Everything a Lady Craves (Preview)

Prologue

London, Summer, 1814

The woman stumbled slightly as she walked down the cobblestone alley. It was dark, and she squinted as she tried to make out the names of the shops. They were all hanging on wooden signs, which were squeaking and rocking in the wind. She felt her heart pounding harder. What if she could not find it?

The wind had created a tunnel, twisting and howling through the narrow alley. It was so ferocious that her bonnet suddenly flew off her head, as if a hand had reached down from the heavens and snatched it away. She stumbled more, as she awkwardly chased it, tumbling along the ground. Eventually, she managed to pounce on it, picking it up with shaking hands, and tying the tattered ribbons beneath her chin tightly, to secure it.

She was tired. So tired, that she could barely put one foot in front of the other. Her eyes hurt, stinging with fatigue. All that she wanted to do was lie down and close her eyes. She wasn’t even fussy where at this point, as long as blessed sleep could overtake her, and she could rest, at long last.

She jumped at the sound of a cat mewling loudly behind her. She turned her head and watched the thin wretched creature dart past her legs. It was marmalade, with high pointed ears and large, almost haunted, green eyes. In its mouth it carried the skeleton of a fish, obviously pilfered from scraps that were lying all around. It did not even acknowledge her as it ran away, disappearing into the shadows with its prize.

Her heart started to slow down, just a little. She was jumping at everything. It was only a stray cat. It could do her no harm.

She kept walking, quicker now, staring at the wooden signs. She had never been in a place like this before and she was scared. Oh, she had heard all about the bad areas of London, the places that no respectable soul would ever enter. Her father had told her all about them when she was a little girl, although her mother had scolded him for scaring her afterwards.

There was the area known as the Mint, he told her, which was the very worst. A slum, only ten minutes from London Bridge. A former genteel area that had collapsed into ruins and now was a pit of squalor, housing at least three thousand unfortunate souls. And then, there was the Almonry, near Westminster Abbey, known colloquially as The Devil’s Acre. Another was called the Rookery, or Little Dublin, on account of the high proportion of starving Irish who filled its putrid buildings.

She could still remember some of the street names of these notorious London slums. They had made her shiver in horror. Cat’s Hole, Dark Entry and Pillory Lane. It was a whole other world, a dark story that she had never imagined she would even glimpse, let alone be walking the streets.

London was an entirely different world for her. She had not been to the great city many times, but they still shone in her memory, like precious jewels. A matinee at Covent Garden, when she was ten years old, to see the ballet. A visit to the Royal Academy of the Arts, to view an exhibition. An afternoon at a genteel tearoom, where she and her mother had sipped the finest brew in white china cups, watching the parade of fine ladies and gentlemen strolling the pavement.

It was all a far cry from where she was now.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw two figures leaning against a lamppost. A gas lamppost that her father told her had only been introduced to the city this very year. The gas hissed and sputtered in its glass enclosure, flickering dimly, casting a wan light over the wet, grey cobblestones.

The figures were two women, she noted, as she drew closer. Young women dressed in garish gowns, their knotted hair hanging loose around their shoulders. One had a bright green feather boa wrapped around her neck. The other had hair an unusually bright shade of yellow. They stopped talking, watching her, as she walked by.

“Ooh, well, aren’t you a fine lady, then,” called the one with the yellow hair in a mocking tone. “Did your carriage break down, duckie?”

The two women laughed. It sounded like the cackles of witches in the night. She raised her chin higher. She would ignore them.

“Cat got your tongue?” called the other woman, with the feather boa. She turned to her companion. “She thinks she’s high and mighty, this one. We should teach her a lesson, bringing her airs and graces down Gilley Lane.”

They peeled themselves away from the lamppost, approaching her, almost circling her, like prowling cats. She felt a shiver of pure fear as her head whipped around watching them.

“Please,” she said in a small voice. “Please, will you tell me where the Black Swan Inn is?”

