My Lady Original (My Lady Love, #2)

By Elise Clarke

A hilarious regency romance where truth is stranger than fiction...

Jack, Lord Darenth is London's favourite paragon, staggeringly handsome, always fashionable, and unshakeably single. But when The Conqueror, a smash–hit novel casts him as a thinly veiled, lovelorn Prince Charming searching for the perfect match, all of society loses their collective heads – and their hearts – and pandemonium breaks all over Jack's well–ordered life. 

Lady Herminone thinks Lord Darenth is handsome enough, when she bothers to think about him at all. For her, he is but the best friend of her own dear friend Sandy, the man she is considering for a husband. But when the sequel to The Conqueror is published featuring her as a drippy Cinderella heroine to Darenth's hero, she is galvanised into action. Ignoring the book doesn't work, so it's best to proceed as if it doesn't matter. Until life starts imitating art, and suddenly the possibility of a love story in truth becomes all too real...

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489271365

Elise Clarke

Elise Clarke has a great love of history and a weakness for tall, handsome men. She wrote her first novel to combine the two.  When not writing, Elise is a history lecturer who has also published non-fiction. She lives in Kent with a tall, handsome man of her own, and drives him mad on a regular basis. She has two wonderful children who do the same to her.

Book preview

Chapter One

There were several things a Corinthian ought to do to be worthy of the name, it was known. He should, of course, be a gentleman of the ton; he should be a sportsman, particularly driving and boxing to advantage; he should be impeccably dressed at all times and as impeccably behaved in public; he should be an educated man of intelligence, who keeps his private life discreet and his emotions more so; and for the majority of the ton who rated them, it was thought in addition that a Corinthian should speak with that faintly world-weary, polite drawl. Yet it was notable that London’s favourite Corinthian—most definitely a man worthy of the label—tried very little with one essential attribute and failed utterly with a second without it damaging his standing. Such was the power of John, Viscount Darenth, who sounded over-excited every time he spoke and was prone to hugging his three younger brothers in public, but who somehow got away with it.

In truth, he had other shortcomings for his position; he was not, for instance, remotely interested in fashion, although to look at him in public it was difficult to believe. He just told Weston to do what he wanted, and his valet, Brenchley, to choose, which was not always wise. Both liked using him to experiment: to Lord Darenth’s surprise, he might be handed a scarlet coat that made him wonder if he’d re-enlisted or—as on this morning—a pink one more suited to a screaming dandy, which he wore anyway. Technically, it didn’t go with his hair—a dark brown with red lights—but he got away with that as well. More, he looked wonderful. It never ceased to amaze Brenchley that his employer managed this within half an hour every morning, given he woke up looking like a deranged hedgehog, but then, that was Lord Darenth. He disliked wasting time, he was deft and he looked wonderful in everything. He’d even managed to look good in an apricot coat that had made the valet wince, but which had started a fashion, because Jack Darenth was quite possibly the handsomest man in England.

This last explained the lot. Over-excited speech patterns were nothing against a Viscount with the kind of chiselled beauty that would have made Michelangelo cry. There was nothing pretty about him—every inch of him was pure masculinity—but he was beautiful still. He was dark, hazel-eyed and warm-skinned, classical features with a slightly long Roman nose and a wide grin that destroyed ladies’ knees. He also had the build common to all the Darenth men, being six feet tall, broad-shouldered and long-legged; he was able, charming, called a sickening paragon by his three brothers, sunny-natured, wealthy, titled and pursued to distraction as a result.

At present, he wasn’t distracted; he was working. Pink-clad and a joy to behold, he was in his study in Berkeley Square completing his least-favourite task of the day, his post, as around him dozens of political lampoons leered at him. Not only political—Gillray’s nasty one of the Regent was in evidence along with Fashionable Contrasts, and around those were drawings of his family, including a cartoon of his outrageously handsome father. Funnily enough, cartoons involving Jack himself weren’t in evidence. He said he didn’t need to see himself drawn as a drippy Prince Charming, and since he was a damned good boxer, nobody argued.

