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The
Lord Next Door
by Gayle Callen
Book 1 of the "Sisters of Willow Pond" trilogy
(The books do not have to be read in order.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The handsome, deceiving lord was not the
man Victoria believed him to be, but she must wed—immediately!
To rescue her family from financial ruin, lovely Victoria Shelby has no choice
but to marry. Her options for a bridegroom are limited...until she remembers
the shy servant boy next door. Then she discovers that her childhood friend is
actually Viscount Thurlow—ruthless businessman, future earl, and a man whose
family is shrouded in scandal.
After two rejected marriage proposals, David Thurlow needs a wife who will give
him an heir, someone who will not only overlook his past but also be above
reproach. Victoria is the ideal candidate—quiet, unassuming, and in desperate
need of funds. But even as she strives to be the perfect wife, her calm
demeanor masks a shocking secret...one that is overshadowed by David's slow,
heated lessons in the art of seduction that threaten to transform a
"convenient" marriage into a torrid and passionate affair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reviews
"Charming, warm-hearted,
seductive."
Lorraine Heath, USA Today Bestselling author
"Endearing, romantic and
guaranteed to take your breath away."
Christina Dodd, NY Times Bestselling author
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt
(The following is the property of the author and Oliver Heber Books, and cannot
be
copied or reprinted without permission.)
Prologue
London, 1828
Dear Tom,
This is my Private Journal--how dare you spy on me and presume
to write
in it! You may be ten years old, but so am I, and I would never be so
rude!
Dear Victoria,
You left the notebook under a bench in your garden where
anyone could
find it. I live right next door, and from my window, I happened to see
you
hide it. I didn't come any closer, I promise. Your bonnet hid your
face,
so I didn't see you. My mother always says my curiosity will land me in
trouble,
and here it has. I do not know much about music (which you seem quite
fond
of from what you wrote about your lessons) but I am certain we could
find
something in common. My mother is the earl's cook, and I have no father
or
brothers or sisters. I'm allowed to be tutored sometimes with the
earl's
son. Think of me writing to you as a way I can practice my lessons.
Can't
we be friends?
Dear Tom,
I've never had a boy for a friend. I suppose writing to you
can cause
no harm. But I can never meet with you. You would get into trouble if
the
earl discovered that his kitchen boy presumed upon the neighbors. And
my
father would take my journal away if he thought I was consorting with a
servant.
He says we always have to associate with people above us, but since
we're
below them in status, why would they want to associate with us? It's
all
so very confusing. My father is a banker who invests the money of
wealthy
people. Even the earl who employs your mother is one of his clients. I
have
a mother and two sisters named Louisa and Meriel. Louisa is two years
younger
than I, and she has very red hair that my mother says is unfashionable,
but
which I think is uncommonly pretty. Meriel is four years younger than
I,
and her hair is golden ringlets. My hair is just this pale yellow color
that
doesn't really look like much of anything.
Dear Victoria,
Don't worry about your hair-it isn't important what a girl
looks like.
It's what she talks about that matters. Someday I'll convince you to
meet
me so we can have a real discussion. You're lucky to have sisters. You
always
have someone to play with. What do you do all day? I help my mother in
the
kitchen but I can play outside as much as I want. I have a secret
hiding
place in the attic. It's where I keep all of my most important things,
like
special rocks from the garden and paper no one wants because only one
side
is used. I like to hide in there where no one can find me and think
about
important things, like sailing to India or to one of those islands by
the
colonies. I'm telling you things I've never told anyone. See, you can
trust
me.
Dear Tom,
I would never be brave enough to go on a long, dangerous
voyage to India.
But I'm glad you have so much time to think. Little girls have not so
much
freedom. My father hired a governess so that I can be properly educated
like
a lady, but I think my sisters like that better than I do. At least
Louisa
does. French is very hard (and why do we need it if we just finished a
war
with them not so long ago?). Mathematics make my head spin. Meriel is
lucky.
