The Secret Desire of a Fiery Lady (Preview)

Chapter One

Twickenham Hall, Surrey
England, 1817

Lady Cordelia Pelham ran down the long staircase at her home, her feet clattering loudly in the silence. Papa was expecting her in his study. The summons had come unexpectedly while she had still been dressing. Minnie, her lady’s maid, had been forced to hurry the morning toilette. Delia was out of breath and a bit flustered. Her father rarely summoned her like this. 

What did Papa want?

To her dismay, Delia realised that one of her hair ribbons had worked itself loose and fallen on the stairs. Hastily backtracking, she snatched up the ribbon, stuffing it in her pocket. Her father would just have to put up with her hair falling down.

As she scurried down the hallway towards the study, she gazed around, noticing how the plaster on the cornices was flaking. She frowned. There was also substantial water leaks from the roof, which were snaking down the walls towards the row of oil portraits. She had recently become aware of how many maintenance issues were being ignored in the old manor house, which was unusual. Papa always prided himself on keeping their ancestral home in tip-top condition. Twickenham Hall was their ancestral seat. Her father, the Marquess of Delacombe, passionately loved their home. Delia couldn’t understand it.

But all thoughts of the rapidly deteriorating condition of the house fled her mind as she opened the study door and saw her father’s face. The Marquess of Delacombe looked grim. And that was unusual for Papa, who was always happy-go-lucky and often boasted he had never suffered a day of melancholy in his life, apart from his grief when Mama had died, of course.

Delia gaped at him. “Papa. Is something wrong?”

He grimaced. “Delia, please sit down. I must discuss something with you.”

She sat down on an upholstered chair near the fireplace, leaning forward to warm her hands. The fire was lacklustre and needed more wood. Winter was here, and it was freezing. She suddenly realised that all the fires in the house weren’t being built up well anymore. Her father usually had them roaring throughout the long winter months.

He sat down opposite her. Delia stared at him, waiting for him to speak. She was growing increasingly uneasy. Her father was not acting like himself at all.

“You have grown into such a beautiful, accomplished young lady, Delia,” he said eventually. “You know how very proud I am of you, do you not?”

Her face softened. “Of course I do, Papa. You tell me constantly.”

“Yes, yes,” he said absently, gazing into the fire. “I do my best, my dear. I have tried to make up for the lack of your dear mother, but it is challenging. Your Aunt Verity is the only lady in your life now, and we do not see her very much.”

“I know you do your best,” said Delia, frowning slightly. “I have no complaints.”

He got up, pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Delia’s frown deepened. Something was wrong, and she wished he would just get to the point and tell her what it was. Not knowing was somehow worse. It allowed her imagination to run rampant, envisioning all manner of terrible things. Was her father ill?

Abruptly, he stopped pacing, turning back to her. “Delia…I have brokered a marriage for you. A betrothal. It is going ahead immediately.”

Delia stood up, all the blood draining from her face. Had she misheard him?

“A betrothal,” she stammered. “Who are you betrothing me to?”

He looked sheepish. “To Lord Stanton, my dear.”

Delia felt like she was going to faint. Lord Stanton was a friend of her father’s and not a particularly close one. A widowed gentleman who was the same age as her father, with two grown daughters, one of which was her own age—barely two and twenty. She hardly knew him. Papa and Lord Stanton caught up perhaps once a year. She hadn’t paid the gentleman any attention. To her, he was just another acquaintance of her father’s, a middle-aged man who held no interest for her at all.

And her father wanted her to marry him!

“I will do no such thing!” she said, so outraged she could barely spit the words out. “He must be at least fifty years old, Papa! For the love of our Lord, how could you do this to me?”

He sighed heavily, looking pained. “Lord Stanton is a good man, Delia. In fact, he is a fine man. An upstanding pillar of his community. He will treat you very well.”

“I do not care that he is a pillar of his community!” she cried. “You always promised me that I could choose my own husband. You said you would wait until I found a gentleman who I loved.” She took deep gulps of air. “You know how important choosing my own husband is to me.”