“The Black Swan?” said the woman with the feather boa. “Now, why would a fine lady like you want to know where that gambling den is?”

“It ain’t for the likes of you,” said the other, still circling her. “They play cards all night there and would sell their mother’s soul for an ale. Why do you want to go there? Are you selling trade?”

“That’s it,” said the feather boa woman, with delight in her voice. “It’s a trick, so it is! She’s dolled up like a fine lady to get custom. Some punters like to think they are with a bit of quality, don’t they?”

She stared at them, appalled, blushing fiercely. She finally realised what they were talking about. They were insinuating that she was a prostitute. As she stared at their garish gowns and painted faces, she suddenly knew that she was consorting with common whores.

A frisson of horror shuddered through her. She should have known straight away, of course. Why else would they be in this lane at night, leaning against a lamppost, looking like they did? But then, nothing in her sheltered upbringing had prepared her for such an encounter. She was in unknown, uncharted territory, without a map to guide her.

She knew she had to bluff it out. To show fear to them would be her undoing. Perhaps she should play along. It might be the only way to get to her destination.

She took a deep breath, raising her chin again. “That’s right,” she said slowly. “It’s all an act. And I have someone there who is waiting for me and willing to pay good coin. Could you tell me where it is, and I can be on my way?”

The woman with the yellow hair smiled suddenly, exposing a row of rotten teeth. “Well, aren’t you the clever one, then?” Her eyes, which had previously been cold, were now shining with admiration. “Do you pay extra to get the fancy clothes? It must be worth it. And your accent is ever so good.”

She took another deep breath. “Yes, I practice it, during the day. I talk with it all the time now. Makes it easier, you know?”

The woman with feather boa nodded. “I knew a girl who did that once. Called herself Lady Clara and acted like a toff to draw in a certain clientele.” Her smile faded. “I can’t do that, though. Can’t afford the coin for the good clothes, and besides, everyone around here knows that I am just Nellie from Little Row Lane. Where are you from, then?”

Her heart started pounding harder. That was the problem with lying. It often became so complicated. She couldn’t tell these common whores the truth. Suddenly, her mind flashed on an area of London that her father had told her about, the day he had talked about the slums.

“There are slightly better areas, of course,” he had said, frowning slightly. “Certainly not genteel, but not slums, either. Lambeth is one. Labourers and artisans live there, semi respectably. They are not rich, but neither are they thieves and scoundrels, like in the Mint, or The Devil’s Acre.”

The two whores were waiting for an answer. She took a deep breath.

“Lambeth,” she said. “I am from Lambeth. Meeting a client, at the Black Swan. I am already late, and he won’t be happy…” Suddenly, she knew how she could extract herself from this situation. “I can give you both a shilling, if you take me there. He pays well, and I got some, in advance.”

The women looked at each other. Then the one with the yellow hair nodded slowly.

“We will take you there, for a shilling each,” she said slowly. “Trade is slow tonight, and that wind is killing my ears. Besides, us working girls have to look after each other, don’t we?”

She smiled at them, so relieved that she almost felt like kissing their painted faces.

They didn’t talk any further. They simply started walking down the lane. She hesitated for a moment then followed them. She would simply have to trust that they would be as good as their word. She had been wandering these lanes for over half an hour now, looking for the Black Swan Inn, and she was growing anxious. They all looked the same, with their grey cobblestones and shabby storefronts. It was like a maze. And she simply could not remember the name of the street or lane that the inn was located on. All she recalled was the name of it.

The woman with the feather boa glanced back to see that she was following. Then they turned, ducking into a narrower lane. She held her breath as she smelt something putrid rising to her nostrils. It smelt like burnt cabbage left out in the rain. A terrible, rotting smell, that she somehow knew she would never forget.

This lane was even darker, not even lit by a lamp. But suddenly she heard singing in the distance. An old folk song that she had heard the servants singing from time-to-time. This rendition was clumsy and raucous. And the voices were all deep and masculine. There was a hiccup or two amongst the words.

