To Love a Dashing Tycoon (Preview)

Prologue

London, England, Spring, 1813

Imogen Moore sighed, gazing into the mirror, her hands pressed to her face. If she held them there long enough, pressing as hard she could, the freckles would fade, if only for a few moments, her face appearing as she had always wished it to. But that was only an illusion, a momentary respite from what she believed was a sad sight that now gazed back at her.

The sunshine of an early spring evening poured through the open window, a thrush chirping merrily upon a branch of the ash that grew outside her bedroom, but Imogen was far from happy. She was nervous at the prospect of an evening at Almack House, imagining the sneering glances, the whispered gossip behind the fans, and the sense that no matter how hard she tried, she would never fit in with the company of her mother and the rest of society.

“A shawl, My Lady? These spring evenings can still be cold after sunset,” her maid, Jenny Reeves, said, appearing from the wardrobe, where she had been rummaging amongst Imogen’s clothes.

“Oh … yes, a shawl, thank you, Jenny,” Imogen said, startled from her thoughts and casting a final gaze in the mirror.

She did not like what she saw, believing herself plain and unattractive, though that was far from the case. With her wide shoulders, small bust, straight, slender hips, and light brown hair, which hung to shoulder length, Imogen struck a pretty figure.

“An evening at Almack’s; what a delight that shall be,” Jenny said as Imogen donned the shawl and prepared to go downstairs.

“I am sure it will be frightful,” Imogen replied. “I only received the invitation because Mother is friendly with the patroness. I should far rather spend the evening here in the drawing room with my books.” 

The maid smiled. “You will enjoy it, I am sure, ma’am. The books will still be here upon your return.”

Imogen nodded but hated these occasions passionately, dragged into society’s gaze by her mother, who believed that happiness lay only in being seen and feted by others. With reluctance, she made her way downstairs, passing the portrait of her father on the stairs, his genial face looking down upon her as her mother called from the hallway.

“Come along, Imogen; the carriage is waiting, and if we do not hurry, then all the suitable men will have their partners already.” She inspected her daughter closely as she came to stand beside her. 

“Are you sure you would not wish to go alone, Mother?” Imogen asked. 

Lady Embleton cut a formidable figure, tall and slender, her greying hair adorned with feathers, which added considerable height to her already impressive look. She was dressed in an elegant gown of silver lace, with a tiara perched upon her brow and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Alone? Of course not. Do not be difficult; you know my opinion on this matter. A third season is a terrible thing to endure, though we must endure it, and you are lucky to have a mother who cares so readily for your future. I do not sit through such things for the benefit of my own health, chaperoning you here and there, only for one embarrassment to follow another.” She tutted as she pulled Imogen’s shawl more closely around her shoulders.

Imogen made no reply, for her mother would always have the last word. It was Imogen’s third Season, a fact which caused her mother considerable embarrassment, for Imogen had shown little interest in finding a husband, nor had any man shown interest in her. She was, in her mother’s eyes, a disappointment, for she preferred the company of books to society and was resigned to the life of a spinster.

“Almack’s, Mother?” a voice from across the hallway said just as Imogen and her mother were about to leave.

“If we ever get there. Your sister is showing little enthusiasm,” Lady Embleton said as Imogen’s brother, William, Earl of Embleton, appeared from his study.

He was some years older than Imogen, though there could be no mistaking that they were brother and sister. He was an attractive man, tall and handsome, with light brown hair and honey-brown eyes, the smile on his face suggesting amusement at his sister’s reluctance to accompany their mother.

“She never does but will enjoy it when she gets there,” he said. “I believe that you will see Katherine there.” 

Their mother smiled. “We shall be pleased to, for she is such a dear girl. You have chosen so well, William.” 

Imogen raised her eyebrows.

Katherine Moore, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ridgebrook, was engaged to her brother, and while she had done nothing to set herself against Imogen, she had done little to ingratiate herself either. She was part of that set of women who believed their very purpose was to facilitate and delight in gossip and scandal, flitting from salon to salon with little thought of anything but themselves and their own vanity. Imogen detested such women and knew that the evening would be entirely taken up in avoiding them and their petty judgements of dress, looks, and comportment.