He looked shamefaced. “It is true. I did make that promise.” He hesitated. “But I must break it now, Delia. There is simply no choice.”

“Why?” she cried, not understanding at all. “Why must you do this?”

He was silent for a moment. Delia’s heart was beating erratically, and she felt sick. The betrayal was absolute. She and Papa had discussed marriage many times since her debut. He had promised that she could pick her own husband. He had promised that he would never force her into a marriage of convenience with someone she didn’t love. He had told her he knew how important love was in a marriage, for his own marriage with her late mother had been a love match.

He had been willing to wait until she found her own love match. She had three Seasons in London and had been courted by a few gentlemen but had yet to find that match. Still, she yearned for it. The idea of romantic love sustained her. She believed her life partner, who she loved with all her heart, was out there. She just hadn’t met him yet. 

“Circumstances have changed, Delia,” he said eventually, in a strangled voice. “I am ashamed to tell you this, but it seems I must. It is the only way for you to understand the gravity of the situation and why you must marry Lord Stanton.”

Delia’s heart lurched. She stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“You may have noticed that Twickenham Hall is falling to rack and ruin,” he said, frowning. “There are many urgent issues which need attending to. But I have been unable to do it as the coffers have run almost dry.”

Delia gaped at him, her blood running cold again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I am almost bankrupt!” he spat, his eyes wild now. “I have had some bad luck with the dice recently. I owe money all over the district and in London as well. My debts have drained our funds, and I still owe more. I am desperate, Delia.”

Delia’s jaw dropped. She knew her father was fond of the dice. He enjoyed cards as well. He was always going off to play them somewhere. But she had never suspected for a minute that it was a problem for him.

She had heard of gentlemen who grew overfond of gambling and lost everything when in its grip. But that was other people, not her happy, kind, generous father. He had always been sensible and prudent with money. Or so she had thought.

“Lord Stanton has offered me a large loan in return for your hand in marriage,” he continued, tears glimmering in his eyes. “Enough for me to pay off all my creditors. He is also waiving your dowry. It will save me. And it will save Twickenham Hall, for I will be forced to sell it otherwise.”

Delia collapsed into the chair. Her mind was whirling. This was truly a desperate situation.

“How could you have been so imprudent, Papa?” she said in an anguished whisper. “How could you have gambled with the house and my future like this?”

The Viscount’s face crumpled. “I have asked myself the same question many times,” he said. “The only answer I have is that my grief over your mother’s death led me down this dark road. I was so lonely, Delia. I missed her so much. The gambling was a distraction at first…before it became a problem. By that stage, I was in so deep I could not see a way out.”

Delia stared into the small, flickering fire. It was in danger of going out. A small chill ran down her spine. Now she understood why there weren’t any roaring fires in the house anymore. Her father couldn’t afford the fuel.

Other things occurred to her now. Her supply of new gowns and other accessories had dwindled over the past few months. Usually, her father spoilt her with so many new gowns, bonnets, and hats that her wardrobe was overflowing. But she hadn’t been to the modiste for new gowns for over two months now. Often she had to rotate the same three ball gowns, which was slightly embarrassing. 

“The marriage with Lord Stanton will save me and this house,” he continued, his eyes glimmering with tears. “I am sorry, Delia. More than I can say. But there is no other choice. The banks will not loan me anything now, and the deal with Lord Stanton was brokered only because we are old friends, and he is trying to do me a great favour.”

Delia gazed at him steadily. “Why can he not just loan you the money? Why is it conditional upon me marrying him?”

“Because he wants a young wife,” he said, looking shamefaced. “It is many years since his wife died. He only has daughters and no son and heir. He thinks this may be his last chance to secure the heir he wants.”

Delia felt ill. “So he wants me as a broodmare, does he?”

“You are putting it too crudely, Delia,” he replied, a vein twitching in his forehead. “He greatly admires you. You are known for your beauty and accomplishments. Many young ladies make such matches with older gentlemen. It is not so unusual.”

