Better Than Byron by Judy Carpenter

Better Than Byron Copyright Š 2017 Judy Carpenter All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Windswept an imprint of BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017945386 ISBN-13: 978-1-946848-56-7 ISBN-10: 1-946848-56-5 Visit the publisher at: www.bhcpress.com Also available in ebook

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fear you will be at a sad disadvantage. You are a good ten years past most of the other young ladies making their comeout this Season.”

Lynn bent and adjusted the flounce on Hermione’s dress.

Hermione looked down at the top of her aunt’s elaborate coif.

“But I don’t see this as my ‘comeout,’ Aunt. For me, it is just a season in London.” My first, and most likely only, Season in London. Hermione hugged herself.

“If your father had not been so stubborn…” Lynn made a few more adjustments before standing up. A man and woman came up behind her and pushed their way past, causing Lynn to stumble. She struggled momentarily to regain her balance. Neither one apologized.

Lynn’s words hung in the air as Hermione put out a hand to steady her aunt. She knew Lynn had begged her father, Archibald, every year since Hermione’s seventeenth birthday to let Lynn bring her to London. But Archibald had been adamant. Since her mother’s death when Hermione was sixteen, he claimed he could not do without her.

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“You never said. What made him change his mind this year?”

Hermione lifted her skirt slightly and moved forward.

“I have no idea. But when I asked this year, he did not hesitate.

He merely said, ‘yes.’”

Hermione was too excited to pursue the topic and let the matter drop.

As the two women gained entrance, Hermione could hear the strains of music and the buzz of many voices. The dresses of the other women in attendance represented every color in the rainbow, and the colors of the men’s suits were not much different. Hermione looked at her aunt and tried to say something about the crowd, but her throat seemed to close up.

“Buck up, Hermione,” Lynn said. “Don’t look so woebegone. You are English.” Though her words were sharp, her voice was kind. “You have no reason to feel inferior to anyone here, though they may be titled and wealthy. Your family is old and honorable, and your father is not poor.”

Hermione replied, “I am not normally of a timid nature, Aunt, but I admit I am a little cowed.” She took a deep breath, looked at her aunt, squared her shoulders, exhaled, and smiled.

It was a rather forced smile, but it was a smile, and Lynn said, “There, then. That’s better. And don’t squint.” Hermione forced her eyes to open wider as they proceeded toward the ballroom.

Despite her recent anxiety, when she and Lynn entered the ballroom, Hermione caught the contagion of the joie de vivre of the other attendees. Soon felt the gaiety of a young girl, despite her twenty-seven years. Her skin tingled, her palms itched, and the very air seemed charged with a kind of power.

Hermione’s Grand London Adventure had started a month prior when she had stepped into her aunt’s carriage and traveled from her country home in Humberside to London. Everything she had 8

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seen and heard since had been a source of wonderment to her. But this… She had nothing in her past with which to compare what she felt as she entered the ballroom.

Though her aunt Lynn had high hopes Hermione might attract the attention of some eligible man, Hermione had no expectations of anything beyond the theatricality of a grand ball and that she might perhaps have a dance or two with a pleasant, if ultimately disinterested, gentleman.

Someone hailed Aunt Lynn, who waved and called, “Just a moment.” She quickly led her niece to a small clump of young ladies, made quick introductions, and then hastily left to join her friend.

After exchanging pleasantries with several of the other women, Hermione turned to observe the festivities. Ever mindful of her Aunt Lynn’s instructions, she tried to look around the ballroom without appearing to. Standing on the edge of the group of what she already termed to herself as “my fellow wallflowers,” she lowered her lids and, holding her torso stiff, tilted her head to one side as she gazed out of the corner of her eyes.

She was amazed by the elaborate decorations displayed throughout the gigantic ballroom. The room was filled with people, and the air was filled with many smells. There was the pungent smell of candles and oil lamps, and a potpourri of so many different perfumes none were distinct.

“The theme of the ball is ‘Majestic Mountains.’”

Hermione looked down into the eyes of the diminutive woman next to her. “Oh?” “Did you note the live trees and flowers and many differently sized rocks artfully scattered along the perimeter of the dance floor?

Of course, they took great care not to obscure the view of the dancers from those of us who merely sit and watch.” The woman had a wistful look on her face.