“Alas, I cannot join you, for I have important work to see to, but I am sure you will have a most splendid evening,” William said, winking at Imogen as her mother hurried her out of the door.

They climbed into the waiting carriage, the evening still pleasant, though the sun was just beginning to set.

“Now, I have no doubt there will be any number of suitable young men for you to dance with this evening, Imogen,” her mother said as they drove through the London streets towards Almack’s.

Imogen knew what was coming next: her mother would speak of the necessity of marriage, the duty that was hers to observe. She had made it very clear that a third Season was, in her eyes, an utter disgrace and that she was determined to find Imogen a husband, come what may.

The words were like the script of a play, repeated ad nauseam whenever she and her mother attended any sort of social gathering together. Imogen had learned to let them wash over her, determined to make her own course in life, whatever that might be. 

She knew of the limitations of her sex and that without a husband, she would continue to be an object of gossip and ridicule. However, Imogen was tired of the nagging that her mother subjected her to, which had only grown worse since their return from Bath to London some months previously.

“It seems that all of London is here this evening,” Imogen said as the carriage pulled up outside Almack’s, where a trail of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen were making their way inside.

“Only those that matter,” her mother replied as the footman hurried to open the carriage door and hand them out.

Almack House was an impressive abode, part home and part place of social gathering, where the patroness, Lady Halisham, delighted in entertaining. That evening, its windows were lit, and the sounds of music could be heard through the open doorway, where two liveried footmen stood on either side to escort the guests. Imogen and her mother walked arm in arm up the steps, greeted by friends and acquaintances as they went, everyone attempting to see and be seen.

“I shall sit out the first dance,” Imogen said, and her mother raised her eyebrows, scowling, as the hostess came to greet them.

“Lady Embleton, how pleased we are to see you, and you too, Imogen … just the same as ever, I see,” she said, hardly seeking to disguise her thinly veiled insult.

Imogen’s mother replied, “We are delighted to be here, Lady Halisham. What a wonderful gathering.” 

As the two women gushed over one another, Imogen looked around for any sign of an ally.

But it seemed that only she resented being paraded at Almack’s that evening, for the rest of the company was already excited as the first dance began. Imogen saw Katherine talking to several other women, the swish of dresses and the fluttering of fans going on all around her. 

“I shall take a little punch. Will you have some, Mother?” Imogen asked, and her mother nodded.

“Yes, bring me some, but do not neglect your duty,” her mother said, taking a seat along the wall as Imogen made her way to the refreshments table.

There was all manner of good things to eat and a large punchbowl at the centre, from which Imogen now ladled the punch into two glasses. As she did so, she could hear whispering behind her; the object of the conversation was her dress.

“She wore it last month, you know, at the Whittaker ball; it looked plain then, and it looks plains now,” a voice said.

“But it is her freckles that are worse, for they stand out so very much, it is not attractive,” another replied.

Imogen stiffened, taking a deep breath as she continued to ladle the punch into the glasses. She had endured such gossip in the past, its instigators those women who crowded around Katherine, thinking themselves to be the belles of society. Now, she turned to find her detractors giggling to one another, smiling at her with silly, girlish looks on their faces as she stepped past them.

“Have you found a husband yet?” one of them asked, and Imogen turned, fixing them with a scowl.

“I am sure one of the footmen would be only too willing,” another said, and Imogen walked off, a tear rolling down her cheek.

She passed a glass of punch to her mother and sat beside her. Her mother said, “Really, Imogen, do come along now; the second dance is about to begin. Sit here and wait for one of the gentlemen to ask you to dance.” 

The musicians were tuning up their instruments, and there was a bustle about the room as gentlemen extended their invitations and ladies graciously accepted, with much giggling and giddiness. Imogen found it intolerable, longing for the peace and seclusion of her drawing room at home and the company of a book rather than this society, so concerned with making false impressions and filled with arrogant self-aggrandizement.

“Would you do me the honour?” a voice above her said, and Imogen looked up in surprise to see a young officer offering her his arm.

