“You’ll never guess who was at the Stillwaters’ house party, Arthur,” said Lord Spense to his bosom buddy, Lord Gough.
The pair were in their favourite corner of their club, sharing a plate of oysters, a good port, and a chat. Or, as some might say (but not Spense or Gough), a gossip.
“Well, Phillip,” said Lord Gough. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who was she? Or was it a he?”
“Both.” Spense announced the word with a gleeful chuckle. “That was the thing, my friend. Wouldn’t have expected to see them together, don’t you know. Not after last time. But they were. Daggers drawn at the start, but smelling of May and roses by the time they said their goodbyes and raced off to London. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if we hear wedding bells. Though it might end in tears again, as it did before.” He shook his head, sadly.
“Who, though, Arthur? You haven’t told me who!”
“Why, devil take me, I haven’t. Sorry, old friend.” Spense chuckled again.
Gough lost his patience. “Out with it, man. No more teasing.”
“Adaline Beverley, her who was Adaline Fairbanks back in the day,” Spense announced, and waited with a grin while his friend absorbed that piece of news. “You can probably guess the name of the gentleman.”
“It was never Kempbury!” Gough’s surprise and awe was everything Spense could wish.
Friends for over forty of their fifty-two years and confirmed bachelors, the pair were avid watchers of the ton, and a decade ago, they had had front row seats to the disaster that was the courtship by the Duke of Kembury of Miss Adaline Fairbanks, their betrothal, and the lady’s subsequent betrayal of one of the foremost bachelors in the realm.
“It was, indeed, Kempbury,” Spense confirmed. “And Arthur, I just happened to be in the corridor at night when people were all meant to be in their beds. You know how it is.” Gough nodded. He knew exactly how it was, since both of them enjoyed taking up a quiet observation post at a house party to see who visited whom. Spense took the nod as encouragement. “I would not tell anyone but you, but I saw with my own eyes that Kempbury visited Mrs. Beverley’s bedchamber one evening. And had left by the time I went to bed. Sadly, the bedchamber doors were disappointingly thick, but one can imagine! The very next day they announced their rebetrothal, and the morning after that, they left the houseparty! What do you think of that?
“Well!” exclaimed Gough. “Well I never. A man would think once bitten twice shy! I say, Phillip, it will be very interesting to see if they make it to the altar this time!”
The Lyon’s Dilemma
Felix Seward, Duke of Kempbury, does not want to be at a house party. Any house party. But the matchmaker Mrs. Dove Lyon has promised him that his perfect match will be there, and Felix yearns for a wife.
He is horrified to find that the woman who meets the matchmaker’s description is Adaline Beverley. His nemesis. His Achilles heel. The one woman on God’s earth he will never marry. Not after what she did last time they were betrothed.
Excerpt from The Lyon’s Dilemma
“You will be able to recognize your prospective wife,” Mrs. Dove Lyon had insisted. “Mrs. Beverley will be one of the maturer young ladies—she will be thirty years of age at her next birthday. She was widowed seven years ago and has been living a quiet life with her daughter. Her husband left few funds, and she has been supporting herself. I shall let her tell you the details.”
There were three possibilities. Perhaps four, but the fourth lady was turned away from him, so he was only judging by her back. As Mrs. Stillwater gave the signal to go in to dinner, she turned around, and Kempbury knew her immediately.
No! It can’t be.
It was, though, and if he had had any doubts at all, they would have been put to rest when she saw him, paled, then flushed bright red, and turned determinedly away.
Somehow, he managed to offer his arm to his hostess, lead her into dinner, and even carry on something of a conversation with her. All the while his mind was reeling and his heart was a pit of despair. Adaline Fairbanks.
Surely, Mrs. Dove Lyon did not think to match him with that lying jade. She had said “Mrs. Beverley,” but that was not reassuring. In a decade, Adaline might well have married, had a child, and been widowed.
He needed to find out, so he did something he usually found too difficult to contemplate. He engaged his hostess in conversation, asking about each of the guests with whom he was not personally acquainted.
He retained enough self-possession to ask about both men and women, but he doubted that small amount of camouflage fooled Mrs. Stillwater for a moment. She was much more informative about the ladies than the gentlemen.
One by one, her mini-biographies eliminated each of the ladies he’d marked as possibles. One was married. One betrothed. One was a devoted social butterfly committed to life in London, which would not suit Felix. Besides, she had turned down every proposal she had received in her eight years on the Marriage Market. “She has a private fortune,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “She declares she has no intention of marrying.” She shook her head at the thought.
“Then we come to Mrs. Beverley, who is a widow, Kempbury. She is attending with her daughter, who must be ten years old, or close to it. Our governess says she is a delightful child. That’s Mrs. Beverley sitting between Baron Thornwick and Mr. Thompson. I understand she has been a widow for seven years, and that she runs a business, which is very enterprising of her. I do not know much more about her. I sent her an invitation at the request of a friend, but have found her to be a very pleasant guest.”
Mrs. Beverley. Adaline Fairchild. One and the same person. Did she really have a child of ten? If so, the child must have been a baby when they were betrothed, so that had been something else she had hidden from him all those years ago.
There was no point in him being here, but it was too late now. He would not insult John Stillwater, his charming wife, and the viscount his father by cutting his attendance short. Still, he would write to Mrs. Dove Lyon tonight and tell her that Mrs. Beverley was not a possibility.
Miss Pauline’s Perfect Present
Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who writes stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. Her Ladies Least Likely series of historical romances, set in Georgian Britain and beyond, feature headstrong heroines who set out to carve themselves a place in the world and find soul-searing love along the way. Misty lived for several years inside assorted books and academic institutions, and now lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river. She loves to hear from readers and give away free stories through her newsletter and on her website, 
About the Author
On a day filled with cloudy drizzle, Lady G and Lady A strolled through the imposing gates of Montagu House, the grand but fading Baroque mansion that housed the British Museum. Once inside, the scents of old stone, polish, and vellum clung to the high-ceilinged corridors. A liveried attendant took Lady G’s letter of admission, glancing over it before nodding them through.