Page 1 of Lady Farah Creates a Scandal (The Season of Secrets #2)
L ord Rockwell Ware hadn’t seen his older brother look so happy for a long, long time. There must be something to this love disease, but he still didn’t want to catch it.
Wolf and Tiffany had returned from their honeymoon in Cornwall last week.
Married life obviously agreed with the Marquess of Wolfarth and his new wife.
In fact, Lady Tiffany was glowing tonight, even though he understood how nervous she was about hosting her first ball as the Marchioness of Wolfarth.
The night was going well, with most of the ton present, many no doubt wanting to judge and find Lady Tiffany wanting.
How had a bluestocking, poor spinster captured the attention of the Marquess of Wolfarth one of England’s most eligible bachelors?
That was the question Rockwell knew without a doubt they’d come to find answers to.
The answer was simple—she had captured him with love.
That was why, as the second son, Rockwell, hid in the shadows. He was now the only eligible Ware. Most knew he’d accumulated his own fortune from his travels and investments and was now sought after by mothers with young debutantes.
Rockwell would not go there again. He’d loved once and it had cost his love her life. His wanderlust meant he would never settle down and have a happy family. It wasn’t fair to those involved. He could never stay in one place for too long.
Now, with Wolf happily married, surely an heir would follow shortly and he’d no longer have the title of spare hanging over him.
How he hated being known as the spare. He’d always taken his own path in life.
Perhaps his need to explore and challenge the world was because he wanted to prove his life was more than simply sitting and waiting for a terrible thing to happen.
Being the second son gave him more freedom than Wolf and deep down inside, he always feared Wolf’s demise might take his freedom away.
He’d been more relaxed since his brother’s enemy, the crooked stockjobber, Mr. Sprat, was now dead.
Rockwell liked adventure, so he’d taken immense satisfaction in making sure Sprat paid for his crimes.
While the newly married couple were in Cornwall, Sprat, the man who had nearly killed Wolf, had been tried and hanged.
The saga was over, and Rockwell hoped Wolf could get on with his life and put the terrible past behind him.
If his brother’s contented, smug smile was anything to go by, he had.
Now that the title of spare was pretty much about to be retired, Rockwell was celebrating by planning a trip to Africa to find the rumored precious diamonds of that continent.
Not that he needed more money. His investments were producing great returns.
His latest venture, in Armley Mills in Leeds, had brought in a huge sum.
In fact, he’d discussed with the mill owners about investing in a large estate and breeding more Merino sheep.
Merino sheep were new to England, and their numbers were low.
The mill needed more wool to expand. Stock numbers needed to increase.
He’d think about such an investment on his return from Africa.
Although he was already a landowner, running an estate was not something he’d likely enjoy.
He shook his head. That didn’t sound something an explorer should consider.
Speaking of hot countries, the heat was unbearable in the ballroom, and he was considering stepping out to the terrace when he heard a feminine laugh.
It was Lady Farah, the Duke of Blackstone’s younger sister.
Her brother was Stone to everyone who knew him, because he had about as much emotion in him as a boulder.
But Rockwell knew that underneath Stone’s ducal persona there lay a man who was all heart. Or he hoped so.
He searched the crowd and found her with the other ladies of the sisterhood who surrounded Tiffany. But his eyes saw only Lady Farah.
He loved the sound of her laugh. It was warmhearted and filled with joy.
He shook his head to clear the memory of seeing Farah standing in his bedchamber a few weeks ago, with his Hessian boot on one long slender leg, her skirts hiked up to her waist. His sister and Farah had been secretly raiding his wardrobe for clothes for a charity sale, and Farah had decided to try on a Hessian.
Never had he witnessed such a tantalizing display.
Was that why he couldn’t get her out of his head?
Rumor was, Blackstone was marrying her off to Lord Franklin. That wouldn’t be a happy match. Perhaps he should talk to the man, but there had been no announcement yet. Perhaps Farah had finally gathered enough courage to stand up to her brother.
Franklin was as dreary as a cold winter’s day, and shy Farah needed a man who could draw out the real woman. The woman he’d glimpsed when she’d stood in his bedchamber in his boot. Hidden under her shyness was a woman full of bristling passion with a love of life.