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Hermione gazed at the artificial mountain of varying shades of green velvet that had been erected behind the orchestra. She looked at her companion with a smile and said, “I wonder how many bolts of fabric they used for that display.”

“I dare say it cost a small fortune.”

The girl looked to be about seventeen. She had unfortunate orange hair and so many freckles they could not possibly be counted. She stood a good head shorter than Hermione, but her green eyes twinkled.

They spent the next quarter hour in cordial conversation. Finally, Hermione said, “It is so loud.” With so many voices chattering, the tinkling of punch glasses, the occasional bout of boisterous laughter, and the sounds of the orchestra drifting across the ballroom, there was quite a clamor. “I’m afraid there will be aches in many a head before the party ends.”

The girl murmured her agreement, and the two fell silent. A moment later, the girl saw someone she knew and, with a polite bow, moved away, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.

The grandeur of the ball was much more than Hermione had imagined, and she wanted to make note of every little detail so she could describe her experience exactly to her friend Delia when she wrote to her on the morrow. Her fear was that there were so many details to remember that she could not possibly remember above half.

She squinted, trying to see more. Her eyes had always been a bit weak; she could see close up things well, but things farther away were generally a bit fuzzy. She turned her head slightly to the left and closed her left eye so she could see better with her stronger right eye.

She became aware of a group of people standing in the direction that had most recently engaged her attention. They all had startled looks on their faces as they stared toward her. One of the young 10

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ladies tittered, while a violet-clad matron muttered, “Well, I never saw such a thing.”

Hermione opened both eyes wide and looked around to see what had excited their attention. When she turned back to them, she was caught by the grim look of one of the men in the group. He was tall, clean-shaven, light-haired, and dressed in stark black and white.

“Flirting with strange men is considered vulgar and bold. It can also lead to unwanted attention.” His words seemed to boom throughout the room, but in actuality carried only a few feet. Hermione looked into clear blue eyes, and it took her a few seconds to realize he had directed his comment to her.

“Wh-what? Flirting?” she stammered.

“Such impertinence,” the matron muttered. There were no more words as the group moved away.

Hermione, still not comprehending their disdain, cast her gaze to the ground as she tried to think what she could have done to offend them. “I was not flirting,” she muttered. With a mental shrug, she put the episode from her mind and returned to her absorption of the sights and sounds around her.

A short time after his encounter with the boldly coquettish woman, Luke, Viscount Dorchester, found himself dancing with Brianna Gefford, the daughter of the Earl of Somerset. Luke was attractive, heir to a title and fortune, and well aware of these attributes. At thirty-three, he was adept at dodging the attempts of many ambitious mothers and daughters to tempt him into matrimony.

He looked down at Brianna’s fluttering eyelashes that circled large blue eyes as she flirted with him, her head tilted, her lips slightly pursed to make them appear smaller. Her pale-pink dress clung to her exquisite figure in all the right places. Pink crystals, scattered 11

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randomly around her elaborately braided blonde hair, winked in the bright candlelight.

She’s like every other marriageable young woman out this Season: beautiful, self-centered, clutching, and stupid. He made appropriate comments and responses during the required dance steps and tried not to look as bored as he felt.

He watched her smile at her other partners as she went through the steps of the dance. She is quite proud of herself. Of course, she is the daughter of an Earland a considerable heiress. She is beautiful, talented, and desirable. I could do worse, for a wife. But since I have no intention of marrying until I meet a woman who is my equal in all respects, including intellect, I have resigned myself to life as a bachelor. He controlled the urge to sigh.

Brianna looked up into the Viscount’s eyes. “I find it hard to believe the way that encroaching mushroom flirted with you so outrageously.

Obviously, no one has taught her how to go about in Society. I’m sure that I would never act in such a bold and reckless manner.”

Luke looked at her a moment before responding. “It was indeed an odd thing to happen. I certainly hope any husband she traps is as boorish as she. They may at least provide the rest of Society some amusement.”

Brianna tittered, and the set ended.

“Hermione,” Aunt Lynn said as she broke through the crowd to approach her niece. “I have been told you were flirting, most outrageously, with Viscount Dorchester. It is too bad. It will not do.” She looked at her niece, a mixture of question and accusation on her face.

“Aunt, I have flirted with no one.” Hermione looked at her aunt in surprise, which quickly turned to indignation. “There was an arrogant man, who earlier thought I was trying to flirt with him, or so he 12

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said, but I don’t know what gave him that idea. I assure you I would never flirt with any man.”