Delia stood up. She was so angry and hurt that she was shaking. “Perhaps it is not that unusual, Papa. But that does not mean that I desire such a life. I do not love Lord Stanton, and I never will. To me, he is an old man. His daughter Eleanor is the same age as me. Do you not see how humiliating it would be for me to become stepmother to her and her younger sister? They would laugh at me! They would never respect me!”

The Marquess’s face hardened. “Eleanor and Amelia will get used to you. They must. It is not insurmountable. Besides, they will make their own marriages soon enough and leave their home. You would not have to reside with them for very long.”

Delia blinked back tears of frustration. “Why must I pay for your mistakes? Why must I suffer for the rest of my life because you have been reckless?”

“Cordelia,” he said, his voice full of flint. “That is enough. You are not being respectful towards me. I am still your father, and you must obey me.”

“I will never marry Lord Stanton!” she declared, stamping her foot. “Never!”

 “You will marry him. You just need to get used to the idea,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Go to your room!”

“With pleasure!” she cried, getting up and fleeing the room. She banged the door loudly. Then she ran down the hallway, tears blurring her vision. They were pouring down her face by the time she reached her chambers. Minnie was still there, hanging freshly laundered and pressed gowns in the wardrobe. She looked stunned to see her mistress in such a state.

“My lady,” she cried, rushing to her. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Minnie,” said Delia, hugging the maid and putting her head on her shoulder. 

Minnie didn’t say anything. She simply hugged her back, making soothing sounds until Delia calmed down. Then the maid pulled back, staring into her face.

“What has happened?” she asked in a quiet voice. “I have never seen you so upset. Apart from when your lady mother passed away.”

Delia stared into the maid’s face. Minnie was the same age as her and her closest friend in the world, despite the vast differences in their stations. She was the only person she could confide all her troubles to.

“He wants me to marry Lord Stanton,” she whispered, her blood running cold again. “My life is over. Oh, Minnie, what am I to do?”

Chapter Two

Highgrove Hotel, London

The wind was whirling snowflakes high in the air as Ambrose Hartfield strode into the lobby of the hotel he was staying at in London. He was cold, angry, and bitterly disappointed. His whole reason for being in London, for travelling all the way down here from his home city of Bradford in northern England, had just disappeared like the snowflakes hitting the ground outside.

The concierge rushed forward, a simpering smile on his face, taking his heavy black coat and hat. “Is there anything I can assist you with, Mr Hartfield?”

Ambrose gazed at the man steadily. He still wasn’t quite used to being treated like royalty in these exclusive places, even though it had been years now. “Yes, you can get me a brandy. I will be at the bar.”

The man almost genuflected before him. “Of course, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.”

The lounge in the hotel was almost empty when he entered it. A large fire was roaring in the fireplace, a cosy heat emanating from it. Ambrose nodded curtly to a moustached gentleman in a chair next to it who was reading a newspaper before continuing on to the bar. He took a seat there. His brandy materialised before him within a minute.

He swirled the brown liquid in the tumbler before taking a long sip. It was just what he needed after his morning. He still couldn’t believe what had happened. Dana Industries, which had promised to supply him with a new range of cutting-edge looms for his wool factory, had abruptly cancelled the meeting. It had taken him half an hour to find out that the company had just gone bankrupt, and his journey to London had been for nothing.

Ambrose sighed, taking another sip. It had been a long journey to get here in his private coach. He had cancelled other business in the North to do so. And that was apart from the fact that he hated being away from his factory for any length of time at all. It was a wasted trip, and Ambrose loathed wasting time and energy.

He sat back in the chair, brooding. He could try to make appointments with other machine manufacturers. But he knew that was probably pointless. There were adequate manufacturers in the North. The only reason he had agreed to come all this way was because Dana Industries were selling a new type of loom that could make production quicker and safer for his workers. To his knowledge, no other manufacturer in London or in the North were selling it. He had wanted to be innovative and was prepared to pay the price to do it. 

No, he just had to cut his losses and get back to Bradford as soon as he could. That was just the way of it sometimes.

“Hartfield? Is that you?”

Ambrose spun around. A man was standing there, smiling at him. To his surprise, it was Jack Baldwin, a business acquaintance from Bradford.

