A Lord Deceived by Desire (Preview)

Prologue

Arianna

One evening in January, 1815…

The evening was cool and heavy, as were most evenings in Wiltshire. There was a light dappling of stars in the sky, and Lady Arianna Fenton thought to spell love in them. Then again, she was staring at them from a window in Rushom Court’s ballroom, and her breath was misting up the glass. For all she knew, the stars could have been spelling dove, or lone, or dog. 

Of one thing she was certain: they did not spell quiet.

“And that is one more thing I loathe about the Season,” Diana said, continuing her tirade. “There is not a modiste in all of London who is not working themselves to the bone this time of year. And they take on the most undeserving ladies, with the most garish gowns in mind! Why, it was near impossible for Arianna and me to secure our gowns for this evening. Was it not such, my darling?”

“It was such,” Arianna parroted, still gazing at the night’s sky. 

In the reflection of the window, she could see Lady Marwood flick open her fan behind her. “Ah, Diana. You have always been the most optimistic of my nieces,” the woman teased. “Had I known you were so terribly averse to finding a husband, I would have spared the paper for your invite!” 

“Now, Aunt, make no mistake,” Diana riposted. “I am as great an enjoyer of the Season as there ever will be, and as anxious as all the rest to secure a match for myself, but that does not mean the Season is without its perils. Take Arianna’s sweetest sister, Regina, for example. Is she not the most beautiful, charming, well-mannered woman in the world?”

Arianna tittered. “And the most humble, heavens be praised!” 

“Forgive me, Anna. But to my point, look at Regina’s lot—branded a shelf-sitter for her inability to secure a husband at the tender age of three-and-twenty. The Season is a mirthless business, I say. Mirthless and bloody.” Diana sucked in a breath. “That is not to say you have not done a wonderful job of decorating Rushom Court, of course.”

With a laugh, Lady Marwood drew the girls in close. “And just like that, you have won me over. Oh, I have taught you girls well!” She pressed a kiss to Arianna’s right temple and Diana’s left. “Now, if you would do me the honour of nipping your whinging in the bud before our guests arrive…”

Turning, Arianna scanned the ballroom, at the end of which lingered a set of footmen and a maid. “Which guests would these be, my lady?”

“A lord or two from the county and their wives and heirs,” she suggested, which Ariana knew to mean, the richest men in all England and their eligible sons. After all, Lady Georgiana Marwood had a fierce reputation as a matchmaker, fiercer yet than her reputation as a libertine spinster—though young ladies like Arianna should not have been thinking such a thing. While she was Diana’s aunt by design, Lady Marwood had been just as rigorous in the sentimental education of Arianna. “I had invited your father the Marquess, Arianna, but he assured me your clan were too busy in London to attend.”

“Father hates to travel, and Mother hates to be contrarian, as you know.” Arianna shrugged. “Regina is otherwise occupied, entertaining the third son of a duke on Father’s orders. From what she told me, he was rather boorish…and balding.”

“See?” Diana put her hands on her hips. “Mirthless.”

“I have filtered out the boorish and balding from the list of guests this evening, my flowers,” Lady Marwood said. “Head up the stairs and affix your masks for the masquerade. We shall see for ourselves what the night has in store,” she added with a flick of her skirts.

What the night had in store, if the first two hours of the proceedings were any indication, was a great deal of waiting around. It seemed to Arianna that her charm did not lie in her gaze because she could not secure a partner nor a look from any of the men in attendance. Glancing at her gown, an outrageous affair of red silk and beading—nipped so tightly below the bosom, every laugh could be the death of her—she worried the colour was scaring suitors off. Diana was having no better luck in her shocking green ensemble, suckling on a wafer from their nest beside the tippling table. 

The hall swelled with dancing, twinkling from top to bottom. What Lady Marwood had called a lord or two was in fact half the county of Wiltshire, and a half-dozen musicians. Not a gentleman among them sought to make their acquaintance through their chaperone, who was equally their host. 

