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  The Lady Flees Her Lord

  Driven to despair by her husband’s endless abuse and ridicule, Lucinda, Lady Denbigh, can endure no more. With no one to turn to, she flees London to take quiet refuge in the countryside, determined to build a new life of her own. Posing as a widow, she finds a small cottage to lease on the far reaches of a vast estate, relieved that she might finally find peace and safety—until her new landlord, the strikingly handsome and taciturn Lord Hugo Wanstead, presents an entirely different kind of threat to her composure.

  Just back from the wars, Hugo is tormented by the physical and emotional scars that mark him. With his estate near financial ruin and his sleep torn by nightmares, he wishes only to be left in solitude. But when he meets the new widowed tenant on his estate, he finds her hauntingly beautiful in body and soul—and finds himself overcome by powerful sensual longing.

  While the gentle Lucinda conjures up ways to draw the handsome and hurting Hugo out of his loneliness, he’s intrigued by her courage and her lively mind. But just as an inevitable passion stirs between these two damaged souls, a damning secret about Lucinda’s troubled past will be laid bare, and they will be forced to confront each other and a cruel foe to save their only chance at love.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  This book was originally published under the author name Michele Ann Young, copyright © 2008 by Michele Ann Young

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-946069-43-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  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 websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Books by Ann Lethbridge

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to women who love to read, who like chocolate, and who live life to the fullest, no matter their shape or size.

  Chapter One

  London, June 1812

  Blissful silence.

  Lucinda Palgrave, Countess Denbigh, lifted her ear from the cool wood of her husband’s adjoining chamber door. She wanted to laugh out loud. To twirl. To yell, “No, Denbigh!” It was a giddy sensation, like drinking too much champagne. And utterly inappropriate. Fingers pressed to her lips, she glided out of her bedroom and into the hallway.

  A figure in black loomed in front of her.

  She gasped, a hand at her throat, her heart pounding wildly. Dash it all. Why did the butler have to creep up on her? The supercilious beast ought to care more for life and limb, since according to Denbigh, a mere bump from her hip would knock a man flat. Oh, for the courage to try.

  “Yes, Galloway?”

  The butler smirked. “Tea awaits you in the drawing room, my lady. As does his lordship.”

  The lightness dissipated in a sickening rush. She swallowed the sour taste of disappointment tinged with the acid of fear. “Thank you, Galloway. Please have two places set for dinner.”

  The butler’s smirk broadened. “His lordship does not intend to dine at home, my lady.”

  Relief dulled her irritation at the man’s triumphant expression. “Very well. That will be all, thank you.” She skirted around him.

  He gave as much ground as he might for a passing chambermaid.

  Anger spread out from her chest in hot slow waves. She damped it down. One of these days, she really would speak to Galloway about his insolence. She flattened a hand against her collarbone. But not now. Not while Denbigh waited.

  She pattered along the hall, the jewel-toned runner seeming to taunt her with its brightness. With one hot, damp palm on the smooth balustrade, she sped down the curving oak staircase to the first floor of their Mayfair townhouse. Hurry, her heartbeat goaded. He hated when she was late. Not too fast, she reminded herself. He despised her when she arrived all hot and flustered. Dammit. He hated whatever she did.

  In the hallway, she confronted the white drawing-room door and drew in a breath. Smoothing her ivory skirts, she stole a moment to hide the rapid beat of her heart behind a calm demeanor and sucked in her stomach. Slowly, she eased open the door. The tall windows at the west end of the room cast bars of light across the cream-colored carpet, yet the blue walls and white paint gave the room a chilly feel.

  Brandy in hand and not a blond hair out of place, her husband, the Earl of Denbigh, slouched on the royal-blue velvet sofa beside the marble hearth. Slender legs crossed at the ankles, he acknowledged her entrance with a sulky grimace. It ruined his Apollo-like handsomeness. Had she really thought his brooding expression romantic? She lowered her lashes to hide the disloyal thought.

  “Good afternoon, Denbigh,” she murmured.

  “For God’s sake, stop hovering and sit down.”

  She scurried to the chair behind the tea tray and perched on its edge.

  He glared at her over the rim of his glass. “Where the hell were you?”

  Her pulse jumped, despite the mild tone. She measured the brandy in his glass. The worst of his rants happened after the third refill. At the moment his eyes seemed clear, his words crisp. She offered a smile. “I was dressing for dinner.”

  The disparaging glance he ran over her person chilled her to the bone. “I can’t think why you bother.”

  A flare of something hot ignited inside her and burnt its way up to her tongue. Only by clenching her jaw did she prevent its eruption in angry words. She inhaled slowly. “I didn’t expect you this afternoon.” She gestured to the tray. “Can I offer you a dish of bohea?”