If he didn’t see himself as Prince Charming, however, there were all too many ladies who did. Inevitably a marriage mart target regardless of his spectacular looks, having them added in meant hysteria, lots of fake fainting, far too many broken hearts, sobbing, endless ruses and, every morning, love letters.

Lots of love letters. Piles of the wretched things, in fact, none of them welcome, awaiting his attention every morning.

What they contained, Lord Darenth didn’t know, because he never read them. He read the name at the bottom—if one could be found—and made a mental note to be wary of the author, then burned the paper, at thirty-one having read all the love letters a man could ever want some years before. Then he washed his hands. At times, viewing the rainbow pile, he did wonder why these ladies didn’t write on plain paper with black ink. Violet, green and pink letters swirled in bilious piles, all chosen to stand out, yet all so alike, and all of them reeking with scent. For a man who refused to wear cologne, pomade his hair or wear any jewellery, even a ring, the Viscount could have drowned in the perfume sent him that morning. In particular, there was a vile one that might have started as jasmine, which reminded him of a night in Spain he’d rather forget, but what struck him was that there were definitely more than usual. His post was always bad, true, but this … this confirmed what he’d been wondering for a few days now. It was. It was getting worse.

Burning an apricot missive of passion, his brows drew together as he slit a mint one, asking himself why this had happened. Had he done anything differently? No. He never did anything differently to the one method he’d found vaguely successful: he smiled, he was polite, he gave no encouragement whatsoever and he ran fast. Definitely nothing different. His youngest brother’s marriage? Surely not. This still left the second brother Anthony unmarried, true, but given how shouty and shorn-haired he was, nobody expected anything else. The other two brothers were the most appallingly devoted husbands one could find, who took great joy in warning him that he’d go the same way out of nowhere. And God love him, Stephen Darenth had really done it in style at his wedding, gazing throughout at his bride in a dazzled way that had done his standing no harm at all, romance thick in the air. But that was Stephen. Much as Jack adored him, the idea of imitating him was hilarious.

Burn, slit, burn, slit. Two brothers married now. He was an uncle four times over. His eldest sister was engaged, which made him feel shockingly old because she had always seemed so far behind the four sons, a little girl running after them, squealing for their attention until one of them picked her up. More shockingly yet, his second sister had made her come-out. When he’d joined the Army she’d been two. He felt ancient, he thought, grinning to himself for this tragic acting about something he found wonderful. Hmm … he’d better cast an eye about for a suitable match there.

Burn, slit. None of the letters came from Virginie, his latest paramour; she just asked him when she saw him for what she wanted, and since she wouldn’t last over eight weeks with him anyway, she’d ask him for a lot. A callous type, Virginie, like all his mistresses, but then Lord Darenth’s cheerful temperament wasn’t bothered by that either. In many ways he preferred it.

The last letter was still flaming away when a knock at the door revealed a slight, fair-haired man, blue-eyed, shrewd and leaning on a cane. He wore the grin of close friendship and when he spoke, there was a distinct Scots burr.

‘Good God alive, what’s that stink?’ asked Major Alexander Macfarlane, then began to cough.

‘I’ve no idea. Hello, Sandy.’

‘Don’t hello, Sandy me. It smells like a Turkish brothel in here! What the hell have you been doing?’ Thus Sandy, being part of a very close trio with Jack who had all served in the Army, he didn’t bother sparing feelings. He sniffed again, coming into the room with the limp he’d got at Vittoria. Very rudely, he then demanded, ‘It’s not you, is it?’

‘Yes, it’s my new cologne,’ Jack told him nicely. ‘Stop being cheeky and take a seat.’

‘Did you pour it all over the fireplace?’ Still sniffing, Sandy began to follow the reek as might a hound, whereupon Jack saw that he hadn’t actually managed to burn everything—all that scent had probably put the damned fire out. The last thing he wanted was for Sandy to read any of the rainbow post. It was none of his business and his eyes might never recover.