She is still allowed to play much of the day. Though thankfully music
and
needlework are part of my lessons. I also have to learn all about rank,
like
earls and dukes, and who goes into the dining room first, and who
escorts
whom. Really, why do I need to know all about the nobility if they
won't
invite us anywhere? Mama says we have to be prepared, because she wants
to
make sure my sisters and I marry the right men. Doesn't falling in love
make
a person the right man? I like that you have a secret place to hide. I
do,
too. I call it Willow Pond, although that is not its real name. But I
can't
tell you where it is right now. It's a secret.
1829
Dear Victoria,
Your tears are getting the notebook all wet and dirty-don't
cry! I keep
telling you to explain to your mother why you don't like to dance.
She'll
understand and make that nasty governess stop. No one should have to
dance.
But if you need someone to talk to, I could meet you at Willow Pond. I
know
you only go there with your sisters. You always go on and on about that
place
being magical, but it's a corner of your garden, Victoria. Why won't
you
share it with me, too?
Dear Tom,
I'm not like my sisters. I'm not like any other girls, and
there are days
my father won't look at me because of it. I don't like the things
ladies
are supposed to like, like babies and husbands and dresses. I want to
play
the Piano all day. I hear songs in my head that no one has created yet.
I
think of designs for my needlework because the pictures intrigue me,
not
because needlework is what a Lady Should Do.
1830
Dear Tom,
You've returned from the country! It was such a long three
months. You
have such an unusual situation-your mother traveling with an earl. Tell
me
everything you did, and don't leave anything out-unless it involves the
inside
of a frog. You talk about that too much, and I don't care if you call
it
scientific research. I may not like the thought of traveling myself,
but
when you tell me stories, I can imagine it all and live through your
eyes.
Dear Victoria,
Don't listen to your father. Men like ladies who think. My
mother reads
the newspaper and thinks a great deal. We have long conversations, but
then
I'm her only child. She says she appreciates my opinions. Have you
tried
talking to your parents? If they're worried about who you'll marry,
tell
them I will marry you. You don't think about balls and dresses like
some
silly girls do.
Dear Tom,
When you marry, I hope you find a lovely woman. But she can't
be me, because
my father would never allow it. That is truly sad, because you
understand
me more than any person in my life, except my sisters. So let us think
of
the Perfect Wife for you. She would have to be a grand adventuress, of
course,
and not mind riding on elephants in India. You'll probably earn your
fortune
there and come back as quite the wealthy gentleman. (Don't scoff! I
know
you care little for the nobility, but perhaps the gentry will make room
for
a fine man such as you will become some day.) The Perfect Wife would be
very
brave, of course, and able to speak passionately about what she
believes
in. She'll read the newspaper, and know about Parliament and wars and
famous
men.
1832
Dear Tom,
My sisters are very worried about me, but I am not like them.
I will be
content to be our parent's companion as they age. I love nothing better
than
to be at home with my music and my needlework. You know I hate to
dance-what
man would want a wife who can't dance?
Father is angry again. Only to you can I complain how unfairly
he always
focuses on me. He punished me again by locking the door to the music
room.
Why won't he tell us what he's angry at? We can never question him. I'm
worried
that Mama knows what it is. Yet certainly she would not keep something
important
from us.
1834
Dearest Tom, my secret friend,
Why haven't you written to me? It's been months, and I know
the earl is
in town, so you must be there somewhere. I heard that the countess
died,
and that must be a terrible strain on the household. I'm so sorry.
Surely
your mother was able to keep her position. Yet--you're almost a man now
at
sixteen. Did you feel the need to look for work? Wouldn't the earl keep
you
in his household? Or have I offended you? I look back over the past
year's
correspondence, and perhaps I asked for too much pity as I made a fool
of
myself at the dinners my parents insisted we attend. They have friends
amongst
our own class, wealthy people who believe they're the equal of any
member
of the ton. But I sit there like a silly lump, with nothing to say,
getting
names wrong whenever I speak. Oh Tom, why is it so easy to tell you
everything?
