Julianne MacLean
Authors: My Own Private Hero
ULIANNE
M
AC
L
EAN
My Own Private Hero
This one is for Stephen,
for being the great love of my life
and the stuff heroes are made of.
Inside the lavish interior of the SS Fortune, steaming smoothly…
The Adventure
Three days. It had been three long days, and now…
“Harold should not have sent him, Mama. It was a…
Shortly before noon, Adele went outside to meet Lord Alcester,…
Damien woke to the sound of a scream in the…
Adele descended the stairs the next morning, her eyes burning…
The innkeeper knocked on the door a short time later,…
Somewhere low, in the cavernous, darkest depths of night, Damien…
The Reckoning
The Osulton coach, with an impressive liveried driver at the…
It was late afternoon when Damien finally emerged from his…
After a formal dinner, during which Adele sat gratefully at…
Down by the lake—which this morning was a dead calm…
From her window on the second floor, Adele watched Dr. Lidden…
Still in her nightgown, Adele left her bedchamber and went…
He shouldn’t be doing this, Damien thought, as he led…
Damien opened the library door, peered inside to ensure it…
Two days later, Adele sat in her bedchamber at Osulton…
For eight days, Adele did as Clara had suggested. She…
“I believe there must be two hundred and fifty people…
That evening at the Wilkshire ball, all agreed that Adele’s…
“Are you all right?” Damien asked, sounding genuinely concerned as…
Damien stood alone in the corner of the ballroom reflecting…
Adele was sitting with Sophia in the Wentworth House drawing…
Wisdom
It was past noon the next day when Adele and…
Adele reached the little round teahouse on the lake and…
An almost tangible, tension-filled need settled in the air between…
Adele could see Damien vaguely through the branches, as he…
Harold’s face pulled into a frown and he straightened, making…
That night, Sophia quietly pushed open the door of her…
The next morning, the butler entered the drawing room and…
It was just beginning to rain when Lily walked quickly…
I like the Americans very well, but there are two things I wish they would keep to themselves—their girls and their tinned lobster.
Lady Dorothy Nevill
England, 1888
May 1884
I
nside the lavish interior of the
SS Fortune,
steaming smoothly across the deep, dark Atlantic at night, Adele Wilson stood in her first-class stateroom and gazed uncertainly at her reflection in the mirror.
A heavy lump formed in her belly. Why? Everything was as it should be. Her mother was in the adjoining cabin to her left, her sister Clara to her right. Adele had just eaten a delicious supper at the captain’s elaborate table, and was about to undress for bed and read a most thought-provoking novel before turning down the lamp and going to sleep.
She removed a pearl and diamond drop ear
ring and watched it sparkle in her hand. She closed her fist around it, then looked up at her reflection again.
She felt oddly disconnected from the floor, as if she were in someone else’s body. A stranger was staring back at her—an elegant, sophisticated heiress who wore a jewel-trimmed Worth gown from Paris made of the finest silk money could buy, and around her neck, an antique, pearl and diamond choker to match the earrings.
She turned away from the mirror, looking all around. Suddenly, even the room seemed wrong.
Wrong
. There was no other word for it. Carved mahogany panels covered the walls, the ceiling was painted gold with extravagant ornamentation around a dazzling crystal chandelier. The sheets on her fluffy bed boasted the ship’s monogram, and all the fixtures, from the doorknobs to the lamps, right down to the nails in the bulkhead, were polished brass, pompously gleaming.
Sometimes it seemed as if she were living someone else’s life. She had not been born with this wealth. She didn’t even know how to feel comfortable with it. At the moment, she felt as if she shouldn’t touch anything.
Adele sighed. What she wouldn’t give to be riding bareback through the woods at this moment, as she used to do when she was younger, before they’d moved to the city and ventured into high society. Oh, to smell the damp earth and the leaves on the ground, and the green moss around the lake…
She inhaled deeply, longingly, wanting to remember, but smelled only the expensive perfume she wore. Feeling absurdly deprived, she exhaled.
It’s nerves
, she decided, crossing to her bed and removing the other earring and setting both of them on the night table. Tomorrow she would meet her future husband, Lord Osulton. An English viscount. The newspapermen would probably be there to greet the ship and take her picture. No wonder she was nervous tonight.
She would get through it, however.
Adele removed the combs from her honey-colored hair and shook out her long, curly locks, so they fell loosely onto her shoulders. That was better.
The door to the adjoining stateroom opened, and Adele’s sister Clara peered inside. Clara had married the handsome Marquess of Rawdon the year before and had left her London home a month ago with her new baby daughter, Anne, to visit her family in New York. “You’re still awake?”
Adele faced her sister. “Yes, come in.”
