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  The eyes had all turned back to Lady Ballymere. She felt their gazes burning on her skin. She could barely speak under the weight of embarrassment she felt. “Perhaps,” she croaked, then swallowed and began again. “Perhaps it was an accident.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Whittaker quietly. It was obvious he believed otherwise. “At any rate, Lady Ballymere, the damage has been done. Your daughter and I spent the entire night there. Locked in the orangery. Alone.”

  Despair wracked her. Ruined! Cynthia had been compromised, but by the wrong man. Oh, what would she do? What could she do?

  Her eyes lifted, pleadingly, to Mr. Ellsworth’s face, mutely begging him to save the day. She longed to hear the words so much, they almost rang in her ears: Allow me to intervene, Lady Ballymere, she imagined him saying. I would be honored to have Lady Cynthia as my wife. But Mr. Ellsworth’s expression as he looked at her was redolent of disgust. A wave of bitter shame washed over her as she realized that he knew nearly as much as Cynthia and Mr. Whittaker about what she had done. And, probably, he understood why she had done it.

  Her gaze traveled, painfully, to Sir Peter and Lady Ellsworth. They were staring at her as if she had metamorphosed before their eyes into some sort of reptile. And they, unlike their son, did not know about the notes she had written. They did not know the trick she had pulled. What would they think of her, once they knew the whole? She could not flatter herself that her machinations would remain a secret. Mr. Ellsworth would, naturally, confide the details to his parents. How many others would learn of her shame? The story was too juicy to resist. It would, inevitably, be repeated.

  Oh, this was ghastly. It was not Cynthia who had been ruined. It was she, far more than her daughter, whose reputation lay in shreds.

  The duke spoke again. His voice was stern and cold. “Mr. Whittaker, do I understand you aright? Have you compromised this blameless girl—a guest in my house?”

  “I have, Your Grace,” said Mr. Whittaker calmly. “Though it was not my intention to do so.”

  The duke drew himself upright, glaring balefully. “Your intentions may go hang, sirrah,” he snapped. “You will right this wrong you have done. You will offer marriage to Lady Cynthia.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Mr. Whittaker let go of Cynthia long enough to bow very low. “With the greatest pleasure imaginable.”

  Panic stirred again in Lady Ballymere. “No,” she said feebly. She was shaking so hard now that her teeth began to chatter. “Mr. Whittaker, th-that won’t be ne-necessary,” she rapped out, but got no further.

  “Of course it is necessary,” said the duke irascibly. “Good God, woman, look at them! I never saw a more guilty pair in my life. Mr. Whittaker knows the rules. He will abide by them, by thunder, or I shall personally show him the door—family member or no.”

  Mr. Whittaker placed one hand on his heart. “Sir, you terrify me,” he said solemnly. “I hasten to obey.” He placed his arm around Cynthia. To Lady Ballymere’s pained astonishment, Cynthia nestled quite contentedly against the ruffian. “I shall offer marriage to Lady Cynthia immediately,” promised Mr. Whittaker.

  “And I shall accept,” said Cynthia happily.

  Lady Ballymere stretched her hand toward her daughter, moaning. “Cynthia. No. You are barely acquainted with Mr. Whittaker.”

  “I take leave to contradict you, Mama.” Cynthia’s voice was clear; her tone polite, but distant, as if she were speaking to a stranger. “It is you, not I, who is barely acquainted with Mr. Whittaker. I know Mr. Whittaker very well indeed.” She leaned adoringly on his arm, and as she looked up at him her face lit with happiness.

  “I am glad, my dear,” said the duke gruffly. “It seems you have no aversion to marrying this scapegrace of ours.”

  “None whatsoever, Your Grace.”

  The duke’s keen gaze traveled to Mr. Whittaker. “And you, my boy? You seem content with your lot.”

  “I am more than content, Your Grace. I am ecstatic.” His face broke into a grin. “I have wanted to marry Lady Cynthia for years.”

