My Lady Rival Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS

  OF ASHLEY MARCH

  Romancing t he Count ess

  “Ashley March is a glorious new voice in romance. From t he first page, Romancing t he Count ess capt ivat ed me w it h a smart heroine, a sexy, brooding hero, and a sophist icat ed romance t hat vibrat es w it h sexual t ension. Ashley March is t he goods!”

  —New Y ork T imes best sel ing aut hor Elizabet h Hoyt

  “Pow erful y sensual, beaut iful y t old, compulsively readable —Ashley March has creat ed a hero and heroine meant for each ot her and a romance meant t o be savored.”

  —Julie Anne Long, aut hor of W hat I Did for a Duke

  “Rivet ing, sensual, and haunt ingly beaut iful. Ashley March ent rances.”

  —Laura Lee Guhrke, aut hor of T rouble at t he W edding

  “March’s elegant st yle is a joy.” —Publishers W eekly

  “W it and repart ee add zest t o March’s t heme of a second chance at love. A fresh new voice, she t w ist s and t urns t he classic plot int o somet hing new .”

  —Romant ic T imes (4 st ars)

  “Her w rit ing is addict ive, superb, and hopelessly romant ic.” —T he Romance Review s cont inued . . .

  Seducing t he Duchess

  “Exquisit e prose and an emot ional st ory—t his is my favorit e kind of book.”

  —New Y ork T imes best sel ing aut hor Court ney Milan

  “A delect able, sensual love st ory.”

  —Romant ic T imes (4 st ars)

  “Addict ive . . . w icked . . . sizzling . . . lit erary gold.”

  —Booklist

  “Ashley March joins t he ranks of must -read romance w rit ers.” —Night Ow l Review s

  “A bril iant debut .” —Not Anot her Romance Blog

  “T his debut novel is one t hat everyone should enjoy!”

  —T he Romance Dish

  “Addict ing and t horoughly delicious.”

  —Y ankee Romance Review ers

  “One of t he w it t iest original romances I have read in quit e a w hile.” —T he Romance Readers Connect ion A lso by A shley March

  Seducing the Duchess

  Romancing the Countess

  Romancing Lady Cecily

  (A Penguin e-Special)

  Contents

  Praise

  Titlepage

  Copyrights page

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Special Excerpt

  A lso By A shley March

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson St reet ,

  New Y ork, New Y ork 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglint on Avenue East , Suit e 700, T oront o, Ont ario M4P 2Y 3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Lt d., 80 St rand, London W C2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St . St ephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Lt d.)

  Penguin Group (Aust ralia), 250 Camberw el Road, Camberw el , Vict oria 3124, Aust ralia (a division of Pearson Aust ralia Group Pt y. Lt d.) Penguin Books India Pvt . Lt d., 11 Communit y Cent re, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apol o Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Lt d.) Penguin Books (Sout h Africa) (Pt y.) Lt d., 24 St urdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, Sout h Africa

  Penguin Books Lt d., Regist ered Offices:

  80 St rand, London W C2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Ashley March, 2012

  Excerpt from Romancing t he Count ess © Ashley March, 2011

  Al right s reserved. No part of t his book may be reproduced, scanned, or dist ribut ed in any print ed or elect ronic form w it hout permission. Please do not part icipat e in or encourage piracy of copyright ed mat erials in violat ion of t he aut hor’s right s. Purchase only aut horized edit ions.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are t rademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58527-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOT E

  T his is a w ork of fict ion. Names, charact ers, places, and incident s eit her are t he product of t he aut hor’s imaginat ion or are used fict it iously, and any resemblance t o act ual persons, living or dead, business est ablishment s, event s, or locales is ent irely coincident al.

  T he publisher does not have any cont rol over and does not assume any responsibilit y for aut hor or t hird-part y W eb sit es or t heir cont ent .

  If you purchased t his book w it hout a cover you should be aw are t hat t his book is st olen propert y. It w as report ed as “unsold and dest royed” t o t he publisher and neit her t he aut hor nor t he publisher has received any payment for t his “st ripped book.”

  Chapter 1

  London, A pril 1849

  It was not a hearse. Hearses were dark and gloomy things. This was a king’s chariot, a vehicle drawn by finer animals than even the four horses of the A pocalypse. A ngels probably sat up top beside the coachman.

  A lex ran his hand over the black squabs he sat upon. He’d done very well with the Holcombe purchase—a London town house replete with enough rooms to sort out all the siblings, enough servants to clean every inch of all the rooms, and a masterpiece of a carriage to cart them around from balls to soirees and possibly even musicales in between.

  “You must admit it smells like death,” Kat said beside him, her voice muffled by the kerchief covering her mouth and nose.

  A lex arched a brow at his younger sister, his gaze flicking to the window blinds beside her shoulder. Black blinds. The late Earl of Holcombe had been an unfortunate gambling drunk, but he’d certainly had good taste in matching things.

  Black carriage. Black squabs. Black blinds.

  If it had been a hearse, Holcombe could have done no better.