Arianna supposed she should be grateful. Her father’s domain was in Wiltshire, and she had spent much of her life taking the measure of its bachelors. The ones who weren’t horse-mad had little in the way of charm. The others were mad for horses naturally, not women.

  It was not until the second set of the evening that her luck began to change. Diana had been swept away to dance by a man who claimed to be a baron, though behind his mask could have been a rake—worse, a man of trade. Waiting for her return, Arianna fidgeted with her empty dance card, until a wandering elbow clicked viciously against her own. The card flew from her hand, landing in a crystalline bowl of punch. 

With a gentle gasp and a rub of her elbow, she turned toward her assailant. The man was dressed entirely in black, save for his mask, which was royal blue in colour. He regarded Arianna with amusement, but his eyes were tired. 

He offered nothing in the way of apologies. 

Staring into the pool of punch, he mumbled, “I suppose I should fish that out for you,” before picking up a silver goblet and wielding it as a ladle. Arianna watched in stunned silence as he fished for the card. Before long, he had scooped it up and offered it to her in its cup. 

“Surely,” Arianna mused, “you do not mean for me to drink that, sir.” 

“That would be a rather bad idea.” Reading the drink as one might read leaves of tea, he added, “The names of your partners have all washed away.”

Arianna prickled with embarrassment. “No matter.” 

“Will you find them again?”

“It is a masquerade, sir. I will not compromise our guests’ anonymity by asking for their names. Nor will I compromise myself by asking for a dance.”

His eyes, which were a remarkable shade of brown, twinkled with the same weary glee as before. “It seems I have no other option but to dance with you all eve.” He set the cup down and extended his hand. “If you will have me, my lady.”

Arianna considered his hand for a moment. Then she pressed the tips of her fingers to his before they could be claimed by another. “So long as you promise to watch those elbows of yours, good sir. And what I assume to be equally vicious feet”

“I will take your slippers for bond,” he joked as they moved toward the dance floor, “not a thing more.”

“Not a rib? Not even the tip of my nose?”

“You would paint me a jester so early in our dalliance?”

“I would paint you that which you so clearly are—clumsy.”

She coerced a laugh from him, and it was the most delightful low peal she had ever heard. “Tell you what, I will ask you again at the end of the night what you think of me. We shall reserve all judgement until then, my lady.” He turned in a half-circle, edging her forward as the last set of dancers cleared the floor.

With a gentle nod, she agreed. 

The music sounded for a waltz, a dance for lovers. It was unorthodox for such an affair, but Lady Marwood had always been a champion for passion. Round and round they danced; her partner was surprisingly graceful. Twice she recovered from a trip on her skirts, but the masked man seemed none the wiser. In fact, it seemed he could not tear his eyes from her, looking at her in the way one might look over the sea—with dwarfing wonder and a little fear. Never before had she read such deep emotion in a man’s gaze, and she cursed the romantic that dwelled in her heart for entertaining such foolish dreaming. 

But she did dream as they danced—long after they had stopped dancing too—of his touch, his wit, his nervous smile, and more vapidly the richness of his chestnut hair. He was like the golden heroes in the poems she liked to read. Except he was real, and holding her with such gentle possession, she never wanted to leave his embrace.

When the piece came to an end, her heart pined for him most curiously. He lavished her with compliments, “You are a most gracious dancer,” first, “Never have I seen such bright green eyes as yours,” next, and so on, until she was rendered near breathless. Once parted, she wandered from the ballroom onto the patio behind the house. Lady Marwood was far too busy with hosting and boasting about her niece to take any note of her other ward’s escape.

Arianna settled against the fence at the edge of the terrace. She stared over the lawns, embracing herself to ward off the nip in the air—and her selfishness. 

It was not fair to consider romance while her elder sister was still on the market. It was not fair to burden her masked partner with her fantasies. Most of all, it was not fair to let herself believe in love when all evidence pointed to the fact that it was a fabrication. 

A set of footsteps sounded behind her.

“My apologies, my lady. I had thought to be alone,” a familiar voice said. “I shall leave you to contemplate the garden.”

