Frances bounced on her tiptoes, watching the impressive stallions’ pound down the racetrack at impossible speeds. She held her breath as the jockeys flew past in a blur of brightly coloured shirts, her heart raced. The public crowd on the other side of the track erupted with a roar. She held onto her bonnet, the wind across the Ascot racecourse whipped her dress around her legs, all the fine men and ladies beside her murmured excitedly.
“Did he win?” Frances asked her cousin, Amelia, who stood haughtily beside her.
“Does it matter?” Amelia said, tossing her golden curls with a bored expression on her face.
Frances sighed inwardly. She wished her father had not arranged for Amelia to join them. It was Frances’ first time at Royal Ascot, the social event of the season, and her snobbish cousin was already ruining it. Although Amelia and Frances were both eighteen years old, they looked at life very differently. Since she had come out into society two years ago, Frances had enjoyed every minute of the luxury, the balls and the garden parties. Amelia had recently become engaged to the boring Marquess Huntley and had become even more insufferable than she was before. She now viewed everything and everyone, especially Frances, as distinctly below her.
“Father?” Frances turned to Baron Andrew Fortescue, who was sipping champagne. “Do you know if the Marquess’ horse won? Amelia is interested.”
Amelia frowned at her and Frances smiled sweetly back.
“No, I believe it was the Prince Regent’s favourite, Lutzen, that crossed the line first,” her father said, smiling at the girls. “I’m sure your future husband won’t begrudge the Prince Regent his win.”
“Of course not.” Amelia rolled her blue eyes, unable to recognise the soft humour of her uncle.
“Come, Frances, let us go and look at the horses.”
Frances gratefully followed her father out to where the fabulous horses and their riders were gathered in the winners’ circle, catching a glimpse of the figure of the Prince Regent, aloof and stern, in the royal box.
“Have you enjoyed today, my dear?” her father asked, leading her to the Marquess Huntley’s horse, Adamant, that they had bet on together.
“Oh, yes!” Frances gushed, reaching out to pet the horse’s strong neck with her new white satin gloves. “It’s been so exciting! All the gentlemen dressed so finely and the ladies in their new gowns, like the new butter yellow muslin that Amelia wore…”
Frances let her sentence trail off. She and her father had had a minor disagreement a few weeks ago. Frances had hoped he might purchase her a new dress for the Royal Ascot, but in an expression of unusual frugality, he had said no. She now thought he might be saving a surprise of a new gown for the upcoming summer ball, and she now wanted to drop hints as to the kind of fabric she would most like. Her father sighed.
“I’m glad you’ve had a lovely day, dearest, but I’m afraid it’s time for me to share some difficult news with you.”
“Oh?”
Frances’ heart dropped. The last time her father had spoken to her like this had been the crushing day her mother had died. Though it was over ten years ago she still felt the edges of that crushing panic closing in on her. She took a deep breath.
“What is it, Father?”
“I need to be honest about our financial situation.” He rested his hand absent-mindedly on the horse’s neck. “Do you remember the investment I made last summer?”
Baron Fortescue had always kept his daughter abreast of their family finances. Aside from the Fortescue inheritance, he was also a successful painter in his own, and had appreciated the extra help of an intelligent daughter when negotiating payments and commissions. He had taught her basic economic principles and she had flourished. Now she tried to remember the exact details of their investment.
“It was in that new type of plumbing, was it not?”
He nodded. “There is no easy way to say it, but it turns out to have been a manipulation. All of our investment was lost.”
“Oh, Father.” Frances swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was ashamed.” Her father closed his eyes briefly. “I have tried to make the best of it, but my brother has been supporting us these past months, and I can no longer ask him to cover our expenses.”
Frances flushed at the idea of Amelia’s father covering the cost of her shoes and bonnets. How Amelia must have been laughing at her! Her fist tightened in the horse’s main. The beast snorted.
“What will we do?” Frances asked.
“I am afraid there are only two roads forward. Our only options are to use your dowry to cover our living expenses -,”
Frances breath caught in her throat. If she lost her dowry, it was likely she would lose her place in high society. A young girl with a poor father and no prospects would hardly keep receiving the sorts of invitations she had become so accustomed to. She would do anything, she thought, to save herself that humiliation.
“- or I fear it may be time for us to make a match for you, as soon as possible.”
“You mean, I will have to get married?”
“I do.” Her father looked at her gently. “It is about time, my dear. Your cousin is lately engaged, and aside from ensuring you will be settled for life, it is the natural next step for you.”
Frances didn’t know what to think. Of course, she hoped she would marry one day, like every young girl she had always dreamed of it, but she had wanted to marry for love not for money. Yet if she had to choose between losing everything – her friends, her social life, perhaps even her family home – and marrying someone for convenience, then it was simple. She and her father had worked hard to build a good, comfortable life after her mother’s death, and Frances had no intention of losing it. She would rather be married than poor. She let out a long breath.
“Of course, Father.” She turned away, trying not to show him her disappointment. “I think I’ll go back in and check on Amelia.”
