A Lady's Guide to Ruin Read Free Page A

word to the man of her dreams. She’d written it out that way:
the man of my dreams
. His name was Richard, and on hearing that she had slipped her escort, he had ridden for London to meet her. They were already on their way to Scotland to wed.
    Which meant that the real Daphne Hargrove was happily out of the way, and no threat to Joan’s accidental impersonation. A year ago, she might have leapt on the opportunity for profit. Any number of schemes suggested themselves. Now all she wanted was to get as far from Hugh and Moses as she could. She would keep up her guise only long enough to rest, eat, and nick something she could sell easily. A little spending money was all she needed to get out of London.
    She was only disappointed that she’d have to depart dear cousin Martin’s company so soon. Perhaps it was that she was starved for interaction, male or otherwise, but his concern, his nearly physical effort to remain comforting, at once delighted her and charmed her. It had been a very long time since a man took such care over her feelings, even if those feelings were feigned. Or perhaps only half-feigned; she had escaped trials in truth, though the specifics were much removed from Daphne’s woeful tale.
    And, too, it helped that she had never seen quite so bewitching a combination of features. His hair was brown and curled, his lips startlingly dark. He had a small scar, a divot, at the corner of his hard-angled jaw. She wonderedif his stubble would grow in snarled around it. Beneath his coat—still slightly askew—his form was muscular, if lean. Thin, thready scars on his knuckles suggested a familiarity with brawling. Boxing, perhaps? A gentleman, but not always gentlemanly.
    She had found herself wrapping her fingers around her teacup so that she would not be tempted to run them through that thick hair. And every time she leaked a fresh set of tears and saw him sit back in disgust, she flinched inside. As if anyone would be attracted to her, tears or not. After months in Bedlam, and no good eating before then, she had withered away until she could pass as a boy. Her breasts felt desiccated, her hips pared down to bone and flea bites. If she had shucked her dress, and he could take in the precise accounting of her ribs, the blemishes, the bruises, he would not think for an instant that she was anything but gutter trash.
    Let him think it. Once she fenced these diamonds, she’d be the wealthiest gutter trash in London. Or rather, out of London, as quickly as possible, she reminded herself.
    Martin reappeared at the doorway, this time with a tall woman beside him. Her skin was milky pale, her hair dark auburn. The hand tucked into the crook of Martin’s arm rested lightly, like a bird taking only momentary respite from its flight. She regarded Joan with an amused tilt to her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “This won’t do.”
    â€œMiss Hargrove—Daphne—may I present the Lady Elinor Hargrove.” He shifted to hold her elbow, aiding his sister to a seat on a settee close to Joan. Lady Elinor did not protest the shepherding movement. She leaned into him slightly, and he guided her with a practiced rhythm. She did not need the help, Joan realized. Her steps were firm andassured, and the weight she put on him seemed more for his benefit than hers. And, too, there was the fond amusement in her eyes. Eyes as dark as Joan’s—as Daphne’s. Her proportions, though, were far more generous. Her dress clung just enough to hint at a flare of hips, to reveal the swell of her breasts. She was beautiful. And rich. And yet being helped to her seat by her brother, not an adoring husband.
    And they were certainly siblings. They had the same nose, bent downward a little more than was fashionable, and the same small spray of freckles at their cheeks.
    â€œDear cousin,” Elinor said. “I am glad you have arrived, though it seems you have befallen some great