‘All right, it’s my brother’s new cologne. Don’t be rude about it, he’s trying to soften his image. Take a seat,’ he repeated, as Sandy gave him a withering look then moved towards the fireplace, nose quivering. Out went the stick. Damn it! ‘Sandy, you nosy devil, mind your own business and sit your arse down!’

Too late. Whatever the stick had found in the fire, it made Sandy’s fair eyebrows rocket up into his hairline, but after one more sniff and a slight boggle of the eyes, he turned away, limped to the chair and sat. As he did, the keen stare moved onto Jack, who gave him a very bland smile and asked, ‘What are you doing here so early? Would you like a drink?’

‘Do you get that stuff every day?’

‘Madeira?’

‘Do you get that stuff every day?’ the Scotsman repeated, and Jack’s black eyebrows started descending. Sandy sighed. ‘No, I don’t want a drink, thank you. What I would like is for you to be honest with me, and before you go all ha ha ha flippant or get cross, I’m serious. I’m sorry for prying but it could be important. Has your post got worse?’

‘What a peculiar question. Have you a reason for asking?’ There came his most dazzling smile, although he was surprised; Sandy did not poke into his business any more than he did into Sandy’s, being both perfectly capable and unwilling to give gory details. His surprise came through in his voice, which would have cut off most people right there.

It didn’t cut off Sandy, but then it never had. Nothing cut off Sandy, who was built in the fearless Scots mould, suicidally brave on the battlefield, utterly unafraid off it. Mildly spoken as he was, when he wanted to say something he was damned well heard, however much Jack might try to stop him. ‘Of course I have and I see that’s a yes.’ There came a sound of annoyance. ‘Och, take that look off your face, I’m not going to ask details. As if I want to know. Thought it might have happened; I’m here to explain it. It’s a book.’

He handed a gilt-edged volume across the desk, which Jack took with his own brows going once more. Across the front in lurid script were the words The Conqueror. It looked innocuous; opening the front cover, Jack read the first line without interest. ‘Capitaine de Rentes was a tall, handsome fellow with everything about him to admire. That’s not me,’ he went on coldly, shutting the book to hand it back over, but Sandy didn’t take it.

‘No, it’s not.’

‘What? But then why … oh, my God. God, it isn’t!’ Suddenly his eyes lit up and he was back in the book, flicking through at speed. ‘Capitaine de Rentes! His hazel eyes flashed with purpose … my God, is, it is him…oh, this is splendid! So did the Princesse’s heart begin to beat a little faster as she gazed upon this specimen of perfect manhood. Perfect manhood! Aha ha ha ha! Come on, Sandy, does our Capitaine run around waving guns, being terribly manly and winning the Princesse’s heart? Please tell me he does! God, I cannot wait to see my brother’s face!’

His voice was joyous, eyes full of glee. Adore his second brother as he did, the thought of his reaction to this was irresistible. Frighteningly shouty, bossy and rational, Major Anthony Darenth would have a fit. Especially when Jack flipped a great chunk and found the bit where Capitaine de Rentes exclaimed my darling, never could I raise my eyes so high! How many years had it been since Jack had seen Anthony cringe? How hard would he cringe on reading himself in this tripe? Oh yes, this was brilliant.

He braked suddenly. ‘Wait a moment, he’s not sensible, is he?’ That would be incredibly disappointing. There was no point reading a book like that. It had to make Anthony act like a complete idiot to be any fun at all.

‘It’s not your brother either, and it really wouldn’t matter if it were.’

‘Oh, come on, of course it is! Tell me he’s a nit,’ Jack exclaimed, gleefully flicking through to the ending. ‘Does he run about adoring from afar, plunging into despair and sacrificing his all to save her? Are there moving speeches from the Princesse to persuade him he is the man for her heart? I have to read this. Who’s the author—Mrs Fothergill? Never heard of her and she must be mad, but I’d love to shake her hand. The Capitaine’s gaze softened with his love,’ he quoted suddenly, going off into fits again. ‘Aha ha ha ha ha! Aha ha!’