He felt sorry for Farah. He’d known her since she was a young girl. She’d been a frequent visitor to their home, given she was best friends with his two younger sisters. If Blackstone pushed ahead with this match, she would marry a man who didn’t know how to spell fun , let alone enjoy life.
As if Lady Farah sensed him watching her, she turned and glided across the floor toward where he hid from the crowd. He couldn’t help the seductive smile that broke over his lips. She was exquisite in a pixie-ghost sort of way.
As usual, she could not look him in the eye. “Good evening, my lord. I hear you’re traveling to Ireland tomorrow to retrieve the money Sprat stole from Lady Tiffany.”
Sprat had cleverly sent his stolen investment money to an Irish bank so he was less likely to be caught. “That’s correct. I need to produce the magistrate report and sign some papers at the bank to have the funds transferred back to Wolf.”
Farah nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think it will take long for the funds to be returned?”
Rockwell silently stared at her for a moment. Why was Lady Farah so interested in Tiffany’s funds? “It should not take more than a fortnight.”
She bit her lip. “I suppose that’s not too long.” She rubbed her hands together.
“Is there a reason Lady Tiffany may need the funds sooner?”
She shook her head. “No. Not Tiffany,” and before he could ask more, she brushed past him and out into the corridor.
How strange. Why would Farah, of any of the ladies, need funds? Her brother was very prosperous and she was soon to be married to a wealthy lord.
Before he could give the strange conversation any further thought, Tiffany arrived at his side. “It’s time to come out of the corner and dance with your sister-in-law. Why are men so afraid of marriage?”
“Wolf has shown me there is no need to be afraid of marriage, only of choosing the wrong woman.”
“Well answered, Rockwell. Is there a right woman for you, do you think?”
An image of Farah in his Hessian flashed through his head.
She chuckled. “Oh, I think there might be.” And as they danced, Tiffany ran her eye over the ladies present. Only Farah had not returned to the ballroom yet. Tiffany turned her attention back to Rockwell. “I’ll work out who it is. I’m so happy. I want everyone to find what I have found with Wolf.”
*
Farah barely had time to catch her breath after leaving Rockwell’s side. She had to be quick if her plan was to be instigated tonight. She slipped through the crowd as usual, pretty much unnoticed, until just her damnable luck a familiar voice cut through the ballroom’s chatter like a blade.
“Sister.” He’d found her as he always did. When out in society, he watched her like a hawk in case she disgraced the Blackstone name. Her brother didn’t know her at all. She was usually scared of her shadow.
But not tonight. She giggled inside because for once, she would get one up on her brother. Sometimes confrontation produced worse results than stealth.
She turned, her stomach immediately tightening at the sight of her handsome, but overbearing brother approaching, his imposing figure drawing every eye in their vicinity.
The Duke of Blackstone moved through the crowd like a force of nature—shoulders squared, chin raised, his very presence demanding deference from all around him.
Ladies curtsied as he passed, gentlemen bowed, and conversations died mid-sentence before resuming in hushed, reverent tones.
But it wasn’t just Stone himself that commanded attention tonight.
Two exquisite women flanked him, their hands delicately placed upon his arms as if he were some prized stallion they’d captured.
Lady Pemberton, a stunning widow with auburn curls and knowing green eyes, simpered up at him from his left, while Miss Ashworth, this season’s diamond with her porcelain complexion and golden ringlets, gazed at him with barely concealed adoration from his right.
“Your Grace,” Farah managed, offering a curtsy that felt wooden under the weight of those penetrating dark eyes—eyes that missed nothing and forgave even less.
Stone’s gaze swept over her, assessing, cataloguing, no doubt, noting every detail from her slightly mussed hair to the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks from her brief conversation with Rockwell.
Heat crept up her neck as she felt herself shrinking under that intense scrutiny, her confidence evaporating like morning mist. How at only eight and twenty had her brother learned to intimidate, when she could barely look people in the eye.
“You look flushed, Farah. I trust you haven’t been exerting yourself unduly?” His voice carried that particular tone she knew so well—the one that suggested he already knew the answer and was merely testing whether she would lie to him.
“Not at all, Stone. I was simply—”