The eight—year marriage of the once mutually-adoring couple, Lord and Lady Lovett, is rejuvenated through the anonymous counsel of Lord Lovett's former mistress.
Eight years of marriage has not dimmed Cressida, Lady Lovett's, love for her husband, but the birth of five children has cooled her ardour.
Now rumours are circulating that the kind, dashing and seemingly ever—patient Justin, Lord Lovett, has returned to the arms of his former mistress and Cressida believes her choices are stark—welcome her husband back to the marital bed and risk a sixth pregnancy she fears will kill her, or lose him forever.
With the astonishing discovery that methods exist to enable the innocent Cressida to transform herself into the vixen of her husband's dreams without expanding her nursery, she seeks to repay the woman responsible for her empowerment…only to discover her unlikely benefactress was, and perhaps still is, her husband's mistress.
Reader Advisory: This book contains a scene of voyeurism and a FF scene which is brief and does not involve main characters.
General Release Date: 2nd July 2012
"The Earl of Lovett has taken a mistress?"
The breathy shock of pretty newlywed Mrs Rupert Browne sliced through the buzz of conversation, lancing its unsuspecting target three feet away and causing a deaf colonel to solicitously ask the Duchess if she required a glass of water.
Still choking on her champagne, Cressida, Lady Lovett, strained to hear the response of her cousin, Catherine, who had obviously disseminated this latest shocking on dit, smilingly assuring deaf Colonel Horvitt she was quite all right, as if her happiness were not suddenly hanging by a gossamer thread.
She strained to hear more.
"Surely not?" gasped the generally well—intentioned but oblivious Mrs Browne to Cousin Catherine’s whispered reply. "But the Earl made a love match. Mama told me he scandalised society by marrying a nobody."
Cressida had to use two hands to keep her champagne coupe steady. The indignity of being described as a ‘nobody’ was nothing compared with the pain of hearing her husband’s amours—real or otherwise—discussed in the middle of a ballroom. She forced her trembling mouth into her best attempt at a smile as the Colonel leant forward and wagged his finger at her, his stentorian tone precluding further eavesdropping. "Your husband ruffled more than a few feathers with his speech in the House of Lords last night, Lady Lovett."
Cressida had once giggled with her ferociously forceful cousin Catherine that the Colonel used his deafness as an excuse to peer down the cleavage of every pretty lady he addressed. She was in no mood for giggling now. Clearly, Cousin Catherine was disclosing details about the state of Cressida’s marriage of which Cressida, apparently, was the last to know. She straightened and pushed her shoulders back, suddenly self—conscious of appearing the sagging, lacking creature the several hundred guests crowded into Lady Belton’s newly renovated ballroom must imagine her, if they were already privy to what she was hearing for the first time. Before her last sip of champagne she’d considered herself happily married. It was all she could do to remain standing and dry—eyed.
Adjusting the lace of her masquerade costume she managed, faintly, "Ah, Colonel, you know Lord Lovett and his good causes." She tried to make it sound like an endearment, but the axis of her world had become centred on ascertaining what other titbits about her marriage Catherine was divulging to Mrs Browne.
The music swelled to a crashing crescendo, the end of which was punctuated by Mrs Browne’s shocked squeak, "Madame Zirelli? Was she not once Lord Grainger’s mistress? No! His wife? He divorced her? And now she and Lord Lovett—?"
Cressida hadn’t wanted to come to Lady Belton’s masquerade. Little Thomas was teething, but Justin had been especially persuasive, reminding her that it had been a long time since they’d been out in public, and that, yes, he knew Thomas was cutting a tooth but there was nothing Cressida could do that Nurse Flora couldn’t, just for a few hours that evening.
Searching the ballroom for her husband, she spied him talking to her friend Annabelle Luscombe near the supper table. His look was solicitous, as if he were hanging on her every word. Cressida knew he would take equal interest if Annabelle were talking about her latest bonnet or about the Sedleywich Home for Orphans, of which both Justin and Annabelle were patrons.
A frisson of longing speared her. Justin had looked at her like that when she’d first met him. So handsome, so determined, so sincere.
The thought that he’d made a special plea for her presence tonight purely in the interests of stilling wagging tongues was almost too terrible to consider.
A mistress? Her kind, beloved, faithful Justin?
As if he were conscious of her from across the room, Justin turned, his dark brown eyes kindling at the sight of her, the warmth of his smile spreading comfort like a woollen mantle. It radiated across the heated, perfumed distance that separated them. Dear Lord, he looked like a handsome prince taken right out of the pages of a story book, his brown, wavy hair brushed fashionably forward, topped with the laurel wreath required by his costume, his sideburns contouring his elegantly chiselled, high cheekbones. Like a stately Roman senator, he was the stuff of every girl’s dreams, yet it was she, insignificant Miss Cressida Honeywell, daughter of a poor country parson, who had won his heart all those years ago.
She’d thought she still had it—had vowed she’d always keep it.
Rallying, she took a step forward, responding to the invitation implicit in her husband’s eye, but the Colonel began counselling Cressida on the dangers of Justin making speeches about orphans and sanitation when he could better rouse his audience in the Lords if he concerned himself with more important matters.
The look she’d just exchanged with her husband was enough to all but dismiss her fears. Exhaling with relief, Cressida smiled at the Colonel who, obviously regarding this as encouragement, closed the distance between them as he pursued his argument. She retained her smile as Justin, from the other side of the room, focused another very warm glance in her direction before attending to the hunchbacked Dowager Duchess of Trentham, whose eightieth birthday celebration this was. Justin had the gift of making every woman feel the centre of his especial interest. Clearly something must have been misconstrued…
Historical Romance Author Beverley Oakley took her passion for handsome rogues and worthy heroines to new heights when she worked in the back of low-flying survey aircraft over Greenland and French Guyana in the 1990s.
Her imaginative forays into the ballrooms of Regency high society, scribbled on paper during long and turbulent survey lines, were counterbalanced by the efforts of her mostly male fellow crewmembers to teach her an appreciation of a cold Windhoek Lager or fiery KWV Brandy; so three-month contracts away from home were borne with as much enjoyment as fortitude.
While Beverley’s broad repertoire of fictional heroes was fine-tuned through years of working in the male-dominated safari and airborne survey industries, her mostly nineteenth century heroines, by contrast, live very sheltered lives.
Beverley now lives with her family in Melbourne, Australia, twenty years after hitching her star to the Cessna Caravan (now a Boeing 777) of the handsome Norwegian bush pilot she met around a campfire in Botswana’s beautiful Okavango Delta where she ran a safari lodge at the time. She teaches creative writing, makes historical costumes and works as a Disaster Events Researcher.
Beverley’s latest project is set in Colonial Lesotho where she was born and where her father prosecuted medicine murder and illegal diamond buying cases in the African kingdom’s rugged mountains during the 1960s.
Beverley loves hearing from readers. You can contact her or find out more about her books here:
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You can also sign up for her Newsletter here: http://www.beverleyoakley.com/about
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