She whipped around. The blue-masked man was before her, turned halfway toward the estate, half-veiled by night. Arianna said, “Another woman might think you had made a point of following her.”

He smiled. “Another woman might not have dared slip away from her chaperone.” Taking a step toward her, he purred, “You are not like other women.”

Before she could think to stop him, he tore off his mask. Arianna stepped back against the fence, convinced she had never seen a more handsome man in her life. His countenance was fair, but angular. He was of middling height, but held himself taller. She received his smile like a gift. 

“Do say something or I’ll worry you find me quite beastly.”

“You are anything but beastly, sir,” she allowed herself, thankful that her mask hid her blush. “But, I do not recognise you. You are not from Wiltshire.”

“You say that as though you make a point of knowing all the men in the county.”

“Of course, I must. It is a woman’s duty, after all.”

He closed the large space between them, leaning against the fence. “Would I have a chance at being the object of your admiration if I were a man from Wiltshire? Or are you quite against them all?”

Arianna softened into his teasing. “Would you want to be the object of my admiration?” she asked.

The man breathed a laugh, and she melted as it upturned his eyes. “That depends.” He straightened against the railing. “Remove your mask so I can look upon your face, if you would seek to lay claim to me.”

“I have made no such declarations.”

“Remove it anyway.”

Stirred by his persistence, Arianna eased the mask from her face. Her breath hitched as she felt the cold breeze against her cheeks, then it hitched once again as he gently took the mask from her. Their gazes locked, and she felt bare before him.

“It seems too cruel a thing,” he whispered.

She bit her lip. “What does?”

“That your beauty should ever have been hidden behind this mask.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth and she ceased her biting. Arianna had long considered herself a woman of virtue. She had never been scandalised; she had never even come close, but a part of her longed to find wicked ruin in this man’s arms. 

He drew the back of his finger along her cheek, then swept a ringlet of dark hair behind her ear. “To think…I know not even your name,” he hummed. Sucking in a breath, he leaned in. 

And Arianna saw stars again.

The man’s lips were both cold and warm against her own. He kissed her gently, in the way that she had always longed to be kissed, though she did not know it. He kissed her like she was a treasure or fragile and might break. His kiss felt like she existed only to be tasted by him. Arianna felt dizzy from it, and with a small sigh, she drew away. 

“Forgive me,” he whispered against her mouth. His cheeks were dappled pink. “But you…are…”

Whatever she was would have to wait.

“Anna! Oh, Anna, where have you gone?” she heard suddenly. The cry came from the hallway leading to the terrace, and the voice was one she knew all too well. 

Recoiling, Arianna turned toward the house. Diana’s shadow was rushing past the windows in the hall. “I am so sorry,” Arianna mumbled, panicking. “I am so sorry, but I must leave!” Spinning on her heel, she darted for the doors.

“Wait!” the man cried behind her, “Tell me who you are so that I can find you!”

Her worry made her deaf to his pleas. As she reached the doorway, she turned only to grant him a frown, knowing for definite that only one thing had been written in the stars that night.

It had not been love, but trouble.

Chapter One

Matty

Three months later…

Of all things in life, correspondence was the most tiresome. As far as Matty Fielding was concerned, it was even more boring than the opera. Nothing good ever came from a letter. One never wrote out of the goodness of one’s heart, but to deliver bad news, to broker deals, or to ask a favour. One morning, a letter had even cemented a betrothal for him. That letter had been more onerous than all the rest.

With a sigh, he sifted through the last of the post for that morning, and stacked the rest neatly on his bureau. He leaned back into his chair, sorting through them like playing cards, casting into the rubbish of all the invites. He made a small pile of letters from his Cambridge friends, ready to be tucked away into the second drawer of his desk with all the other things he hadn’t the time for anymore. Glancing at the clock and noticing the hour, Matty got to his feet, closing the drawer resolutely behind him.