  “Nonsense,” he replied, smiling indulgently. “It must be the absence of the great unwashed masses outside our doorway that offends your sensibilities. The carriage doesn’t smell like death. It smells of life, of wealth!”

  “The house holds a stench, too,” Susan Laurie said from the opposite side. His mother’s hands, encased resentfully in the finest kidskin gloves in all of London, clutched the edge of the seat on either side of her skirts. A s if one careless turn of the horses might upset both her seating and her resolve to abhor every aspect of the evening to come.

  “Oh, but you are mistaken, Mama,” Jo said at her side. “It is simply that you are unaccustomed to the scent of life, of wealth!” His older sister stared across at him, her brows raised to meet the high arch of his, condemning and mocking him simultaneously. Of course, that had been the standard line of her countenance for the past few months, ever since he’d informed her that she would be marrying a titled gentleman before their first Season of rubbing elbows with the aristocracy was over. “I’m certain that the houses and carriages of the haute ton are perfect in every way. Just as we soon shall be, too. Isn’t that correct, A lex?”

  “No need to grumble, Jo,” he said with a wink. “Even if it takes you longer than the rest
of us to attain perfection, a true gentleman will be able to see past your cantankerous outer shell to the soft, mushy insides of your heart.” cantankerous outer shell to the soft, mushy insides of your heart.”

  “I’m one and thirty. You mean he’ll see past to the dowry you gave me.” He decided to ignore the reference to her age. Whereas other women might have become morose when dwelling upon the subject, Jo tended to lord it over others—especially A lex, even though he was only a year younger. “A h, yes. The banknotes are soft and mushy, too.” He gestured toward her. “With the money and that very lovely glare you’re wearing, how could any desperate man resist you?”

  “A lexander,” his mother reprimanded. He gave her his most charming grin, but she just shook her head. He noted how her grasp of the seat had relaxed, her fingers lingering upon the satin fold of skirt tucked at her thigh, and he stifled another smile. It had taken weeks to gain her agreement to wear the expensive gown for the masquerade. Though not quite an exclamation of delight, the subtle gesture marked the first time she’d expressed approval for anything since his father’s death a year ago. A lex decided to take it as an auspicious sign that the rest of the evening would go spectacularly.

  But then she turned her head toward the window. “I agree with Kat. The carriage stinks. A nd the house does, too. More than fifteen servants and it smells worse than a privy.”

  “Then I will take them to task and have every surface cleaned, all the curtains and rugs aired out,” he said, knowing she would rather do it all herself. But there would be no more opportunities for her to build calluses on her hands, no more reason for sweat to appear at her brow. Living in Belgrave Square meant that Susan Laurie, for once, would be the one taken care of.

  Kat tugged at his arm. “I heard the servants carried the earl’s body all through the house, from one room to another, until the physician came.”

  “That explains the stench,” Jo said. Even not looking at her directly, A lex could hear her glare.

  His mother nodded.

  A lex imagined Holcombe’s flaccid body sloping from one side to the other, his head lolling like a marionette’s as he was trundled back and forth throughout the house by his limbs. “A ridiculous story,” he pronounced. “He would have been taken to his bedchamber—which, I might point out, also does not smell.” It was by far the truth he most preferred, as he currently slept in the former earl’s quarters.

  “Peter said the countess refused to have Lord Holcombe put in the master bedchamber. She didn’t want him set so close to her.”

  A lex narrowed his eyes. “Peter, you say?”

  In the dim light cast from the lamp near his head, Kat’s cheeks reddened. She shrugged, retrieving her hand from his arm. “That’s why they had to carry him from room to room. Lady Holcombe followed them around, crying whenever they put him down.”

  “The ton does not gossip with servants, Kat.” Nor did they have cause to blush when speaking the first footman’s name.

  when speaking the first footman’s name.

  A lex was usually an amiable man, but at the moment Peter’s continued employment at Holcombe House came into question. He had no tolerance for the male servants acting inappropriately toward any of his sisters. Jo he could throw to the wolves without care, as she would always be able to defend herself well.

  But he didn’t need to think of secret whispers and stolen kisses in regards to his other sisters—and especially not if any of it involved Kat. Not after her almost elopement with the cobbler’s apprentice last year.

  From across the carriage came an amused chuckle. It was amazing the condescension Jo could ascribe to any sound. Of them all, she who loathed the aristocracy most would probably fit in best.

  He gave his head a little shake and lifted his gaze to the dark expanse of the carriage ceiling in supplication, causing Kat to giggle. “Yes, Jo? You believe I should encourage her to gossip with the footman?”

  Jo waved her mask before her face, as if moving the stagnant air could relieve its offensive properties. “You are the only one who pretends we are equal to the aristocracy. Even these”—she fluttered the rose mask, its white feathers rippling in response—“are not enough to disguise the fact that we are inferior.”

  “You know we’re not. A nd remember our soft and mushy banknotes.” A lex wagged his finger. “The members of the ton would never dare say such a thing while they try to court our good graces.”

