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  The Siege of Lady Aloria

  Christina McKnight

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Also by Christina McKnight

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  For my readers,

  All things are possible, even when faced with a thirty-day deadline.

  Remember, you can do this. You will survive. You will conquer another day!

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  Chapter One

  “Do stop flailing about, mother.” Lady Aloria’s sturdy stature was no match for her mother’s constant dramatics as they made their way above stairs and to her chambers. “One would not think a fainting spell would cause such convolutions. Are you certain I need not send for the doctor?”

  She should have accepted the footman’s offered assistance before her mother had motioned the man away.

  It’d taken all of her strength to haul her mother, Lady Garland, up the back servant’s staircase to avoid the prying eyes of the ton. And it was overly convenient that her father had mysteriously disappeared moments before her mother’s episode commenced.

  “No, my dear,” Lady Garland—Beatrice—moaned. “I shall be quite the thing after a few moment’s rest.”

  Aloria doubted if her mother had ever been considered ‘quite the thing,’ but she knew better than to speculate this out loud. If she did, it was likely her mother would embark on another long-winded fable about the glory of her youth; how she’d been courted by no less than three men before settling on Aloria’s father, a mere viscount.

  Not that Aloria saw this as an unattainable feat…she’d been courted by three men as well.

  And unceremoniously jilted by each.

  But that reminder would send Lady Garland into another dizzy spell.

  Therefore, Aloria kept her sense of failure to herself, squared her shoulders, and continued to yank the woman down the last hall, and safely into her dimly lit room, the crackle and pop of the fire breaking the quiet.

  As soon as the door closed, her mother pulled away from Aloria’s grasp and smoothed her evening gown. “I do say that was a fine show.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, dear heavens, my girl.” The exasperation in her mother’s words likely mirrored the look on Aloria’s face. “The nerve of Lord Haston, thinking he could garner a place on your dance card. Does he not know all of society is aware of his quirks?”

  Aloria was taken aback by her mother’s proclamation. “You mean to say, you fainted dead away—in front of a crowded ballroom, no less—to extricate me from my next dance partner?” Her mother’s cunning behavior never ceased to amaze and confound her.

  Her mother’s sly smirk confirmed everything.

  Even in the dimness of the room, Aloria saw the familiar spark light her mother’s eyes.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Do not curse,” Beatrice scolded. “It is very unladylike, and…dare I say, befitting a mere baroness? Do aim higher, lass.” Her mother tended to fall back on her Scottish roots when excitement and mischief got the best of her. Although, as far as Aloria knew her mother had never even seen the Scottish border and rarely traveled outside their London townhouse.

  “You cannot keep doing these things merely because you are dismayed about something as trivial as my next dance partner.”

  “I most certainly can and will.” Lady Garland sat in her favorite chair, an overstuffed monstrosity complete with hanging tassels and gilded, engraved legs. The puce fabric matched the viscountess’ dress perfectly. “Do be a dear and fetch my fan.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “It is dreadfully stuffy in here.”

  Aloria looked around at the chaos that was her mother’s private chamber. Not a thing was in its rightful place; her brushes sat upon a small stool before the hearth, her privacy screen perched so close to the exit that it would likely fall over if one pushed the door too wide, and a large stack of feather-stuffed pillows were mounted by her dressing closet, forming a fort of sorts. She hadn’t any notion of where to begin her search. If she were made to climb into her mother’s makeshift fort, it would likely collapse about her, smothering her in pillows the size of small horse carts.

  Luckily, Beatrice took pity on her only daughter, lifting her hand and pointing to the screen positioned close to the door.

  Aloria eyed her mother’s privacy screen, realizing she’d rather risk collapsing the pillow fort than see what lay beyond the partition.

  The sooner she retrieved the blasted fan, the sooner she could escape the room and return to the ball below.

  How hard could it be to find a measly fan?

  Slipping behind the screen, Aloria realized her mistake and regretted catching her mother when she fainted. She should have let her fall to the floor…maybe it would have knocked some sense into her addled brain.

  “It looks marvelous, does it not?” her mother’s singsong voice called from her place beyond the partition. “I debated all morning on the perfect spot for her. I do think she’ll enjoy the view.”

  Aloria was convinced; Lady Beatrice Garland had officially gone mad.

  “Thankfully, she is long expired and must care less about her current scenic view.” And Aloria did not doubt her mother had given the woman a rather extensive view.

  The painting of Lady Aloria de Gare, her namesake and supposed great-aunt several times removed, was much like everything else in her mother’s chamber; overly gilded and out of place. Yet strangely befitting Beatrice.

  “You are much like her, Aloria,” Beatrice confided. “Though I sense you fight it.”

