Christine Merrill - The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase

It seemed the summons had not been necessary. Lillian was standing on the main staircase. She looked as beautiful as he remembered—and as enigmatic. Gerry felt the same tightening in his throat that had come upon him the day they’d met. This time he fought against it. While it might be fashionable to moon over another man’s wife, it did not do to be so affected by one’s own.

He straightened to parade-perfect attention, then grinned up at her.

‘No one in particular. Merely your husband, madam.’

Her head snapped up to see him. Her face shuttled through half a dozen expressions, trying to settle on one that could both express her emotions and welcome him properly. He was pretty sure that none of what he saw resembled gratitude or joy. But before any of it could truly register her knees began to fold under her.

When working on this book I spent a lot of time researching the popular pastimes of a gentleman’s house party. I am not much of a card player myself. Actually, I’m not much of a pool player either. But I found the changes in the game of billiards to be really interesting.

First, we are talking proper British billiards—with red and white balls as opposed to the multi-coloured rack that we Americans use. These balls began as wood, which would have been uneven and hard to use. If Gerry Wiscombe learned to play with those, they were household antiques. By the Regency everyone was using ivory.

The table he played on would have been made of wood, not slate. To minimise warping, the surface under the felt was made with strips of wood, with the grains going in different directions. This was covered by baize, which needed to be ironed before each game to remove the wrinkles. There would have been a special iron in the room for this, which our cheating Ronald in this story has not used.

And although by the Regency almost everyone had switched to using a cue, the original stick had a clubbed end and was called a mace. It was difficult to use for some shots, and serious players would turn it around and use the pointed end. Eventually everyone decided that the handle was better than the clubbed head, and that’s how we got cues.

Thanks for reading!

The Secrets of

Wiscombe Chase

Christine Merrill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE MERRILLlives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off of the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

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To Kevin McElroy and Wayne White. Congratulations from someone who knew you when …

‘Love is something eternal. The aspect may change, but not the essence.’

—Vincent van Gogh

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

‘Miss North, would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in holy matrimony?’

Lillian North did her best to smile at the unfortunate boy kneeling before her on the parlour rug and readied herself for the only answer she would be permitted to give.

Once, she had harboured illusions about love and romance. Most young girls did. But they had been left in the nursery, along with the other spectacular fictions about fairy princesses and brave knights riding to their rescue. When she’d made her come-out, Father and Ronald had explained the way the world truly worked.

It was her job to be pretty, pleasant and biddable, and attract what offers she could from gentlemen of the ton. In the end, she would marry and marry well. But it would be to a man of Father’s choosing and she was not to question the choice.

She had been in London for months, both this year and last. She had danced at Almack’s until her slippers were near to worn through. She had smiled until her cheeks ached with it and been so agreeable that people must think her simple in the head. It felt as if she had been introduced to every eligible man in Britain. While she’d her favourites, she had not allowed herself to form an attachment to any of them. She must never forget that the final choice would not be hers.

She had done as she was told and cast the properly baited net as wide as possible. When the time was right, her father and brother would draw it in to evaluate the catch. They would throw back the unworthy and keep no more than two or three of the very best. Then, the serious negotiating would begin. In the end, she would be decked in flowers and sent up the aisle of St George’s to stand at the side of a scion of the nobility. Father had assured her that he would settle for nothing less than a London cathedral and a groom that would leave other girls green at her success.

But now, all the plans and the manoeuvring of a season and a half were for naught. Without warning, she had been hauled out of town and informed that the choice had been made. She was to marry Gerald Wiscombe.

And who was he? It was as if she had cast her net and brought in a dark horse. Her metaphors were as muddled as her thoughts, but she could hardly be blamed for confusion. Mr Wiscombe was a total stranger to her. Although he was not a particularly memorable fellow, she was sure she’d have recalled meeting him, if only because he was unlike any of the men who’d courted her in London.

Lily had prayed each night that her future husband would have admirable qualities beyond wealth and station. Perhaps a love match was unrealistic. But, her future would be happier if it was, at least, founded on mutual respect. When she had taken the time to search for them, she had found good qualities in each of the men who had escorted her. Why, then, could she find nothing to recommend her father’s final choice?

To begin with, Mr Wiscombe was too young to be taken seriously. He was barely into his majority, only a year or so older than her. He was not even out of university and more interested in his impending Tripos in Mathematics than wedding her. In fact, he’d refused to come to London and court her. She had been expected to go to Cambridge to see him, so that the burden of this proposal would not interrupt his studies.

It did Mr Wiscombe no credit that he augmented his youth and uninterest with a lack of fashion and an awkwardness of address. Where was the evidence of his precious education? There was no sign on his soft, round face that he was destined to be a wit or a wag. When he smiled, the gap in his front teeth made him look as simple as she felt.