Annabelle, The American: The Real Duchesses of London

By Lavinia Kent

Regency England just got real(ity)

Episode 3: Annabelle and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad rumor

Annabelle, Marchioness of Tattingstong, always thought she was a good wife. She’s put up with all thetitters and stares in the ballroom that go along withbeing a rich American married only for her wealth andlooks. But, when it’s rumored that her husbandhas a secret family, one he is using her money to keep,Annabelle may have finally had enough. A properEnglish wife would grin and bear it, but playing bysociety’s rules hasn’t worked for her so far.Will revenge be as sweet as American pie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9780062107947

Lavinia Kent

Most days Lavinia Kent loves her life and knows that she has found her own happily-ever-after with her husband and three children But on those other days (you know which ones!), she is very glad for the wonderful romances, sensuous gowns, and tall, sexy men that fill her mind – and then her computer. Lavinia lives in Washington, DC, with her family and an ever-changing menagerie of pets. She attended Wellesley College as an undergraduate and holds an MBA from Georgetown University. What a Duke Wants is Lavinia’s fourth book from Avon Romance. She also has a fun and sexy serial of e-novellas, The Real Duchesses of London, available from Avon Impulse.

Book preview

The Maids

Oh, my God!! Abby’s voice echoed down the street.

Jane hurried up after her. Her friend had never taken the Lord’s name in vain and it seemed most unlikely that it could mean anything but true disaster. What is it? Is somebody hurt?

No, but look. I can’t believe it. He would never do that to her. She’s my favorite in the whole bloody bunch of them. Lady Tattingstong cannot deserve this. No, she cannot. Her husband is a true devil if this is true.

Jane found herself stopping beside her friend and staring at the chemist’s window. Abby had sounded as if she were talking about a family member, not some lady they followed in cartoons and scandal sheets, but Jane did know the feeling. Following the lives of the duchesses had become a central part of her day. She felt deprived on those days on which cartoons did not appear.

This cartoon was something else, however.

It truly was horrible. Lady Tattingstong stood in the front and slightly to the left. She was standing surrounded by bags of money, pound notes dripping out. That damned American flag stuck proudly out of her grand bosom. She smiled as if she controlled the whole world—­and enjoyed it.

But behind her stood her husband, the marquess. Jane had come to know all their faces well. He was looking forward at his wife, his expression one of distaste, even as he slipped his fingers forward and pulled several pound notes. That was not, however, the worst.

The worst was the pretty young woman held tightly in his other arm. The pretty young woman with a new baby in her arms. The pretty young woman whose bodice was stuffed full of Lady Tattingstong’s pound notes. The pretty young woman who had another child beside her.

My God, Abby repeated her earlier words. The marquess has another family.

Chapter One

Annabelle, Lady Tattingstong, did not love her husband. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling and contemplated that fact. She did not love him for many reasons.

      1. He was too polite.

      2. He never lied—­this should have been a good thing, but he never even told social lies and no lady wanted to know when she looked tired or a dress didn’t suit her.

      3. He never told her she was beautiful—­and she was.

      4. He rarely spent any time at home.

      5. He never cuddled her after they had marital relations.

      6. He did not like her cat.

      7. When he kissed her, he tasted of whiskey.

      8. He snored.

      9. He couldn’t sing.

    10. He had married her for her money.

But the most important reason was that he did not love her.

Thomas had told her so when he proposed. He’d explained that he wished to marry her because she was a most suitable bride for a second son. She was not unattractive. She was of good enough family—­of course, she was American, but he was intending to stay in Boston for another decade or two. She was of calm temperament—­of course, he couldn’t see the swirling thoughts in her mind. And most importantly she was rich, very rich. There were jokes that her father owned all the timber between Boston and Lake Superior and they were not far from wrong.

She had never quite understood why Thomas had felt the need to be so blunt. She expected that his feelings were not far different than those of most of the men who had courted her over the years, but none of them had ever felt the need to express those feelings in their proposal.

Which brought the larger question of why she had agreed to marry him. She hadn’t had to. Her father would have been quite happy to have her stay home and care for him until he was in his dotage.

So why had she married Thomas? She could list those reasons as well as he. He was handsome—­if one liked one’s men a little slimmer than her oversized brothers and one liked eyes so deep a brown that one could drown in them. And then there was that voice. Deep and low and oh, so English. He could read a list of farm supplies and it would make her shiver, shiver in all those places a lady should never speak of. In fact, in general he made her shiver in unspeakable places. Even his scent could set her aquiver.

