The Perfect Wife

By Victoria Alexander

The perfect wife should be beautiful, trusting, and absolutely agreeable—or so the Earl of Wyldewood thought. But in New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander's intriguing tale, he finds that marriage is about more than mere appearances . . .

When the Earl of Wyldewood meets Sabrina Winfield, he thinks he's found the ideal match. Graceful and genteel, the elegant blonde will look simply exquisite displayed on his arm. And a lady like Sabrina will undoubtedly occupy her time with proper matters, leaving him free to pursue his own pleasures . . .

But beneath Sabrina's delicate beauty lies the most infuriatingly stubborn, wildly adventurous woman the earl has ever met. She's nothing like the perfect wife he had imagined. And before long, all he can think of is quieting her biting wit (with his kisses), putting an end to her outlandish schemes (with his own carefully planned seduction), and doing everything in his power to become the perfect husband.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9780062198204

Victoria Alexander

#1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander was an award-winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was more fun than real life. She is the author of thirty-one novels, and her books have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Victoria lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with her long-suffering husband and two dogs, in a house under endless renovation and never-ending chaos.

Book preview

Prologue

1808

Awareness teased the corners of his mind. Damp, dank air weighed heavy on his skin. The salty, rotted scent of the sea assailed his nostrils. Dimly the roar of the ocean and the crash of the waves sounded. Distant… hollow. A steady drip splashed and echoed. All in the blackest black. Was this a dream? Or death?

He jerked his head, and hot pain lanced through the back of his skull. A gasp escaped his lips, but the ache cleansed his mind. His senses sharpened. His disorientation vanished.

A wide scarf covered his eyes and face, and his hands were bound behind his back, his feet tied at his ankles. He tested the bonds. There was only enough give to allow him to touch the rough wooden planks behind and beneath him. He sat propped upright, his head cradled by what he immediately assumed were crates of some type.

That made sense. Much of a smuggler’s contraband was transported by crate. And only a fool would fail to realize he had discovered the band of smugglers he’d searched for. Or rather, they had discovered him.

He remembered watching the illegal activity on the beach far below his vantage point on the rocky cliffs. Now that he had finally determined their methods and, more importantly, the location of their operations, he had planned to return with reinforcements and catch them in the act. He cursed himself for coming alone, for the arrogance and stupidity that had brought him to this point. Judging by the pain in his head, he’d been spotted and rendered unconscious.

A low murmur of voices caught his attention, and he strained to hear. The unmistakable lilt of a woman’s voice tempered rough, heavy, male conversation. In spite of his precarious position, a spire of exhilaration shot through him. He had indeed found the band that had long eluded him and other agents of the crown. Not as large as many smuggling rings, but clever and tenacious and, up to now, invulnerable. And they were led by a woman.

A woman.

Even after weeks of surveillance, of midnight clandestine meetings that brought little of worth, of dressing and living in disguise, he still could not quite believe it. In his world there were only two kinds of women: those meant to be charming ornaments and produce heirs, and those with the appropriate talents for enjoyable nocturnal entertainment. He had considerable experience with both. His pleasant, undemanding wife had obediently provided him with a son and then conveniently died. As for the other kind, well, they usually lived up to his expectations.

But this woman defied any of the categories he reserved for the fairer sex. Obviously she was intelligent. The frustrating fox and hounds game he’d played, and lost, was proof of that. She also seemed to elicit the kind of loyalty monarchs expected and generals demanded. In spite of his best efforts, including bribes and threats, not one soul in this rough, tiny seacoast village would give him so much as a morsel of information.

They called her Lady B, and most of what he learned was more fancy than fact. Try as he might, he could not find a noblewoman in the area who might be the mysterious lady. Grudgingly he’d developed a certain amount of respect for her and her people. Times were hard, and smuggling was an opportunity to put food on the table. Still and all, it was hardly legal. And it was demoralizing to the efforts to defeat the French. But this was a dangerous business, and he could not question her courage. He hoped she was not ruthless as well.

