Michelle Styles - Prejudice in Regency Society

SEDUCTION in Regency SocietyAugust 2014

DECEPTION in Regency SocietySeptember 2014

PROPOSALS in Regency SocietyOctober 2014

PRIDE in Regency SocietyNovember 2014

MISCHIEF in Regency SocietyDecember 2014

INNOCENCE in Regency SocietyJanuary 2015

ENCHANTED in Regency SocietyFebruary 2015

HEIRESS in Regency SocietyMarch 2015

PREJUDICE in Regency SocietyApril 2015

FORBIDDEN in Regency SocietyMay 2015

TEMPTATION in Regency SocietyJune 2015

REVENGE in Regency SocietyJuly 2015

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLEScurrently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape.

Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com. She would be delighted to hear from you.

Prejudice in

Regency

Society

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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About the Author Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch. Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk , and a blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com . She would be delighted to hear from you.

Title Page Prejudice in Regency Society

An Impulsive Debutante An Impulsive Debutante Michelle Styles

Dedication For the students and teachers of Crystal Springs Uplands School, class of 1982, in particular for the head of the English Department—Mrs Norma Fifer. Truly an inspirational teacher.

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

A Question of Impropriety

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

Copyright

Michelle Styles

For the students and teachers of Crystal Springs Uplands School, class of 1982, in particular for the head of the English Department—Mrs Norma Fifer.

Truly an inspirational teacher.

Chapter One

1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland

‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.

‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’

He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.

The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.

He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.

He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.

The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.

A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.

Why would anyone come here?

She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’