Anne Ashley - Lord Exmouth's Intentions

“And so she would!” his mother agreed, not reluctant to add her voice to those that in recent weeks had urged the personable Lord Exmouth to seriously consider taking the matrimonial plunge once again. “She is without doubt the sweetest-natured girl you could ever wish to meet.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that,” he agreed amicably.

“She is compliant and delightful. She would never interfere with your pleasure, or cause you the least concern.”

“I should wish to know her a little better before voicing an opinion on certain aspects of her character. I strongly suspect that Miss Robina Percival possesses rather more spirit than most people realize.”

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was born and educated in Leicester. She lived for a time in Scotland, but now resides in the West Country with two cats, her two sons and a husband who has a wonderful and very necessary sense of humor. When not pounding away at the keys on her computer she likes to relax in her garden, which she has opened to the public on more than one occasion in aid of the village church funds.

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, by Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

A distinct lack of enthusiasm induced Robina to allow the half-folded garment to slip through her fingers, and her attention to wander aspeered through the window to follow the progress along the street of a very smart racing curricle, pulled by two superbly matched greys.

Considering the Season had officially come to an end the week before, London remained surprisingly bustling with life, its many springtime visitors seemingly reluctant to return to their country homes, or to move on to those coastal towns which had become such fashionable summer retreats in recent years.

It just so happened that she would have been more than happy to return to her Northamptonshire home, to sample once again the sweetly fresh country air, and be reunited with her father and sisters once more. She was not so foolish as to suppose that it would not take a little time to adjust to the tranquillity of the vicarage in Abbot Quincey again, after spending more than three months here in the capital, thoroughly enjoying all the delights of a Season which, even though she said so herself, had been something of a success.

For a simple country parson’s daughter, with no dowry to speak of, she had managed to attract the attention of two very worthy gentlemen, either of whom, she didn’t doubt for a moment, would have made a very considerate husband. She had been encouraged by her mother to turn down both offers for her hand, which she had dutifully done without, she hoped, causing lasting hurt to either erstwhile suitor. And certainly none whatsoever to herself!

Neither Mr Chard nor the Honourable Simon Sutherland had succeeded in igniting that illusive flame which every romantically inclined young woman longs to experience. She had come through what was likely to be her one and only London Season a little more worldly-wise and certainly heart-whole. An involuntary sigh escaped her. Whether or not she would be able to say the same by the end of the summer was a different matter entirely.

Without the least warning she experienced it yet again: that sudden surge of blind panic. Why, oh why, hadn’t she flatly refused when the suggestion had first been put to her? Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded into accompanying the Dowager to Brighton, when she had in her heart of hearts known from the very first that what Lady Exmouth truly wanted was not a young companion for herself, but a biddable little wife for her son?

Abandoning the packing entirely now, Robina slumped down on the bed, not for the first time cursing herself for not being a little more assertive on occasions.

It wasn’t that she had taken the Dowager’s son in dislike. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Lord Exmouth was a very personable gentleman. If he was not quite the dashing, handsome hero of storybooks, he was certainly most attractive, blessed with a good physique and noble bearing. Just because he happened to be the wrong side of five-and-thirty was not such a drawback either, for older gentlemen, she had been reliably informed, tended to be rather more dependable.

That he rarely smiled, had more often than not a cynical glint in those very attractive dark brown eyes of his, and frequently relapsed into periods of brooding silence were traits, she didn’t doubt, to which she would grow accustomed in time. What she knew she could never reconcile herself to, however, was always figuring as second best in the eyes of any man she agreed to marry. And that, she very much feared, would be precisely her fate if she was ever foolish enough to consent to a union with Lord Daniel Exmouth!

A sympathetic sigh escaped her this time as the many rumours concerning the very personable widower filtered through her mind. If half the stories circulating about him were true then the poor Baron was a mere shadow of his former self.

His heart, according to many, had died with his first wife in that tragic accident eighteen months ago. Many believed that, because he had been tooling the carriage when it had overturned, killing both his wife and the nephew of a near neighbour, the combination of both grief and guilt had changed him from the most companionable of gentlemen into a die-hard sceptic who now attained scant pleasure from life. Yet, for all his brooding glances and frequent periods of self-enforced solitude, he could still on occasions be both affable and charming. Sadly, that didn’t alter the fact that whoever agreed to become his second wife would always live in the shadow of the beautiful Clarissa, who, many believed, had taken her husband’s loving heart with her to her grave.

Her mother’s unexpected appearance in the bedchamber put an end to these melancholy reflections, and Robina automatically rose to her feet to continue her packing.

‘Great heavens, child! Haven’t you finished yet? What on earth have you been doing all this time? You know full well that Lady Exmouth’s servants will be here at noon to collect your trunk.’