  Surprised exclamations greeted this pronouncement. Relief and congratulations filled the air. Lady Ballymere could only stare in confused amazement. “How can this be? What do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

  No one answered her. She seemed to have become invisible. The Ellsworths pushed past her to congratulate Cynthia and Mr. Whittaker. Mr. Ellsworth wrung Mr. Whittaker’s hand and wished him happy. The duchess rose gracefully from her place and came to kiss Cynthia on the cheek, and even the duke visibly thawed. Lady Ballymere still sat, dazedly folding and refolding her napkin.

  At last the duchess crossed to her husband and placed her hand on his sleeve. “Let us leave the young people to sort this matter out, my dear,” she said placidly. “I hope no one will think me rude if I show less interest in these proceedings than I normally would. I simply cannot help it. I have more important things on my mind this morning.”

  The duke looked down at her in surprise. She gave him a demure little smile and patted his arm. “For heaven’s sake, William, take me upstairs. I want to see the baby.”

  Chapter 20

  It had been a happy, but exhausting, day. Derek thought they deserved a reward. He seized Cynthia’s hand and ducked into the dark library, then pulled her toward the outside door. She hung back, laughing. “Derek, it’s freezing out there.”

  Cynthia was wearing a paper-thin dinner dress of some clingy silk stuff. She looked breathtakingly beautiful in it, of course, but it provided no warmth. With a magician’s flourish, he lifted her cloak from where he had hidden it, behind the overstuffed sofa. Her eyes widened in delight. “Where did you get that?”

  “Never you mind. I have my ways.” He winked. “Come on. I’ve had enough congratulations for one day. I want to be alone with my bride-to-be.”

  She followed him through the door and out onto the marble terrace. The night was chilly, but the air was clear as crystal. The pale marble glowed beneath their feet like starlight turned to stone. He placed the cloak around her shoulders and drew it gently across her arms.

  “It’s lovely to go off alone with you,” she said dreamily. “Especially now, when I know that no one will disapprove.”

  “Your mother isn’t exactly overjoyed,” he reminded her. “I hope, for your sake, she will make peace with the idea eventually.”

  Cynthia’s smile was serene. “I don’t care,” she said simply. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is—not to care what she thinks. I know this is right. I know it in my heart. I don’t need her permission to be happy.” She sighed contentedly. “I am happy, and I will be happy with or without her approval.”

  He linked his hands behind her waist and looked searchingly into her eyes. He saw no shade of trouble there. Still, loving her, he wished he could have made it perfect for her. She saw his frown and surprise moved across her features. “Derek, what is it? Are you not happy?”

  He almost laughed at her. “What do you think?”

  She smiled. “I think you are.”

  “Quite right.” His own smile faded a little. “But, for your sake, sweet, I wish the circumstances of our betrothal had been different.”

  She shook her head. “No regrets,” she said softly. “Had you courted me in the ordinary way, my mother would have found a way to prevent this. We never would have been allowed to marry.”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  She gave him a saucy look. “I frequently am.”

  He grinned and pulled her closer. She came to him willingly, snuggling in the circle of his arms. “However it came about, I feel blessed,” he told her, his voice thick with emotion. “Blessed beyond measure.”

  “So do I.” She sighed again, then leaned back to look up at him, her eyes twinkling. “By the by, I think your giving up my dowry was a nice touch.”

  He laughed out loud. “Wasn’t it? I’m a generous chap.”

  “I did not know until today that my grandmother had left me a dowry
. Sir James never bothered to ask.”

  “I feared your mother was going to fall into a fit when I inquired about it.”

  She gave a little spurt of laughter. “Mama does not know you well enough to recognize that gleam in your eye. I knew you were only being sly.”

  “Still, I was as surprised as you when she admitted that there was one.”

  “It’s only a thousand pounds.”

  “Only! Cynthia, you astonish me. A thousand pounds is a great deal of money to most people.” He tried to look injured. “You do not appreciate the nobility of my sacrifice, in offering to sign it over to your parents when it arrives.”

  “Oh, I appreciate it, never fear.” She looked mischievous. “It is my mother who seems to think it a paltry sum.”

  “If you were to ask me,” said Derek grimly, “I would say that that is the crux of your parents’ difficulties.”