They are in their cups, she thought, a shiver of fear falling through her. They are so deep in them that they are stumbling over the words.

She almost felt like turning back and fleeing. She had never been around people who were the worse for strong drink, but she had heard about it. Her own parents were temperate, never allowing alcohol in the house, not even a glass of wine at dinner.

But she had come so far. And she knew it was all too late now. The die had been cast. She was on this journey, for better or worse.

They were almost there. She saw the men stumbling out of the inn, singing loudly. The wooden sign above the tavern declared it to be the Black Swan, and there was a rough painting of a black swan beneath it. She was here at long last. She had made it.

Her heart leapt with sudden, wild joy. It had all been worth it, all the uncomfortable travel, the weary search through the putrid lanes. Soon, she would be safe again. Soon, all the plans that had been made would spring into action, like a wound-up doll.

She was almost there. The two women were approaching the doorway now, to a chorus of catcalls and jeers from the drinking men.

But then, suddenly, she saw a figure. A tall, black figure, emerging like a ghost, from a darkened hole. Creeping like a phantom from the shadows towards her.

The figure was upon her before she could even react. A long black cloak, with a deep hood, drawn low over the face.

The figure gripped her wrist, tightly. She screamed with all her might.

Chapter One

Bath, Winter, 1814

Alice ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She knew that her mother would scold her if she saw, reminding her that she was not a little girl anymore. Young ladies were supposed to walk daintily down staircases. But Mama was out for the morning, at a new art exhibition that had just come to the town, and was not around to see, was she?

At the bottom she ran along the polished marble floor towards her father’s study. The request that she join him had just been delivered by Betty, her maid. This was unusual. Professor Reginald Sinclair was not in the habit of wanting to be disturbed when he was in his study, especially of a morning. Alice knew that was when he perused the latest natural science journals that had just arrived in the morning’s post, hoarding them in his study, rather like a jackdaw hoarding shiny trinkets for its nest.

She thought about her father as she approached the door. Her dear Papa had retired just six months earlier from his teaching position at the local university, and she thought that he was rather at a loss what to do with his time now. He had made grand plans to travel to Scotland and Wales on hunting expeditions for the rocks and gemstones that he so loved. But so far he hadn’t moved from his study all that much.

It was driving her mother to distraction. Mrs. Honora Sinclair was used to having the house to herself, after all. Papa had declared her ladies’ painter group, which assembled here every Tuesday afternoon, as too rowdy for him to read in his study. So, her dear mother had started to go out more, to other people’s houses. The ladies’ painter group that her mother so cherished was now held at Mrs. Ingram’s house.

Alice took a deep breath, knocking softly. A gruff voice emerged. “Enter.”

She walked through the door. Her father was sitting behind his desk, his head in a book as always. She walked slowly into the room, gazing around as she waited for him to finish the paragraph and acknowledge her.

Her father’s study was the same as it always was. It never changed. If she closed her eyes, she could be five years old again, or ten, or fourteen, rather than the twenty she now was. It was as if time itself stood still in here.

Her father was an avid collector. There were tall mahogany bookcases, stuffed to overflowing with natural science tomes. There were other shelves as well, holding rocks and gemstones, shells, strange insects, and creepy sea creatures with hard shells. There were other items that were too odd to even name, although her father would know, of course.

A thick layer of dust had settled on many of the collections, a fact that she knew irritated her mother. Papa would only let Jean, the maid, into the room to dust every fortnight, and then only for ten minutes. Jean simply could not get to every shelf, there was too many and they were too high for her. Papa knew this. All of it was exactly the way he liked it. He did not like this room disturbed at all.

“Ah, Alice,” he said, snapping the book shut and peering at her over the rims of his round spectacles. “You have arrived. Have a seat, my dear.”

Alice did as he commanded, settling herself into a grey armchair, near the roaring fire. Her father stood up, placing the book down on the desk. Alice read the title, on the spine: A History of the Molluscs of Cornwall. She barely suppressed a laugh. She didn’t know how her father could endure to read such a dry topic. It would bore her to tears.