I even promise to finally meet you in person, if only you'll
keep writing
to me. I miss you.
Ten years later…
Dear Tom,
I pray that you're still next door, that by some miracle after
all this
time you'll come looking for our Journal. My father is dead, and the
circumstances of his death would shock even you. My sisters have left
to
try to make their way in the world and help Mama and me. But the small
amount
of money they send home is not enough, Tom. Even as I write this, I am
listing
what item I'll next sell to feed us. My mother and I will be on the
streets
in only two months’ time. I'm so desperate. Oh Tom, will you
marry me?
Chapter 1
London, 1844
Victoria Shelby closed her childhood
journal, feeling
utterly foolish for writing in it after so many years. As if a servant
could
help her now, when everything was so bleak. She'd thought of Tom
occasionally
through the years, wondering if he'd moved away, if he'd married. But
for
days now, she'd found herself thinking about him frequently, and at the
oddest
times. It was growing more and more difficult to banish him from her
thoughts.
And marriage? Desperation must surely be driving her mad.
She looked about her sparse bedchamber,
bare of anything
of value but her simple furniture. It had once been such a magnificent
town
house, and now it seemed so empty, just like the sedate future she used
to
imagine for herself.
She'd been a foolish, naive girl.
With a sigh, Victoria smoothed down her
mourning dress
and left her room for the uncertainty of the master suite, where her
mother
now lived alone. She paused in the doorway and met the gaze of Mrs.
Wayneflete,
their housekeeper and last remaining servant. She wore her usual
uniform
of black silk dress, lace collar and close white cap. No matter their
situation,
Mrs. Wayneflete could always be counted upon to remain unflappable.
Together,
they turned to stare at Victoria's mother, who clutched a vase to her
bosom
and stubbornly turned her back on them.
"Victoria, I will not part with this,"
Mama said, her
defiance a hollow, pale sound. Her eyes were now lined with dark
shadows
and looked at nothing most of the time. Sadness bent her shoulders and
strands
of gray hair escaped the pins. "Your father gave it to me for our
anniversary.
He brought it from-"
"I remember," Victoria interrupted
gently. "But Father
would understand that we need to eat."
Her mother had a strange tendency to
forget their
circumstances, and Victoria found herself growing ever more impatient.
Didn't
she realize that they had all sacrificed? Victoria had sold her beloved
piano,
and Mrs. Wayneflete had taken no wages in many a month. Mama was
waiting
for salvation, but there was no one left to save them. Victoria wished
she
could convince her mother it was better to face the future than wallow
in
the past. But since Father's death ten months before, her mother's
spirits
continued to sink, though Victoria's cheerful letters to her sisters
did
not dwell on that sad fact. There was no need to worry them any more
than
necessary.
Victoria sighed and turned a brisk
smile to her housekeeper.
"Mrs. Wayneflete, do you have another suggestion for an item that will
keep
us in food this week? I do believe that Mr. Tillman quite looks forward
to
haggling with me over a price."
"You're an easy woman to respect, Miss
Victoria," Mrs.
Wayneflete said with a fond smile.
"Then there is Mr. Billingsly, the
merchant from Cheapside.
I could pit the two proprietors against one another for a better
price."
Victoria's laughter died when she saw her mother staring at her.
"How can you find amusement in this?"
Mama whispered.
"Your father is dead."
"Oh, Mama, of course I know that. But
we are not dead,
and we owe it to ourselves to go on living."
Victoria pushed those sad memories
away. Since that terrible
day, she and her mother had seemed to switch places, as her mother
foundered
under the knowledge that her own husband had left them penniless. The
long
overdue mortgage on the town house, their last remaining property, had
been
bought by a distant cousin, who had agreed to let them remain until he
returned
to England with his family-two months from now. Time was running out.
Her sisters were doing what they could.
