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  “If you are concerned about Miss Smithfield’s appearance, you needn’t be. I would not expect you to marry a woman you found unattractive. I made her acquaintance four years ago at a wedding. She was only seventeen at the time, but already blossoming into a beautiful young lady with a pleasing demeanor. She is tall and slender, with light brown hair and fine blue eyes.”

  To Alexander, she sounded just like every other milk-and-water miss he had ever met at Almack’s. “Why is it such a vision of pulchritude is still single at the ripe old age of twenty-one?” He asked, half-jokingly.

  “Miss Smithfield was to have a London season her eighteenth year, but it was cut short when her father fell ill. She and her mother returned home immediately, and a month or two later Sir John passed away. The estate was entailed on a distant cousin, and Lady Smithfield and her daughters were forced to relocate. They now reside in the village of Stonehurst, where they have been the past two years or more. I assume they no longer have the finances to expend on a London season. Sir John left them comfortably enough, from what I have heard, but the cost of another residence probably took a large portion of their settlement.”

  Alexander was dismayed by his father’s story. If the Smithfields were financially depressed, his father’s offer would seem like their salvation. What self-respecting mother would not jump at the chance to marry her daughter to the heir of a wealthy duke? He could behave like an ill-mannered boor and they would pronounce him charming. He tugged uncomfortably at his exquisite cravat, which Jenkins must have tied too tightly that morning, for it suddenly felt as if it were choking him.

  Chapter Two

  Stonehurst. Stonehurst. As Lord Wesleigh left Alford House to walk the short distance to his own residence, he struggled to recall why that name sounded so familiar. He knew he had heard it before, in a completely different context. He was walking up the steps of his town house when he finally remembered.

  “Of course,” he said aloud, “Sedgewick!”

  The butler, who had just opened the door to let his master in, wondered at Lord Wesleigh’s sudden bout of forgetfulness after his nearly ten years of service. Shaking his head at the vagaries of the nobility, he nevertheless reminded him, “Simmons, my lord.”

  “What is that, Simmons?” asked Wesleigh, startled from his reverie. “Oh, you thought I was referring to you. No, I was referring to my good friend, Jonathan Sedgewick, the vicar in Stonehurst. I intend to pay him a visit. Jenkins,” he hollered, taking the stairs that led to his second-story bedchamber two at a time, “pack our bags. We are going to Stonehurst.”

  An hour later, as Wesleigh stood surveying the mountain of luggage that his finicky valet considered essential for a short visit to the country, he realized that it would not do. It would not do at all. The half-formulated plan he had been thinking through since he’d realized he had a connection in Stonehurst was contingent on his ability to arrive virtually unnoticed on the village scene, not to arrive in ducal splendor with his crested carriage and a small army of servants.

  He had what he felt was a perfectly normal desire to observe what his future held before being presented with it on a silver platter. If Lydia Smithfield had any major defects of personality or character, she would take the greatest care to hide these from her prospective bridegroom, the heir to a dukedom. Therefore, he intended to pose as someone so insignificant, so far beneath her notice, that she would be at no pains to hide her true self from him.

  He thought first about masquerading as a servant, but quickly changed his mind. He preferred to at least pose as a member of the gentry, albeit a lesser member. Besides, he doubted his ability to play the part of a servant convincingly enough, particularly for any length of time. There had to be some sort of position he could occupy in Sedgewick’s household, some minor, but realistic, role he could perform that would not cause undue notice.

  He could not say what finally caused him to stumble upon the notion of posing as a curate, but it seemed a realistic enough disguise. No one would question a curate coming to visit his close friend, the vicar. And a curate was low enough on the social ladder that his entrance into Stonehurst society would cause barely a ripple. That is, if he traveled, dressed, and acted as a curate would. Which meant leaving Jenkins and his freshly laundered cravats behind.

  “I have changed my mind, Jenkins. I will pack a small bag myself. And you are to remain here in London.”