He walked to the mantelpiece, leant against it, and gazed at her. She could see that he was still in the thrall of the book, by the faraway look in his eyes. Mama often said that her dear husband lived half in this world and half in another entirely.

“Do you remember,” he began, in a warm voice, “the time that we went exploring along the Cornwall coastline, many years ago? You always did love to run along the sand, collecting shells. They are good memories, my Alice bear.”

Alice smiled. “I remember it well, Papa. I got sunburnt, and Mama scolded you afterwards for being so careless with my skin. You had forgotten my parasol.”

“So I did,” said Professor Sinclair, looking a little shamefaced. “I never have been good at remembering practical things like that. But we had fun, did we not?” He paused, gazing at her a little sadly. “It only seems like yesterday that you were my girl, running alongside me.”

“We had lots of fun,” said Alice warmly. “I will treasure those memories of our explorations forever, dear Papa.”

He nodded, staring into the fire. “And now you have become a young lady,” he said with a sigh, turning back to her. “A beautiful young lady. You are not my little Alice bear anymore, it seems. And I suppose I must let that little girl go, once and for all.”

Alice stared at him. It was not like Papa to be melancholy. “I will always be your little girl,” she said in a low voice. “You know that. Papa, whatever is the matter?”

He sighed deeply, sitting down in the armchair opposite her. She noticed that he kept pulling at the fabric of his britches, near the knees, a nervous habit she had noticed since she was a little girl.

“It seems that others have noticed that you are no longer a little girl, Alice,” he said in a slightly mortified voice. “How old are you now? Twenty? Or one and twenty?”

She rolled her eyes. Trust her absent-minded father to not remember how old she was. “Twenty, Papa.”

“Of course.” He looked at her apologetically. He coughed slightly. “There comes a time in a young lady’s life when thoughts drift towards matrimony. And it seems as if that time has come for you, my Alice.”

She gaped at him. “What do you mean?”

He coughed again. “I mean…that there has been an offer put in for you, Alice. For your hand.” He hesitated. “Your mother and I received the offer only two days ago. It came from the Wilmington family, on behalf of their eldest son, Silas.”

She kept staring at him. She simply didn’t know what to say. Nothing had prepared her for this moment, it seemed, even though she had been dreaming of it since she was eight years old.

She had always loved the idea of marriage. As an only child, she had no one else to play with a lot of the time, and so her dolls and her bears were her play companions. Her favourite game in the world had been dressing them up, as if they were attending a wedding. Rosie, her favourite doll, was always bride, and Wilco, her tatty old bear with one eye missing, was groom.

As she had grown into a young lady, she would devour the Gothic romances of the day, reading them late into the night. Her favourite moment was always when the lead characters married. She would dream, then, about what her future husband would look like. She would dream, too, of her wedding gown, walking down the aisle, towards her husband-to-be. She simply knew it would be the happiest day of her life.

But for a girl who dreamt fervently of weddings and being married, she had been poor on suitors. None of the young gentlemen that she encountered appealed to her, and none of them pursued her, either. She was mortified that perhaps she might never have one, that she might grow up into that most pitiful of characters, an old maid.

And now, her dear Papa was gazing at her earnestly, telling her that an offer had been put in for her hand. From a gentleman called Silas Wilmington.

Alice frowned. She wasn’t acquainted with the gentleman, but surely she had heard his name somewhere before? She scowled, trying to grasp it, but it was elusive, skirting around the corners of her mind.

“Silas Wilmington,” she said aloud, rolling the syllables of the name over her tongue. “I have heard the name. How have I heard the name?”

Her father coughed into his hand again. “I daresay you have heard him mentioned on the social circuit,” he said quickly. “His family are well-respected, in the Bath community. His father is a magistrate, and they have one of the best houses in the town, and a country estate as well. They are very wealthy…”

She kept frowning. She didn’t think she had heard him mentioned just in passing. There was something about the name that had been gossiped about for a long time. She had even heard such gossip when she had attended balls and the assembly rooms, even though she tried her hardest not to listen to idle gossip, finding it boring in the extreme.