  As his gaze shifted to the tray, she winced. The chef had outdone himself today. Not only did the tiered cake dish contain her favorite lemon tarts, but he’d included several slices of iced fruitcake and a selection of marchpane fancies. She swallowed.

  Denbigh must have caught the involuntary motion, because his lip curled in distaste. “Dear God, are you planning to gobble down the whole lot?”

  “No, I—”

  “There’s no one else here to eat it.”

  “But I—”

 
; “What happened to the regimen of water biscuits and vinegar the doctor suggested? How can it work if you are too greedy to try it for less than a week?” He gave a derisive snort. “A cow like you would need months to see any improvement.”

  “I felt unwell.” The diet made her feel weak and, worst of all, seemed to make her crave sweet things more than usual. “If you dislike me so much, why did you marry me?”

  His eyes narrowed, and the pout became more pronounced. “You were supposed to be the answer to my money problems, not eat me out of house and home. You were also supposed to provide me with an heir.”

  A rush of heat scorched her cheeks. Shame mixed with fury in a volcanic blend. “My father provides a generous allowance every month. If you’d just live within your means—” From the way his nostrils flared, she’d gone too far.

  “Do you have any idea what it costs to keep up this establishment?”

  She stared at him, her jaw slack. “Of course I know. I am paying for most of it from the clothing allowance my father provides. If you’d just let me help you with your finances—”

  “You don’t think I am going to let you dabble your fat fingers in my affairs, do you? Next, your father will be trying to run my life.”

  Without her help, they were headed for dun territory. “I always helped Father with his investments. Look how he prospered. Why not let me help you?” Blindly, she reached for a delicate lemon-filled pastry.

  Denbigh reached across the table and grabbed her wrist. Pain shot up her arm. “Put it down, Lucinda.”

  Like a dog ordered to put down a bone, she dropped the tart. Shriveled to insignificance on the inside, she attempted to meet his hard gaze. Her vision blurred and wavered. She blinked away the hot, welling tears and reached for the teapot. Anything to fill the dreadful silence. The spout chinked miserably on the cup’s rim, but she managed to pour without spilling a drop.

  The earthy aroma filled her nostrils. She sipped at the comforting brew. “If you had not gambled away my dowry, you would not need to ask my father for an allowance.”

  The glare returned. “I would not need to ask him for money if you’d give me yours.” He drained his glass in one gulp and rose.

  She repressed a flinch as he loomed over her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?”

  “No.” He rang the bell and then strode to the console and the brandy decanter. With his back to her, he poured yet another glass.

  A fashionable man, her husband, with his clothes cut to perfection and his air of sophistication. No wonder her family had been overjoyed when she’d attracted his attention. The handsome young nobleman had seemed so . . . perfect, so smitten, the moment she made her debut in London. Smitten by the news of her fortune, she had later discovered.

  What a fool not to see behind the charm, she who thought herself so astute. Clearly the business world was far easier to understand than jaded, cynical members of the ton. She should never have left Yorkshire.

  Galloway scratched and entered. “You rang, my lord.”

  “Yes. Her ladyship is finished.”

  Lucinda’s stomach gurgled a protest. She had eaten nothing but dry biscuits with water since dinner yesterday.

  Denbigh glared at her.

  She licked her lips and resisted the urge to snatch a piece of fruitcake before Galloway picked up the tray.

  The front doorbell jangled.

  Galloway looked at his master. “James will answer it, my lord. I will return this to the kitchen.”

  Denbigh nodded. He returned to his seat and crossed one slender thigh over the other, a pose designed to display the swell of a finely muscled calf. As usual, he made her feel out of proportion.

  How many hours until dinner? Too many. But soon Denbigh would go to his club, and then she’d wander down to the kitchen and check on the progress of the evening meal. Nothing more natural than the lady of the house making sure the food was edible. She had her own way of dealing with Denbigh’s commands.

  Voices in the downstairs hall broke the silence. “Who can that be?” she said with forced brightness.

  “It’s Vale.” He pushed to his feet.

  The Duke of Vale. A shudder of distaste shook her frame. “Then I will leave you to greet him.”

  “You will stay. And you will make him welcome.”

  She bowed her head in acquiescence. She would not engage her husband in an argument about a man she had learned to despise during the course of her marriage.

  “Damnation. With all your arguing, I almost forgot. The whole reason for my wanting to see you this afternoon was to tell you that we go to Sussex the day after tomorrow. The carriage is ordered for noon. Be ready.”

  For a moment, she didn’t process the words. “Denbigh Hall, you mean?”

  “Where else?”

