Her Secret Fantasy Read Free Page B

besides, our mothers are right. It is merely the way of the world.”
    “Well, I, for one, never cared for the world very much.” Regrouping after this slight encouragement, Pamela rose, putting the book she had been studying aside.
    Marching over to Lily, Pamela stared into her face, her brown eyes piercing and intense behind her round, rimless glasses. Her breath stank of coffee—she never drank tea. “So, you’re really going to do it, then?” she inquired in a fascinated murmur. “Even after…what happened? You’re going to save us all from destruction by marrying a rich man?”
    Lily lifted her chin a notch. “
Very
rich.”
    “Well, then, you’d better pick a stupid one,” Pamela advised. “Easier to fool.”
    Lady Clarissa gave an idle laugh. “They’re all rather stupid when you come down to it, dear.”
    The dry remark reminded all present that Lady Clarissa had never forgiven her husband for his ill-made scheme of running off to India to save the family fortunes. Not because she had been a particularly devoted wife, but because his death meant that she would never ascend to the title that she had married him for.
    If he had lived, she’d have risen to the rank of viscountess. Instead, she was left with the mere courtesy title granted to her on account of her father’s earldom.
    “Yes, Lily, you listen to your cousin,” she continued wryly. “Rich and stupid. Exactly the sort of man every girl needs.”
    “Right,” Lily forced out softly, masking her dismay. She was determined to emulate her mother’s unsentimental cool as she faced whatever fate held in store for her in London. She knew full well this was her one chance to redeem herself in her family’s eyes.
    Rich and stupid it was.
    After all, what smart man would ever want her?

CHAPTER
              TWO          
    London, Two Months Later
    H e was not what the committee had expected.
    The nine Distinguished Gentlemen of the Appropriations Sub-Committee for Eastern Expansion took their seats at the long, elevated table at the front of the moldy medieval chamber and readied themselves for the parliamentary hearing they were about to conduct. Each secretly relished the prospect of an afternoon spent at their favorite game of the old slice-and-dice. Ah, yes, it was ever so pleasant to while away the hours grilling, insulting, browbeating, and badgering whatever unfortunate career officer had been dispatched from the front lines to report back to them, the civilian authorities—answering their questions, providing explanations, in short, scrambling to dance to their tune.
    After all, it was
they
who held the purse strings for the army. Besides, such occasions presented ample opportunity for all the speechifying that no politician could resist.
    Having done this many times before, the gentlemen knew what sort of spineless young weasel the commanders in the field always sent: some obsequious fop, no doubt, an aristocratic younger son who would rather have been at the gaming tables at White’s. The sort of unctuous, dandified aide-de-camp who was careful to hang back in the shade of the generals’ tent when the bullets started flying.
    But that was not what Colonel Montrose had sent them this time from the front lines of the latest nasty little war in India—the one they largely preferred to forget.
    No, indeed.
    The chairman nodded to the armed bailiff, signaling their readiness to let the games begin. This worthy, in turn, hauled open the ancient creaking door as if to drag some poor, cowering Christian in to face the lions.
    But then, the strong, ringing rhythm of polished boot heels striking the ancient flagstones just outside the door gave the committee their first inkling that their expectations may have been a bit…off.
    Then
he
appeared in the doorway—and half the committee drew back in alarm. A few actually gasped. All of them stared, their gazes traveling over him in awed confusion. They took one look at the