Suddenly, it fell into her mind, clicking into place like a well-oiled wheel. There had indeed been gossip about Silas Wilmington. A tragic story. She had felt rather sorry for the poor gentleman, when she had heard it.

In her excitement at recalling it, she stood up, her eyes alight.

“I remember!” she exclaimed. “Silas Wilmington. He is the one who lost his fiancée. They were all set to be married, and then she suddenly vanished, without trace. Her family searched for her for months, to no avail. Am I right?”

Her father sighed deeply, looking pained. “Indeed, you are correct, Alice. There was a dark cloud hanging over both families for months. The Wilmington’s and the St. George family.”

Alice gasped. Further details were slotting into her mind now. The name of the missing fiancée was Marina St. George. Apparently, the lady was only a year older than herself, when she disappeared, more than six months ago now.

She had even noticed Marina St. George at a few balls. It was hard not to. The lady was simply stunning. She was revered as a great beauty in Bath society. She was always the belle of the ball. Apparently, a famous painter from London had come to Bath to ask her to sit for him.

She was larger than life, in all ways. A willowy, statuesque lady, with flaxen gold hair and the most astonishing eyes, which were such a deep, intense shade of blue that they were almost purple. Marina St. George’s violet eyes were legendary.

She was also flamboyant, very dramatic, always seeking and becoming the centre of attention. Miss St. George had a hundred suitors, all falling at her feet, but for some reason, she had chosen Mr. Silas Wilmington. The engagement had proceeded without a hitch, and they were a month short of their wedding day when she suddenly vanished, never to be heard of again.

The rumour mill had gone wild with speculation about what had happened to her, of course. There was talk of white slave traders, highwaymen, or foul play. Mr. St. George, her father, had hired a private investigator to find his daughter, but all to no avail. There had been no sighting of Marina since she had left her house one morning telling the maid that she was going shopping for gloves.

It was the talk of the town. It was the talk of the district. Even now, six months after the event, there were still pockets of people churning it over, trying to find out what had happened. In the local newspaper they termed it ‘The Mystery of Marina’.

Alice frowned. “Papa, I have heard all the gossip,” she said, sinking down into her chair again. “Silas Wilmington was heartbroken over the loss of Miss St. George. There are whispers that he is a shell of the man that he once was. He has never recovered.”

“Pfft,” said her father dismissively. “That is gossip, pure and simple! Well, he was upset about Miss St. George’s disappearance, of course, but his father assures me that his son is eager and ready to join the matrimonial game once again.”

Alice’s heart sank into her shoes. She could tell by the blustery quality of her father’s voice that it wasn’t as simple as that.

More than likely, Silas Wilmington did not want to become engaged again, but his family were pushing him into it. For she knew from the gossip, too, that his engagement to Marina St. George had been a love match.

Old biddies, in corners at balls, sighed dramatically when they talked about it. Silas Wilmington had been head-over-heels in love with the lady, even seeking her out at her home to serenade her on her balcony, like Romeo did in Romeo and Juliet. He had been so enamoured of her that he had pushed forward the wedding date by two months, eager to make her his bride.

And now her father was expecting her to believe that he wanted to marry her, a lady he had never even met before.

It was his family behind it, pure and simple.

“Papa,” she said, gazing at him anxiously. “It is not that I am adverse to the idea of marriage. You know very well that I have been dreaming of the day since I was a young girl…”

Her father beamed. “You and your doll weddings!”

“But,” she said, leaning forward in the chair, “I do not wish to marry someone who truly does not wish to marry me. It might be an arranged marriage, rather than a love match, but I still want my fiancé to go into it with a pure heart, ready and willing to accept me as his bride.”

Her father wilted. “You think that he is not over his lost fiancée, as the Wilmingtons claim.”

