The Perfect Wife Read online

  VICTORIA

  ALEXANDER

  The

  Perfect

  Wife

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with love to Ann, Mary and the memory of Rosemarie—mothers and heroines all.

  Preface

  Dear Reader,

  When anyone asks me what my favorite book is, I always say it’s the one I’ve just finished. And that’s absolutely true, because I’ve just spent months with the characters, learning about them—learning with them—and living with them through whatever difficulties I’ve thrown in their paths.

  But if you ask if I had written only one book, which would I want it to be, well, I’d be hard-pressed not to name The Perfect Wife. It was my second book, created at the beginning of my career, started, in fact, before I had sold my first book, and I fell in love with the characters and the story and the adventure. The Perfect Wife might well be what convinced me to keep on.

  Needless to say, it has a special place in my heart. So… enjoy!

  All my best,

  Victoria Alexander

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  1808

  Awareness teased the corners of his mind. Damp, dank air weighed heavy on his skin. The salty, rotted scent of the sea assailed his nostrils. Dimly the roar of the ocean and the crash of the waves sounded. Distant… hollow. A steady drip splashed and echoed. All in the blackest black. Was this a dream? Or death?

  He jerked his head, and hot pain lanced through the back of his skull. A gasp escaped his lips, but the ache cleansed his mind. His senses sharpened. His disorientation vanished.

  A wide scarf covered his eyes and face, and his hands were bound behind his back, his feet tied at his ankles. He tested the bonds. There was only enough give to allow him to touch the rough wooden planks behind and beneath him. He sat propped upright, his head cradled by what he immediately assumed were crates of some type.

  That made sense. Much of a smuggler’s contraband was transported by crate. And only a fool would fail to realize he had discovered the band of smugglers he’d searched for. Or rather, they had discovered him.

  He remembered watching the illegal activity on the beach far below his vantage point on the rocky cliffs. Now that he had finally determined their methods and, more importantly, the location of their operations, he had planned to return with reinforcements and catch them in the act. He cursed himself for coming alone, for the arrogance and stupidity that had brought him to this point. Judging by the pain in his head, he’d been spotted and rendered unconscious.

  A low murmur of voices caught his attention, and he strained to hear. The unmistakable lilt of a woman’s voice tempered rough, heavy, male conversation. In spite of his precarious position, a spire of exhilaration shot through him. He had indeed found the band that had long eluded him and other agents of the crown. Not as large as many smuggling rings, but clever and tenacious and, up to now, invulnerable. And they were led by a woman.

  A woman.

  Even after weeks of surveillance, of midnight clandestine meetings that brought little of worth, of dressing and living in disguise, he still could not quite believe it. In his world there were only two kinds of women: those meant to be charming ornaments and produce heirs, and those with the appropriate talents for enjoyable nocturnal entertainment. He had considerable experience with both. His pleasant, undemanding wife had obediently provided him with a son and then conveniently died. As for the other kind, well, they usually lived up to his expectations.

  But this woman defied any of the categories he reserved for the fairer sex. Obviously she was intelligent. The frustrating fox and hounds game he’d played, and lost, was proof of that. She also seemed to elicit the kind of loyalty monarchs expected and generals demanded. In spite of his best efforts, including bribes and threats, not one soul in this rough, tiny seacoast village would give him so much as a morsel of information.

  They called her Lady B, and most of what he learned was more fancy than fact. Try as he might, he could not find a noblewoman in the area who might be the mysterious lady. Grudgingly he’d developed a certain amount of respect for her and her people. Times were hard, and smuggling was an opportunity to put food on the table. Still and all, it was hardly legal. And it was demoralizing to the efforts to defeat the French. But this was a dangerous business, and he could not question her courage. He hoped she was not ruthless as well.

  The voices grew louder but remained indistinct. He clenched his teeth in frustration. Whatever he could learn here would only help his pursuit of the smugglers. If he survived.

  He sensed movement around him. Hushed voices brushed past. Activity seemed to increase. He tilted his head slightly, a mere fraction, in an effort to decipher the muttering.

  “Milady,” a low voice rumbled in his direction, “I think our friend has awakened.”

  “Hold your tongue, man,” another voice sounded impatiently. “We don’t want him able to recognize us if he should come upon us later.”

  “And will there be a later?” he said in a loud, authoritative tone, with all the strength of a man who knew he had nothing to lose.

  A ripple of female laughter echoed around him.

  “There is always a later, my lord.” The feminine voice was low, slightly husky.

  It might have been the damp in the air, it might have been the way she always spoke, but he was stunned to note the voice fired his blood and smart enough to realize it wasn’t merely because he was finally in the presence of his quarry. His hunt for this woman had become an obsession. And now revelation struck him. In spite of the impropriety and absurdity of his sudden desire, he wanted nothing more than to take her as his own. Then he would clap her in irons.