‘JACK! Could you just shut up and listen to me? This is not about Capitaine de Rentes, the daft great nit that he is,’ snapped Sandy. ‘He’s not you or your brother, he’s just a means to an end, and it’s the end that’s bothering me. Give me the thing … here we are. The tall, black-haired Baron gazed with deep affection upon his brother. ‘My dear Charles,’ he said gravely, ‘to see you again at last fills my heart with joy.’ See?’ he finished, and Jack was gratifyingly startled.

Until he grinned. ‘She’s really got a nerve. I don’t see Tam laughing about that one.’ Tam was the third member of their close trio, the extremely haughty Lord de Waare, who was nicknamed Tancred the Crusader for good reason.

‘Don’t be thick, Jack.’ What Jack’s family wouldn’t have given to dare say that at times. ‘It’s not Tam. It’s you.’

Jack made a sound like ‘pfft!’ then laughed in sunny confidence. ‘Rubbish! Tall, black-haired Baron? It’s Tam. He even talks like Tam. Fills my heart with joy? That’s the kind of thing he says to the relatives he hates when they gatecrash the castle. Come on, it’s Tam to the life. Good Lord, is that what you thought, that it was me? Ha, ha, ha! Idiot! Sandy,’ he said, when Sandy didn’t laugh, ‘do I look like a black-haired Baron? More to the point, do I ever speak gravely? No. I couldn’t speak gravely if I tried.’

This wasn’t an admission he’d make to many. If all his brothers could do wonderful impressions of Jack talking like this because he couldn’t control it, nobody else dared mention it. The fact was he’d never managed to get his speech into a standard pattern, until he’d given up trying altogether. Words catapulted out of him at high speed whenever he talked, the syllables bouncing off each other and into the ether, the stresses marked too strongly, his natural bass varying half an octave at least; when he was angry, this could extend to the entire scale. His rapid, over-animated vocals only disappeared on the rare occasions he shouted, and to everyone’s fond amusement he over-stressed his writing to match. It was true: Lord Darenth couldn’t speak gravely if he tried, which only bothered him when he failed.

But the Scot’s eyes did not flicker. ‘You are still being thick. May I enlighten you? I’d rather not but leaving you in ignorance would be dangerous. Trust me: Lord de Rentes is not Lord de Waare. I wish he was, I’d pay to see his face, but he isn’t. Do you understand artistic licence?’

‘Don’t be patronising, Sandy.’

‘Nobody will think it’s Tam in a lifetime. It’s you. The Army officer’s elder brother—tall, dark and handsome. A paragon. Prince Charming in the flesh. Don’t look at me like that.’ Jack’s mobile features were registering disdain. ‘You’re stuck with it and you should be grateful for a warning. This little volume’s going to be a hit, which given your post might be a worry. Do have a look at page one hundred and four.’

Page one hundred and four: In his deep love for his brother, yet did the Baron de Rentes feel a wistful longing steal over him. Would he ever, he wondered, experience the same great emotion? Would such happiness ever come to him? In the nights when he lay awake, his heart aching … here Jack slammed the volume shut, understanding with awful clarity the impact this would have on all too many people who already believed this about him on no grounds at all.

Prince Charming yearned for a bride. Oh, he knew how that one would go over, and Sandy was right on all counts. He knew what could happen if that book got read enough too—it would be seized on with deranged enthusiasm, and then vicious fighting to be the girl who wore the slipper. It was ridiculous, he thought. For a start, he was as romantic as a brick, and for seconds, he didn’t yearn, but then he collected himself. It was a book! It was just a very silly book. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference, he should get a grip.

So he grinned, flicking his gaze back up to the Scot, who was being tactfully silent. ‘My brothers will have a field day. Sarcastic little sods. Still, I doubt you came here for this; what are you up to?’

There was a moment as Sandy hardly suppressed a sigh. ‘Will you ever admit that being gorgeous can get right up your nose?’ he asked.