“Indeed I do not,” said Alice, in a tight voice. “I know it was a love match, and he was simply heartbroken over losing her. I do not want to play second fiddle to any woman. How do you think I would feel, knowing that my fiancé was always comparing me to another woman and that I would never measure up?”

Her father gazed at her sadly. “It would be hard.” He paused. “And I would not put you in a terrible situation like that, my Alice. I sat down with Silas Wilmington myself, in this very room, and he assured me that he is a willing participant in this proposal. He told me that he just wants to move on with his life and has heard that you are charming.”

Alice gazed at him doubtfully. Marina St. George’s beauty and charm were legendary. And who was she? She was only boring Alice Sinclair, who had not done much at all. There were no poems praising her beauty, nor oil portraits of her on gallery walls. Why, Miss St. George was almost famous, in a strange kind of way, even before she had vanished into thin air.

How on earth could she compete with that?

Why on earth would she even want to?

Her frown deepened. “I do not know,” she said, feeling conflicted. “It seems odd, that his heart would have mended so quickly, if he loved her as well as I have heard…”

“Do not underestimate the power of recovery,” said her father, in a quiet voice. “He may have loved the young lady well and true, but it has been six months, Alice. He is a young man who desires to wed, as any young man does. No one knows what happened to Miss St. George – she could have met with foul play. Should he be expected to pine over the lady and not wed for the rest of his life?”

Alice gazed at her father steadily. There was truth to that. She would not want a young gentleman to make his life a shrine to his lost love. Perhaps Silas Wilmington did, indeed, just want to move on with his life, and this was part of that process.

Her heart flipped over in her chest just thinking about him. Poor man. It must be a terrible thing to live with, knowing that the woman you loved with your whole heart was gone, probably forever.

Tears filled her eyes. She had yearned for a love match, too, just like Silas had with Marina. Just like all the lovers in her Gothic romances. But Alice was practical, too. She knew that most marriages in her society were formally arranged.

And there had been no ardent lovers fighting over her hand, like Marina had.

She might never have an offer again. If she refused this one, she might wilt away and turn into the dreaded old maid. The thought of it made her shudder.

She sighed deeply. “All right, Papa. You can inform the Wilmington family that I am receptive to the offer.” She stood up, smoothing down the creases in her gown.

He looked happy, standing up and taking her hand. “You know I only want the best for you, my Alice bear,” he said slowly, tears in his eyes. “The Wilmington family are well-respected and wealthy. You will want for nothing in this life, my dear.”

Alice nodded slowly. It seemed that she had set the wheels in motion now, and she knew how it would run. There would be no time to change her mind, without causing offence. She was committed, as surely as if he had already slipped a ring onto her finger.

But a small corner of her heart screamed out, shaking her to the core.

What about love, Alice? Do you not deserve to have that in your life, too?

---

“Everything a Lady Craves” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Alice Sinclair’s delicate heart has longed for love since she was a little girl. However, when a charming man asks for her hand in marriage, she is hesitant to turn a new page in her life. Having heard the whispers about the man’s missing fiancée, she can’t help but wonder whether she could ever be anything but second best for him. Once they finally meet, the desire that sparks between them is undeniable, but there will soon be clouds on the horizon… Will Alice be able to finally satisfy the burning passion she holds for him, or will this romance be doomed forever?

The last thing Silas Wilmington expected after the unforeseen disappearance of his fiancée, was another tempting woman by his side. Tired of being haunted by his tormented past, he chooses to accept his inevitable fate with a heavy heart. But little did he know that the beautiful and seductive Alice was about to start a fire inside him… After having mourned his great love for a long time, he could have never imagined that romance could be on the cards for him again. Will Silas eventually let his wounds heal and surrender to Alice’s charm?

Just when they start unfolding their growing feelings, someone who holds the key to Sila’s broken heart appears and everything is about to crash down. Will their newly fledged passion endure a quick death, as the wounds from the past are still bleeding? Or will they survive to meet the passionate future they could have together?

“Everything a Lady Craves” 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!