  Wesleigh had the satisfaction of seeing his valet’s perpetually expressionless face assume a look of dismay. “But, my lord—”

  “I shall be taking the stage to Stonehurst, and I doubt there would be room for the other passengers were I to take such an impressive array of baggage.”

  “The stage, my lord? Do I understand you properly? You cannot mean that you, the heir to the duke of Alford, are taking the common stage from London to Stonehurst.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I need you to see about securing my passage. I would prefer the boxseat, but any outside seat will do, I suppose. It would be criminal to have to be shut inside on a day like today.” Wesleigh turned to search for his plainest jacket, preferably one a few seasons old as well, before realizing that his valet still stood rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. “Jenkins, I haven’t a lot of time to spare. I am hoping to make Stonehurst by nightfall.” Turning back to his wardrobe, he pulled out an old, badly cut jacket he’d never worn. “Ah, this should do nicely,” he said to himself. As he removed the jacket he was wearing, a sartorial masterpiece of Weston’s, Jenkins shuddered violently, and left to do his master’s bidding.

  The Smithfield ladies and, indeed, every inhabitant of Smithfield House, were on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of Lord Wesleigh. Even though Lady Smithfield had stuck to her promise of keeping silent about the match, the servants, who invariably came to know of any circumstance in their mistresses’ lives, had somehow succeeded in ferreting out this secret as well.

  Emily was perhaps more anxious than anyone for the marquess to arrive, although her mother ran a close second. Lady Smithfield was terribly frustrated to have to keep the secret of her daughter’s conquest. She was desperate to tell her closest friends, not to mention her greatest enemies. Lydia was anxious, also, but not for the marquess to arrive. For the first time in her life, the kindhearted young lady was wishing an accident to befall someone. Not anything serious, mind, just serious enough to lay him up for a few weeks and somehow prevent him from marrying her or her sister. Because no matter what Emily said, Lydia could not believe that her dear sister could really wish to sacrifice herself in such a manner.

  Emily assured her sister repeatedly that it was no sacrifice. If anything, she was fearful that her mother and the duke would not accept her as a substitute for Lydia. She was determined to ensure her sister’s romance with the vicar came to fruition, or she feared that Lydia would be forced to marry Wesleigh no matter what she wished. Or what Emily wished.

  For Emily dearly wanted to marry the marquess. She had moments of doubt, when her stubborn little heart yearned for something like Lydia had found. Someone who loved her and wanted her, not because his father ordered him to, but because his heart did. But then she would sternly push those thoughts aside. Be sensible, Emily, she told herself. How would you ever meet such a man in Stonehurst? And then, once again, she would look forward eagerly to the marquess’s arrival.

  It was not that Emily was materialistic or grasping, determined to be a duchess at all costs. It was just that she was bored! She was incredibly bored, there in dull, poky little Stonehurst. She wanted to go to balls and masquerades, attend the opera and the theater, and meet people, famous people, like Lord Byron, and the Prince Regent. She wanted to travel to the Continent, to faraway, only-dreamed-of places like Venice and Rome. She would look longingly at pictures of elegant ensembles in La Belle Assemblée, only to look despairingly in the mirror at the missish dress that the village dressmaker churned out. Lydia, on the other hand, cared nothing for any of these th
ings. When quizzed about her aborted season in London, she could only say that she did not care for London, finding it very dirty and crowded. She would be perfectly content to stay in Stonehurst forever. Life was so unfair!

  But Emily was determined that, with a little resourcefulness and ingenuity, she could change her fate. And, instead of sitting and twiddling her thumbs until the marquess arrived, she could start by sealing her sister’s fate. And the vicar’s.

  The time for Sunday services finally arrived, to the satisfaction of many, for various reasons, and none of them spiritually motivated. Emily was anxious to begin her plan of aiding Lydia and the vicar in their romance, Lydia was anxious to catch even a sight of her beloved, and the vicar was not loath to see Lydia, either. But perhaps the person with the greatest interest in attending the services was a visitor to Stonehurst, Lord Wesleigh.

