The Wayward Wife
BY SHERRY LEDINGTON

The Earl of Coulter has always had a way with the ladies—until now. A delicious little countess with a thirst for revenge and a penchant for trouble has taken society by storm. Can he bring her to heel or will he wind up dancing to her tune?

Damien, Earl of Coulter, turned a jaded eye to the dizzying array of brightly colored dresses swirling around him. The cloying mixture of perfume and fawning femininity had left him with a headache of astronomical proportions. Of course, he thought, with a small, self-deprecating smile, that third snifter of brandy he had drunk before leaving the club hadn't helped matters either. But he'd wager he was not the only gentleman in this room tonight who had required a little liquid fortitude before being dragged off to the Duchess of Alderman's annual ball.

"Damien. So nice of you to tear yourself away from your nightly round of gambling, drinking, and general debauchery to accompany your sister to her debut into polite society."

With his first genuine smile of the evening, Damien turned toward that wry, irascible voice. Tall and trim, even at sixty the Duchess was the epitome of understated elegance. Her emerald green dress with its creamy gauze overskirt revealed a body that had changed little with the ravages of time. Wisps of snow white hair escaped the bun atop her head, and the blush painting her finely chiseled cheekbones owed nothing to artifice.

"Aunt Viola," said Damien, raising her hand to his lips, "might I just say that you are the loveliest woman in this room tonight."

"Don't waste your pretty platitudes on me, boy," said the dowager duchess, her emerald green eyes glittering merrily. "Save 'em for the ladies. They'll appreciate them much more than I."

"Alas, dear aunt, were I able to find one lady amongst this throng who could hold a candle to you, I would rush to her side and bestow upon her my undying love and devotion."

"Well," drawled the Duchess, "the night's still young, isn't it? Perhaps you'll find that woman after all. One can only hope that when you do, she won't take one look at that devilishly handsome face of yours and fall straight into your arms. You've had it too easy with the ladies thus far, my boy. You need someone who will lead you a merry chase."

"Ah, but Aunt Vi, aren't you forgetting something—namely, my lovely bride, Penelope."

"Patience," said the Dowager with a frown.

"Excuse me?"

"Your bride—her name is Patience. Penelope is the cat! A fact of which you would be aware if you ever visited the child. Have you even seen her since the wedding three years ago?"

Damien raised one raven-colored brow. "Patience. That's right," he sighed. "And no, I have not seen her since the nuptials. But for good cause. The little hellion made it quite clear that ours was to be a marriage of convenience only. Her family's lands for my fortune and title." He smiled, remembering the tiny scrap of a girl with her scrawny, underfed body and flashing blue eyes, "The last time I saw my beloved, she was spitting fire at me and calling me a rake and a scoundrel. No—not a scoundrel…a scalawag. 'Twas the wretched cat I found in my wedding bed that night—not the lady. So, I ask you…is it any wonder that I cherish fonder memories of that mangy feline than I do of my wife?"

"The Countess Fraser," intoned the black-clad servant just as the clock tolled two.

A sudden silence spread through the ballroom, cutting through the chatter like a knife.

"Ah, the Divine Countess," whispered Alexis Harrison, sidling up to her big brother. "Late as usual."

"Who is she?" asked Damien, unable to tear his gaze from the stunning figure atop the stairs. She looked to be about nineteen, with the face of an angel and the body of a goddess. Though small in stature, she radiated an air of self-assurance unusual in one so young. A jeweled sapphire comb secured her shining golden hair atop her head. A few wispy butterscotch curls tumbled around her temples and over her forehead. Damien wondered what those soft curls would feel like wrapped around his fingers.

Her Empire-waisted satin ballgown in the palest shade of cream, with an overlay of ecru colored lace, emphasized her slim form to perfection.

"The women hate her, you know."

Feeling as if he had just emerged from the depths of a fever, Damien glanced over at his sister. "What?"

"The Countess," she continued. "Elizabeth Churcham says the ladies hate her because no one knows where she came from. She just showed up at Lady Peterley's cotillion last week. The men certainly don't seem to mind her mysterious past, though, judging from the way they all seem to flock to her side."

Damien turned a penetrating gaze on the Countess. How could such a magnificent creature have materialized out of thin air without anyone having heard of her? He frowned. There was only one possibility. She was a charlatan. Some poor little church mouse who had decided to capitalize on her incomparable beauty to snag herself a rich husband. A thoughtful smile curved his lips.

Copyright © 2006 by HarperCollins Publishers.