Clara, still in her glittering evening gown, her mahogany hair swept up in a flattering bun, entered the room and sat down on the chintz sofa. “You barely touched your supper. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” But Adele knew she couldn’t fool Clara, who always strove to see beneath the surface of things.
“Are you certain, Adele? You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Because it’s not too late to change your mind.”
“I’m not having second thoughts.”
“It would be perfectly normal if you were. You barely know the man. You’ve met him so few times, usually at dull assemblies with Mother breathing down your neck. You’ve danced with him only once, which is essentially the only time you’ve been alone with him. And what was that, three or four minutes?”
Adele sat down next to Clara. “I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. But I know in my heart that this is right. I’m sure of it. He’s a good man.”
“But you haven’t had a chance to know for sure if there’s any true connection between you. Some form of heat. Maybe you should think about enjoying the London Season just once before you marry. Imagine who you might meet. A dashing white knight, maybe.”
Adele shook her head. “I’m not like you, Clara. You and Sophia were the adventurous ones, while I’ve always been sensible. Isn’t that what Mother and Father said every time you and Sophia got into trouble?”
Clara smirked. “I can hear Father now.” She put a finger under her nose like a mustache. “Why can’t you two girls be more like your younger sister? Thank God we can always depend on Adele to behave herself—sensible, reliable Adele.”
Adele smiled and rolled her eyes. “The fact remains, I don’t wish to suffer through an entire
London Season being speculated about, and being forced to wear diamonds every night and flirt in crowded drawing rooms. The thought of it, quite frankly, makes me ill. I’d much rather be in the country—outdoors with the fresh air, which is exactly where my future husband is at this moment.”
“You might enjoy the excitement of a Season,” Clara said, sounding a little frustrated.
Adele shook her head again. “No, I would not. I am content with my decision to marry Lord Osulton. He is an agreeable gentleman and a very good match for me. From what I understand, he doesn’t enjoy the city, either. He prefers his country house.”
“But aren’t you afraid you might someday wonder what extraordinary adventures you’d missed?”
Adele squeezed her sister’s hand. “I don’t seek adventure, Clara. In fact, I loathe the idea of it. I prefer a carefully laid out plan, free of the unexpected. Besides that, I believe that sometimes, the best marriages are
sensibly
arranged. Love comes later, when it has time to grow and become something more substantial, based on admiration and respect rather than
heat
, as you call it. Heat, my dear sister, is unpredictable and often burns.”
“Heat is wonderful, Adele.”
“Is it? Funny, I do recall when it was not so wonderful last year, when you thought your husband was going to leave you. You were miserable. I don’t want to be miserable like that. I
prefer a sense of calm without any of those difficult emotional ups and downs.”
“But Seger did devote himself to me,” Clara said, “and we are very happy now. What we have today was worth every minute of misery, no matter how excruciating it was at the time. Some things are worth fighting for, no matter how unpleasant the task. Are you sure you don’t wish to postpone the wedding, and suffer through just one Season? You might discover the greatest romance of your life.”
Adele sighed and stood up. She crossed to the wardrobe and began to unbutton her bodice.
“You would think,” Clara continued, “being bookish, you might have read something about love.”
“I’ve read plenty about love,” Adele said with her back to her sister, “and I could never relate to those simpering, lovesick heroines stuck in towers, who fall for white knights. There are no towers or white knights in real life, Clara. There are only realistic men, and I am quite content to have found a most agreeable one for myself. Besides, it makes me happy to please Mother and Father. You should have seen Mother’s face when I told her I had accepted Lord Osulton’s proposal. I’d never seen her so proud.”
“You cannot live your life to please others, Adele. You must think of yourself and your future. After the wedding, Mother and Father will return to New York, and you will be left in England on your own—no longer a dutiful daugh
ter, but a married woman. You will be responsible for your own happiness and be free to choose what you want to do with your life. You should marry whomever you wish to marry.”
“I wish to marry Lord Osulton.
Harold
,” she added, deciding she should probably start referring to him by his first name now that they were officially engaged.
Clara smiled lovingly at Adele. “I daresay, you will do as you wish, won’t you?”
“As long as it is the
right
thing to do. I have chosen my path, and I have made a commitment. I will not veer from it.”
Clara raised a delicate, arched eyebrow, stood up, and walked to the door. “I suppose there’s no arguing with you. You always were determined to do the right thing, even when Sophia and I tried to convince you to do otherwise. You missed some fun, you know.”
Adele tipped her head at her sister. “I also missed a great number of hours standing in the corner.”
Clara shrugged. “Adventure has a price.”
“And you and Sophia were always willing to pay it.”
Adele’s maid entered and began preparing the bed.
