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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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warnings of his friends that it was well known
that nothing less than a duke would do for Miss Pardee, he had continued for
weeks to ply his ardent suit. He had been captivated by her—and it had been
clear that she returned those passionate feelings. She had encouraged his
advances at every opportunity.
It
had come as a particularly painful and distasteful surprise when her betrothal
to the Duke of Alward was announced . . . especially since two days previously
she had met Brett clandestinely in Hyde Park and had responded enthusiastically
to the sweetly urgent kisses he had rained over her upturned face.
Stunned,
disbelieving, humiliated, Brett had descended upon the Pardee town house on
Half-Moon Street. Lord Pardee, Diana's father, had looked him up and down with
pity, and deciding cynically that his daughter could best rout this romantic
young firebrand, he had allowed Brett to speak privately with Miss Pardee. It
was a shattering blow to hear from his love's lips that she had never had any
intention of accepting his suit—he was handsome, much handsomer and younger
than the Duke, and she had thought to enjoy herself before she settled down to
boring domesticity with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Besides, she
couldn't marry an untitled nobody, no matter how rich and eligible he was. And
of course, everybody knew the Duke of Alward was much, much richer than Mr. Dangermond.
Pride
had come to his rescue, and cloaking his anguished hurt, his bitter
disillusionment, Brett had regarded her contemptuously across the long,
handsomely furnished room where they stood. His heart feeling as if it were
ripping in two, his face hard and cold, he had taken his leave of Miss Pardee. How
blind he had been, he viciously berated himself, living in a fool's paradise,
believing even for an instant that there was one woman who was different! And
how unwise of him to forget the lesson first taught to him by his own mother: a
woman meant only pain and betrayal.
If
the lesson had needed any strengthening, regrettably, that had been provided in
the summer of 1797, when, returning to Natchez for one of his infrequent visits
at Riverview, he had accompanied Morgan Slade on that young man's tragic pursuit
of his runaway wife. Morgan's faithless wife had taken their child with her as
she fled with her lover, and Brett had been with Morgan when they had
discovered their bodies on the Natchez Trace. Brett didn't think he would ever
forget the expression of stark anguish on his friend's face when Morgan had
looked upon his son's little body. Brett had vowed then and there that he would
never allow any woman to be in a position to hurt him that way, that a woman
would never slip under the cold steel guard he would keep around his heart.
And
yet, over the years, as he grew older, there were times when he questioned his
own beliefs, times when he saw the love and joy that his father shared with
Sofia that caused him to wonder. . . . Perhaps, he had mused one night not too
long ago, perhaps once in a great while there occurred a rare and precious
jewel among females—a warm, beautiful woman who was loving and loyal, whose
heart was true and steadfast. He didn't really believe it, but Hugh's happy
marriage gave him pause every time he came home to visit.
The
marriage was definitely a resounding success, the huge house now ringing with
the laughter of children, a feeling of warmth and love immediately recognizable
the moment one stepped into the elegant marble-floored hallway. Even Brett,
steeped in his own bitter cynicism, recognized it, and that might have been why
he had grudgingly begun to think that just maybe Sofia was as adoring and
caring as she appeared to be. Reluctantly he had to admit that his father was
ecstatic with his wife and young, growing family, Hugh's face more relaxed and
smiling than Brett could ever remember it.
Sofia,
to her delight, after a first childless marriage, had proved to be
that nothing less than a duke would do for Miss Pardee, he had continued for
weeks to ply his ardent suit. He had been captivated by her—and it had been
clear that she returned those passionate feelings. She had encouraged his
advances at every opportunity.
It
had come as a particularly painful and distasteful surprise when her betrothal
to the Duke of Alward was announced . . . especially since two days previously
she had met Brett clandestinely in Hyde Park and had responded enthusiastically
to the sweetly urgent kisses he had rained over her upturned face.
Stunned,
disbelieving, humiliated, Brett had descended upon the Pardee town house on
Half-Moon Street. Lord Pardee, Diana's father, had looked him up and down with
pity, and deciding cynically that his daughter could best rout this romantic
young firebrand, he had allowed Brett to speak privately with Miss Pardee. It
was a shattering blow to hear from his love's lips that she had never had any
intention of accepting his suit—he was handsome, much handsomer and younger
than the Duke, and she had thought to enjoy herself before she settled down to
boring domesticity with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Besides, she
couldn't marry an untitled nobody, no matter how rich and eligible he was. And
of course, everybody knew the Duke of Alward was much, much richer than Mr. Dangermond.
Pride
had come to his rescue, and cloaking his anguished hurt, his bitter
disillusionment, Brett had regarded her contemptuously across the long,
handsomely furnished room where they stood. His heart feeling as if it were
ripping in two, his face hard and cold, he had taken his leave of Miss Pardee. How
blind he had been, he viciously berated himself, living in a fool's paradise,
believing even for an instant that there was one woman who was different! And
how unwise of him to forget the lesson first taught to him by his own mother: a
woman meant only pain and betrayal.
If
the lesson had needed any strengthening, regrettably, that had been provided in
the summer of 1797, when, returning to Natchez for one of his infrequent visits
at Riverview, he had accompanied Morgan Slade on that young man's tragic pursuit
of his runaway wife. Morgan's faithless wife had taken their child with her as
she fled with her lover, and Brett had been with Morgan when they had
discovered their bodies on the Natchez Trace. Brett didn't think he would ever
forget the expression of stark anguish on his friend's face when Morgan had
looked upon his son's little body. Brett had vowed then and there that he would
never allow any woman to be in a position to hurt him that way, that a woman
would never slip under the cold steel guard he would keep around his heart.
And
yet, over the years, as he grew older, there were times when he questioned his
own beliefs, times when he saw the love and joy that his father shared with
Sofia that caused him to wonder. . . . Perhaps, he had mused one night not too
long ago, perhaps once in a great while there occurred a rare and precious
jewel among females—a warm, beautiful woman who was loving and loyal, whose
heart was true and steadfast. He didn't really believe it, but Hugh's happy
marriage gave him pause every time he came home to visit.
The
marriage was definitely a resounding success, the huge house now ringing with
the laughter of children, a feeling of warmth and love immediately recognizable
the moment one stepped into the elegant marble-floored hallway. Even Brett,
steeped in his own bitter cynicism, recognized it, and that might have been why
he had grudgingly begun to think that just maybe Sofia was as adoring and
caring as she appeared to be. Reluctantly he had to admit that his father was
ecstatic with his wife and young, growing family, Hugh's face more relaxed and
smiling than Brett could ever remember it.
Sofia,
to her delight, after a first childless marriage, had proved to be
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