His father, the Earl of Stonehurst, was waiting for him in the cloakroom, being attended to by the staff. Between coughs, he looked over to his son and said, “I was about to send Gregson up to fetch you. But, he wagered you’d be down before long.”

Matthew shrugged on his jacket, stepping away from his father’s brush-wielding valet. “And what did you wager, Father?”

The man twirled the ends of his moustache. “Two shillings that you had hopped from the window,” he declared sourly, smoothing out his overcoat. Swiping up his hat and cane, he gestured for the door. 

As the carriage was drawn around, Matty paused before swinging himself in the box, long enough to mutter, “My rooms are on the fourth storey,” before slamming the door shut. 

The journey from Chelsea to Mayfair did not take three hours, though it certainly seemed that way to Matty. He found no comfort in the view from the carriage window. London was hardly inspiring with its cobbles, steam, and artifice. He had no love for the town, nor its people, and he would have been content to rot down in Wiltshire for the rest of his earthly life if not for his father’s seat in Parliament. A seat which would one day be his.

The carriage drove over a nick in the road, and it jostled Matty from his brooding. He looked at his father, whose nose, as ever, was deep in the folds of a newspaper. He turned to the next spread of his Morning Post and huffed.

“Something on your mind?” his father asked, peering over the rim of his glasses.

Matty drew his cheek from his hand. “I was only thinking of home.”

“As ever,” his father replied. “Three months is all I ask of you until we close this Season, and you know this. After that, you have my blessing to travel up and down from Stonehurst at your leisure.”

It felt rather odd to be granted a blessing by one’s father at the age of four and twenty. Odd but not unusual for the only son of the Earl of Stonehurst. “How generous of you,” Matty replied. “Though I wonder whether I will see Wiltshire in summer at all this year. We know not a thing about my betrothed. She could be madly in love with London.”

His father took off his reading glasses. “She will be madly in love with you above all else.” He cocked his head. “Or she will be obedient.”

“You must have lied a great deal about me to be so convinced of our match,” Matty joked. His father was silent. “Father, what did you say to the Marquess’s daughter?”

“Not a lie.” He folded his paper. “I told them of your person, that you are dutiful, that you are well-read—”

“That I am the sole heir to an earldom and sleep on a bed made of gold?” He shook his head. “You buttered them up.”

“By Jove, I made a sale,” his father drawled with a quirk of his brow. “Shall I share with you her father’s pitch? Not that it makes a difference.”

“Will it make time pass faster?”

With a tut, his father said, “She is the first daughter of a family with excellent repute. Her own reputation is…almost spotless. She is comely, if that matters to you, accomplished, and musically gifted.” He opened up his paper. “There is nothing more you could ask for in a wife.”

“So it seems,” Matty mouthed, wondering what could make a woman ‘almost spotless’. 

“Are you not pleased?”

“You know my thoughts on this, Father,” he replied, not bothering to say, You know I do not desire an arranged marriage. You know I am going through with this only to appease you. I know you would rather I marry before you pass. You know I have no reason to protest, as the Fielding men have never married for aught but convenience. Instead, he added, “I shall be glad to meet her,” but, it was a lie.

The carriage wound its way through Mayfair until it parked before a tall, yawning manor on a row of equally stately homes. It was a curious place, much narrower than wide, with a face of sand-coloured stone. The windows of the topmost storey were rounded like the eyes of owls, and the door was a peculiar shade of green. Stepping out onto the curb, Matty braced himself, wondering what exactly awaited him beyond the door.

It was not a what but a who, as the door was opened by a lithe, dark-haired butler. Behind him, stood a little too eagerly, was the family into which he was supposed to marry. They were waiting for him in a line, like a set of Russian nesting dolls. The Marquess of Norchester was tall, with peppered hair and long limbs. By comparison, his wife was shockingly small, with warm ginger hair and bright eyes. 

Last in the line was the woman who was supposed to be Matty’s wife. His father had not lied when he described her as comely.  She had golden, strawberry blonde hair, coiffed neatly into a chignon. Her dress was almost the same shade as her hair, if not a touch duller, though any colour would seem dull against the ivory of her skin. She was tall and graceful. However, the woman’s beauty did not capture Matty so much as the dread in her eyes. 