She had no real intention of doing so, however. She just needed a moment to collect her thoughts, but as soon as she entered the velvet roped area for the Beau Monde, Amelia spotted her and smiled cruelly.
“He finally told you.” Amelia twisted a pale blonde curl around her finger and smirked. “I can see it on your face.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking of.” Frances accepted a glass of blackberry tonic from a passing server and took a quick gulp.
“I’m talking of your father relying on my father for everything,” Amelia laughed nastily. “At least I’ve had the good sense to engage myself to a wealthy man, but I suppose your future is already set.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, my dear cousin, being a charity case there is only one route for you moving forward it seems.” Amelia grinned cruelly. “Servitude.”
“Servitude!”
“Don’t worry, you’ll always have a place in my household.” Amelia leaned forward, whispering, “I need a new ladies maid, or perhaps a governess soon enough!”
Frances took another gulp of tonic and tried to fight back her anger. Taking a slow breath, she turned back to her cousin.
“You are delusional,” she said calmly. “I will find someone perfectly suitable to marry, and then you’ll never be able to say such things to me again.”
“I doubt it,” Amelia said snidely. “I think it much more likely you die an old maid. My maid, in fact. I would bet my ring on it.”
She flashed a shiny gold and ruby engagement ring in Frances’ face. Frances lost her temper.
“Really?” she snapped. “Because I’ll take that bet. I bet you that I will marry the richest, most successful man here today!”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Amelia smirked, looking over Frances’ shoulder. “The Duke of Sinclair just arrived.”
Frances swung around. Ralph Wynter, the Duke of Sinclair, glanced around the collected members of high society, seemingly unaware of the way all the women present stared and whispered when he had entered. He had spent the race drinking in the Royal box with the Prince Regent, and Frances had seen him there, standing with many beautiful women.
He had one of those conflicting reputations of well-established men of society: he was a widower – well-liked and trusted, but also known to be a flirtatious womaniser. Frances was sure he only got away with it because he was so handsome. She couldn’t help but stare at him.
He was easily the tallest man in the room, with dark hair and the broad shoulders of an oxford rower, his warm brown eyes beguiling. Then those eyes turned on her. Frances felt a strange spark of energy between them as her eyes fixed his. It was the oddest, most compelling sensation – as if the Duke had looked directly into her soul, and her into his. Flushing from his gaze, she turned away, holding her breath as he brushed past them, very aware that he had looked back over his shoulder towards her as he passed by. It was electrifying.
Amelia snorted into her glass of champagne at her red cheeks. “I think my ring is safe.”
“Don’t be so sure, Amelia,” Frances spoke coldly, trying to ignore the thundering of her heart from the Duke’s eyes, she made a rash promise: “I’ll have him before the year is out.”
Chapter Two
Somerset House, 1817
Ralph looked around the ballroom, half-heartedly admiring the beautiful women who were always milling around him, their lustful eyes and flirtatious smiles following his every movement. He knew he could have any of them, but the idea seemed tiresome to him this evening.
“What’s the matter, Wynter?” the man standing beside him asked. “Don’t see anything you like?”
He noticed how ears pricked up at the man’s words and was not surprised. After all, his companion on this evening was none other than George the Fourth, future King of England and currently the Prince Regent. Usually, the Prince Regent didn’t attend balls of the public occasion, but the summer Queen Anne’s ball was the highlight of the season for the Ton. Young ladies were presented for the first time and it was imperative that a representative of the royal family attend. Besides, George liked for the young women to see and admire him. Though often joked that it seemed like many of their admiring gazes were spent on his dear friend, Duke Ralph Wynter of Sinclair.
“Not this evening,” Ralph sipped his brandy. “Perhaps I’ll have more luck at the club later tonight.”
Ralph and George preferred to socialise in private clubs in London, the sort of places where the women were professionals, their company discreet, and their tender embrace only for the night.
“Still, you must have a dance or two,” George elbowed him jovially. “Have to show these young things you’re not an old man yet!”
“But I am an old man,” Ralph joked. “I have ten years on most of these girls.”
“Honestly, Wynter, no one would believe you were not yet thirty, the way you go on as if life has passed you by already,” George tutted. “It’s time to find yourself another wife.”
Ralph sighed, but didn’t answer. This was a common comment from his friends and family, but he knew he wasn’t ready. What was the point of dancing with a young pretty thing tonight, only to break her heart tomorrow? That was the trouble with these younger society women; they were all looking for love, romance, courting, but Ralph didn’t have any love to give them. Part of his soul had died with his wife, Lowenna, and he knew it was never coming back. Society assumed that he was mourning, but the truth was much harder. It was much better to settle for a night of comfort in the arms of a friendly woman at the club, knowing they would never demand of him, what he was unwilling and unable to give.
“What do you think of the Marquess Huntley’s new bride?” George leaned closer, hiding his words behind his brandy glass. “One of Lord Fortescue’s children. Amelia, I believe.”