“Baldwin,” he said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” said the man, calling for a brandy. He sat down next to Ambrose. “I have business here for a few weeks. I heard the Highgrove was one of the best hotels in London, so here I am.”

Ambrose nodded, gazing at the man covertly over the rim of his tumbler. He didn’t know Jack Baldwin very well. They’d shared a few conversations here and there over the years. Baldwin owned two factories in the cotton industry, whereas he worked in wool. The man had a reputation as a tyrant, working his employees to the bone. The word around Bradford was that Baldwin’s factories chewed through workers like they were bread, spitting them out when they were maimed or worn out—a fact that offended Ambrose, who always prided himself on treating his own workers well.

However, Baldwin was also one of the most successful factory owners in the city. He had recently been appointed to the city council. The man was becoming very influential, so Ambrose didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, no matter how questionable his business practices were. And besides, he never had much to do with him anyway.

He looks like a weasel, thought Ambrose, staring at him disdainfully. Furtive and shifty-eyed.

“You should be comfortable here,” said Ambrose, draining his brandy. “I have no complaints. Hot water on command. A good bar and a substantial menu.”

Baldwin nodded. “Are you staying here long?”

Ambrose shook his head. “I am just about to leave. A meeting fell through, and I must get back home.” He called over the footman behind the bar. “Can you tell them to get my carriage ready? I want to be ready to leave in an hour.”

The footman nodded, scurrying off to do his bidding.

“Have you been around town at all?” asked Baldwin, lighting a cigar. “Any recommendations of what to do or where to go after work?”

Ambrose shrugged. “I only arrived yesterday. I suppose it depends on what your interests are. Museums? Theatre?”

The man’s small dark eyes glittered. “I was rather thinking more along the lines of a discreet bawdy house, Hartfield. Entertainment of the female variety.”

Ambrose gave him a long look. He should have known Baldwin was the type to frequent brothels, even though the man had a wife and two small children tucked away in Bradford. In his experience, whoremongers kept up their pastime whether they were married or not. Sometimes they frequented such establishments more, not less, when they were married.

He didn’t like bawdy houses himself. Manufactured passion had always left him cold. He preferred women who actually wanted to be in bed with him. But they were few and far between nowadays. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been with a woman. But then, he was married to his work. His factory was an obsession for him. He rarely took a day off.

“I wouldn’t know, Baldwin,” he said, shaking his head. “You might have to go exploring on your own.”

The footman returned. He was frowning. “Mr Hartfield, it appears your carriage is missing.”

“What?” said Ambrose, thinking he had misheard the footman.

 How could a carriage go missing?

He turned to the man sitting next to him. “I must go and see what’s going on, Baldwin. Enjoy your time in London.”

Baldwin nodded. Ambrose followed the footman out to the mews beside the hotel, where the carriages belonging to the hotel guests were lodged. Porter, his carriage driver, was standing there looking bewildered.

“What the deuce is going on, Porter?” barked Ambrose.

The driver shook his head incredulously. “It was here an hour ago, sir,” he said, scratching his head. “And now it’s just…gone!”

Ambrose looked around. There were three carriages in the mews. None of them were his.

 Who would have stolen my carriage?

He hadn’t used the carriage since yesterday. He’d walked to his cancelled appointment with Dana Industries, as it had been only three blocks away. He had thought the fresh air might do him good, and he liked to stretch his legs. But the fact remained that if he had taken the carriage instead, he wouldn’t be faced with this quandary now.

“For the love of our Lord,” he said in a strangled whisper. “Porter, get the other men. Search high and low for it. Maybe it is abandoned along a side street somewhere.”

“Right you are, sir,” said Porter, gathering the men. They set off into the streets, dispersing like fog beneath sunlight.

Ambrose gritted his teeth, marching back into the hotel. He didn’t want to go back to the bar. Jack Baldwin was still there, and he really didn’t like the man very much. He was also furiously angry and wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. He retreated to his room after telling the concierge to inform him immediately if the carriage was found.