The voices grew louder but remained indistinct. He clenched his teeth in frustration. Whatever he could learn here would only help his pursuit of the smugglers. If he survived.

He sensed movement around him. Hushed voices brushed past. Activity seemed to increase. He tilted his head slightly, a mere fraction, in an effort to decipher the muttering.

Milady, a low voice rumbled in his direction, I think our friend has awakened.

Hold your tongue, man, another voice sounded impatiently. We don’t want him able to recognize us if he should come upon us later.

And will there be a later? he said in a loud, authoritative tone, with all the strength of a man who knew he had nothing to lose.

A ripple of female laughter echoed around him.

There is always a later, my lord. The feminine voice was low, slightly husky.

It might have been the damp in the air, it might have been the way she always spoke, but he was stunned to note the voice fired his blood and smart enough to realize it wasn’t merely because he was finally in the presence of his quarry. His hunt for this woman had become an obsession. And now revelation struck him. In spite of the impropriety and absurdity of his sudden desire, he wanted nothing more than to take her as his own. Then he would clap her in irons.

I fear though… A vague, spicy scent wafted around him. There will be no later for us.

Oh? He arched an eyebrow under the blindfold.

Alas, my lord. She sighed, a breathy, provocative sound. Her voice seemed to encircle him. You have made life far too difficult for our feeble efforts. Tonight is our final run.

A tentative touch lingered below his right ear. Cool, gentle fingers, light and teasing, traced the faint, silvered scar that ran the length of his neck. Typically his high collars and cravats disguised the mark. But he was not wearing his usual attire. A delicious shiver ran through him at the unexpected contact.

A badge of honor, my lord?

Merely a boyhood misadventure. He shrugged nonchalantly, struggling within himself to regain control of his heretofore unsuspected response to this woman. Do not let yourself believe even if you cease your activity, I will stop attempting to apprehend you and your men.

She laughed again. You are no fool, my lord. You have proved that full well in our little game these past weeks. And I am certain you have already realized if we discontinue our operation, there is very little chance you will discover us. Ever.

She was right. If the smugglers disbanded, they would fade into the fabric of village life. They would disappear. Frustration swelled within him. She would disappear. His mission would fail. And failure was the one thing he could not allow.

I warn you, he said, a growl in his voice. I do not accept defeat easily.

And I, my lord—her breath, fragrant with an intoxicating promise, caressed his face—do not accept defeat at all.

She paused, and he wondered at the tension between them. Wondered if she felt it as well. He caught her breath once more upon his upturned face and, faintly, her lips brushed against his. He started, then involuntarily strained toward her. Her lips parted and her tongue teased the inner edge of his mouth. Desire pounded through his veins. His mind worked feverishly. What kind of woman kissed so boldly as this? Perhaps it no longer mattered.

Her lips withdrew, and disappointment surged through him. Her presence still lingered on his face, and her voice was soft. I regret more than ever, my lord, that there will be no later for us. She sighed. Only now, only this moment.

Her voice turned brisk. And we have much to finish this night. So, my charming prisoner, I will bid you adieu.

What do you— In his last moment of consciousness before succumbing to the darkness brought by the crash of something on his head for the second time that night, he too regretted there would be no later.

Chapter 1

1818

Bloody hell.

Sabrina Winfield muttered under her breath and glared with distaste at the offensive paperwork spread before her.

Absently she drummed her fingers in a rhythmic tattoo on the worn, highly polished mahogany desk and scanned the papers littering the desktop once again, hoping to find something, anything that would make a difference. Already she knew full well that hope was futile. The accounting sheets and investment reports painted a dismal picture.

Damnation. She groaned and glanced quickly at the closed door to her library. It would not do to have the servants or, worse yet, her daughter hear her talking like a common woman of the streets. But in all her years of living the proper life expected of someone of her social status, she had never found anything quite as satisfying as a good curse. Privately, of course.

Sabrina returned her attention to the documents before her. She had enough funds left to live a respectable, if somewhat frugal, life. Unfortunately, frugal was not a word she took to easily.