He was an attractive man, dressed in the red tunic of the militia, his gold buttons shining, and his black shoes highly polished. He smiled at her as her mother nudged her.

“She would be delighted to,” she said, and Imogen had no choice but to accept.

“Lieutenant Wicklow,” he said as Imogen took his arm. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and what a splendid evening this is.”

“If one cares for such things,” Imogen said as they entered the fray and began to dance.

“You do not care to dance?” he asked, grimacing slightly as she stepped on his foot.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, almost tripping over as she stepped back, the pair bumping into another couple. The woman let out a shriek as Imogen’s foot caught the hem of her dress.

“Perhaps a little slower,” the lieutenant said, attempting to guide Imogen around the dance floor and grimacing again as she stepped on his foot for the second time.

“I am quite hopeless,” she said as the music came to an end.

He gave her a weak smile, escorting her back to her mother, where she took her seat again. Her mother looked at her in surprise.

“Would the lieutenant not wish to dance again?” she asked, and the young man shook his head.

“I must take a little refreshment, but perhaps later,” he said, hurriedly excusing himself.

“You did that deliberately, Imogen; you are quite intolerable,” her mother hissed, but Imogen was only glad to be sitting out once again.

“Then I shall remain so,” Imogen replied as her mother harrumphed and turned away.

The lieutenant was a pleasant man, but Imogen had no desire for such pleasantries, happy to watch the proceedings from afar and to see the clock tick nearer to the appointed hour of departure. No one else offered to dance with her, though she remained an object of attention, as behind their fans, the other ladies made light of her dress and appearance.

“Well, that was yet another disaster,” her mother said as they rode home in the carriage a short while later, but Imogen did not reply.

She was resigned to being a spinster, resigned to the fact that no man could ever desire her, nor did she want one to. Imogen was content with her life as it was, and no matter how hard her mother tried, she was determined to live it as she chose.

Chapter One

London, England, Spring, 1814

Imogen had been sitting in the drawing room, staring at her embroidery frame, for half an hour. She could find little inspiration in it. Her fingers were pricked incessantly by the needle, which, try as she might, could not be coaxed into doing as she wished it to. She was supposed to be embroidering her name into a pattern with roses and lilies, but instead, she had almost ruined the frame, the entire thing a disaster of crooked stitches and knots.

Sighing, she laid it aside, the final prick of the needle drawing blood and causing her to smart. She brought her finger to her lips, sucking to stop the blood, which had also stained the embroidery, ruining it further. What would her mother say? She soon found out as the drawing room door opened, and her mother entered with a disapproving look. It was her natural disposition in all things related to Imogen, a look that spoke of her disappointment in almost everything Imogen attempted to do.

Her mother tutted and shook her head. “Look at this mess; whatever have you been doing? Did I not show you the precise way to do it? Really, Imogen, it is embroidery, which is hardly the most taxing of tasks. Look at this; it is ruined.” 

“I have never mastered the art of embroidery, and you know that, Mother,” Imogen replied, looking down at her finger, from which a steady trickle of blood still flowed.

“Too busy with your head in a book, that is why,” her mother said. “Always reading, always doing what you are not supposed to be doing. How will a book ever find you a husband?” Her face held a mixture of annoyance and disappointment.

Imogen would have liked to explain how valuable books really were, though she knew that her mother would never listen. She was too caught up in the endless round of societal engagements to take interest in the pages of novels, the stories found there, and the delightful escapes into other worlds that such tales presented. Her mother was, and remained, interested in only one thing: the possibility of Imogen’s marriage, a marriage which so far had not the faintest hope of occurring.

“I would rather a book than this,” Imogen said, looking down at the ruined embroidery.

“Then you must practice, practice, practice,” her mother said, taking up the embroidery frame and beginning to unthread the mistakes.

“But I have no interest in it; books are far more interesting,” Imogen replied, and her mother raised her eyebrows.

She replied, “And because of books, you have had two failed Seasons, and now that we arrive at your third, I am at my wits’ end. Please, for my sake, make an effort to find a husband. If not, you will be left behind, an eternal spinster. And that would be tragic.” 