Clara opened the door to her own stateroom. “We’ll be docking overnight to pick up some extra passengers, then it won’t be long before we reach Liverpool. We’ll be there by morning. It sounds to me like you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Then I’m satisfied. I must go and check on little Anne. I’ll see you in the morning.” She walked out and closed the door behind her.
Adele smiled at her maid, and reached for her nightgown.
London’s Savoy Theatre
Shortly after four
A.M.
the same night
It was a well-known fact among certain circles in London that Frances Fairbanks—celebrated actress and hailed by some as one of the most beautiful women alive—enjoyed lying about naked. Especially on the soft, bearskin rug on the floor of her dressing room, when the room smelled of sex and wine and French perfume, and she was gazing upon a lover.
Or rather, one lover in particular. Damien Renshaw, Baron Alcester.
He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met—tall and darkly handsome with broad, muscled shoulders and facial features that could have been sculpted by an artist. He was rugged and wild and unpredictable, and what’s more, he was the most ingenious, instinctive of lovers. He knew just how to move to give her the most intense sexual experiences she’d ever known.
Yet there was immense tenderness in his lovemaking.
Frances stretched out like a cat and rolled over onto her stomach, resting her elbows on the fur. Swinging her bare feet back and forth
behind her, she watched Damien sit down on the deeply buttoned settee by the door and pull on a boot.
He glanced up at her briefly with dark eyes that usually promised pleasure and seduction, but at the moment revealed only impatience.
He was in a hurry to leave, Frances realized suddenly with a frown, which was extremely out of character for him. Because Damien Renshaw—the irresistible black lion—never hurried
anything
in the bedroom.
Frances stopped swinging her feet. “You left your shirt on when you made love to me tonight.”
She had to work hard to sound confident. It was not something she was accustomed to—working hard at it, that is. She was always absolutely sure of herself where her lovers were concerned.
They
were the ones who did the scrambling.
She swallowed uncomfortably and made a conscious effort to swing her legs again. “You’re not angry about the bracelet, are you?”
Pulling on his other boot, Damien didn’t look up. “Of course not. As you said, you fell in love with it.”
Indeed she had. So much so, she’d purchased it herself and had the bill sent to Damien.
She sat up on her heels and spoke with pouty lips, hoping to kindle his flirtatious nature. “It was only a small bracelet. I didn’t think it would matter in the larger scheme of things.”
He rose to his feet, tall and beautiful as a Greek god in the flickering shadows of the
candlelight. He searched the shambles of the room for his waistcoat. He spotted it in a heap on the floor—on top of some purple feathers and Frances’s colorful costume from her performance that evening.
He picked up the waistcoat, slipped it on, then reached down to cradle Frances’s chin in his hand. He grinned, his eyes sparkling instantly with the allure that reassured Frances that she was still the envy of every hot-blooded woman in London.
His voice was husky and sensual when he spoke, but at the same time commanding. “Next time, try to resist the urge. You know my situation.”
She did, of course, know.
Everyone
knew. Lord Alcester was in debt up to his ears, and had been forced to lease out his London house to a German family, and take up residence with his eccentric cousin.
It didn’t bother Frances, however. She didn’t want Damien for his money. There were others who served that purpose. Damien’s talents lay elsewhere.
He dropped his hand to his side and pulled on his overcoat. “My apologies for leaving my shirt on.”
“You’re not yourself these days, Damien. I hope it’s not me.”
“It’s not you.” He kissed Frances good-bye, leaving her ever so slightly distressed by this unexplained change in him.
It was still dark when Adele woke to the sound of a thump in her cabin. She remembered they were stopping briefly on the west coast of England to pick up a few new passengers. She rolled onto her back, wondering how long they’d be docked.
She stared up at the ceiling in the darkness and thought about the conversation she’d had earlier with her sister. Clara had suggested that Adele should be reckless for once in her life. It was not a new conversation. They’d had it countless times before as children and as young women. Clara and Adele’s oldest sister, Sophia, had often tried to lure Adele into their mischief.
Adele rested the back of her hand on her forehead and recalled a summer afternoon when they were girls, just after they’d moved to New York. Clara had gathered them together in the attic of their new house and said, “If we want to grow up, we must have an adventure. And everyone knows that an adventure must always start with running away from home.”
Sophia’s eyes had lit up, while Adele had been horrified. She had refused, of course, and argued the point of such foolish horseplay, and threatened to tell their parents.
Clara told Adele that if she breathed a word, they’d string her up by her heels, so Adele promised to keep it secret. Which she did. For about an hour. Then she told her father, who promptly marched out onto Fifth Avenue and brought the girls home and put them to bed with no supper. Adele, conversely, had been
given an extra slice of blackberry pie.