Ralph looked to where George was pointing. A slim, pretty girl stood by the windows, a haughty expression on her face. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, and Marquess Huntley was over forty. Ralph found it strange that such a young girl would desire such an old man. It must be his purse that made him attractive. That was another thing Ralph couldn’t bear, the way young ladies looked at himself as if he were a walking cheque book. It was insulting to consider, but finer bred ladies still had cheques and balances in mind. Why should they not? He thought, self-deprecatingly. An old widower like you, what do you have to offer a young lady apart from money?
“Quite a pretty thing, isn’t she?” George continued to comment. “But not anything to write home about. Still, she came with a handsome dowry.”
Ralph watched listlessly as another young woman came and stood beside the new bride of Marquess Huntley, holding two glasses of champagne. Ralph’s heart lurched as he recognised the woman he had seen at the Royal Ascot. He could never forget that fiery auburn hair and those glittering amber eyes. He had been surprised how clearly she had stuck in his mind, even invading his private dreams. He still had no idea of her name.
“Who’s that with her?” he couldn’t help asking George. The Prince Regent knew everyone in society.
“Who?” He noticed George’s curious smile and tried to ignore it. “Oh, that’s Baron Fortescue’s daughter, Frances, I believe. The two girls are cousins.”
“I see.”
George had been right in his assessment; however harsh it had seemed. She may be pretty compared to others but standing next to her cousin, Amelia Fortescue could be deemed very plain. Her figure was childish and lean beside Frances’ womanly silhouette, her hair limp and dull beside Frances’ springy and shining curls. Her face was thin and grumpy next to Frances’ rosy cheeks and excited eyes. Ralph became aware of George watching him and knew what was coming next.
“Come, I would like to meet them myself,” George said.
Ralph had a distinct feeling that the Prince Regent was engineering the situation, but he had no choice in the matter and obediently followed him. By the time they had crossed the room, Baron Fortescue had joined his daughter and niece. As a royal, the Prince Regent had the impeccable ability to appear as if he knew everybody intimately even if he had only made their acquaintance once in his life. He strode immediately forward to shake the Baron’s hand. Both young ladies dropped into reverential curtseys, too overwhelmed to meet the eyes of the Prince in front of them.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” the Baron said. “May I introduce to you my daughter, Miss Frances Fortescue, and my niece, Miss Amelia Fortescue, soon to be Marchioness of Huntley.”
“A pleasure to meet you, dear ladies.”
The Prince Regent bowed to both women, smiling the smile that had bedded many women during their friendship. Ralph had come to recognise it clearly and found himself oddly hoping that Frances Fortescue wasn’t the type to lust after a Prince. For if she was willing, he knew George would happily have her. He noticed how Amelia seemed to simper under George’s gaze, and was strangely relieved to see that Frances did not. Instead, he could have sworn that her liquid brown eyes focused on himself. George turned to him, his inquiring eyes darting between the pretty girl that Ralph couldn’t take his eyes off and Ralph’s face.
He smiled, pleased with himself, and said, “Let me introduce to you my good friend, Lord Ralph Wynter, the Duke of Sinclair.”
Ralph bowed to both women, steeling himself for their perusal. He was familiar with the greed that crossed their faces that made them so much less flattering to him. At least a whore was honest about wanting his money. However, in this instance, he found that as soon as his eyes met Frances’, he couldn’t look away. There was no lustful greed to be found, only sweetness and honesty.
On closer inspection, her eyes were not brown, not truly, more of a golden amber colour that reminded him of honey. Unlike her cousin who was wearing a fashionable, buttery yellow gown with a froth of lace obscuring the bosom, Frances was wearing a simple blue dress with a square cut, peasants style neckline that had been favoured by ladies a few months ago, with only a thin trim of silver lace at the top of the bodice. As she curtsied to him, he was struck by a rush of desire so sudden it surprised him, the delicate slope of her creamy breasts clearly revealed to him as she dipped.
He swallowed hard and looked away, his mind suddenly blank except for his outrageous imagination. He looked up at the chandelier, trying to distract himself from her. He let George steer the conversation, listening to the small talk about Marquess Huntley’s horse at Ascot and trying not to let his eyes drift to Frances. He noticed how her eyes lit up with excitement at George’s words, how she dived into conversation with such innocent enthusiasm that it made something inside him ache. He realised with a detached curiosity that he wanted her, more badly than he wanted the transactional embraces of women who he had employed to make him forget his loss and pain.
It didn’t give him joy, instead, as the memories of his marriage rose up inside him; the passions, the harsh words, and bitter ending. It was too much. He made his excuses, trying to ignore the confused look on Frances’ face, and walked away, stepping quickly out onto the balcony where he could feel the relief of the cold air on his face. He sighed, leaning his back against the wall, trying to understand why he felt so rattled by this sweet, pretty girl.
Then he realised. His wife had been like Frances once, a hopeful gem of society – before their failing marriage had taken the light out of her. He had done that. He glanced through the window, watching from afar. That was all he could do. A lovely girl like that, ten years his junior, full of joy and virtue, was not for him.