He was certainly of good enough family. He might have been only a second son when they became engaged, but he’d been the second son of the Duke of Stonebridge.

He was intelligent and well read. He could speak of music—­even if he couldn’t sing—­and had recited quite a bit of remarkable poetry to her when they’d been courting.

And he was not rich. That last should not have been a positive, but it meant that she’d felt some power going into the marriage. She knew that he’d own everything that was hers once they were wed, but he’d know just where his fortune had come from—­and who had to be kept happy if he ever wanted her father to give him more.

But none of that quite explained why she had said yes to his oh-­so-­odd proposal.

She had married him plain and simply because she wanted to. There were many good reasons for saying yes, and a few for saying no, but deep in her gut she’d just felt that yes. And she was a firm believer in following instincts.

And she’d been right—­at least until Thomas’s older brother died and he became the marquess three weeks before their wedding.

Then everything had changed.

And she wasn’t quite sure that she liked the change. Even after a year and a half she had not adjusted to the title.

Perhaps she should have cried off before the wedding. She’d offered him the chance, told him she would understand if his change in circumstance had changed his mind. But he’d insisted that he wished the wedding to go forward.

Darnation. She didn’t know why she was thinking about this at all.

It was one thing to be glad she didn’t love her husband and quite another to dwell on the fact.

She sat up in bed and pushed the covers away, reaching over to ring for coffee. Her maid knew not to wake her until she called. It wasn’t that she slept late, just that she wanted to rise when she wanted to rise.

She slipped from the bed and went to the window. Another beautiful day. Cool, temperate, and full of flowers. Perhaps she’d work in the garden. There was nothing that made her as happy as working with her flowers. She loved arranging them and thinking about how all the colors combined. She had no artistic talent with pencils or paints—­unlike her sister, Lucille—­but she thought of flowers as her paint.

Starting to hum, she turned as her maid, Molly, entered the room with a cup and small pot of coffee. The smell, both bitter and rich, filled the room. Was there anything as wonderful as the smell of coffee?

The coffee was quickly arranged on her writing desk and she waved Molly away. She would dress later. Right now she wanted to look out the window and think about her garden.

It was far more pleasant to think about that than anything else in her life.

Almost as if conjured by the thought, the door suddenly banged open and Lucille came rushing in, her face white as an Easter lily, but her cheeks flushed red.

I didn’t do it. I swear to you I didn’t do it. I would never do it. Never. Never. Never. Lucille said it all in a single breath, even her lips beginning to pale.

What on earth was the girl talking about? Lucille had never been one for drama, so it must be important. Annabelle put down her coffee and turned, waiting.

I really didn’t do it. You know I wouldn’t. Lucille still did not breathe.

Annabelle filled her own chest with air. I am afraid I don’t know what you are talking about.

The cartoon. The blasted cartoon. I didn’t draw it. I promise I didn’t.

That was just nonsense. Of course, you didn’t. Why would I even think you had? I know you don’t draw cartoons.

Lucille dropped her gaze and turned away. She didn’t say anything.

Concern began to fill Annabelle. This was most unlike her sister. Despite her beauty, Lucille was often quiet and could fade into the shadows in an instant, but she was never unforthcoming. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Her cup hit the saucer with a clink. She gazed wistfully at it for a moment, feeling her morning slipping away. Family was more important than flowers.

She stood and walked to her sister, slipping her arms about Lucille’s slim shoulders. I know you, dearheart. Whatever it is cannot be that bad. Come, sit beside me on the bed and we will talk. Everything is better when you talk about it.

Not this, Lucille answered, but walked to the bed. Annabelle followed behind, still hugging her sister.

They sat, side by side.

Annabelle picked up Lucille’s hand and held it, knowing her sister would talk when she was ready.

But I did draw a cartoon—­well, it wasn’t really a cartoon. It was more of a print.

You did? Annabelle kept her tone calm, even as her heart jumped.

Lucille squeezed her hand tight. Yes, I drew the first one of you and the other ladies. The real duchesses’ one.

You did? Annabelle’s disturbance at this announcement was so great that her face felt frozen, her mind unable to choose an emotion to display.

Yes. Lucille’s voice was very small.

Why on earth would you have done a thing like that?

"I was just imagining the life I’d like here in London. Even when we were invited to affairs, nobody spoke to us—­and I just picked out the women I thought would be good friends for you. You seemed so alone all the time. I made a game of choosing one woman wherever I went who I thought looked fun or nice or interesting. And then one day sitting in the park