They exchanged greetings in a daze. Matty didn’t dare look at his prospective wife overlong. Somehow, he found himself in their garden, the two families sharing tea, madeleines, and all sorts of other cakes he could not name around their out-of-doors table. 

The day was unusually bright for March, the sun glaring into Matty’s eyes as he glanced around the Marquess’s garden. The flowerbeds were in half-bloom, the lawns stretching down until they met a line of pine trees, at the end of which sat a small wooden gate. 

“Another lemon cake for you, my lord?” the young woman asked. Matthew tried to conceal his surprise with a smile, thankful that their respective parents were busy talking.

“That’s all right,” he answered. “I don’t like lemon.” 

“A jam tart, then?” she pressed, her green eyes wide and pleading. 

“Why not?” he laughed as he watched her place a tart next to the pile of sweets he had already accumulated, but not touched. “I’m sorry…it occurs to me I don’t even know your name,” he said, licking his lips.

Mercifully, the woman laughed. “My name is Regina, my lord. Lady Regina Fenton.”

Matty pinched himself above the knee. “Of course. I did know that.” He shook his head. “Forgive me for my forgetfulness.”

“It is forgiven, my lord,” she said, but something about her tone told him it was anything but. She dipped her voice low. “My father claims you have recently returned from University. Was it aught you dreamed?”

“It’s been half a year, but yes, it was.” He picked up his tea, finding it difficult to entertain any sort of conversation. He knew what must be said, of course; he had no desire to say it. “I imagine I will look back on my years at Cambridge as the greatest of my life.”

“You are studious,” she noted with a small nod. “Do you like to read?”

 “Of course, but I don’t have much time for it these days.” His heart lightened from the mention of literature. “What about you? Do you like to read?”

Her throat bobbed. “Not particularly.”

“Oh,” was all Matty could offer. “It is only, my father suggested you were—”

“Accomplished? Perhaps, a woman of culture? That will be my father’s doing.” She looked over the lawns. “I am not without my passions, of course. Music is a thing I enjoy greatly.”

“You could take Viscount Fielding into the drawing room and play him one of the pieces you’ve been arranging, my dear,” the Marchioness said from across the table. Matthew wondered how long she had been eavesdropping. “Better yet, we could open the windows, and you could play it for us to hear in the garden. She really is quite gifted at the pianoforte.”

“I prefer the violin,” Lady Regina contested. “Are you much for music, my lord?” she asked, turning back to Matthew.

Matty blanched. He considered lying, but instead said, “Not particularly,” and Lady Norchester averted her gaze to her flowerbeds.

“It would seem we are not particularly in agreement when it comes to leisure,” Regina whispered. “One might wonder whether we will agree on anything,” she added with a smile. 

Matty almost spit out his tea. Their happy betrothal seemed less likely by the minute. Lady Regina seemed an English Rose at first glance, but he suspected she had a few thorns. He knew next to nothing about courtship, but it couldn’t have been proper to question a match while one’s prospective husband was within earshot.  

“You would blanket us with ruin so early, my lady?” he whispered back in jest. “We must agree on something.”

“No doubt, we must,” she sighed, but it seemed less likely with each bat of her lashes. She clapped her hands together. “Well, of course, there is one thing!”

“Delight me with it.”

 She settled into her chair. “I imagine we agree on the necessity of marriage, given your visit. Do tell me if I am mistaken on that point as well.”

A chill ran down Matty’s spine. Of all things, he had not expected the Marquess’s daughter to speak so candidly of marriage—like it was a business. He had thought that was the practice of men. 

From what he could tell, Lady Regina Fenton was lovely—if strong-willed. There must be a man in London she would find to be a perfect match, one who would ask for her hand out of love, not duty. Because he knew he was not that man. 