Lynn looked at her niece intently, and then her face relaxed. “What were you doing when you encountered the man?” she asked.

“Nothing. I was merely looking around the ballroom, taking care not to act like a bumpkin, as you said, and that man accused me of flirting.”

“Hmm,” Lynn muttered, and then added in a sharp voice, “Well, keep your wits about, Hermione. Other people were of the same mind and thought you were flirting, and it doesn’t take much to be ostracized by Society. Your chances of landing a good husband will be lost if you aren’t welcome in the right drawing rooms.”

She seated herself beside her niece, who sighed. Oh, Aunt, if only you would accept that my chances of “landing a good husband” are already nonexistent.

“Do you see, Hermione?” Lynn opened her lace fan and waved it at her face. The crowded room had gotten quite warm. “It is as I said: your new ball gown is of the latest fashion and color.”

“Indeed it is, Aunt. Though, I still say it is not at all flattering to me. At seven and twenty years of age, I am rather too old and ordinary to be dressed in the frills and flounces that look so well on the younger debutantes. And with my coloring, I think a deeper color, perhaps a sapphire or emerald, would have served better.”

“Do not be silly. Your beautiful cream-colored gown looks perfect amongst all the greens and yellows, the pinks and blues.”

“You do not think most people will look at me and think ‘mutton dressed as lamb’?”

“Hmmph.”

Hermione grinned and then, remembering her aunt’s instructions, she pasted a politely bored look on her face and turned her attention to the dancers.

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Luke stood near a clump of small oak trees, talking to one of his university chums, Sir Gregory Winston, Baronet. Gregory was built much like Luke and of the same height, but his coloring was opposite.

His hair was dark, he had brown eyes, and a mustache. Gregory was dressed in the same stark black and white as Luke.

“Well, have any of this year’s offerings caught your eye, Dorchester?” Gregory asked with a smile.

“Actually, no,” Luke answered. “I have not, as yet, met any female that I would care to spend a week with, much less the rest of my life.”

“What about the petite blonde you danced with earlier? Men have been swarming around her all evening.”

“You shall have to be a little more exact. I have danced with several ‘petite blondes’ and I have not noticed anything special about any of them.”

Gregory arched an eyebrow. “The one I refer to is named Brianna. I thought you might have secured her for the supper dance.”

“Ah. Brianna. Somerset’s daughter. I suppose she is pleasant enough, as long as no demands are made of her intelligence. In truth, I found myself in the early steps of the dance wishing it had already ended. She chatters like a magpie, and every word she says is contrived to make her companion say something flattering to her. Enduring her presence during supper had not occurred to me.”

“Perhaps you are better off to remain unmarried.”

Luke looked at Gregory, trying to discern the meaning behind that comment, but found no clues in the other man’s bland expression.

As she danced with Lord Dorchester, Brianna decided he was not only young and attractive, but also highly acceptable, even to 14

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her father, as husband material. Before the set was finished, she had decided he was the one she would marry. She would tell her mother as soon as they returned home.

After their dance, she began looking for an opportunity to “accidentally” bump into him and finally tracked him to a clump of trees.

She got there just in time to hear the entire exchange between him and the other man, though they remained oblivious to her presence.

When she first understood they were speaking of her, she smiled, expecting to hear herself praised. When the actual meaning of the Viscount’s words penetrated her brain, she gasped in shock.

At first she was indignant at Lord Dorchester’s words, but his last comment hit her heart like a hammer. The knowledge that she had made similar observations about some of her own dance partners was irrelevant: Lord Dorchester was the one she had chosen, was willing to marry, and he had discounted her as unworthy of consideration.

She silently slipped away and made her way to the library, where her whole body shook with fury.

As she paced back and forth, remembering not just Lord Dorchester’s words but that they had been spoken to another man in a public forum, she became so agitated she feared she might bring up the soup she had eaten earlier before dressing for the ball. She imagined Lord Dorchester’s companion going to different members of Society and repeating the Viscount’s comments. The humiliation would be unbearable. Her chances of making a good match would be ruined.

She would be considered no better than that encroaching mushroom who had flirted with him earlier. “That woman is the one he deserves,” she muttered as hot tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. “He is as boorish as she.”

Suddenly, the grain of an idea implanted itself, and she quickly wiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands. Before she 15

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returned to the ballroom, the idea had grown into a complete diabolical scheme. She wasted no time in setting it into motion.