It was all that idiot Fitzgerald’s fault. She should have known the little pig-faced man who slobbered all over her hand in lieu of a greeting would spell disaster. Why she had let him handle her financial affairs when his father died was beyond comprehension. Obviously a misplaced sense of loyalty.

The elder Fitzgerald had been a man with a solid business head and a shrewd eye. He had discreetly handled her affairs for nearly nine years before his inconvenient demise and had built her initial investment into a substantial, comfortable, and even excessive fortune. And in spite of her gender, he had listened to her suggestions and wishes and accepted her financial acumen. But in the short year since his death, his fool of a son had whittled her funds down to the meager accounting now laid out before her.

A nagging voice at the back of her mind pointed out that perhaps it was not entirely the junior Fitzgerald’s fault. Oh, she’d taken a firm hand with her investments as usual at first, but her attention had slackened. Reluctantly she admitted she had not kept the close eye out she should have, distracted by her daughter’s coming-out season. A season she had squandered far more on than was prudent.

Still, she thought stubbornly, it was money well spent. Belinda deserved the best. Besides, the gamble had paid off handsomely. Belinda was in love and wished to marry a charming young man from a well-respected family. He was heir to an impressive title, with a family fortune both immense and sound. Sabrina had made discreet inquiries just to make sure. She did not want her child’s life ever to be threatened by the need for money and the lack of it. Not the way hers once was.

The marriage that would ensure her daughter’s future was exactly what made her present financial difficulties so distressing. A wedding meant a dowry commensurate with Sabrina and her late husband’s social position, a dowry worthy of the dowager Marchioness of Stanford. Hah! An impressive title, but that and half a crown would get her a hired carriage ride around the city and little else.

She had no idea how to raise the kind of funds necessary for an impressive dowry. There were very few acceptable ways for a woman to make money. Marriage for herself would, of course, solve all her problems. Most, if not all, of the women she knew married with wealth and rank in mind. Still, marrying strictly for monetary gain seemed somehow distasteful. She certainly hadn’t married for money the first time. Life would have been much easier if she had. Her daughter would not marry for money either. Still, the presence of substantial wealth, while not a requirement, was most definitely a delightful bonus.

Sabrina sighed and pushed her chair away from the desk. There would be time enough to return to her vexing financial problems tomorrow. Time enough to deal with the panic threatening to rise within her. Tonight she and Belinda were to attend a soiree at her future son-in-law’s. Both parents had already given permission for the match, even though it was yet to be formally announced. Sabrina expected tonight to finally meet the boy’s father.

The elusive Earl of Wyldewood was well known in government and diplomatic circles, but he had never crossed Sabrina’s path, and she admitted to a certain amount of curiosity about the man. Gossip told her he had a sizable reputation with women and was considered something of a rake. Sabrina refused to hold that against him. After all, her husband had been a well-known rake before their marriage, and everyone knew reformed rakes made the best husbands. She liked the son; surely she would like the father as well.

She cast one last disgusted glance at the pages littered over the desk and rose to her feet. Sabrina shook her head in irritation and prayed all would work out. Her natural optimism returned, and a slight smile played across her lips. All had certainly worked out the last time she had faced a financial crisis this severe. But the solution she’d found those many years ago would not serve now. Realistically she could not take up smuggling again.

Her reluctance had nothing to do with the illegality of the activity. It was not a question of morality or conscience. Sabrina was, above all, a realist. With the war over, and most goods flowing freely, there was no real call for smuggling.

A pity, really. Today there was simply no money in it.

Nicholas Harrington, Earl of Wyldewood, gazed around his ballroom with equal parts dismay and curiosity. He was usually more than comfortable in a social setting. But this was his own home, and the scale of preparation necessary for such an event seemed massive. Fortunately he had the able assistance of his sister, Wynne.

If he had a wife, surely he could relax, confident in his spouse’s ability to handle the social niceties. His sister had pointed out that fact with increasing frequency in the two years since the death of their father and Nicholas’s inheritance of the title. Reluctantly he admitted she was right. The appropriate wife would be an asset if he continued his interest in government and politics. And should he ever wed again, he had no doubt his countess would be a polished hostess. It was a requirement of the position.