In the room, he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling morosely. Waiting was torture for him. He was a man of action. He should be at his factory in Bradford, not skulking around a London hotel room waiting for word as to whether his carriage was found. Frustration was boiling in his blood. This whole trip had been an utter waste of time, and now he couldn’t even get home!

He sat up, sitting on the edge of the bed, before walking to the window. Outside, the snow was thickening. People were running on the street, eager to get out of the weather, except for the poor street sellers who had to remain at their stalls come rain or shine. If they didn’t work, they didn’t eat. It was as simple as that.

His heart clenched. He remembered a time when he had been that poor. He had grown up in a back lane in Bradford, the son of a struggling baker. He and his four siblings had all shared a room. His mother had to take in sewing to help pay the rent. It had been a dismal, hard existence that he had managed to crawl his way out of with the sweat of his labour and the vision in his mind. He had been working since he was fourteen. And now he was a factory owner, an industrialist, wealthier than he had ever dreamt possible.

But he never forgot where he came from. 

Ambrose sighed, staring at a chestnut seller. The man was huddled in his thin coat, blowing at his hands to keep warm. He felt sorry for the man.

He thought of his house in a well-to-do area of Bradford—A home large enough to fit three families, and yet he lived there alone. In fact, he was rarely even there. Most of the time, he was at the factory. His own family still lived in the tenements, stubbornly resisting moving, even though he had offered to buy a house for them. His ma said that she didn’t want to leave as she would miss the neighbours and his pa just went along with her. He still visited them when he had a chance, but it wasn’t often anymore, and the gap between them just kept growing wider. He felt out of place there but not quite at home where he lived in the fashionable, leafy suburb of Bradford, either.

Betwixt and between, he thought ruefully. I am stuck between two worlds and not truly a part of either of them.

There was a knock on the door. He strode to it, pulling it open. Porter stood there, wringing his cap between his hands.

“We can’t find the carriage, sir,” he said. “We’ve looked everywhere. It could be anywhere in London.”

Ambrose cursed under his breath. “How long will it take to buy another one?”

The driver shrugged. “I will get straight on it, sir.”

“Never mind,” said Ambrose, irritation and impatience rising in his chest again. “I will take a public stagecoach back home. Go and book me on the next one heading to Bradford.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I must get back as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, sir,” said the driver, scurrying away.

Ambrose slammed the door. He detested public stagecoaches and hadn’t ridden in one since he was seventeen. As he had just turned thirty, that was a long time ago. But it was probably the quickest way home at this point. It might take days to find a suitable carriage to buy, and then there were new horses to secure, as well. He could leave Porter here to purchase all of it and then drive it to Bradford. He would be home before the driver was.

He cursed again. It had been a luckless day all round. A luckless trip. If all went well, something good would come his way, and Porter would secure him a ticket on a coach leaving tonight. He could only hope.

---

“The Secret Desire of a Fiery Lady” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Lady Cordelia Pelham’s entire world has been turned upside down when she is forced to marry an old family friend to save their ancestral home. In the blink of an eye, she is suddenly masquerading as her loyal maid, journeying north on a public stagecoach to Bradford, to start a whole new life. Even though she knows she must avoid drama, it will not be easy… Especially when the most scandalous man she has ever encountered gets on the coach in London and all of her carefully laid plans fly out the carriage window.

Will she sacrifice everything and surrender to this enigmatic stranger?

Ambrose Hartfield is furious. His carriage has been stolen and he must get back to his hometown of Bradford to oversee his wool factory. Desperate, he gets a ticket on a public stagecoach, with no intention of even speaking with the other passengers. Not until he notices the tempting golden haired young Lady, who speaks with such a refined accent, but wears the clothing of a working class woman…

Who is Miss Parker, and why is he unable to resist her?

As the carriage slowly makes its way north, Delia and Ambrose make their way into each other’s hearts. Everyday they grow closer and they soon find themselves unable to resist the forbidden urge to kiss each other. As secrets start to unravel and they are faced with losing one another forever, what choices will they make? Will their undeniable passion overcome the obstacles that keep trying to pull them apart?

“The Secret Desire of a Fiery Lady” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!