  Cynthia nodded gravely. “I believe you are right. I was much struck by what you said this afternoon.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I said many things this afternoon. Which of my remarks impressed you?”

  “Oh, all of them,” she assured him demurely. “But I was referring to one in particular.” Her face sobered again. “You said, I think, that there is no amount of money that can guarantee safety. That however much one has, it is always possible to spend it.” A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “It immediately seemed, to me, that if my parents had received Sir James’s thirty thousand pounds, it very likely would have done them little good. In fact, they might very well have run through it in the identical amount of time it took them to spend his ten thousand. They spend what they have, no matter what it is. So in chasing after a big marriage settlement for me, believing it would relieve them of their difficulties, they were chasing a mere phantom. Is that what you were saying?”

  “Something like it,” he agreed. “I couldn’t say it in those words, of course, without offending your mother. Since she already seemed rather put out by our betrothal, I didn’t like to antagonize her further.”

  She laughed up at him. “You are the soul of consideration.”

  “I try,” he said modestly. “It is easiest, of course, when my own self-interest is at stake. I shall be unfailingly polite to your mother—at least until I place the ring on your finger. Since your twenty-first birthday is in May, and I am determined to wed you in April, your mother’s goodwill is vital to me.”

  “She shan’t refuse her consent. She wouldn’t dare.”

  “For fear of the story leaking out? Yes. That is the one good thing about this havey-cavey situation we are in. Your mother seems completely cowed—for the time being. And another good thing,” he added, adjusting her cloak across her arms, “is that you have already been at Oldham Park for three weeks.”

  She looked surprised. “How does that benefit us?”

  He grinned. “Once you’ve resided here for four weeks, I can obtain a license and we can be married. In the duke’s chapel, if you like.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes sparkled with eagerness. “I would like it of all things. We can really be married next week? I can hardly believe it! I had thought we must wait for banns.”

  He laughed, delighted by her response. “Cynthia, you amaze me! I was half joking. Think, sweetheart! Don’t you want parties and balls? Don’t you want bride-clothes? Don’t you want to parade about like a queen, and be the envy of all your acquaintance?”

  “No!” He could not doubt her sincerity; she actually made a little moue of disgust at the picture he had painted. “I care for none of those things. I want to be your wife. I want—” her voice suddenly went a little breathless. “I want everything that comes with marriage.” Her eyes darkened. “I want you,” she whispered.

  Derek felt his throat tighten. He lifted her hand and kissed the tender spot of flesh above her glove, on the inside of her wrist. “You shall have me,” he promised. Her skin was so delicious, he could not leave it alone. He moved his lips further up her arm, kissing and nibbling up to the inside of her elbow. Cynthia shivered and stretched her arm out to oblige him, inviting the caress. The cloak slipped off her shoulders and fell, unheeded, to the terrace floor.

  “I wish I could come to your bed tonight,” she whispered.

  He groaned and caught her to him. “Don’t say that,” he growled. “You’re torturing me.”

  “Is there a way?”

  Derek felt the blood thundering in his veins. “If I think of one,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll let you know.”

  “Oh, Derek.” Her face was full of longing. “Do you think we would get caught?”

  “Almost certainly,” he said reluctantly. “Your mother will watch you like a cat at the mousehole. And servants always know what goes on in a house.”

  She sighed. “Well. Having waited this long, we can wait another week.” She fitted her body against his, as if trying to touch as much of him as she could. “I suppose we were lucky to have last night.”

  “Lucky is the word for it,” he agreed. He pressed his cheek against her hair. It was as soft as duck down and as sweet as orange blossoms. Sweeter. And over their heads the firmament stretched, thick with stars. There were so many, it seemed that all of heaven had crowded into the Lancashire sky to witness their happiness.

  “Derek,” she murmured.

  “Yes, love.”

  “If I knew which star to thank, I would thank your lucky star.”

  He smiled. So would I. “Let’s thank them all,” he suggested. “A different one every night.”

  He felt her smile against his chest. “It would take forever.”

