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London
September 1834
They were twits -- foolish, fashionable, and frivolous.
Reggie Carmarthen stood in Hyde Park beyond the end of Rotten Row, and studied the tonnish females currently gathered about the Avenue with adistinctly jaundiced eye. Especially the younger ladies, those desirous of finding a husband.
Their shrill laughter reached him. The ton was drifting back to the capital for the September and October round of balls and parties. In and abouttheir mamas' coaches lined up along the carriageway, the unmarried young ladies chatted avidly, exchanging the latest news, every one of themhoping, soon, to feature in the latest story. Sun glanced off artfully arranged curls or was deflected by fringed parasols. The breeze flirted with full skirts, teasing the myriad ruffles currently in vogue.
Fashions had changed over the last ten years, but little else had -- he felt not the slightest wish to marry any one of the young things parading inthe morning sunshine.
With an inward humph, he swung away and determinedly strolled west across the lawns, leaving the fashionable horde behind.
Despite his antipathy, he had to think of marrying.He was thirty-two. His mother had droppedhints, increasingly pointed ones, over the past decade,but she knew she could push him only sofar -- after a few failed attempts, she'd refrainedfrom pressing specific young ladies on him. Thismorning, however, the dam of her patience hadbroken, ruptured by the news of his great-uncle'sfailing health.
His great-uncle was the Earl of Carlisle; his father,Herbert Carmarthen, presently ViscountNorthcote, was the earl's heir. Which meant he,Reggie, would, on his uncle's death and his father'saccession to the earldom, step up to his father'spresent title.
Those facts were widely known, yet waking onemorning to find himself Northcote was guaranteed,as his mother had waspishly informed himthat morning, to focus the attention of every lastmatchmaking mama on him.
He could either exercise his prerogative andselect a wife forthwith, or be inundated withcandidates.
Reaching the carriageway that separated HydePark from Kensington Gardens, he paused. Thelooming threat filled his mind. Crossing the gravel,he walked into the heavily shaded walks of the gardens; in the less fashionable area there were only afew nursemaids and matrons quietly strolling.
The idea of marriage had gradually been gainingground in his conscious mind. Visits, summer andwinter, to old friends like the Fulbridges and theAshfords were largely to blame -- impossible not tonotice the satisfaction, the stability, the strengththat successful marriage wrought. The Cynstertwins, now Amanda Fulbridge and Amelia Ashford,had been his closest friends from childhoodand had remained so through the years; the Cynsterfamily in all its various branches numberedamong his parents's closest acquaintances. If everthere was a case to be made for marriage, the Cynstersas a group exemplified all that was best, allthat could be achieved in that sphere.
Other friends, too, had succumbed; most werequite contented now, even if that had not beentheir initial expectation. A few male friends remainedbachelors, yet the companionship and activitesthey shared no longer satisfied as oncethey had.
Marriage.
His mother was right -- it was time he took theplunge. And far better to make the choice himselfrather than have it thrust upon him.
He was naturally inclined to laissez-faire -- toleaving well enough alone -- yet in this case lettingmatters slide was not an option; to simplystand waiting and let the matchmaking mamashave at him would be the action of a lunatic.
He had to make up his mind and act swiftly.
So whom should he marry? In which directionshould he look?
What he had to offer was easily catalogued -- afamily ranked within the haut ton, sufficientwealth to make actual amounts of no account, andultimately the earldom and all that meant. Hepossessed an even temperament, was not given toexcess in any sphere, was experienced and assuredin all tonnish matters, and was handsomeenough -- admittedly not the sort who drew eyesor stood out in a crowd, yet the ladies with whomhe'd shared liaisons over the years had nevercomplained.
His lips twisted wryly. He suspected his quiet,unassuming handsomeness was viewed as lessthreatening by many ladies, in some cases as less incompetition with their own beauty. Regardless, hewas content with his appearance, confident in it.
So what of the lady he would wed? An infi-nitely more difficult question. He hadn't mether, or any like her, yet. He felt not the slightestconnection -- physical, intellectual, or emotional -- with the young things paraded by their mamasthrough the ballrooms, the silly, giggling hordefrom which society would expect him to make hischoice.
He wanted . . . someone different. Not, as somemight suppose, a lady like Amanda or Amelia.Some of their traits he appreciated, like their honestyand courage, their intelligence, their understandingof their world; others, like their wildness,their willfulness, underpinned by their inherentCynster strength, he could do without -- such traitswere too powerfully disruptive.
He wanted . . . a lady with whom he could conversesensibly, who shared his views and his lik-ing for a peaceful existence, a lady with whom hecould share a pleasant life . . .
Voices reached him. A gentleman's, tonesharsh, denying; a lady's, soft and urgent.
The sounds jerked him back to the here and now;he realized his feet had led him down one of thegarden's winding paths. The voices came from justahead, the speakers screened by the next bend.
His first impulse was to retreat undetected, butthen the lady spoke again. Memory pricked -- instinct came to the fore.
Apparently nonchalantly, he strolled on.
Hero, Come Back. Copyright © by Stephanie Laurens. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Hero, Come Back by Stephanie Laurens, Christina Dodd, Elizabeth Boyle
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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