Hermione and her aunt had finished eating, and Lynn had gone to the room set up for the ladies to attend to their necessities. Hermione was engaged in conversation with one of the other young ladies who had not been asked to dance when she overheard a snippet from somewhere behind her.

“It is too bad, but I heard that one of the chaperones has collapsed. Someone named Lynn, I believe; the widow of some knight or other. They took her to the library. Does anyone know a matron named Lynn?”

Alarmed, Hermione excused herself, stood, and found a footman, who directed her to the library.

At about the same time, Luke received a short note from another footman, requesting that he attend a friend in the library. He looked around, wondering which friend requested his attendance. Then curiosity and boredom got the better of him, and he made his way through the crowd.

Luke opened the library doors, stepped inside and quietly closed the doors behind him. He looked around the dimly-lit room and saw a female, a puzzled expression on her face, standing by the leather sofa. It took him a moment to recognize her as the woman who had so recently attempted to flirt with him.

“Have they taken her to another room?” she asked.

“Has who taken whom to another room?” Luke responded, his voice cold, with barely repressed incivility.

“Aunt Lynn. Have they taken her to another room?”

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“I’ve no idea to whom you are referring.” He paused and then continued, “I received a note requesting I meet a ‘friend’ here. I suppose you would have no knowledge of that note?”

“Hmm? Note? No, I am sorry. Your friend must be late. There was no one here when I came in.”

Hermione rubbed her temples with her fingers, and Luke was almost convinced she was telling the truth. Then she looked at him sharply. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about? Where is my aunt?”

“I have no idea what this is all about, and I told you I know nothing of your aunt’s whereabouts. Nor do I know who you are, or your aunt’s identity.”

Hermione continued to stare at him. “My aunt is Lynn Barton, widow of Sir Alex Barton, who served as knight in His Majesty’s Guard. I was led to believe she had collapsed and had been brought to the library.”

“Ah. Lynn Barton.” He relaxed a bit. “A most estimable lady.

But, if she had collapsed,” he paused again, and his eyes narrowed slightly, “why would anyone bring her to the library? Would it not make more sense to take her to one of the sitting rooms, or perhaps a bedroom?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, and the face Luke had considered plain was transformed by a radiant smile. “I must have misheard.”

Hermione quickly brushed past Luke and put her hand on the knob to open the library door when it opened in front of her. She stopped suddenly and gasped.

Luke had been following close behind her and now bumped into her, causing her to lose her footing. He put out a hand to keep her from falling, catching her around the waist. Then he peered over her shoulder into the startled faces of his mother, father, Lynn Barton, and several other people gathered behind them.

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“Dorchester!” the Earl and Duchess of Bournemouth said in unison.

“Hermione!” cried Lady Barton.

“Aunt!” Hermione choked.

“Good Lord,” muttered Luke.

Brianna had jostled her way to a position just behind the Earl, his wife, and Lynn Barton as they marched toward the library, so she could watch the unfolding of the scandal between the Viscount and his soonto-be-bride mushroom. Had anyone bothered to look, they would have seen a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. A look that twisted her pretty face into an ugly mask.

When the Earl first opened the door it appeared to Brianna as though the Viscount and the mushroom could have been embracing.

They quickly disentangled themselves from each other and now Brianna watched the two figures with delicious attention.

She saw the rigid posture of the Viscount and the steel in his eyes, and the flushed face of the mushroom and the shaking of her body. Brianna felt a peace and satisfaction that would have greatly unsettled either of her victims had they but known.

The Earl, Countess, and Lynn shoved their way into the library, pushing the Viscount and Hermione back in with them. The Earl slammed the door in the faces of the would-be voyeurs, and turned to face his son. “How dare you make an assignation with a woman in such a public place?”“Assignation, Father? What in the name of Hades are you talking about?”

“Watch your language,” the Earl snapped. “Your behavior is bad enough; don’t make the situation worse by using bad language.”

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“What is the meaning of this?” Luke demanded.

“Oh, you want explanations? Well, so do we.” The Earl handed a crumpled piece of paper to his son. “Explain that, if you please.”

Luke took the piece of paper and read: “My darling Hermione—

Meet me in the library. I can’t wait to see you, touch you again. After the night we spent together, I am hardly able to think of anything else. Dorchester”

He rounded on Hermione. “You!” His voice was scathing, and he did not try to suppress his fury.

