The Stanforth Secrets Read Free Page A

delight—seeing you take Society by storm. I can’t say it won’t be better this way, though. You were a pretty little thing at seventeen, but your beauty has grown stronger over the past six years. Your character has matured too.”
    “Goodness, you’ll give me an altogether too exalted opinion of myself. Besides,” added Chloe thoughtfully, “I am not entirely sure I want to marry again.”
    “You trying to tell me you’re still grief-stricken?” asked the Duchess skeptically.
    Chloe’s hands fluttered as if she would protest. “Oh, Grandmama, I did grieve for Stephen. Truly I did. But it was for him. He was so young and he loved life. I confess, though, I have not missed him so very much. We had grown apart. He continued to love a rackety sort of life which ceased to appeal to me once the novelty had worn off. And when we were together he was so infuriating. I could never depend on him for anything. We would make plans, then some idea would pop into his head and he would forget all about it. He was . . .”
    “A charming, feckless half-wit,” supplied the old lady bluntly. “So why don’t you want to marry again?”
    Chloe sighed. The Duchess might be nearly eighty but her wits were needle-sharp and there was no chance of deflecting her. “Stephen at least had sense enough to arrange matters so I am comfortably situated and have no need to marry. Having been rash the first time, I am determined to be cautious the second. If I meet a man who is sensible and dependable, I will consider remarriage.”
    The Duchess pulled a face at this, but beyond a “humph” she made no comment and returned to her letter. A few moments later an exclamation distracted her again.
    “At last,” said Chloe, looking up from a letter. “Grandmama. It’s from Justin. He must be in England.”
    The new Lord Stanforth had been, until his succession, a major with the dragoons in Spain. Upon the untimely death of Stephen, the first viscount’s son, the title had passed to George Delamere, his uncle. As George was childless, Justin, son of the first viscount’s third brother, had been the heir presumptive. George, however, had promptly scandalized the County by marrying the young daughter of a local farmer, Belinda Massinger. Everyone had expected him to produce an heir of his own.
    Perhaps this intent had been unwise in a man of his years and girth, for George only lived as Lord Stanforth for six months before succumbing to a seizure. That had been long enough, however, to get Belinda in the family way. The title of Lord Stanforth had been in abeyance from February until August, while everyone waited to see whether Belinda would give birth to the next viscount or to a daughter. The twenty-third of August 1810 had seen the arrival of little Dorinda—an outcome which caused considerable relief throughout the area. Since then the Hall had awaited the arrival of its new master.
    Chloe broke the seal and unfolded the crisp sheet. She quickly scanned the strong, clear script. “He writes from London. He means to stay there, at Brookes, for a few days to take care of business and then come up. We can expect him any day, I suppose. What a relief it will be to turn this whole ménage over to him and escape.”
    Chloe put down the letter and gazed into the flames of the fire. “I love Delamere, Grandmama, but it just hasn’t been the same this last year. It has been a house of mourning, of course,” she mused, “but it is more than that. Things just haven’t seemed right. . . . I will be glad to be away.” She looked up, smiling, her fine eyes twinkling mischievously. “Perhaps I will go adventuring—Italy, Turkey, Africa. Would you come with me, Grandmama?”
    “I wish my old bones were up to it, my dear,” said the Duchess with a grin. Then she added, “You’ll not find your sobersides-suitor by jaunting around the world.”
    “Oh,” said Chloe, arrested. “I suppose I won’t. I don’t suppose I should enjoy such an