Imogen saw little tragedy in it, hopeful that eventually, her mother’s quest to secure her a husband would end with the realization that Imogen was far happier in the pages of a book than in the company of men.

“I could think of worse things,” she said, and her mother grimaced.

“Enough of this,” she said, throwing down the embroidery frame. “We are due at the modiste’s at eleven o’clock, so ring for Jenny, and we shall depart.”

The day of William’s marriage to Katherine was fast approaching, and Imogen and her mother had an appointment with the dressmaker, their new outfits on order at one of London’s most fashionable haberdasheries. So, a short while later, Imogen, her mother, and Jenny were riding together in a carriage towards Bond Street, the conversation turning as ever towards the prospects of marriage.

“The plainer material will suit very well, Mother; the dyed fabrics are so uncomfortable,” Imogen said as they drew up outside the modiste’s.

“Nonsense, do you not wish to be seen? It is your brother’s wedding, and all eyes will be upon you. It is the perfect opportunity for you to be seen. They say, do they not, that one marriage so often leads to another. A guest is introduced to a guest, and so on. Come now, the dyed fabric it is.” Imogen’s mother allowed herself to be handed out by the footman and turned to wait for her daughter with a fixed smile. 

Imogen caught Jenny’s eye, and the pair stifled a giggle as Lady Embleton barked her instructions to the carriage driver before leading them into the modiste’s. It was a large shop, filled with rolls of material along one side and a long wooden counter along the other, smelling vaguely of lavender. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman wearing a black dress with a tape measure around her neck. She was busy sewing something but looked up as Imogen, her mother, and Jenny entered the shop, smiling at them and nodding.

“Lady Embleton, good morning to you. Mr Drimble is just seeing to another party of ladies, so will you wait a moment?” she said, and Imogen’s mother nodded.

“The dresses are finished, I hope?” she asked, and the woman nodded.

“Just the cuffs to do now. They will be ready for the wedding day,” she said, and Imogen’s mother nodded again.

A long, plush, red velvet curtain drew back, and a small man, shorter than Imogen herself, appeared, followed by two other women whom Imogen recognized as friends of Katherine.

“Lady Embleton, I thought I heard your voice,” the man said as the two women eyed Imogen and smirked.

“Are you here for your fitting too?” one of them asked, and Imogen nodded.

“We are so looking forward to the wedding. It will be a most marvellous occasion, do you not think?” she said.

“The marriage of one’s brother is surely an occasion to delight in,” Imogen replied as the two women giggled at one another.

“I am sure you will look … lovely,” the first said, and still smirking at one another, they hurried out of the shop.

“Pay no attention to them, ma’am; they are just silly,” Jenny said, but Imogen was already upset, knowing full well what so many other women thought of her.

“The dresses are almost finished; will you step this way?” the man said, pulling back the curtain to reveal the dresses on their mannequins.

“Imogen will have the dyed fabric, Mr Drimble, not the plain as first suggested,” Imogen’s mother said, stepping forward as Imogen and Jenny followed.

“Mother …” Imogen began, but her mother only tutted and raised a warning eyebrow.

“You will look your best, Imogen, and nothing less,” she said as Imogen sighed and reluctantly followed her.

Chapter Two

The ledger had been open on the same page for ten minutes, and the ink was almost dry as Robert Cavendish stared out the window. He daydreamed about the past, picturing himself on the battlefields of Waterloo, the sound of gunfire and canon filling his ears. A knock on the door brought him back to his senses, and he looked around as Jackson, his manservant, entered the room.

“Doctor Andrews is here to see you, sir. He says he has an appointment, though I do not recall you mentioning it,” the manservant said, and Robert laughed.

“That is because I forgot he was coming, Jackson. Yes, you may show him up,” Robert replied as the manservant bowed and closed the door.

Robert had been busy lately, too busy to think of trivial matters like his own well-being, as painful as the old war wound in his shoulder had now become. He was a shareholder in a large business enterprise paying dividends, his wealth enough to match any of those in the aristocratic circles where he now moved.