  Of course, for the purpose of his visit he was not to be known as Lord Wesleigh, but rather, Alexander Williams. This had much distressed his friend Jonathan Sedgewick, when Alexander had revealed his plan to him a few days earlier.

  “You wish to pose as a curate? But why?” Sedgewick had asked, after the initial greetings had been exchanged. Jonathan Sedgewick was a handsome young man, with fair hair and blue eyes. Alexander had always liked Sedgewick, but there was no denying he took himself a little too seriously. Alexander should have known Sedgewick would not react well to the little masquerade he had planned.

  “That is a long story, my friend, and one that does me little credit,” Alexander replied, still stinging from his father’s words earlier that day.

  “I would like to hear it, just the same.”

  So Alexander explained that his father thought it time he was married, and had arranged a match for him with a Miss Smithfield, whom he had never even laid eyes on.

  “Miss Smithfield!” Sedgewick exclaimed loudly.

  “Yes,” Alexander said, a little startled by the vehemence of his friend’s response. “Miss Smithfield. Her mother went to some ladies’ academy with my mother. Apparently they have nothing better to do at those schools than sit around and discuss the futures of their unborn offspring.”

  Sedgewick did not respond to his friend’s attempt at humor. He still appeared to be in a state of shock. “But it cannot be, not Miss Lydia Smithfield. Could it have possibly been Miss Emily Smithfield?” he asked.

  “I think I would recall the name of the lady, if nothing else. She is the eldest of the Smithfield daughters.”

  “Yes, Lydia is the eldest.” The thought seemed to depress Sedgewick greatly, and he became silent and distracted. Alexander stared at him quizzically, wondering what had come over his friend, but having his suspicions. “There is nothing wrong with the lady, I trust?”

  “Of course not!” Sedgewick answered, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “A more beautiful, caring, wonderful girl does not exist in the entire world!”

  “That is quite a testimonial. I suppose, then, I should thank my father for engaging me to her.” As Sedgewick seemed, if possible, to grow more depressed at this statement, Alexander smiled to himself. It seemed that this charade might not even be necessary. That is, if the young lady returned his friend’s obvious regard. But, even if she did, it was unlikely that her family would countenance her match with a vicar. No, he had better proceed with his plan. “But,” Alexander continued, “I cannot be thankful to my father for his high-handed manner of securing me a wife. So that is why I intend to pose as a curate. It will give me time to observe the lady and decide if I think we should suit. My father did make a stipulation that if we could not, he would not force the match.”

  Sedgewick was not cheered by this bit of news. Knowing Lydia as he did, he was sure the marquess would take one look and fall head over heels in love with her. Yet he reluctantly agreed to make the introduction Sunday after the service was over. He also agreed to let Alexander borrow some of his jackets, even when Alexander inadvertently insulted him by saying it was because he did not want to present too fine an appearance.

  Throughout the sermon, Alexander steeled himself to face his fate. He did not hear one word of the service, but from the abstracted manner of Sedgewick’s delivery, it was clear he had not missed much. Alexander did not know if he were more worried that he would like Lydia or dislike her. If he did like her, there was now the added complication of his friend Sedgewick’s evident regard for her. If he did not like her, he would disappoint his father and her entire family.

  Alexander had yet to see the Smithfield ladies, as he was seated at the front of the church. When the service ended, he glanced casually around, and, as it was a small parish, with very few young ladies, he picked out a trio of ladies he felt could be the Smithfields. But, as they were headed out into the churchyard, he saw little other than the backs of their bonnets.

  He waited for Sedgewick, and they proceeded into the open air. With their similar expressions of heroic resignation, they more closely resembled soldiers going to battle than eligible young men about to meet nubile young ladies.

  Alexander had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust to the afternoon sun after entering the churchyard. Then he looked around for the ladies he had glimpsed earlier. “Is that her?” he asked Sedgewick under his breath, nodding toward a group of females.