But Nicholas had no real desire to marry. He hadn’t particularly wanted a wife the first time and was not anxious for his son to wed either. The boy was barely one and twenty, and there was plenty of time for marriage. But Erick insisted he was in love. And what could Nicholas say? He freely and proudly admitted he had never been touched by that particular emotion, so he could not quite understand. He was surprised, however, and touched, to discover the boy’s ardor moved him more than he had suspected possible. That, coupled with a vague sense of guilt for not having been present while his son had grown up, made him consent to the match.

Nicholas surveyed the rapidly filling ballroom. He had already met Erick’s young lady and found her more than acceptable. Tonight he would meet the mother. Nicholas knew a great deal about the lady, thanks to the work of a discreet investigator paid a substantial amount to supply accurate information and keep his mouth sealed.

He spotted his son on the other side of the room, and an involuntary smile creased his lips. Intelligent and honorable, Erick was a son a man could claim with pride. Nicholas regretted he deserved little credit for that. The boy had been raised by Wynne and his damnable grandfather. Although, he grudgingly admitted, the old man had done a good job.

Erick caught his gaze and raised a hand in greeting. He escorted two women. The lithesome blonde on his right was his fiancée, Belinda, a lovely, ethereal creature. On his left was a somewhat shorter woman, blond as well, and even at a distance, extremely well proportioned. Nicholas wondered if this was perhaps a sister he was not aware of.

The trio drew closer and Nicholas caught his breath. The lady was indeed a beauty. A bit older than Belinda but startlingly lovely. A serene smile played across shapely, inviting lips. Her eyes flashed a rich emerald.

They stopped before him. She was short and came barely to his shoulder. In spite of her stature, she almost shimmered with suppressed energy. He glanced away quickly. No one stared in their direction. The music played on. Conversations continued.

Amazing. Was he the only one who noticed the subtle power of her presence? Did he alone sense a change in the very air around them? Did excitement and mystery call out to him and no other?

Inevitably his gaze drew back to hers, and he lost himself in the glittering green depths of her eyes. Depths that spoke of promises and passion and, at the moment … amusement.

My lord. Her voice was low and husky, sensual and inviting. An unexpected shiver ran through him at the sound. Have I done something to cause you to stare so intensely?

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze never left hers, and his earlier sense of discomfort vanished. Confronted by a beautiful woman, he had no lack of confidence. In many circles, he was considered an expert. Why no, my lady, I am simply struck with awe in the presence of such beauty.

She laughed, a delightful, honeyed sound that wrapped around him and settled in his soul.

Father, Erick said, may I present Belinda’s mother, Lady Stanford, the dowager Marchioness of Stanford.

Nicholas started. This magnificent creature was the lady he’d had investigated. His reports mentioned that she was considered a great beauty at her first season nearly twenty years ago, but nothing he read on paper could have prepared him for meeting her in the flesh. Cool, creamy, porcelain flesh. She wrinkled her nose at the word dowager, and he thought the gesture charming. Perhaps this marriage was not a mistake after all.

So this was Erick’s father, Sabrina thought. He was far more handsome than she’d been told. Extremely tall, with hair and eyes nearly as black as the evening coat that stretched across broad, muscular shoulders. A flirtatious smile lingered over full, sensual lips. An aura of strength and power surrounded him. Intriguing, beckoning, irresistible.

She gazed into his eyes. It was obvious he was taken with her. The realization gave her a certain amount of satisfaction. Even at the advanced age of six and thirty, she could still turn a man’s head. She couldn’t resist angling her face slightly and deepening her smile, a gesture certain to reveal the dimple in her cheek.

So, my lord, I gather we are to be family soon?

Family? He appeared startled, then quickly recovered. Oh yes, of course, family.

He glanced at his son and future daughter-in-law. And what a charming family it shall be with two such lovely ladies as its newest members.

Oh, Erick, look. Isn’t that Anne Hartly? Belinda nodded at a young woman across the room. Mother, do you mind?

