Gayle Wilson - Anne's Perfect Husband

“Well, it would be nice to have someone fight them.” Anne was accustomed to having to stand on her own two feet. However, what she had just said was something she had recognized since Ian had come to Fenton School to collect her. It was nice to have someone on her side. And at her side.

“And that is the purpose of everything we’re in London to accomplish,” Ian said softly.

The marriage mart. Someone to fight my battles for me.

Anne had never thought of what they were undertaking in that light. Despite all her romantic fantasies, she had never really believed she would find a husband at any of the Season’s entertainments.

She had already found her champion and, ridiculously romantic or not, she knew she would never want any other…!

My Lady’s Dare

“…three-dimensional characters and intriguing

plot twists kept this reader glued to the pages.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Lady Sarah’s Son

“…a moving tale of love overcoming great obstacles,

of promises kept and trust restored.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Honor’s Bride

“A superbly crafted story…”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Heart’s Wager

“This is the well-written, well-plotted, gripping book

that we’re always hoping for and don’t always find.

I give it my highest accolades.”

—Rendezvous

Anne’s Perfect Husband

Harlequin Historical #552

#551 THE HIGHLAND WIFE

Lyn Stone

#553 LONGSHADOW’S WOMAN

Bronwyn Williams

#554 LILY GETS HER MAN

Charlene Sands

Anne’s Perfect Husband

Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Alynn, whose beautiful name might be suitable

for a medieval heroine, but not, alas, for a Regency one.

Although its heroine is named Anne, this story

is still for you, along with my love and admiration.

Hope you enjoy!

Prologue

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

Sinclair Hall

England, December 1813

“Oh, there’s no mistake, Mr. Sinclair. We’ve examined the terms of the colonel’s will quite carefully, I can assure you. It’s very clear he intended to leave his daughter in your very capable hands.”

The well-shaped lips of Ian Sinclair, former major with His Majesty’s forces in Portugal, tightened to prevent another expression of disbelief. It was possible, he supposed, that George Darlington had named him as his daughter’s guardian. That was almost as easy to believe as the fact that Darlington had fathered a daughter.

“And the child?” Ian asked.

After all, she should be his first concern. The little girl had lost her father, the only parent she had ever known. Of course, knowing Darlington’s history, Ian wondered exactly how often the child could have even seen him, much less how well she had known him.

“She is in a very fine school in the north. The location is a bit remote, but I believe the family has ties to the region.”

“And relations there perhaps?” Ian asked, feeling the first dawn of hope since he had begun this interview with George Darlington’s solicitor, who had come from London to apprise Ian of the terms of his late client’s will.

“Not to my knowledge. Of course, you may know more of the family’s connections than we are privy to.”

“Actually, I knew very little about Colonel Darlington,” Ian said. “Other than his military endeavors, of course.”

“Comrades in arms,” the solicitor said heartily.

Ian thought how far from the reality of his and Darlington’s relationship that phrase fell, but he said nothing. Whatever the colonel’s failings as an officer, and in Ian’s opinion they were many, he would not speak ill of the dead.

Not even ill of a man who had, without warning, saddled him with a child Ian had never even met. A child whose very existence he had been unaware of until this afternoon.

“Well,” the solicitor said, his tone verging on euphoric, “I have taken up quite enough of your time. And I believe that all of the particulars have now been taken care of to everyone’s satisfaction.”

Ian wondered if the man were really that obtuse, or if he were simply relieved that he hadn’t been shown the door when he’d revealed the reason for his visit. In truth, he was probably glad to have this poor child off his hands and someone else’s responsibility.

“Here is the address of the school. I believe the girl’s fees are paid through the end of term.”

“Which should be soon,” Ian realized, reaching to take the neatly lettered paper from the lawyer’s hand. “IfI remember my own school days correctly. And I confess, those ended long enough ago that the details are beginning to blur. I do remember being at home for Christmas.”

The solicitor’s thin lips pursed briefly before he said, “No doubt your memory is excellent, Mr. Sinclair.”

Underlying that quite unexceptional statement had been some nuance of tone Ian couldn’t read. He studied the man’s rather pasty face, trying to decide what had bothered him about it.

“If there are no relations,” Ian asked, “then where has this child spent holidays during the years her father has been posted abroad?”

“As far as I’m aware, Mr. Sinclair, she has remained at school. There are always a few who do, you know. For one reason or another.”

That had been true enough of his own school, Ian remembered. He had a memory of two or three winter-pale faces pressed against the front windows, watching as their fellow students departed to be conveyed home through the snow-shrouded English landscape.