  Sedgewick followed his friend’s line of vision and nodded. Miss Smithfield turned and faced Alexander directly, and he looked her over carefully, before breathing a sigh of relief. His father had not been exaggerating when he had stated she was beautiful. But she did not quite match his father’s description. “I thought my father described her as being fairer,” he told Sedgewick.

  Sedgewick shrugged. “She is not blond, but I would not describe her as dark-haired, either.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course she has—” Alexander broke off abruptly, as he noticed another young lady standing next to what he was already thinking of as his young lady. And this lady had lighter hair and blue eyes. Apparently the first lady he had seen was the younger sister. He could hardly contain his disappointment as Sedgewick led him forward to make the introductions. But, then again, what was he thinking? He had no wish to be leg-shackled, not to either of the Smithfield daughters.

  Emily had noticed the gentleman with the vicar and was quite intrigued. She had never seen anyone so handsome. She knew many considered Jonathan Sedgewick to be attractive, but she much preferred this gentleman, with his dark hair and intense brown eyes. She was a little embarrassed, however, by the thorough perusal she had just received from him. She studied him covertly, while the introductions were made, and was shocked to discover he was a curate. He carried himself as if he were a lord! No curate she ever knew would have looked at a lady the way he had just looked at her. He looked her way again, and she lowered her eyes in confusion, embarrassed to have been caught gawking at him like a schoolgirl. When she finally raised her eyes, she was miffed to see that he was studying Lydia as intently as he had her. Foolish girl, she chided herself, why would you want the attention of a curate, anyway?

  She listened intently as her mother spoke to the gentlemen, too nervous to add anything to the conversation, her eyes straying far too often to Mr. Williams’s perfect features. So intent was she with trying to sort out these new, inexplicable sensations, she completely forgot her resolve to involve Lydia and Sedgewick together in conversation, and they stood as mute as she, while her mother invited the curate to dinner that evening. The dinner party was the first maneuver in Emily’s plan to get Lydia and Jonathan Sedgewick together. She had convinced her mother that they needed to entertain some of the local families in the parish, to repay them for the many kindnesses they had received since they had moved to the area just over two years ago. The vicar was on the guest list, and now it seemed that his friend, Mr. Williams, was as well. Emily felt her plans were proceeding well. But she didn’t know yet how Mr. Williams fit into them.

  Chapter Three

  Dinner was a dull affair, as Emily was s
eated far from Mr. Williams, who was the only person of interest at the table. Emily assured herself she felt that way because he was new in town, and she had known all the others at the table for more than two years. Regardless, she found her eyes straying to the other end of the table more often than was proper, and she quickly lowered her eyes and looked away when she caught him looking at her as well. Stop making a fool of yourself, Emily, just because he’s the handsomest man you’ve ever seen, she told herself. There are probably scores of gentlemen like him in London.

  Mr. Thistle, the local magistrate, was seated to Emily’s left. He was a bachelor but, being over sixty, was not an object of much interest to the young ladies. Even so, Emily usually honored him with a light flirtation, as he had an eye for a pretty girl, and she knew he enjoyed teasing her. Tonight, however, she paid Mr. Thistle little heed, her thoughts distracted by Mr. Williams, until she heard him mention the highwayman.

  “What highwayman?” she asked, her first contribution to the conversation other than a polite nod here and there.

  The old man was delighted to have Emily’s attention. “You must have heard talk of it by now.”

  Emily assured him she had not.

  “Ah. What a novel position for me to enjoy. It is unusual that I, a gentleman, am able to import some small bit of news to a lady.” Mr. Thistle chuckled at his own witticism, until Emily reminded him that he had not yet shared his bit of news.

  “Yes. Well it seems some brigand has robbed three carriages, on the London road, only a few miles outside Stonehurst.”

  “How shocking,” Emily replied, her interest truly caught. “I hope no one has been injured?”

  “Not yet; apparently there has not been cause. In each case, the inhabitants of the carriage surrendered their belongings without protest. I happen to believe that the wise course. Of what value is some trinket in comparison with one’s life?” Emily murmured her agreement. “If you ladies make a trip to town, or even to Rye or Hastings, be very careful.”