When the Viscount turned to her and she saw the fury on his face, Hermione took a step backward. “What?”

“You did this!”

He handed her the piece of paper and she read. She gasped and looked around at the faces that surrounded her. Their disapproval, anger, and suspicion hung like a pall in the air. A blush crept over her cheeks.

“I do not understand.”

“Of course you do,” Luke said. “This is all your doing.”

Hermione at last found her voice. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Hermione has been under my roof every night since she has been in Town,” Lynn said. “She has not spent the night with the Viscount or any other man.” Her own face was red and her trembling lips white.

“Of course we did not spend a night together,” the Viscount snapped.

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“If I had not seen the note myself, I would not have believed you had arranged a secret assignation in the library with a woman to whom you have not even been properly introduced,” his father raged.

“Were you not my heir, I would disown you.”

“Hermione, how could you?” Lynn groaned. “You know better than to meet strange men in secret, behind closed doors. How could you?” she wailed.

“Aunt, I did not ‘meet this man’…”

Luke cut off her words mid-sentence. “Lady Barton, Father, Mother, I had no such intentions as those of which you accuse me. I certainly would never be so boorish as to breech etiquette so far and with such a dumpling…”

“Dumpling? Dumpling? You compromise my niece, ruin her reputation, and call her a dumpling?” Lynn strode over and whacked Luke on the head with her fan. “Were I a man, my Lord, I would call you out.”

A startled Luke rubbed his head where the fan had made contact, and then he glared at Lynn. “At this point, Madam, be grateful you are not a man, else I would return that tenfold.” His anger at the entire situation threatened to boil over. “It is not even my handwriting.” He turned to Hermione. “You wrote it.”

“I assure you, it is not my handwriting. This is all a terrible mistake. I did not meet with this man in secret. We did not spend the night together. If you will just let me explain…”

Suddenly, the Duchess’s eyes narrowed. “You are that brazen cow who was flirting so shamelessly with our son when we entered the ballroom. This is all a plot to trap our poor son.”

Lynn gasped and sputtered, unable to form a word in her outrage, but, surprisingly, Hermione laughed. “You may call me all the names you like, Your Grace,” she said with amusement, “but I assure 20

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you, had I set out to trap a man, your cold, arrogant son would not have been my choice.”

Luke and his parents glared at Hermione, who smiled back, while Lynn glared at them all. “I’m sure that once this is all sorted out, we will find this is all a horrible joke, but since the damage has been done, I assume I may expect your son to do the right thing?” Lynn’s voice was quiet, but as hard as iron.

“If you are implying that I must offer for this person,” Luke’s voice dripped with disdain, “you will be waiting a long, long time.” He looked at his parents for confirmation but was surprised when neither of them met his eyes. His mother looked at the floor, a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye, while his father stared at a point over Luke’s left shoulder.

“Our son has been raised correctly.” The Earl’s voice was emotionless. “He will present himself tomorrow, and the arrangements will be made.”

Lynn nodded and grabbed Hermione’s hand. With great dignity, she led the protesting young woman from the library. As they left, the Duchess began to cry softly, digging into her reticule for a kerchief.

“Surely you are not serious in saying I must offer for that woman?

You must know this was a plot and I am innocent of any wrongdoing!”

“Yes, I believe you are innocent.” The Earl’s eyes betrayed his sorrow. “But you know the dictates of Society. If you do not offer, you will be considered a man without honor, and your mother and I would be painted with the same brush. The Prince Regent is extremely outspoken on these matters.” He paused and then added, “Is that what you want?”

“No.”The word was ice. Luke wanted to protest further. He wanted to point out the hypocrisy of the Prince Regent, who had kept a string 21

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of mistresses over the years. But he had to admit to himself the Prince’s lovers were all sanctioned by his title—no one in Society could touch them. Unlike Miss Hermione Newburn, whose reputation would be ruined by this incident. He felt the blood pounding in his ears, and a dull ache had started in his left temple.

“Then you must present yourself tomorrow to Lady Barton.”

“At least,” the Duchess offered in a timid voice, “the girl is of good, if not entirely desirable, family. Her maternal grandfather was the Earl of Holland Lincolnshire. And she is not poor. I understand she receives four hundred pounds a year, which, though not a fortune, is certainly respectable. You need not be ashamed.”