  “But it’s what they believe. Do you think a mask will hide the pattern of my speech? No number of Miss Ross’ lessons will keep them from recognizing my common blood as soon as my mouth opens.”

  “Please don’t make me dance, A lex.” This, pled by Kat. “I’ve tried as best I can to remember all the steps to the quadrille and to be graceful when I waltz. But I’ll forget. Poor Mr. Doiseau’s feet must be bruised from all my mistakes. Please, let’s return home. In a few weeks, after I’ve practiced longer—”

  “No. We are going to the masquerade.” Sometimes one simply needed to be blunt. He knew that their fears would always give them cause to delay entering Society, and now that the period of mourning for his father was over, there was no reason to wait.

  A lex glanced at his mother, certain she would be next in the queue of complaints. She met his gaze with the same dark brown eyes most of the eight Laurie siblings had inherited, including him. Then she raised her mask to her face and tied the ribbons behind her head, and A lex vowed to give her a dozen more pretty gowns that she could secretly admire. A nd one of them would be the same color as the gown in the Queen’s Madonna portrait with Princess Louise. A ll he had to do was successfully re-create the dye.

  Soon the carriage slowed before the Winstead town house, the sound of the horses’ hooves and the vehicle’s groans smothered by a swell of voices.

  “We’re here,” A lex announced cheerfully, tying on his mask. The silence which greeted his announcement was decidedly uncheerful. Jo didn’t make a sound—not even so much as a sigh—as both she and Kat followed suit. Ready or not, willing even so much as a sigh—as both she and Kat followed suit. Ready or not, willing or not, they were all at their first event of the Season. Their first ball, their first masquerade, their first test to see if they of common-born origins could be accepted—even anonymously—into this realm of idle nobility.

  The metal snap outside signaled the groom’s unfolding of the steps. Then he opened the door, and a waft of West End London air rushed in—scented with flowers and coal and perfumed bodies. It was a distinct smell A lex still hadn’t become accustomed to, even after two months, and refreshing in contrast to the—

  supposed—stench of death permeating the late Lord Holcombe’s carriage. But it wasn’t at all welcoming when compared to the scents of his youth—of ink so thick upon the air one could nearly taste it, of burnt fat from the tallow candles as his father worked into the early morning, of the lye heavy upon his mother’s hands, strong and yet still unable to mask the odor filtering in from the streets outside.

  He inhaled the West End London air into his lungs. This was their future—that of his family and of the dye-making business his father had created from little more than scribbles on advertisements and late-night dreams. Joseph Laurie might have died and left A lex to take his place, but he would not prove a failure. A lthough his father had wished for investments from those with exalted titles, he had never dreamed of establishing ties with the aristocracy through marriage. But the Lauries deserved the best, and once their merchants’ money lured in the proud but destitute, they would never be snubbed again.

  The groom appeared in the opening. “Mr. Laurie? Will you come out, sir?” A lex grinned at Jo and held out his hand. “Shall we go pretend to be their equals, then?”

  She snorted and stood, clasping his hand momentarily before moving to take the groom’s. “Give me a moment to lower my intelligence and morals.”

  “Only a moment?”

  She paused, her eyes flashing with laughter behind the
mask as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You do have your good points, you know. A nd I love you, even if I despise you for making me come tonight.” A lex placed a hand over his heart. “Soft and mushy, Jo. Soft and mushy.” A lex handed their invitation to the Winstead butler, then waited as the man sniffed and peered at the script. It was a ceremonial gesture; no names would be announced tonight at the masquerade ball.

  “He let us in,” Kat whispered as they walked past the butler to the landing which overlooked the ballroom.

  “Of course he let us in,” A lex replied. “We had an invitation.” He would have reminded himself to thank Lunsford for arranging their attendance but was fairly sure his friend would have no qualms in prompting his gratitude at the first opportunity.

  “Did you hear him sniff?” Jo asked. “If that smell from the carriage is clinging to our clothes, then I’m leaving right—”

  “Good heavens.” His mother stopped short, three feet before the first stair. The

  “Good heavens.” His mother stopped short, three feet before the first stair. The hand lying over his arm tensed, her fingers digging into his coat sleeve.

  Directly in their line of sight hung a row of four grand chandeliers, each sparkling with crystal teardrops and heavy with the flame of what seemed a hundred candles. The scent of candle smoke filled his nostrils as thin black streams lifted from the chandeliers to waft toward the ceiling.

  Ten marble pillars, five on each side, stretched from the ceiling to the floor below, where a host of masked men and women milled about the perimeter of the dancing. Their movements were stuttered, their numbers allowing only small steps in any direction. Heads bobbed from left to right as the guests greeted others who brushed against their shoulders by virtue of the crowd’s crush; feathers stacked high on masks waved from each corner of the room, and half faces obscured by silk and velvet disguises drew attention to the mouths beneath: laughing, smiling, pursing, frowning, drinking, gossiping, shouting to be heard above the din of gaiety. Strains of music floated overhead from the balcony, pushing and pulling the dancers in the center of the ballroom, their mouths huffing for breath.