  “I fear though…” A vague, spicy scent wafted around him. “There will be no later for us.”

  “Oh?” He arched an eyebrow under the blindfold.

  “Alas, my lord.” She sighed, a breathy, provocative sound. Her voice seemed to encircle him. “You have made life far too difficult for our feeble efforts. Tonight is our final run.”

  A tentative touch lingered below his right ear. Cool, gentle fingers, light and teasing, traced the faint, silvered scar that ran the length of his neck. Typically his high collars and cravats disguised the mark. But he was not wearing his usual attire. A delicious shiver ran through him at the unexpected contact.

  “A badge of honor, my lord?”

  “Merely a boyhood misadventure.” He shrugged nonchalantly, struggling within himself to regain control of his heretofore unsuspected response to this woman. “Do not let yourself believe even if you cease your activity, I will stop attempting to apprehend you and your men.”

  She laughed again. “You are no fool, my lord. You have proved that full well in our little game these past weeks. And I am certain you have already realized if we discontinue our operation, there is very little chance you will discover us. Ever.”

 
She was right. If the smugglers disbanded, they would fade into the fabric of village life. They would disappear. Frustration swelled within him. She would disappear. His mission would fail. And failure was the one thing he could not allow.

  “I warn you,” he said, a growl in his voice. “I do not accept defeat easily.”

  “And I, my lord”—her breath, fragrant with an intoxicating promise, caressed his face—“do not accept defeat at all.”

  She paused, and he wondered at the tension between them. Wondered if she felt it as well. He caught her breath once more upon his upturned face and, faintly, her lips brushed against his. He started, then involuntarily strained toward her. Her lips parted and her tongue teased the inner edge of his mouth. Desire pounded through his veins. His mind worked feverishly. What kind of woman kissed so boldly as this? Perhaps it no longer mattered.

  Her lips withdrew, and disappointment surged through him. Her presence still lingered on his face, and her voice was soft. “I regret more than ever, my lord, that there will be no later for us.” She sighed. “Only now, only this moment.”

  Her voice turned brisk. “And we have much to finish this night. So, my charming prisoner, I will bid you adieu.”

  “What do you—” In his last moment of consciousness before succumbing to the darkness brought by the crash of something on his head for the second time that night, he too regretted there would be no later.

  Chapter 1

  1818

  “Bloody hell.”

  Sabrina Winfield muttered under her breath and glared with distaste at the offensive paperwork spread before her.

  Absently she drummed her fingers in a rhythmic tattoo on the worn, highly polished mahogany desk and scanned the papers littering the desktop once again, hoping to find something, anything that would make a difference. Already she knew full well that hope was futile. The accounting sheets and investment reports painted a dismal picture.

  “Damnation.” She groaned and glanced quickly at the closed door to her library. It would not do to have the servants or, worse yet, her daughter hear her talking like a common woman of the streets. But in all her years of living the proper life expected of someone of her social status, she had never found anything quite as satisfying as a good curse. Privately, of course.

  Sabrina returned her attention to the documents before her. She had enough funds left to live a respectable, if somewhat frugal, life. Unfortunately, frugal was not a word she took to easily.

  It was all that idiot Fitzgerald’s fault. She should have known the little pig-faced man who slobbered all over her hand in lieu of a greeting would spell disaster. Why she had let him handle her financial affairs when his father died was beyond comprehension. Obviously a misplaced sense of loyalty.

  The elder Fitzgerald had been a man with a solid business head and a shrewd eye. He had discreetly handled her affairs for nearly nine years before his inconvenient demise and had built her initial investment into a substantial, comfortable, and even excessive fortune. And in spite of her gender, he had listened to her suggestions and wishes and accepted her financial acumen. But in the short year since his death, his fool of a son had whittled her funds down to the meager accounting now laid out before her.

  A nagging voice at the back of her mind pointed out that perhaps it was not entirely the junior Fitzgerald’s fault. Oh, she’d taken a firm hand with her investments as usual at first, but her attention had slackened. Reluctantly she admitted she had not kept the close eye out she should have, distracted by her daughter’s coming-out season. A season she had squandered far more on than was prudent.

  Still, she thought stubbornly, it was money well spent. Belinda deserved the best. Besides, the gamble had paid off handsomely. Belinda was in love and wished to marry a charming young man from a well-respected family. He was heir to an impressive title, with a family fortune both immense and sound. Sabrina had made discreet inquiries just to make sure. She did not want her child’s life ever to be threatened by the need for money and the lack of it. Not the way hers once was.