“Ashamed, Mother? I am to be shackled for the rest of my life to a woman I don’t care for, whom I don’t even know? This is to be my fate?” His voice crackled with bitterness. “No.” He shook his head.

“I’ve no intention of embarking on the mad path you advise.” He turned on his heel and started out the door.

“Dorchester!” His father’s voice was sharp, but Luke continued out the door without a backward glance.

When he reentered the ballroom, Luke was amazed at the scene before him. It seemed every eye in the crowd had been glued to the door, awaiting the members of the cast of the drama in the library.

He looked around and saw the anticipation on a number of faces close by, and his father’s voice echoed from his childhood: “English gentlemen never show emotion. Regardless of circumstance, we do not let others see our fear, distress, anger, or pain.” Luke set his shoulders back and inhaled deeply, and then he exhaled slowly. His teeth were clenched tightly and he forced the muscles in his jaws to relax.

Then he focused his eyes on a point slightly above the heads of the people in the crowd and walked forward.

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He knew if the people in the crowd had looked hard enough they might have noticed the slight pallor of his face, the minute shake of his hands, and they could have guessed at his agitation. But as it was, the watchers were left to conjecture, and they started to conjecture immediately. Luke heard the buzz of whispers rise around him but ignored it.

He made his way toward Gregory Winston. “I’ve stepped into something rather sticky, Winston. I’m leaving. Would it be too much to ask for you to accompany me?”

From his friend’s troubled look, Luke surmised Gregory knew what that “something sticky” was. Though Gregory’s Methodist ways on occasion made Luke uncomfortable, he also knew the man to be of solid character, someone who could be trusted to exercise good judgment and discretion.

Gregory nodded, and the two gentlemen made hasty apologies to their host and hostess and left.

Seated opposite each other in Luke’s carriage, they stared at each other in silence for several minutes. Finally, Luke loosened his cravat.

“You heard.”

“Of course. You know nothing escapes the attention of the matrons. It was rather like a tidal wave. It started in one corner of the room and rippled across each face. If it hadn’t been such a disastrous situation, it would have been amusing to see each head turn to hear, and then turn to the next person and repeat.”

“I made no assignation.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.” Once again, Luke explained what had happened.

Gregory stroked his mustache. “It is difficult to sort these things out, as you know. There was a rumor earlier that one of the chaperones had collapsed, but it turned out to be false. No one knows who started 23

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it. I doubt you could trace it back to its roots even if you enlisted the help of the Prince’s entire intelligence corps.”

“So it could have been someone else, or this Hermione could have orchestrated the whole thing. That she did it herself would demand a great amount of nefarious planning, not to mention sangfroid.” Luke chewed on his bottom lip and allowed himself to entertain a seed of doubt about Hermione’s guilt.

Gregory thought for a moment before asking, “Did she try to throw herself at you? I would think if she had gone to such trouble to set the whole thing up, she would have wanted to assure her success. It would have been harder to cry foul if you had been caught—” he arched one eyebrow “—in flagrante delicto.”

Luke hesitated. “She did not. Her perplexity seemed genuine.

Of course, she could just be very good at dissembling. And if she were truly trying to feather her nest, it would make more sense to appear to be an innocent. That way, a reluctant husband would be less unpleasant.”

“There is that possibility.” Gregory paused and looked at Luke with empathy. “What are you going to do?”

“I have been ordered to marry the wench.” Luke looked away. “I fail to see why a Society that barters daughters for money every day of the week—” he paused for breath “—makes such a hue and cry when one plain-as-newsprint spinster is mistakenly shut away in a room with an unrelated man for five minutes—” another breath “—and then demands the man pay for that momentary lapse for the rest of his life.”

How he would have liked to hit something.

“I rather think the poor woman is just as much the victim,” Gregory murmured. “But, you have answered your own question. Daughters are bargaining chips, and the more money involved, the more strict the demands of society. Had the woman been a scullery maid and you had ravished her, you would have been chastised and sent to the country for 24

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a few weeks. The maid would have been turned out without a penny, or a reference. Where is the justice for her?”

He fell silent for a moment. “I am sorry for your trouble, Dorchester. Perhaps if you postpone the wedding as long as possible something may come to light.”

Luke sighed. The headache that had started earlier had increased in intensity. “I doubt the elders in this charade will permit a long engagement. I am afraid they will be all too anxious to assure my compliance.”