But their earnings
barely supported themselves. Meriel had used her logical nature and
excellent
education to find a position as a governess. Louisa’s
sweetness and
patience had enabled her to become a companion to an elderly lady.
Victoria
had thought she was doing her share by keeping their meager household
running,
for she had not her sisters' talents. Lately she'd felt the urge to do
more,
to prove that she was no longer that shy girl who used to think she
deserved
so little in life. Had all she ever aspired to be was her mother's
companion
and caretaker? Yes, it once would have given her the chance to immerse
herself
in her beloved musical compositions. But that silly girl had come to
know
firsthand the harsh realities of life without privilege. And it was
time
to do something more.
"I do believe there is a clock in
Meriel's room," Mrs.
Wayneflete said. "Quite an old, fancy piece. Would that do?"
"Of course." Victoria nodded briskly,
having long since
accepted that she was the one to make all the family decisions. "Mama,
you
can have the vase for a while longer."
"Something will happen, Victoria," her
mother said, a
look of shining hope in her dull eyes. "You'll see."
Victoria's thoughts were tinged with
sarcasm that was
uncalled for. It was so easy for her to lose patience with her mother
these
days, though good breeding kept her from expressing her opinions. Mama
had
once aspired to the highest reaches of society, as if riches could make
the
ton forget that Mr. Shelby had been their trusted banker, not their
equal.
It had frustrated her mother terribly that wealth had allowed her to
live
in the same exclusive neighborhood as the nobility, but not to mingle
with
them.
That unrealistic hope shining from her
mother's eyes
made Victoria even more determined. There had to be a solution.
She thought of Tom again, that boy
she'd never met, but
with whom she'd shared the intimacy of her every thought. She had to
stop
such silly daydreaming and get on with the day. She wrote the clock
into
her household journal, where she kept lists of the items they'd had to
sell.
At Tillman and Sons, Mr. Tillman quoted
her a reasonable
price for the clock, and Victoria left feeling a moment's triumph,
followed
by the inevitable worry that never truly went away. As she walked
slowly
through the busy city streets, her thoughts dwelled inward, searching
for
a solution she could not find.
Distractedly, she turned down an alley,
a shortcut from
the shopping district to her wealthy neighborhood. She used it every
week,
yet she was still surprised when she found herself all alone. The sky
was
overcast with the promise of rain, making the coach houses and stables
on
either side of her seem full of shadows. She heard a strange crack
behind
her and looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing. She picked up
her
pace.
Before she reached the halfway point of
the alley, she
felt certain she was being followed. She'd left Tillman and Sons with
an
empty satchel-anyone could figure out that she now carried money with
her.
And she was a woman alone. Why had she chosen the luncheon hour for her
shortcut,
when all the coachmen and grooms were obviously inside enjoying their
meals?
She picked up her pace, debating whether a confrontation would deter a
thief.
She was only two blocks from home!
So she picked up her skirts and ran.
She heard pounding
steps behind her almost immediately, but she didn't risk looking over
her
shoulder until she came out on the street. As she made the turn to stay
on
the pavement, she saw a dirty, skinny little boy, not more than eight,
dressed
in ragged clothing. He seemed even more desperate than she was, for he
continued
to follow her. Two men walked a block ahead of her, and she felt safe
enough
to fumble in her reticule. She grabbed the first coin she found-a
shilling-and
threw it over her shoulder. With a glance, she saw the boy fall to his
knees
and scramble for the money.
Only after Victoria had crossed the
street and left him
behind did she allow herself to slow down and catch her breath. A year
ago,
she would never have been able to run like that. Helping Mrs.
Wayneflete
with the cleaning had obviously improved her stamina.
The little boy had disappeared, and she
hoped he would
buy himself a hot meal. Biting her lip, she couldn't help shuddering.
Would
his life soon be hers?