He smiled ironically at the thought of a man with such lowly origins, the son of a merchant no less, now aspiring to such heights. He had been fortunate in life, lucky now to have the means for a comfortable existence, even if certain things still eluded him. The past few months had seen a flurry of marriages, his friends and associates entering matrimony at a great rate. Still, it did not particularly trouble Robert, for he had money, independence, and a gentleman’s comfortable life.

“Ah, Cavendish, a spot of bother with the war wound, I take it?” Doctor Andrews said as Jackson showed him into Robert’s study.

The two men had served together under Wellington against Napoleon, and Doctor Andrews now had a practice in Harley Street, a short distance from Robert’s own townhouse in Mayfair, where he had lived since returning from the continent.

“Nothing that you cannot fix, I am sure,” Robert said, stretching out his arm and wincing as Doctor Andrews laid down his medical bag.

“Too much exertion, too much time spent in the taverns,” the doctor said.  “What have I told you about taking wagers, Cavendish?” The doctor placed his hands gently upon Robert’s shoulder.

“It is only a few shots; they wager I cannot hit the target, then when I do, they are surprised,” Robert said, laughing and then wincing again as the doctor applied pressure to his injury.

“And in doing so, you exacerbate the affected area. See, it is all swollen here, no doubt the result of aiming a rifle. Enough of this, or you shall forever be afflicted by it,” Doctor Andrew replied.

“Oh, come now, Tristan. Are you saying that your ministrations can do nothing to ease the pain? Where is your camaraderie?” Robert said, and his friend laughed.

“I can set bones, heal wounds, treat disorders of the humors, but I cannot cure a stubborn man, and that is what you are, Cavendish. No more wagers, no more shooting glass bottles for a bet, do you hear me?” he said, raising his eyebrows, and Robert laughed.

“I hear you, and I shall try to follow your advice,” he said.

“See that you do. In the meantime, salve your shoulder with this ointment, which will soothe the tissues, though only rest will cure this affliction,” the doctor said, drawing out a bottle from his medical bag and passing it to Robert.

“I shall use it this very day before we go to Redfield’s. You are still coming, are you not?” Robert asked, and his friend nodded.

“I would not hear the end of it if I did not. Will the usual party be there?” he asked, and Robert smiled.

“Oh, yes, Marcus, William, you and I, along with Nathaniel, of course,” Robert replied.

“Well, we would not have the privilege of entry to Redfield’s if its founder were not amongst our circle,” the doctor said.

“You may not, but I would have no trouble in gaining entry,” Robert said, pulling down his shirt sleeve and flexing his shoulder, which smarted again, causing him to wince.

“Do not be so sure; these aristocratic types keep their own counsel well enough,” his friend replied.

“You should know, you married into it,” Robert replied.

“And speaking of which, I should return home to Emily. She will be wondering where I have got to,” the doctor said, closing his medical bag and nodding to Robert.

“Under the thumb, Tristan, under the thumb. I told you this would happen, I told you all, but would you listen? No, none of you have any time for fun anymore. It seems that I have won the wager, the last to be married,” Robert said, placing his arm on Tristan’s shoulder as he walked him to the door of his study.

“Nathaniel is yet to tie the knot,” Tristan said as they shook hands, “and you yourself … well, until this evening.”

“Nathanial is wedded to his cynicism,” Robert called after him as the doctor made his way downstairs, “and as for me, I shall not be such a fool.”

“One day, perhaps, for a fool to love is no fool, really,” Tristan called back.

Robert turned back into the study, his shoulder still smarting, and picked up the bottle of ointment from the desk.

“Mr Thompson Squeeries’ Medicinal Tonic for external application,” he read out loud, shaking his head and laughing. “It seems Tristan believes I am growing old.”

Nonetheless, he retired to his chamber and had Jackson rub a generous amount of ointment into his shoulder.  

***

Robert spent the rest of the afternoon absorbed in the ledgers, totalling the accounts for the seaside resort, which Marcus Colborne, one of the friends he would meet that evening, was building in honour of his late father. The resort itself was on the south coast, designed to rival the pleasure palace of the regent himself in Brighton. It was a vast construction, which would see a pier and amusements built alongside a theatre and public spa. 