“It is indeed too bad.”

“I thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this distasteful situation. Where shall I drop you?”

“I have no pressing engagement, if you need company. Not that I want to impose.”

Luke managed a small smile. “I’m going home to partake of demon rum. You’re welcome to come along.”

“As you know, I do not drink strong spirits else I would accompany you with enthusiasm. You may drop me at my quarters.”

Luke tapped on the carriage ceiling with his cane and gave the driver the direction. The rest of the journey was completed in silence, each man keeping his own counsel.

True to his word, Luke returned home where he drank half a decanter of rum before he passed into oblivion. Nevertheless, the next morning found him dressed in formal attire and standing, albeit a shade unsteadily, at the door of Lynn Barton’s house.

He rapped sharply on the door with his silver-handled cane. His eyes burned, both from lack of sleep and rum.

The butler opened the door, a look of distaste on his face. Luke’s head felt like it was likely to explode. He gave his name, unnecessarily 25

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he was sure, handed over his curly-brimmed beaver hat and kidskin gloves, and was shown to the drawing room.

A few minutes later Lady Barton bustled in. “Lord Dorchester.”

She made a slight curtsy and Luke made a slight bow in return. Lynn settled herself on a rose-colored brocade chair and gestured for him to sit also, which he did, on a matching chair opposite her.

“My Lord, I have spoken to my niece.” Lynn hesitated before taking a quick breath. “I am convinced you have both been the victims of some vicious plot.” Luke had been feeling the weight of doom pressing on him and was startled into a feeling of hope by her statement. Unfortunately, her next words threw cold water on him. “Of course, it is of no consequence. As I told Hermione, the damage is done. There is no choice in the matter. Her reputation is ruined. Society will believe the worst of her if you do not marry.”

She looked at Luke, her eyes sad, and added, “Hermione is no more eager to marry than you are. She is rather frightened. I hope you will be kind, my Lord.” She looked at him, her eyes searching his.

“I am no ogre, Madam.”

“Of course not. And Hermione is not ignorant of your reputation. I have made it known to her that you are respected and admired by those members of Society who know you. You take your responsibilities as a member of the House of Lords seriously, and by all accounts you are wise and fair to your servants and tenants. But this marriage is not your choice. It is understandable that you are angry.”

He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. “As you stated, I’ve no joy in this situation. Were there an honorable alternative, I would not be here now. But I have never admired men who beat their wives. Nor do I see anything instructional in constantly berating a person. If she treats me with respect and is obedient, perhaps the union will not be a disaster.” This speech left him feeling quite magnanimous.

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BETTER THAN BYRON

“Good. That is a start. I would like the wedding to take place before the month is out. I’m sure you can obtain a special license. There is no time to obtain a proper trousseau, but we can arrange a wedding gown and a few other necessities. At any rate, due to the circumstances, a small wedding is desirable.”

Luke nodded again, and Lynn smiled encouragement. “Hermione is seven and twenty, but she has lived her whole life in Humberside. Consequently, she is naive. She is the only child of my only brother, Sir William Medford, who is fifteen years my senior. Her mother died when she was a child, and William quite selfishly kept her close to him, discouraging any suitors. She is only here now because I browbeat him into letting her spend the Season with me.

Although she is ignorant of many of the ways of Society, she is capable of learning, and she will not disgrace you. If you are patient and kind, she will blossom, I am sure.”

Lynn took a deep breath and let it out before rising. “I’ll send Hermione to you. You have a great deal to discuss.” She left, and a few minutes later Hermione entered, calm reticence in her bearing.

Luke looked at the unadorned gown of gray silk, the unremarkable brown hair, and the indifferent figure of the woman who entered.

Her face, except for a pair of rather expressive eyes, was like any other. It was as he remembered: the woman was as plain as writing paper.

He rose and bowed deeply from the waist. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Hermione said, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name. That is, I know you are Viscount Dorchester, the son of the Earl of Bournemouth, but…” she stopped.

“I am Luke Carlton Stephen Dumont, Viscount Dorchester.

Son and heir to the Earl of Bournemouth. As your affianced, you of course may call me Dorchester, or Luke, whichever you prefer.

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JUDY CARPENTER

And you are Hermione…” He searched his memory, but her name eluded him.