There was a dangerous pause in the study. Suddenly, Lord Darenth looked far less sunny than he did a former Army officer with three mad brothers to control; if his taboos were less obvious than Sandy’s, it didn’t mean he didn’t have them, and one of them had just been crossed.

He never mentioned his looks. Generally, he didn’t think about them, and if he could hardly miss the passion they aroused, he didn’t acknowledge it because to do so would make him the kind of conceited berk he despised. He looked how he looked, which he suspected would have been seen as far less gorgeous had he been a potboy instead of a Viscount; he did not take it seriously, and he was never going to complain about it because that would make himan ungrateful, idiotic little arse.

Staring Sandy out, he asked, ‘Would you like this rubbish written about you?’

‘About me? Heh heh heh, I’d like that! Alexandre le Farlane was a little Jock shortarse with a lovely stick about him to admire. Sorry, Jack, I’m not the type. You are, and I can’t be bothered dancing around it. You’re going to have trouble with this.’

Very confidently, Jack pointed out that he was marvellous at handling trouble. He laughed in the face of trouble, which was just as well given how much his three younger brothers brought him. Or his friends, he added beadily, before he announced, ‘If that book’s not about Anthony, then I’m bored of it. I’ve had worse than that before, it’ll be nothing. Not that I don’t appreciate the warning, but could you change the subject?’

There came the sigh of a man who knew better. ‘Oh fine, all right then, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need help.’ With a laugh, Jack asked where he was going. ‘I’m going to Glenfaba’s. Yes, at this time. God knows they’ll probably be in the middle of a Bacchanalian orgy, as if I want to see the Countess’ garters again.’

‘Northern barbarians,’ said Jack, with all the supremacy of a Kentishman.

‘Spare me. You’re next door to France. Not but what they are barbarians, the lot of them. They’re family,’ he added, when Jack asked the obvious question, then hit him for six by going on, ‘And I’m thinking of marrying Hermione.’

‘Er,’ Jack replied, then unsurprisingly ground to a halt as Sandy grinned at him.

‘She might say no, of course. And I haven’t entirely decided. I thought I’d suggest we see how we get on first and see how she takes that.’

‘You’d marry a Pargeter?’ Horror rang out in his voice.

There was cause for this. Up in Grosvenor Square, the Pargeter clan less lived than ran amok every time they descended from their Border lair, as it was invariably described. They weren’t mad. They were just debauched. Headed by the Earl of Glenfaba, Pargeters drank, gambled, rode horses up staircases, placed outrageous bets and on one occasion had all turned up to a ball dressed as sans-culottes with a false guillotine, a piece of appalling taste that had got the lot of them asked to leave. They quarrelled in public. They got drunk and then fell over at their own dinner parties, as did their servants. Still, as Sandy pointed out now, they were his family. He had sat through several dinner parties where soup was thrown and worse. ‘And it wasn’t that terrible. Dreadful ton, yes, but at least I wasn’t bored. Besides, Hermione’s by far the best of the lot. I get on with her, and she won’t mind the trial suggestion … pick your jaw up, Jack,’ he said sweetly. ‘I’m thirty-one. It’s time I got moving.’

‘I don’t see why. My father was nearly forty when he got married, you’ve plenty of time. You shouldn’t feel you have to rush.’ Let alone into an institution that seemed to send half the men he knew doolally in a way he frankly found alarming. Haughty men let girls sit on their knees, calling them darling while twisting their hair as the formerly haughty men dropped all shame to sigh adoringly back. Cynical devils broke into song. Brazen playboys turned respectable and talked about losing their hearts. It was terrifying. Good luck to Sandy if that was what he wanted, but despite being also thirty-one, Jack was in no rush at all. Since Sandy did want it, he obeyed jaw-wise. ‘Yes, of course. I just didn’t … if you want her then I hope she does take you. She couldn’t do better.’

‘Yes, I see what you’re thinking. At the risk of sounding like Charlotte Lucas, I’m not romantic, and it’s just as well. I’m a short, lame Scotsman—yes, I am. I’m perfectly