Her gaze
brightened, her lips lifted, her lashes fluttered.
“Why, Mr. Kent, how nice to see you.” She glanced pointedly
around him as if he could have hidden his tall employer behind him. “Is His
Grace with you?”
“Alas, no,” Nathan replied, trying to recapture her gaze
even as he dropped his hold of her. “Uneasy lies the head that wears that
coronet.”
Her smile was no more than polite. “Of course. I admire a
man who takes his duty seriously.”
Did she? Somehow, he doubted she would admire him for doing
his duty, especially when that duty meant keeping His Grace away from fortune
hunters like her.
He tipped his hat. “Then you will not mind if I return to mine.
Good-day, Miss Tate.”
She inclined her head. Had he been the duke, she would have
dipped a curtsey with effortless grace and humility. As a mere personal secretary,
he had not warrant such a response. Indeed, she turned from him so quickly it
seemed he did not even warrant her attention. Given the tasks he needed to
complete before returning to His Grace, Priscilla Tate did not warrant Nathan’s
attention either.
But as he reached the street, he could not help glancing
back one last time. She had reached the door to the town house and lifted her
hand to the brass knocker. Her back was straight, her head high. The pink satin
pelisse was a mastery designed to outline her curves. She was the epitome of a
fine London lady.
Yet the hand that reached for the knocker was trembling.
What had happened to so discompose the redoubtable Miss Tate?
And why, when he was certain she was a clever fraud, did he feel compelled to
help her?
Buy now from
Secrets and
Sensibilities was originally published by Kensington as a traditional
Regency romance. I’ve edited and rewritten parts since. Here was the first
cover (and title--A Dangerous Dalliance).