  Aloria tilted her head and squinted her eyes at the painting…next, she hummed a bit.

  Still, she did not see the resemblance between herself and the woman portrayed before her.

  Firstly, Aloria was baffled at how the portly lady had attained such a reclined position, her bosom exposed to the artist, without falling head-first off the settee she was draped across. It defied all she’d read about the forces of nature. Legend told that Lady Aloria de Gare, or Lady Jordan as Queen Eleanor named her, had had this painting commissioned to send to her secret lover, de Wolfe, a great clan warrior.

  If she were truthful, Aloria doubted the woman was in any way a relation to herself or her mother’s family. The portrait was likely found in a dusty attic decades before, brushed off, and hung upon the wall to elevate her family’s sense of import, resulting in a suitably compelling story developed over the years.

  Even more unfortunate was the fact that Aloria had been born a plump baby, rounded to excess—and had stayed
much the same throughout her childhood. However, her mother long held there were worse things than to be named after a lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor.

  Aloria was not so convinced.

  “Do you not see it, Aloria?” her mother called.

  She closed her eyes briefly to dispel the image of her namesake’s ample breasts nearly spilling from the top of her gown as she bent over the lounge.

  Another unfortunate certainty; the depiction was apparently seared into her mind—for eternity.

  If only she could convince her mother to leave the dreadful painting in one place. It would make it all the easier for Aloria to avoid stumbling upon the sight, but her luck never held. Last week it hung above their supper table, resulting in her and her father passing on several meals. Just this morning it was suspended in the grand foyer where every new visitor would garner a glance. Thankfully, her father had put his boot down solidly—which did not happen often—and demanded the portrait be moved until after the evening’s party. Her mother had agreed, not wishing the spotlight to be removed from her daughter.

  Scanning the small area again, Aloria didn’t see the gem-encrusted fan anywhere. “No, mother, it is not here. Are you positive you did not misplace it below?”

  Quiet greeted her from beyond the screen. Aloria peeked around to see why her mother, for possibly the first time in her existence, was remaining silent.

  “Mother!” she called. “Do listen. I have no intention of spending my entire evening here with you.”

  “I was only listening to the music below.” Beatrice stood quickly, her fan slipping from the folds of her dress, landing on the rug-covered floor without a sound.

  Both eyed the discarded fan.

  “You are incorrigible!” Aloria proclaimed. “I must be going. Time may yet allow a short dance for Lord Haston and me.” And she hoped she could return to the ballroom before the song ended. Haston was a kind, if not overly captivating man. He listened when she spoke and offered her refreshments when appropriate. He never sought to lead her into any scandalous incidents.

  Which was much more than she could say for her earlier beaus.

  Reprobates and scoundrels, the lot of them. Their only redeeming quality—if one could call it that—was that their titles and fortunes were beyond reproach.

  But one does not learn manners, loyalty, or gain integrity from a title alone.

  Aloria had learned that the hard way—on multiple occasions.

  Sometimes it was hard for her to pinpoint one awful trait worse than the rest.

  Beatrice huffed. “Do tell me you are not standing there daydreaming of Haston.”

  Her mother’s words pushed the thoughts of her ill-fated past back where they belonged—buried deep, right where she wished she could put the bodies of Lords Danderfur, Plumberly, and Canterbourne. Alas, all three men thrived…and mingled amongst the highest in society, nonetheless. It was only Aloria who lived with the aftermath of the scandals. Lord Canterbourne had recovered so completely from the ordeal that he was now betrothed to another lucky lady. Aloria truly hoped her dearest friend Delilah experienced an altogether different marquis than Aloria had faced the previous season.

  “Now that you have located your misplaced fan, I think I will be on my way.” There was no need to confess to her mother that she hadn’t been daydreaming about Haston, but instead reliving a nightmare of far greater proportion. “I will tell Father you are resting for a spell and will return shortly.”

  The perturbed look left her mother’s face and she smiled. “My dear, wonderful daughter. Not a day passes that I do not thank whatever divine being gave you to me.” Flipping her fan open, she quickly moved it back and forth in front of her face. The slight breeze from the hurried movement pushed her long curls back and over her shoulder.

  “If you would consider pinning your long hair atop your head, you would stay much cooler and not succumb to overheating so much.” It was the argument mother and daughter embarked on at least a dozen times each season.

  “You know I cannot pull my hair up, for it would make me appear the old woman.” Beatrice’s free hand moved her bouncing curls back forward. “And what would happen to me then if I admit my age? You know as well as I, dear, that not a soul in London would believe I am any older than you.”

  Aloria instantly patted her own upswept hair, nestled securely at her crown in the severe style she preferred over her mother’s flowing flair. If her mother fought the passage of time, then it was Aloria who embraced it, wallowed in it, and prayed that society would leave her be.