  They had not been to her husband’s country estate since their honeymoon. He hated the country as much as she loved it. She clasped her cold hands together. Perhaps in the peace of the countryside she could find a way to please him, to give him his heir.

  He glowered. “For God’s sake, stop making sheep’s eyes at me.”

  She winced and shrank into her chair, hunching her shoulders, folding her hands in her lap. “How long shall we be away?”

  “A week or two. I have invited a party of friends to join us.”

  The faint whisper of hope for a new beginning evaporated. “Friends?” A sense of foreboding formed in her mind, making it hard to breathe. “Surely you do not want me there.”

  “I need you to play hostess.”

  “I prefer to remain here. My parents are coming to town this week. They invited us for dinner. Surely you have not forgotten?” She twisted her hands, aware of her fatal mistake even as his chiseled jaw hardened and the skin across his finely angled cheekbones tightened. She braced herself for another outburst.

  He shuddered. “How could I possibly forget the invasion of a pack of country yokels about to inflict another fat sow on society?”

  Enough was enough. Aware that any moment Vale would be upon them, she kept her voice low. “My sister is beautiful and sweet-natured.” The longing to bask in the warmth of her family’s love brought a sudden lump to her throat. Moisture prickled at the back of her nose. No crying. Not in front of him. She sniffed. “And our family name is just as old as yours, Denbigh. And equally good, if not better.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, indeed. Your family had nothing but a pile of stones and a few acres of sheep until the war. Face it, Lucinda, your father stinks of the shop. For God’s sake, do you think I want that to rub off on me?”

  “My father’s business investments are nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t balk at his money.”

  A knock on the door silenced her furious words.

  It opened to reveal the tall, spare figure of the Duke of Vale. He sauntered in. Apart from his impeccably starched white cravat, he wore only black. The ladies of the ton swooned over his exquisite style and admired his ebony hair, fine gray eyes and noble features. They gossiped behind their fans about his conquests. To Lucinda, his cynical mouth and straight black brows looked satanic. His implacable silences interspersed with cutting remarks jarred her nerves. More than anything, she hated the way he led her husband down the road to ruin.

  A sneer curled Vale’s thin lips as he perused the room through a quizzing glass held in an elegant white hand. “Lady Denbigh, your servant.”

  She rose and curtseyed. “Your grace.”

  He let the quizzing glass fall to dangle from its ribbon around his neck. “Please, don’t get up on my account.”

  Happy to be ignored, she sank into her seat.

  “Denbigh, aren’t you ready?” Vale sounded impatient, despite his languid posture.

  “Care for a brandy, Vale?” Denbigh gestured to the decanter. “Had it shipped up from Rye yesterday.”

  She dug her fingers into the fabric on the chair arms. Say no.

  “Pettigrew expects us for dinner at White’s,” Vale sai
d.

  “Let him wait.” Denbigh sauntered over to pour a glass for the duke. “The countess and I were discussing our removal to Denbigh Hall.”

  Vale’s hooded glance moved swiftly from Denbigh to her. “I had no idea Lady Denbigh intended to go along. Perhaps I will cry off from Otford’s party and join you after all.”

  “She’ll ensure things run smoothly,” Denbigh said. He handed Vale a goblet. “It’s about all she can do.”

  Swirling the amber liquid, his long slender fingers curled around the stem, the duke’s gaze returned to her face. This time she gave him stare for stare and felt a little rush of pride when he shifted his attention back to his brandy. His lips curved in a cold smile. “I am sure you will enjoy our company, Lady Denbigh. Your husband has all manner of interesting pursuits in store for the ladies of the party.”

  Denbigh’s sneer, a pale imitation of the duke’s, grew more pronounced. “My wife ain’t into our kind of pleasures, Vale. But she can organize a damnably fine dinner. Food is her special talent. Isn’t it, my dear?”

  Lucinda repressed a wince.

  Vale studied her for a moment. His cold gaze seemed to see right inside to the tears and the misery. “Oh, but meat satisfies only one of the appetites. I am sure Lady Denbigh would like to sample sweeter delights.” His voice had the purr of a satisfied cat.

  A hot flush seared her neck and burned all the way to her hairline. Hateful man. She clenched her fists in the folds of her skirts. “I am more than satisfied with simple English fare, your grace.”

  The duke toyed with his quizzing glass. “Dear lady, if we are to be in each other’s company for the next few days, you must call me Julian. I certainly look forward to getting to know you better.” His soft voice scraped her nerves like metal grating on stone. She shivered, fighting the urge to run for the door.

  To her relief, he kept his chilly gaze fixed on Denbigh. “You have told Lady Denbigh about the er . . . female company, of course?” he drawled. “She will outrank them all. The little darlings will gnash their teeth.”