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candidate would be as different from you as night is from day.”

      “Would she?”

      “Yes. She would have a sense of propriety, of her place and position in the world. She would be conscious at all times of her position as my wife, as the Countess of Mountdale and future Marchioness of Kingsbury. She would be an excellent hostess, a model of decorum. Well bred, perfect manners, and while beauty is not necessary, I would prefer she not be unattractive.”

      “So you want a well-bred, well-trained monkey?” She shook her head. “You can’t choose a wife the same way you choose a financial investment.”

      “A wife is a financial investment.”

      Astonishment widened her eyes, then she laughed. “My God, you can be pompous, Harrison.”

      He blew a frustrated breath. “You, Lady Smithson, are the most annoying woman I have ever met.”

      “Thank you, Harry.” She grinned, no doubt amused by her use of his brother’s name for him. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

      “I do hope your friend is not as annoying as you are.”

      “Goodness, why on earth would I have a friend who wasn’t?” She nodded and, before he could respond, swept from the room.

      No doubt all of her friends were annoying. Annoying women probably found each other through some sort of magnetic attraction that bound them together to create havoc for sane, rational men like himself. Not that it mattered.

      Harrison was not about to allow a desperate, annoying woman—no matter how many sterling qualities Veronica alleged she had—to drag his family’s name through the muck and mud of scandal. If this Lady Winterset was indeed as desperate as Veronica had led him to believe, why, she would be putty in his hands. He had the finances to sway even the most stubborn negotiator. And regardless of Veronica’s assertions, he could indeed be quite charming and most persuasive. Any number of women he could name would agree. No, Lady Winterset had met her match. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind of his success.

      Even if she was indeed as annoying as his sister-in-law.

       … and indeed, there is an importance about the first meeting with a new gentleman that cannot be discounted.

       When a man you have never met before takes your hand and raises it to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, well, even at this very moment it makes me quiver simply to think about it. His eyes carry a promise of all sorts of things you dare not consider but enter your mind nonetheless. And you can no more break the spell than he.

       However, more often, a first meeting is a tentative thing. With many gentlemen it is only after a long acquaintance that affection grows, that the fire flames.

       And then there are those gentlemen whose very presence makes you want to throttle them thoroughly. Such a gentleman is either genuinely not to your liking and should be given no further thought. Or he can be very dangerous to your heart, and quite, quite delightful. Do remember, Dear Reader, there is a fine line between intense dislike and overwhelming desire …

      from The Perfect Mistress,

       the Memoirs of Lady Hermione Middlebury

       Chapter Three

      It scarcely mattered how long she stared or how many times she looked away and then looked back, the figures written in her fine hand on the pages of her account book did not change. The numbers indicating the small amount of money remaining did not grow larger, the sums of bills owed to merchants refused to shrink. Even the frugality which ruled her life these days made little difference. She leaned back in her chair behind the desk in the library and sighed. If only William had not died …

      How many times had she thought that in the last three years? A hundred? A thousand? More? Not that it mattered. She could no more turn back the hands of the clock or the pages of the calendar and prevent him from falling under the wheels of a careening carriage than she could magically add a hundred or so pounds to her bank account. Utter nonsense to dwell on what might have been. From now on, if only was a game she would no longer play. She drew a deep breath, straightened, and continued her perusal of the accounts, with an eye toward determining if she could indeed accept Mr. Cadwallender’s offer.

      There was nothing left to trim when it came to the expenses of the London house. She had already cut her staff back to Daniels, the housekeeper, the cook, and one maid. Not that the staff had been much larger when William was alive. She would not be in the predicament she was now in if William had had more of a head for finances. He had always been more concerned with causes that needed a champion, precisely why he had been awarded a knighthood, and with clients who needed his help, rather than those who could afford to pay him in a timely manner. His wealthy family had given them an allowance even though they were not pleased by his choice of profession or wife. Still, he was the brother of the current Baron Holridge, the youngest of four sons and a Winterset. As such, he could not be allowed to wallow in gentile poverty. Pity they felt no such responsibility toward his widow.

      Within days after William’s demise, the family’s solicitor had called on her to inform her the allowance would cease. If she and William had had children, it would be a different story the solicitor had said, with a look that indicated their lack of offspring was entirely her fault. After all, William had three brothers and a sister, and as Julia was an only child, their childless state was obviously her fault. She had been both stunned and furious but had, as a proper lady did, held her tongue rather than tell the overbearing, pompous Winterset spokesman that she would rather beg on the streets than continue to take so much as a penny from William’s family. Still, at that moment, she had some savings and never imagined begging on the streets might well be her fate.

      She turned the page of the account book and studied the expenses of her grandmother’s support in the country. Here too there was nothing to be trimmed. Her grandmother and Mrs. Philpot—as much a companion as house-keeper really—lived simply in a small cottage. Mrs. Phil-pot’s wages were scarcely more than the roof over her head and the food she ate. Even so, on her next visit, Julia would have to tell them the day was fast approaching when they would have no choice but to join her in London and make certain they understood.

      She studied the figures carefully. If Mr. Cadwallender would increase his offer she might well be able to survive on that for the next few years, longer if she let go the cottage and moved her grandmother to London. She refused to consider what might happen after that. But if Mr. Cad-wallender was right in his assessment and the book did well, there would be royalties and she might be financially sound well into the future. Dear Lord, she hoped so. Other than that absurd notion of finding a new husband with money, she had no other options.

      At least she was clear-headed this morning and had slept soundly through the night, undisturbed by the dreams that had plagued her ever since she had begun reading Hermione’s memoirs. She did indeed think of them as Hermione’s rather than her great-grandmother’s. It was decidedly difficult to read accounts of romps with royalty, dalliances with noblemen, and amorous adventures with gentlemen whose names she recognized and think of the woman involved as Great-Grandmama. The dreams themselves had been strange. One would have thought she might have dreamt of the incidents she read about but instead, Hermione had come to sit at the foot of her bed and chat about her life. Thus far, Julia had been reluctant to respond and had simply stared and listened, all the while reminding herself that she was asleep.

      Hermione had accepted her silence and had chatted about whatever section of the book Julia had most recently read, clarifying a vague point here, elaborating on an escapade there. She was quite explicit and her descriptions embarrassingly erotic, or would be embarrassing if they were not the product of a too-active imagination Julia never knew she had, fueled by Hermione’s memoirs. Usually, weariness would overcome her, the dream would fade, and she would slip back into a sound

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