  “Good eve, mother.” She wouldn’t be seeing her again this evening. Her mother’s aversion to society was not altogether new. “I hope you are feeling better on the morrow.”

  Chapter Two

  Marcus paced the hall, his feet wearing the threaded rug beneath him thin. Where was the confounded woman? He’d kept a close eye on Lady Aloria all evening, trying his best to gain an introduction, but she was one of the most elusive creatures he’d had the misfortune of trailing. She’d danced nearly every dance, conversed with every person present save for himself, and had—if it were even possible—disappeared from the room without a trace.

  And he hadn’t caught sight of her since.

  That must have been nearly half an hour ago.

  She didn’t appear the pitiful, dejected spinster clamoring for a marriage proposal as Canterbourne had insinuated. Nothing about the woman screamed desperate. In fact, her every action spoke volumes as to her poise and grace.

  The night was waning, and he’d been unsuccessful with gaining her notice. He could not keep up appearances in London for long, nor live off Canterbourne’s generosity forever; all while hiding from those who searched for him.

  The only place she could have disappeared to was a room upstairs. This being her family home, it was more than likely she’d sought a reprieve in her private chamber.

  He wouldn’t dwell on the possibility that she favored another and had slipped away for a private word. Although, he had watched her dance with many of London’s most sought after men. Though, at her advanced age, the ton would turn a blind eye if she did seek out such engagements.

  “My lord?” The nasally, feminine voice came from the direction of the stairs, which led to the ballroom below. Marcus could not fathom ever finding the voice attractive. “I had wondered what happened to you.”

  Her hand landed on his shoulder and gently kneaded the tension that laced through his neck and back.

  The gentleness of her touch didn’t last long as her fingers stiffened to press more securely into his shoulder and she whispered, “I would loathe to think you are avoiding me, Marcus.” The threat wasn’t even thinly veiled.

  “Gwendolyn,” he muttered without turning to face her. “What can I do for you?” His clipped, cold words should have been enough to have her turning on her heels and fleeing for safety, but they were no match for her colder heart and callous ways.

  When she didn’t issue a demand or screech in anger, he relented and turned toward her.

  She was everything women of the ton were expected to be; willowy, with emerald eyes, sun-kissed golden hair, and a clear complexion.

  Everything he’d learned to despise in the fairer sex. She may look as sweet as a kitten to the unknowing observer, but her gaze was keen and her memory long.

  “I expected a dance.”

  “You expect much from a man who owes you naught.” Marcus owed her even less than nothing, if that were possible. He’d tried to give her everything, but she had determined him worthless and unsuitable when the creditors came calling.

  Laughing, she slid her hand from his shoulder and down the front of his pressed shirt to rest at the front of his trousers. His body knew her wicked ways, too; not responding to the touch that used to send him into a frenzy of need.

  “Come now, Marcus,” she said. “I know too much for you to ignore me. Now, let us return to the ballroom and dance for all to watch.”

 
He needed to be rid of Gwen, if not from his life entirely, then from at least this one hallway. Stepping back he said, “Gwen, I have a matter of import to discuss with Lord Garland. Afterwards, we shall have our dance.” At her skeptical look, he continued, “No, make that two. Two dances.”

  When she smiled, letting out a burst of laughter, Marcus knew he’d convinced her.

  “I do not understand why you always make me chase you, Marcus, when we both know you always give me what I want.” Truth was, he could never be enough, possess enough, to make her content—nor did he have any urge to travel down that path.

  “Hurry back to the ballroom.” He forced a smile. “I will follow as soon as I am finished.”

  “Do not keep me waiting, my lord,” she said. In the past, she’d addressed him formally in hopes of convincing him that she’d make a suitable duchess. But he’d quickly learned that not a moment of peace would come his way as long as she was linked to him. “I have missed you, Marcus.”

  No doubt she had missed him…the gifts and attention he’d lavished on her when he thought his coin unlimited.

  With one final scorching look, she turned and sauntered back down the hall, her finely covered backside swaying in a way that used to drive his younger self to distraction. How he’d ever been so young and naïve was still a wonder to him. He saw her for who she actually was now; a conniving, indifferent woman who preyed on the insecurities of others; who took what she wanted, leaving destruction in her wake.

  His responsibility to his estate and his people—after his father left them all destitute from his excessive ways—came before all else. Marcus now knew the significance of every pound. The extravagant cost of repairs to his estate was highly preferable to the excessive cost of one ball gown or strand of pearls sent to an ungrateful woman.

  As Gwen rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, a weight struck him from behind, nearly causing him to fall to the floor. His arm shot out and he steadied himself against the wall before turning.