By Michèle Ann Young

Sourcebooks, Casablanca, October 2007.

ISBN-13: 978-1402213991

Purchase from Amazon:  >>>>The Lady Flees Her Lord

Excerpt from Chapter One:

London, April 1811

Blissful silence.
Lucinda Palgrave, Countess of Denbigh, lifted her ear from the cool wood of her husband's adjoining chamber door. She wanted to laugh out loud. To twirl. To yell, 'No Denbigh!' A delightful evening free of his presence stretched ahead. It was a giddy sensation, like drinking too much champagne. And utterly inappropriate. Fingers pressed to her lips, she glided out of her bedroom and into the hallway.

A figure in black loomed in front of her.
She gasped, a hand at her throat, her heart pounding wildly. Dash it all. Why did the butler always creep up on her? The supercilious beast ought to care more for life and limb, since according to Denbigh, a mere bump from her hip would knock a man flat. Oh, for the courage to try.

"Yes, Galloway?" To her chagrin, her voice sounded more like a frightened scullery maid than the mistress of her own establishment.

The butler smirked. "Tea awaits you in the drawing room, my lady. As does his lordship." The lightness dissipated in a sickening rush. She swallowed the sour taste of disappointment tinged with the acid of fear. "Thank you, Galloway. Please have two places set for dinner."

The butler's smirk broadened. "His lordship does not intend to dine at home, my lady." Relief dulled her irritation at the man's triumphant expression. "Very well. That will be all, thank you." She skirted around him. He gave as much ground as he might for a scullery maid.

Anger spread out from her chest in hot slow waves. She damped it down. One of these days, she really would speak to Galloway about his insolence. She rubbed her collarbone through the fabric of her gown. But not now. Not while Denbigh waited.

She pattered along the hall, the jewel-toned runner seeming to taunt her with its brightness. With one hot, damp palm on the smooth balustrade, she sped down the curving oak staircase to the first floor of their Mayfair townhouse. Hurry, her heartbeat goaded. He hated when she was late. Not too fast, she reminded herself. He despised her when she appeared all hot and flustered. Dammit. He hated whatever she did.

In the hallway, she confronted the white drawing-room door. Smoothing her ivory skirts, she stole a moment to hide her rapid heartbeat behind a calm demeanor and to suck in her stomach. Slowly, she eased open the door. The tall windows at the west end of the room cast bars of light across the cream-colored carpet, yet the blue walls and white paint gave the room a chilly feel.

Brandy in hand and not a blond hair out of place, her husband, the Earl of Denbigh, slouched on the royal-blue velvet sofa beside the marble hearth. Slender legs crossed at the ankles, he acknowledged her entrance with a sulky grimace that ruined his Apollolike handsomeness. Had she really once thought his brooding expression romantic? She lowered her lashes to hide the disloyal thought.

"Good afternoon, Denbigh," she murmured.
"For God's sake, stop hovering and sit down."
She scurried to the chair behind the tea tray and perched on its edge.

He stared at her over the rim of his glass. "Where the hell were you?"
Despite the mild tone, her pulse jumped. She eyed the brandy in his half-full glass. The worst of his rants happened after the third refill. At the moment his eyes seemed clear, his words crisp. She offered a smile. "I was dressing for dinner."

The disparaging glance he ran over her person chilled her to the bone. "I can't think why you bother." A flare of something hot ignited inside her and burnt its way up to her tongue. Only by clenching her jaw did she prevent its eruption in angry words. She inhaled slowly. "I didn't expect you this afternoon." She gestured to the tray. "Can I offer you a dish of bohea?"

As his gaze shifted to the tray, she winced. The chef had outdone himself today. Not only did the tiered cake dish contain her favorite lemon tarts, but he'd included several slices of iced fruitcake and a selection of marchpane fancies. She swallowed.

Denbigh must have caught the involuntary motion, because his lip curled in distaste. "Dear God, are you planning to gobble down the whole lot?"

"No, I-"

"There is no one else here to eat it."

"But I-"
"What happened to the regimen of water biscuits and vinegar the doctor suggested? How can it help your figure, if you are too greedy to try it for less than a week?" He gave a derisive snort. "A cow like you would need months to see any improvement."

"I felt unwell." The diet made her feel weak and, worst of all, seemed to make her crave sweet things more than usual. "If you dislike the way I look so much, why did you marry me?"

His eyes narrowed, the pout becoming more pronounced. "You were supposed to be the answer to my money problems, not eat me out of house and home."

A rush of heat scorched her cheeks. Shame mixed with fury in a volcanic blend and words spilled forth like lava. "The settlement my father provides is more than enough for a comfortable life." From the way his nostrils flared, she'd gone too far, but with financial ruin staring them in the face, she had to make him see sense. "If we invested some of it-"

"Enough. I am a gentleman not some money grubbing cit."

Her stomach plummeted at the note of finality in his voice. Blindly, she reached for a delicate lemon-filled pastry.