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eBook Category: Romance/Historical Fiction
eBook Description: Lady Jane Sperling, owing to her father's gambling losses, must decide whether to marry a wealthy man she doesn't love, or become governess to the son of Lord Dashmont, a notorious rake just returned from his sugar plantation in the West Indies. Her success with the lonely boy has a powerful influence on his father as well. Regency Romance by Shirley Kennedy; originally published by Signet

eBook Publisher: Belgrave House, Published: 1999
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2005

44 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.2 MB], eReader (PDB) [252 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [248 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [218 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [211 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [258 KB], hiebook (KML) [581 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [325 KB], iSilo (PDB) [204 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [255 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [299 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [318 KB]
Words: 72810
Reading time: 208-291 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

At the Duchess of Ponsonby's ball, held at her palatial mansion on St. James Square, London, in June of 1817, two strangers caught sight of each other across the crowded ballroom floor. One was Anthony, Lord Dashmont, who had just returned from his sugar plantation in the West Indies. The other, Lady Jane Sperling, eldest daughter of the Earl of Hedley, was the belle of the ball. When their eyes locked, each felt a jolt.

"Who is that?" inquired Lord Dashmont of his affable friend, the Honorable Tatton Fulwood, second son of the Earl of Harlestone. He nodded towards the tall, willowy girl across the room.

Tatton followed Anthony's gaze. "The one in blue, next to Lord Slingsby? That's Lady Jane Sperling. She's well into her first ... no, I believe, her second Season." Tatton scratched his head. "Perhaps her third, actually."

"Third?" Anthony inquired suspiciously. "Is there something the matter with her?"

"Nothing, except she's rather a haughty chit. But then, why shouldn't she be? She's beautiful, as you can see, and quite lively. See how the dandies flock around? Fine dowry. Countless offers, but thus far, she's having none of them."

Tatton jokingly raised his short self on tiptoe. "I, myself, would have offered, had I been able to look her square in the eye." He sank down again and remarked, "The little blonde in white is her younger sister Christabell, who's just out. That's her aunt, Lady Eugenia Fanshawe, standing next to Slingsby." Tatton grimaced. "I would as lief take on a pair of tigers as that old harridan."

"She's not as terrifying as she looks." Anthony gave a nod of recognition towards the stout, white-haired lady dressed in elegant black, sparkling with diamonds, who stood ramrod straight and whose imperious expression appeared permanently affixed upon her seasoned face. "I could hardly forget Lady Fanshawe. She came calling regularly when my wife was alive."

Tatton continued, "There's Lady Jane's older brother, Edmund. You might know him as well."

"I saw him gambling at Brooks often enough before I went away."

"Interested?"

"In Lady Jane?" Anthony firmly shook his head. "She's not bad looking by half, but another silly goose, I daresay, and I surely don't want another--" He stopped abruptly, aware he was about to step into his own forbidden territory.

Tatton had the good sense to ignore his friend's obvious reference to his deceased wife. Instead, he appeared relieved. "All to the good. I was hoping you would not crave an introduction."

"Not by half," Anthony answered in a voice both firm and final. "I have no interest in birdbrained young chits with nothing on their minds but catching a husband." He paused before lightly inquiring, "But why would you not wish to introduce us?"

"You've lost touch." Tatton gave a whiff of disgust. "I warned you not to run off to the West Indies."

"Had I not, I could well be rotting away in Newgate as we speak. Besides, I was seeing to my holdings and--"

"--and losing track of everything that counts in London," Tatton interrupted indignantly. "Gone two and a half years! And doing what? Cutting sugar cane? Broiling in the hot sun? Look at you. That tanned skin you've acquired is not the mark of a gentleman."

Anthony's firm mouth curled with a touch of humor. "Incredible though it may seem to you, Tatton, being a gentleman isn't everything in Jamaica."

"No doubt. Well, I can assure you, you'll never find me on that hot, uncivilized, little island of yours."

"I would never find you more than a mile from St. James Street."

Tatton sighed. "No sense arguing. You've always done exactly what suits you." He paused, as if searching for just the right words before continuing, "I hear you've brought your son up from Kent."

Anthony nodded and said curtly, "David is here for a short visit, along with his aunt and grandmother."

"Is he ... improved?"

"David's condition hasn't changed. He's still withdrawn and uncommunicative, as he has been ever since his mother's death." Pain flickered in Anthony's eyes. "I had planned on returning to Jamaica shortly, and bringing David along. I had a vision of his growing up there, just as I did. He would have learned the meaning of tenacity and hard work--a far cry from the indolence and depravity you see in London."

"How the leopard has changed his spots," Tatton exclaimed. "Do my ears deceive me? You, the former rake of London, are now accusing us of indolence and depravity?"

Anthony laughed aloud. "Rest easy. I have given up thoughts of returning to Jamaica any time soon, now I know David should remain here. So I'll be visiting my old haunts again, wenching and debauching with the best of them." He grew serious. "I've resigned myself. David will never change. I shall visit him from time to time, but he's happy enough, and will lead a serene, if dull, existence at Fairfield Manor with Georgiana's mother and sister."

What a pity Tatton thought, but remained silent. Poor child, having to grow up under the iron thumbs of those two dour, humorless women. A worse fate he could not imagine. But his friend had got that stubborn look in his eye, and he had best get to another subject. "'Twould be best to stay away from Lady Jane Sperling."

"Stay away? But why?" asked Anthony.

"Because there's the most hideous rumor going around--"

"Tatton, my dear!" A young woman with dancing curls and cherub lips emerged from the crowd, grabbed Tatton by the arm and fluttered her eyelids. "Where have you been hiding? I shall die of thirst if you don't fetch me some punch this instant."

Anthony watched idly as his friend willingly allowed himself to be led away. He glanced across the room again, to where that most boring of fellows, Lord Slingsby, was engaged in animated conversation with Lady Jane. Anthony could not take his eyes off her. She was slender, taller than most, light brown hair piled high into some sort of Grecian affair, except for little tendrils of curls falling about her delicate face. She was wearing a high-waisted blue satin gown that swirled delightfully around her slim, curved figure, and was low-cut enough to reveal a most generous amount of creamy white bosom.

As he watched, she fluttered her fan, tilted her head back and laughed with delight, as if Slingsby had just delivered the most witty of ripostes. Ridiculous, of course. Nothing that oaf Slingsby ever said could be even half that amusing. She had a nice neck, long and slender ... swan-like, some loved-dazed poet would call it. There. She was looking at him again. For an unnerving moment their eyes locked before she looked away. He wondered what Tatton's hideous rumor was, and why Tatton thought it best they not be introduced. Not that it mattered. He had set his plans for the future. He would remain here indefinitely and partake of those delights one could only find in England, all sorely missed after he, out of dire necessity, had fled to Montclaire, his plantation in Jamaica. Most especially, he missed the gambling. How he had yearned for his gentlemen's clubs in St. James Street!

Some day he would return to his island. He would settle down and marry sturdy, sober-sided Isabella Wentworth, the daughter of Jamaican planter Tybalt Wentworth. She would be of great assistance in running his plantation. Not that he loved her, or ever could. But he had not married for love the first time, either. Now, at thirty-two, he had grown wise enough to realize that he must marry for practical purposes and never again marry another flighty, empty-headed London belle. Never. Not after Georgiana...