 

As a boy, he had foolishly hoped to tread a different path than his forebearers and marry a woman for love. He had not come close to such rebellion, not until that dratted masquerade ball some three months ago. He had met a masked woman, and she had appeared to him as if in a dream. He had kissed her because he felt as though he might die otherwise—and he hated himself for it. Like all things that sparked magic in him, he had consigned their meeting to memory.

Therefore, with a gentle smile, he said, “A clever observation, my lady,” brushing the matters of their match aside. 

When he heard his father’s conversation with the Marquess turned to racing, he cut in saying, “If it is Thoroughbreds the two of you are discussing, I would like to join the discussion.”  

By the time the men had covered all elements of the upcoming Newmarket races, the sun had ticked to the west. The women of the party had contented themselves with discussing the morning’s society pages. Matty attended both conversations absently. 

“If I had a stable like yours, Norchester, I wouldn’t bother with dowries,” his father said. “A daughter for a well-bred Arabian seems a good enough deal.” 

The Marquess grinned. “Too good! Though I fear most women do not understand our equestrian fancies. My youngest would no doubt take it as an insult.”

Matty blinked, turning to Regina. “You have a sister?”

She stopped mid-sentence. “That I do,” she said with a wave of her hand. “She is two years younger than I, but my better in every way.” She appeared sincere. “How terrible for you to have not made her acquaintance before mine.”

“She is toying with you, my lord,” her mother interjected, swallowing her teacake. “My daughters are equally vibrant.”

“Though not equally present,” he said.

Regina breathed a laugh. She softened at the mention of her sister, and Matty understood there was tenderness between them. “If you mean to sate your curiosity soon. She has gone riding.”

“Alone?” he exclaimed. “Is that not unsafe for a woman?”

Regina gestured for the end of the lawn. “A groom is with her. There is a paddock beyond the line of trees. It stretches to Hyde Park and does not host characters of any unsavoury nature.”

It was only a few minutes later, while Lady Norchester was regaling Matty with tales of Regina’s Tour, that the gate at the bottom of the garden creaked open. The stories were silenced as the party shifted its attention to the woman strolling up the garden. 

She was dressed in brown riding clothes, but her skirts were covered in muck. There was a halo of dark unruly ringlets around her face and a plait down her back. Her face was pink from her effort. She wiped her brow as she tread the cobbled path to the terrace, not bothering to look up as she muttered curses to herself. She didn’t notice them at all, not until she climbed the steps to the terrace and her mother called, “Arianna!” 

Arianna. The name scratched a funny part of Matty’s brain, but the feeling did not last long. As soon as the younger Norchester sister lifted her head, Matty was overcome by a vivid familiarity. 

Arianna was the woman he had met at the masquerade.

With a disbelieving scoff, he averted his eyes. It availed there was one thing on which Matthew and Regina saw eye-to-eye. A terrible thing. 

The unimpeachable quality of her sister.

---

“A Lord Deceived by Desire” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Lady Arianna Fenton has always waited patiently until the day her sister gets married in order to find a match of her own. Yet, when a sultry, arrogant and scandalously tempting man catches her eye at a masquerade ball, she can not withstand the chance of a sinful adventure. Her captivating stranger flees the scene before she gets his name, though, leaving her hanging to a heated memory of him, only to meet him a few months later, as her sister’s betrothed.

Falling in love with her sister’s fiance is forbidden, but will she resist the temptation?

As the only son to an Earl, Matty Fielding has always tried to do what is right by his family. From attending university to smothering his rakish desires, Matty has found himself in an arranged marriage in order to please his overbearing father. Yet, when he realises the Lady he is about to marry is the alluring Arianna’s sister, he is pushed to his limits. All he wants is to kiss her senseless, but for his own good, he must fight his relentless desires and stay far away.

A man torn between confounding attraction and duty…

With forbidden meetings in secret places, the fire between Arianna and Matty grows stronger… Trapped in an impossible situation, they both reach for desperate solutions to hide their secret and protect their families from scandal. Will they finally concede that they are each other’s destiny? Or will they be bound by duty and sacrifice everything?

“A Lord Deceived by Desire” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!