Of course not, darling. You two go along. She glanced demurely at Lord Wyldewood. I suspect I’m in excellent hands.

The two young people headed toward their friends, and Sabrina’s gaze followed. They seem so very young.

You are not so terribly old yourself, Wyldewood said, a note of appreciation sounding in his voice.

Sabrina snapped her gaze back to his. Age is such a relative thing, is it not? When I was their age, I thought someone as old as I am now was ancient. Now they are grown, yet I see them as children. And I still feel as I did then. My emotions are no different now than they were in my first season.

Wyldewood stared down at her. I regret having missed that first season.

The intensity of his words gave Sabrina pause. Abruptly she realized that, without thinking, she’d dropped her well-practiced guard. It was indeed past time to return to the meaningless, flirtatious banter she was so skilled at.

She lowered her gaze. I fear, my lord, we are becoming far too serious for an event such as this. Sabrina flashed him her most polished smile. And I, for one, refuse to be serious when I hear music. I would much prefer to dance.

Wyldewood’s smile mirrored her own. I can think of nothing I would rather do.

He took her in his arms and drew her onto the dance floor. A waltz played, and Sabrina noted how well, how easily, how naturally her body fit to his. His hand against her back, strong and sure; the muscles in his arm, solid beneath her touch. The heat of his body enveloped her in a heady haze of beckoning desire.

Whirling around the room, gazing into his eyes, she wondered at the immediate attraction between them. Something about this man, some indefinable quality threatened to break down her defenses and leave her vulnerable and unguarded. It was almost as if they were not strangers. Almost as if destiny had taken a hand here. Almost as if it were magic.

Magic.

She’d found magic once before in the arms of her husband. Or what passed for magic then. When Jack Winfield, the young Lord Stanford, had swept her into his arms during that first season so long ago, she had lost herself in the passion and fire of a rake who had eyes only for her.

Magic.

She’d nearly found magic again, three times in the thirteen years since his death. Three men selected for the hint, the suggestion, the promise of magic in their look and their touch and their smiles. While each in his turn had vowed undying love and all had asked her to wed, true magic remained elusive, lingering just out of reach. She had gently broken off each romance and had somehow managed not to break their hearts as well. Sabrina matter-of-factly suspected all still harbored a secret hope for more.

Magic.

Now in the arms of this man the promise of something wonderful was powerful, almost tangible. Never had she known a pull this strong. Could he be the one to return the magic to her life? The one to finally cure her restless desires? The one to make her complete? She would settle for nothing less.

But what would he want in return? The unexpected query flashed through her mind, and she nearly stumbled in mid-turn. His brows drew together in a concerned frown. Is there a problem?

A simple misstep. She tossed him a reassuring smile. A man like this would expect, nay, demand a woman to be the epitome of social correctness. To be placid and pliable. To yield and obey. A man like this would expect her to be exactly what she appeared to be, to live up to the lie she lived every day.

No. No matter the attraction, the spark, the unspoken desire, it would not do to become involved with this man. She could not run the risk of allowing him to discover the woman carefully buried beneath layers of acceptable behavior. A woman hidden for nearly a decade. She could not risk his disapproval.

He held her daughter’s fate in his hands. With one word he could put an end to the marriage plans. That she could not, would not, allow. No, regardless of this compelling and unexpected attraction, Nicholas Harrington must remain no more than the father of her daughter’s fiancé. No more, no less.

The music drifted to a close. Reluctantly but firmly, Sabrina stepped out of Wyldewood’s arms. She needed distance between them, physically and emotionally, and quickly. Already she’d allowed him to glimpse much more than he should.

She glanced up at him, the passion he aroused carefully concealed beneath a calm exterior, the serene mask again firmly in place. We must speak in depth about the marriage arrangements at some point. Right now I am certain you will want to see to your other guests, so I shall not detain you any longer.

She nodded politely and turned away, allowing him no time to respond. But she could not miss the puzzled look on his face and the way his dark eyes smoldered.