She passed the home of the Earl of
Banstead, right next
door to hers. The house lived under a cloud of scandal many years old,
but
one that Victoria had been deemed too young to hear about. She'd given
up
questioning her housekeeper about the servants' gossip years before.
She couldn't imagine that Tom still
lived there-surely
she would have had some word from him.
She came to a stop and stared up at the
huge town house
with its gleaming windows and impressive entranceway. Was the answer to
her
problems in there?
But she had never been an impulsive
woman, so she resumed
walking home to help Mrs. Wayneflete with dinner-and came up short
before
she reached her property. The idea rolling around in her mind was so
wildly
impulsive that she felt the need to give in to it immediately, before
she
could change her mind. Her heart pounded, her gloves dampened with
perspiration.
Was Tom the answer to her prayers?
Would he marry her?
Oh, what was she thinking? A kind man
like him, twenty-six
years of age, would surely be married already. That was probably why
he'd
stopped writing to her. He'd met a girl and-
But what if he wasn’t
married? She could be a servant's
wife. She'd become quite the frugal housekeeper, and she knew she could
be
content with Tom. She hadn't wanted to marry. It had been too difficult
to
flirt with men. Since she loved nothing better than to be alone with
her
music or her needlework, she had thought that would content her. It had
been
a relief when her mother had given up on marriage plans for her, when
her
father's disapproving looks had turned to indifference. He had always
made
sure Victoria knew it would be difficult to find a husband for her.
But now marriage might be the only
answer. Could this
actually work? Could she save her mother-and herself?
She marched up to the Banstead front
door and knocked
before she could change her mind. Too late, she realized she should
have
gone around to the servant's entrance in the back. But someone was
already
opening the door.
An imposing butler, wearing black
livery and a white
wig, bowed to her. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon. Forgive my
impertinence, but I am looking
for a manservant who once worked for you-and might still work for you,
of
course."
The butler stepped aside and she
entered the two-story
entrance hall. A graceful marble staircase curved up one wall, a
corridor
led to the rear of the home, and several closed doors hid other rooms.
The butler studied her. "The servant's
name, miss?"
"I never knew his last name," she said,
"but his mother
was once the cook here. The boy's name was Tom, and he would be
twenty-six
years old by now."
"Miss, since I have been with the earl
for nearly thirty
years, I can assure you that--"
A door suddenly opened, and a tall man
stepped into the
hall, quite taking her breath away with the power of his presence. He
was
dressed in somber colors with the most expensive fabric and cut. He had
dark
brown hair, cut close to his head as if to hide wayward curls he
couldn't
control. Though some might not call him handsome, his face with its
intimidating
cheekbones and dark, heavy brows was definitely striking. But it was
his
eyes that had unnerved her. They were the palest blue, frosty with
intelligence,
a winter glance in springtime.
He studied her more intently than any
man had right to
do to a stranger. She lifted her chin and tried to appear calm, when
inside
her every insecurity was bubbling to the surface.
The man turned to his butler. "I'll
handle this,
Smith."
"Very good, my lord." After giving a
bow, Smith left
the entrance hall and motioned the footman to leave with him.
This could not be the earl, who
Victoria knew was an
elderly man, so it must be his son. She'd always gotten the impression
from
Tom that that the young viscount was often away at school, for he
seemed
to have not overly influenced the household. Unless he was part of the
scandal…
"I am Viscount Thurlow. And you
are…"
Memories came flooding back of
countless parties where
she stuttered talking to every man, but she forced them away. She
wasn’t
that girl anymore. "Miss Victoria Shelby, my lord. I live next door."
"I know the family name."
"You do?"
"You live next door," he said dryly.
She tried to smile. "Oh yes, of course.
My lord, I am
looking for-"
"A servant named Tom," he interrupted.
"I overheard."
"Does he still live here? If not,
perhaps I could speak
with your steward for a forwarding address."
His examination made her feel
uncomfortable and even
annoyed.
"Miss Shelby, there is no other way to
say this except
to be blunt. I'm Tom."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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