Miranda Jarrett - The Adventurous Bride

“Because I trust you, my lord,” she said without hesitation. “You understood the merit of the picture the instant you saw it—not just its value, but its power. Which means that by trusting you I am either very brave, my lord, or very foolish.”

He chuckled as he let his hands drop away from the painting. “Tell me which you are.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, “but you must decide for yourself.”

He cupped her jaw with his palm, turning her face up to his. “Then I should say you’re brave, Mary.” His mouth was just over her lips. “Very, very brave.”

How many favors would she grant him? How adventurous did she really mean to be, here beneath the willows?

I’m delighted to be launching a new trilogy of books with The Adventurous Bride. Join Lady Mary Farren and her sister Lady Diana, daughters of the Duke of Aston, as they begin a rollicking journey with their governess Miss Wood across England, France and Italy, a trip filled with excitement, danger, laughter and, of course, with love.

In eighteenth-century England, aristocratic young gentlemen were expected to sow their wild oats on the Continent, and the wealthier and more blue-blooded the gentlemen, the wilder and more far-flung the oats. But what of the well-bred young ladies like Mary and Diana with a similar desire for adventure and experience before their proper, arranged marriages? What intrigues await them on the other side of the English Channel, traveling gloriously far from homes, consciences and anxious mothers and fathers?

For the beautiful daughters of the Duke of Aston, the adventure is about to begin….

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Afterword

Aston Hall, Kent

June, 1784

W ith a little twitch of her gauzy muslin skirts, Lady Mary Farren took her place among the dancers in her father’s ballroom. The evening was warm, the tall windows thrown up to catch any possible breeze from the gardens outside. Beneath the dozens of flickering candles in the chandeliers, the flushed gentlemen around her were trying their best to be handsome and gallant, the ladies striving to be beautiful and flirtatious, and all of them were confident they represented the very cream of their little county society.

This had been the only life Mary had known in her eighteen years—the only life she’d been permitted to know as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Aston. But in three days, that would finally, blissfully change forever, and Mary—ah, Mary couldn’t wait.

Even as the musicians finished the last notes of the dance and her partner bowed across from her, Mary was eagerly ticking off the last details for the journey in her head: the bespoke traveling clothes packed in the new brass-studded trunks, the passages booked and the letters of introduction held safely in readiness, the maps and guides and—

“Lady Mary, if you please.” Miss Wood, Mary’s longtime governess and soon-to-be companion on her journey, stood beside her, her small, plump hands clasped across the front of her plain gray gown. “A word alone, my lady, if you please?”

At once Mary nodded, leading the way to one of the window alcoves where their conversation would be lost in the music and chatter around them. Though at twenty-eight Miss Wood was still a young woman herself, the governess was always the very soul of discretion and propriety, and only a genuine emergency would bring her into the ballroom, where she was as out of place as a mourning dove among gaudy parrots. But since the duchess’s long illness and death four years before, Mary had capably assumed many of her mother’s duties for her father, and it was quite appropriate for the governess to seek her out now.

But oh, please, let this be nothing that would delay her departure! God forgive her this once for being selfish, and wanting nothing to stop her first chance at a life beyond Aston Hall!

“What is it, Miss Wood?” Mary asked now, keeping her voice low. Possible disasters raced through her head: an accident among the staff, a mishap to a guest, grievous news from afar. Anything could be possible. “What has happened?”

“It’s your sister, my lady,” Miss Wood said. “Your father His Grace has asked for her to join him, and I cannot find her anywhere.”

“Diana’s gone?” Mary’s anxiety took a sharp new twist. It wasn’t that she feared some dire mishap had befallen her younger sister. Diana was always the cause of mischief, never the victim, beautiful and blithe and as irresistible to men as they were to her.

It simply didn’t seem to be in Diana’s blood to be otherwise. Where Mary was responsible and considerate, Diana was neither. How many times had Mary been left to soothe their father’s wrath after Diana had been traipsing gaily about the countryside with yet another smitten young gentleman, always skipping just on the edge of real scandal and ruin without a thought for how it would affect her chances for a respectable marriage? How many promises had Diana made to reform, only to beg Mary to make things right again with Father when the next gallant appeared beneath her window?

“You have looked everywhere, Miss Wood?” Mary asked, praying that for once the governess might be mistaken. “I’m sure I saw Diana dancing not a half hour ago.”

Miss Wood’s round face lit with hope. “Do you recall her partner? Perhaps she’s with him, my lady, and we—”

“She was dancing with Dr. Canning, as a favor to Father.” Mary sighed. Dr. Canning was at least seventy, with thick spectacles and scattered wits, and little ability left for wooing any female. “He’s a most kindly old gentleman, but I’d scarcely think Diana would vanish to the garden folly with him.”

“I’ve already looked in the folly, my lady.” Miss Wood glanced over her shoulder, to where Mary’s father stood with several friends. Despite the gaiety swirling around him, he was not happy, that was clear enough. He had summoned Diana, and as both a duke and a father, he expected instant obedience. But Diana hadn’t appeared, and now Father was glaring across the room at them with his arms folded—no, battened—over his silk-covered chest.

“I’ve checked her bedchamber, my lady,” continued Miss Wood more hurriedly, “as well as the schoolroom, the library, the withdrawing room, even the creamery.”

“Do not even mention the creamery!” Mary sighed again, this time with exasperation. Whatever had occurred in the creamery last summer between Diana and a certain young tutor down from Oxford still made Diana giggle into her napkin whenever the butter was passed at table. Mary didn’t want to know, truly she didn’t. “Perhaps Diana’s only gone to the privy.”