Sabrina refused to look back.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and noted an annoying tremble in her hand. Why had this stranger affected her so deeply? There was no logical reason for it. Sabrina shook herself mentally and headed for the room reserved for card playing. A relaxing game was an excellent idea. After all, tonight as usual, she’d had more than enough practice in the fine art of bluffing.

Nicholas eyed her hasty retreat, and annoyance surged through him. Why on earth had the woman cut him like that? Had he done something to offend her? It had seemed as though she was enjoying their flirtation as much as he, at least initially.

Of course. He should have realized it sooner. His suggestive manner had obviously scared her. According to his investigators, she was a quiet and reserved woman who ventured into society no more than necessary. Her name had been linked with several gentlemen through the years, but no hint of scandal, no improper gossip accompanied the talk. As best he could tell, she had lived a spotless life since returning to London after her husband’s death.

A slow smile spread across his face. She was not merely beautiful but well-bred, reserved, even a touch shy. He pushed aside a vague sense of disappointment. Somehow he’d instinctively expected more from her.

When his gaze had first met hers, he swore he’d glimpsed a spark, a spirit that stole his breath. But apparently his first impression was misleading, his original reaction in error. He observed her elegant glide across the room, the graceful way she selected a glass. Nicholas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. In spite of her relationships with men during her widowhood—and who could fault her for that?—she was both discriminating and discreet; she might be exactly what he needed. A presentable partner to further his career. An attractive ornament to display on his arm. A perfect wife.

His smile widened to a grin. Such a countess would not inconvenience him at all. She would have little effect on his well-ordered life, his private pursuit of pleasure. And he had not forgotten his immediate attraction to her. Although, a distant voice in the back of his mind pointed out, this was not the kind of woman he usually desired. She was pleasant and pretty, but in spite of his initial reaction, she had no real zest, no promise of excitement, no sense of impending adventure. How could his initial instinct be so wrong?

He ignored the tiny doubt. Ignored the questions and concerns that drifted through his mind. He turned to speak to newly arriving guests and firmly pushed away the nagging, niggling voice.

The perfect wife … how frightfully dull.

A scant twenty minutes later, Sabrina was immersed in a pleasurable and undemanding game of whist with three elderly gentlemen. A good player, steady and unemotional, she never wagered a lot and never more than she could afford to lose. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, she typically left the table with more than she’d started.

The winnings were often fairly paltry. The real prizes were the bits and pieces of financial chatter, nuggets of investment strategy and tidbits of political gossip dropped by men who assumed she was uninterested or bored. Who assumed her lovely, composed facade hid an equally vacant mind. Who assumed she neither cared about nor listened to their talk.

During these games, Sabrina likened herself to a fine hunting hound, whose rapt attention was only captured when a red fox was in sight. There were very few red foxes here tonight. The conservation meandered aimlessly, the words drifting past her unheeded. Sabrina kept enough of her mind on the cards to play respectably, but allowed her thoughts to wander to a tall, powerful figure with piercing black eyes.

Isn’t that right, my dear?

Pardon me? Sabrina’s attention jerked back to the table and Lord Eldridge at her right.

He cocked his bushy eyebrows in mild reproof. I was commenting on the news of a proposed expedition to the Americas to search for Spanish treasure. Surely you’ve heard of it?

Of course. Sabrina vaguely remembered having read something about a hunt for sunken treasure in the West Indies, possibly a Spanish galleon wrecked centuries ago. It was not the kind of investment that would have caught her eye. Too speculative, too risky, and far too expensive without a guaranteed return.

Well, Eldridge said. I was just saying that one needn’t go halfway around the globe to find treasure. No one ever did recover Napoleon’s gold from that shipwreck off the coast of Egypt. Twenty years ago now, I think. His gaze searched her face curiously. But of course you’d know more of that than any of us, would you not?

Sabrina frowned in puzzlement. "I’m afraid I

Reviews for The Perfect Wife

[C M · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyable plot, some funny parts, more story turns than most in this genre. While there’s a main couple, more attention than usual is paid to the secondary characters, who enjoyably get their own happy endings.