“What a farce.” Hermione’s eyes rose to look at the ceiling and she shook her head minutely. “I am Hermione Alexandria Newburn.

Are we really to be forced into marriage, when we don’t even know each other’s names?”

Lord Dorchester felt, for the first time, a nugget of compassion for this woman. From her demeanor and the timber of her voice, her words and her gestures, he began to suspect her chagrin at their predicament might be genuine. “We may perhaps comfort ourselves with the knowledge that there have been other, more distasteful marriages arranged.” He felt a small tic at the corner of his left eye.

“Ye-es, and I can also glean comfort knowing that you seem to have bathed recently and can get around by your own efforts.” She looked at him, daring him to join her game.

“And you seem to have all your own teeth, and apparently can put an entire sentence together without consulting a tutor. All in all, not a bad beginning.”

“I assume you have a sense of humor?”

“Will marriage to you require one?” He realized he was enjoying the game and smiled slightly.

“Probably.”

“Then I shall try to be amusing, on occasion. I assume you are capable of holding a thought for more than a moment?”

“Will dialogue with you require such?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then I shall try to keep my attention from wandering.” There was a slight twinkle in her eye which was quickly replaced with a trace of belligerence. “Will there be times when you will bully me?”

“Of course, as I am certain there will be times when you shall nag me.”

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BETTER THAN BYRON

“As you said,” Hermione sighed, “there are undoubtedly marriages with worse beginnings.” She fell silent for a moment. “But I wish we had time to get to know each other.”

“What do you mean?” He did not try to hide his bitterness. “We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.”

Her face momentarily fell into a frown. “I am sorry we are trapped this way.”

Suddenly, he felt bile rise up into his throat as anger overtook him, and even as he knew it was unreasonable, he couldn’t stop himself. “Are you? Are you really sorry? Are you certain this is not working out just as you’d planned?”

Her face quickly went from a frown to alarm. “What do you mean?” There was a note of sharpness in her voice that was missing before.

“It is entirely possible you planned this whole situation.”

“I most certainly did not. Surely you do not believe that?” Her hands balled into fists and she started to shake, whether with indignation or some other emotion, he could not say.

“Perhaps the way you flirted with me so shamelessly when we had not even been introduced has influenced my judgment.”

“Of all the nerve…” Hermione tried to speak further, but only a short croak came out. She swallowed and finally found her voice.

“I was not flirting with you.” Her voice was cold and even.”I was merely trying to look at the elaborate decorations. It was my first ball, and Aunt had cautioned me against acting like a rustic by gaping and staring.”

“Of course.” Luke smiled smugly, which fanned the spark of her anger into flames.

“You arrogant toad.” She leaped to her feet. “You have the right of it. I saw you as you entered the ballroom, was instantly smitten by your fascinating good looks, your obvious good breeding, and your 29

JUDY CARPENTER

impeccable good manners, and of course it was written all over your face that you were rich and heir to a title.”

She flounced toward the door. “‘Viscountess.’ I could already see myself bowing before the Prince. No, character means nothing to me.” She opened the door and tossed over her shoulder, “I marvel I settled for a mere Viscount. I should have held out for an Earl.”

The door slammed on her retreating figure.

As suddenly as it had closed, the door reopened, and Hermione’s head reappeared. “Watch your back, sir. Anyone as nefarious and capable of plotting as I must surely be considered a formidable foe.” Her head disappeared and the door slammed shut a second time.

“I will be an Earl, you undisciplined wench,” Lord Dorchester barked with asperity. But he remained seated, staring at the abused door. It did take an enormous amount of arrogance to accept she had plotted the whole affair. But despite her words, he had yet to meet a woman who discounted wealth and a title. Hold out for an Earl? Lord Dorchester snorted.

“Well, my little termagant,” he muttered, “the truth often has a way of coming to light. We shall see.”

He stood and looked at the closed door, almost wanting her to reappear with another vocal volley. Marriage to Hermione would, it seemed, be tumultuous, but it would not be boring. Which is preferable: peaceful tedium or interesting chaos? Perhaps, in ten years’ time, I shall write an informed treatise. He picked up his cane and left.

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about the author Judy Carpenter is a long-time resident of Cincinnati, Ohio.

A retired computer programmer, she is a wife, mother, and grandmother. She previously published a children’s collection called Cat and Dog Stew which was her tribute to the many pets she and her family have loved over the years.

Better Than Byron is her first novel.