  The marriage that would ensure her daughter’s future was exactly what made her present financial difficulties so distressing. A wedding meant a dowry commensurate with Sabrina and her late husband’s social position, a dowry worthy of the dowager Marchioness of Stanford. Hah! An impressive title, but that and half a crown would get her a hired carriage ride around the city and little else.

  She had no idea how to raise the kind of funds necessary for an impressive dowry. There were very few acceptable ways for a woman to make money. Marriage for herself would, of course, solve all her problems. Most, if not all, of the women she knew married with wealth and rank in mind. Still, marrying strictly for monetary gain seemed somehow distasteful. She certainly hadn’t married for money the first time. Life would have been much easier if she had. Her daughter would not marry for money either. Still, the presence of substantial wealth, while not a requirement, was most definitely a delightful bonus.

  Sabrina sighed and pushed her chair away from the desk. There would be time enough to return to her vexing financial problems tomorrow. Time enough to deal with the panic threatening to rise within her. Tonight she and Belinda were to attend a soiree at her future son-in-law’s. Both parents had already given permission for the match, even though it was yet to be formally announced. Sabrina expected tonight to finally meet the boy’s father.

  The elusive Earl of Wyldewood was well known in government and diplomatic circles, but he had never crossed Sabrina’s path, and she admitted to a certain amount of curiosity about the man. Gossip told her he had a sizable reputation with women and was considered something of a rake. Sabrina refused to hold that against him. After all, her husband had been a well-known rake before their marriage, and everyone knew reformed rakes made the best husbands. She liked the son; surely she would like the father as well.

  She cast one last disgusted glance at the pages littered over the desk and rose to her feet. Sabrina shook her head in irritation and prayed all would work out. Her natural optimism returned, and a slight smile played across her lips. All had certainly worked out the last time she had faced a financial crisis this severe. But the solution she’d found those many years ago would not serve now. Realistically she could not take up smuggling again.

  Her reluctance had nothing to do with the illegality of the activity. It was not a question of morality or conscience. Sabrina was, above all, a realist. With the war over, and most goods flowing freely, there was no real call for smuggling.

  A pity, really. Today there was simply no money in it.

  Nicholas Harrington, Earl of Wyldewood, gazed around his ballroom with equal parts dismay and curiosity. He was usually more than comfortable in a social setting. But this was his own home, and the scale of preparation necessary for such an event seemed massive. Fortunately he had the able assistance of his sister, Wynne.

  If he had a wife, surely he could relax, confident in his spouse’s ability to handle the social niceties. His sister had pointed out that fact with increasing frequency in the two years since the death of their father and Nicholas’s inheritance of the title. Reluctantly he admitted she was right. The appropriate wife would be an asset if he continued his interest in government and politics. And should he ever wed again, he had no doubt his countess would be a polished hostess. It was a requirement of the position.

  But Nicholas had no real desire to marry. He hadn’t particularly wanted a wife the first time and was not anxious for his son to wed either. The boy was barely one and twenty, and there was plenty of time for marriage. But Erick insisted he was in love. And what could Nicholas say? He freely and proudly admitted he had never been touched by that particular emotion, so he could not quite understand. He was surprised, however, and touched, to discover the boy’s ardor moved him more than he had suspected possible. That, coupled with a vague sense of guilt for not having been present while his son had grown up, made him consent to the match.

  Nichola
s surveyed the rapidly filling ballroom. He had already met Erick’s young lady and found her more than acceptable. Tonight he would meet the mother. Nicholas knew a great deal about the lady, thanks to the work of a discreet investigator paid a substantial amount to supply accurate information and keep his mouth sealed.

  He spotted his son on the other side of the room, and an involuntary smile creased his lips. Intelligent and honorable, Erick was a son a man could claim with pride. Nicholas regretted he deserved little credit for that. The boy had been raised by Wynne and his damnable grandfather. Although, he grudgingly admitted, the old man had done a good job.

  Erick caught his gaze and raised a hand in greeting. He escorted two women. The lithesome blonde on his right was his fiancée, Belinda, a lovely, ethereal creature. On his left was a somewhat shorter woman, blond as well, and even at a distance, extremely well proportioned. Nicholas wondered if this was perhaps a sister he was not aware of.

  The trio drew closer and Nicholas caught his breath. The lady was indeed a beauty. A bit older than Belinda but startlingly lovely. A serene smile played across shapely, inviting lips. Her eyes flashed a rich emerald.

  They stopped before him. She was short and came barely to his shoulder. In spite of her stature, she almost shimmered with suppressed energy. He glanced away quickly. No one stared in their direction. The music played on. Conversations continued.

  Amazing. Was he the only one who noticed the subtle power of her presence? Did he alone sense a change in the very air around them? Did excitement and mystery call out to him and no other?