Later, he partook of a small meal, bathed, and then dressed in his evening attire.  “The carriage has arrived for you, sir,” Jackson announced as Robert emerged from his chambers. 

His shoulder still ached, though the strongly scented concoction had eased it somewhat and lessened the redness around the knotted scar.

“I shall be late back, Jackson, so leave a lamp burning in the hallway for me,” Robert said, and the manservant bowed.

“Very good, sir,” he said, walking with Robert to the door and opening it for him.

The evening was still bright, the shadows yet to lengthen on that pleasant spring evening. Robert climbed into the carriage, calling for the driver to make all speed across the city to Redfield’s, where a night of pleasure and entertainment awaited. He was looking forward to seeing his friends, for though his work often consumed him, he had found himself somewhat lonely of late; his friends, like Tristan, were caught up in the pleasantries of matrimony and with far less time for fun.

Redfield’s was an impressive building, set back from the street opposite Regent’s Park. It was a whitewashed set of townhouses, with a large, colonnaded portico at the front, where liveried footmen stood stiffly to attention, and a bespectacled man with a large, stiff moustache stood to welcome potential guests or see them dismissed out of hand.

“Mr Cavendish, how good to see you, good evening to you,” he said, bowing to Robert as he stepped down from his carriage.

“Is Nathaniel here already?” Robert asked, handing the man his hat and gloves.

“The marquess has been here all day, sir, examining the books,” the man replied, ushering Robert inside.

The smell of beeswax polish and smoke came over him as he entered the wood-panelled hallway, the familiar scent of a familiar place. Redfield’s was as much a home to Robert as his own on Mayfair, a place to relax with like-minded men, the hushed quiet a panacea to the hustle and bustle of London beyond the walls.

“Are they in the usual place?” Robert asked, and the man nodded.

“Doctor Andrews is yet to arrive, but the marquess, the Earl of Embleton, and the Duke of Thurlstone are all in the reading room, sir,” he said, and Robert made his way upstairs, calling for a glass of brandy as he went.

“Ah, Robert, you were able to tear yourself away from the ledgers for an evening,” Marcus said, rising to greet him as he entered the reading room.

He was a tall man with a shock of ginger hair and bright blue eyes, his nose freckled and a smile upon his lips. 

“I can always tear myself away from the ledgers, Marcus, though need I remind you that it is for your benefit that I pore over them each day? Besides, it is you who are kept at home by your wife. When did we last see you at Redfield’s?” Robert took a seat by the fire.

The room was long and comfortably furnished, bookshelves running along one side and windows on the other, looking out over gardens at the back of the clubhouse. A footman soon arrived with their drinks, and a toast was made, for it was soon to be the day of William’s wedding, and Robert was to act as best man.

“It will only be the two of us left unwed then, Robert,” Nathaniel said, smiling, as Doctor Andrews arrived to join the party.

Robert agreed, “Yes, the two remaining bachelors, though, as I said to Tristan earlier, you are wedded to your cynicism. You would be married if it were not for the appalling example of your parents.” Robert swirled the brandy around in his snifter.

“Bah, humbug to that, it will be I who win our wager, for you are sure to meet a woman soon, though I am not sure who could put up with you,” Nathaniel said, and the five of them roared with laughter.

“I am surprised Katherine has even agreed to marry me,” William said, and Robert raised his eyebrows.

“Is the prospect of becoming Countess of Embleton not enough of an attraction?” he said, and the others sniggered.

“I jest, she is a charming girl and well suited to the title which shall be hers,” William replied as the others raised their glasses.

“A toast then, to the five of us. To the memories of victories past and victories yet to come,” Nathaniel said, raising his glass.

“To happy marriages and happy bachelors. May each estate be conferred upon those who wish for it,” Robert said, the five of them clinking their glasses together.

“Perhaps you shall find yourself a pretty woman at the wedding,” William said, and Robert laughed.

“They are all taken,” he replied, though in his heart he wondered if it might be true.