  He took her face in his hands and looked down at her. “Forever is what we have,” he whispered. And he kissed her, then, for all the stars to see.

  We hope you have enjoyed UNDER A LUCKY STAR. For more books by this author, please visit Amazon’s Diane Farr page at http://www.amazon.com/Diane-Farr/e/B000APO0CY/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1. Natalie and Malcolm’s story can be found in UNDER THE WISHING STAR. A bonus excerpt of FALLING FOR CHLOE follows:

  FALLING FOR CHLOE

  by Diane Farr

  Chapter 1

  Chloe shrieked when her posterior hit the mud. It was an extremely wet patch of mud, and the force of her landing sent her skidding backwards. She ended up half-lying, half-sitting, where the puddle met the tangled roots of an ancient oak. She listened to the swift tattoo of Thunder’s departing hooves with a calm born of despair.

  Stranded. In the mud. She might have known her morning would end this way.

  It had been the first sunny morning in what seemed like ages, and Chloe had been so heartily sick of life indoors that she had jumped at the chance to try out Father’s new gelding. Wiggins had told her the brute was too big for her. Wiggins had been right, as usual. Although she had held Thunder admirably for a good long while; even galloped him across the Two-Mile Run. She did wish someone had seen her then!

  Well, no one had seen her then. But someone was about to see her now. That was unmistakably the sound of an approaching horse.

  Chloe struggled frantically to free herself from the squelching mud, managed to rise precariously to her feet, and discovered that her riding boots were stuck fast. She wished it were possible for a lady to swear. Chloe’s vocabulary contained no words that did justice to this moment.

  She stood in the icy mud, fuming. Who on God’s green earth would be coming down this nameless track to nowhere? She supposed she ought to be grateful that anyone was, but somehow gratitude was not her dominant emotion. She was cold and wet and filthy, and she knew she looked ridiculous. She devoutly hoped that the approaching stranger would prove to be female. She dared not try to free her feet until she knew.

  The horse rounded the bend and Chloe gasped, then bit her lip. Thank God, it was Gil! Oh, dear—it was Gil! She knew she would be handily rescued. But she feared she would never hear the end of it.

  Mr. Gilliland sat gracefully astride his mount, a beautifully-groomed gray that,
in other circumstances, would have made Chloe green with envy. Gil was nearly as gorgeous as the prime bit of blood he was riding. His London tailoring looked out of place in the middle of Dobson’s Thicket, but it certainly was impressive. He looked every inch the gentleman, and, as he was a tall young man, there were a good many inches to look it.

  When he spied his childhood friend standing ankle-deep in muck, wet, horseless and muddy, laughter lit his azure eyes. He promptly reined his horse to a halt and swept the curly-brimmed beaver off his artistically-arranged hair. The muted sunlight in the wood struck the ordered waves of guinea-gold as he bowed, revealing the gleam of expensive pomade.

  "Chloe Littlefield!" he exclaimed. "Fancy meeting you here. Lovely weather we’re having, what?"

  Chloe frowned crossly at him. "For heaven’s sake, Gil, get off that horse and make yourself useful! I am very glad to see you, but pray do not tease me until you have finished rescuing me."

  "Oh, am I rescuing you?"

  "Yes!"

  He eyed her doubtfully. "What do you need me to do, exactly?"

  She shivered. The mud had not penetrated the thick skirts of her riding habit, but it had definitely seeped through her jacket. And her feet had gone quite numb. "My boots are stuck." Since it was only Gil, she lifted the wet hem of her skirt and showed him.

  "Step out of ’em."

  "I can’t."

  Gil dismounted leisurely and strolled up to her. "Give me your hand," he ordered, and she did so. "Now try it. I’ve got you, Chloe."

  Braced against Gil, clutching his hand and simultaneously holding her heavy skirts out of the way, she struggled to step out of the mud. Her right foot came out booted, although the boot was caked with filth. But when she stepped on her right foot and pulled her left free, her stockinged foot slipped out of the boot, leaving it behind. She clutched at Gil and squeaked as she nearly lost her balance. He held her with surprising strength—at arm’s length. This did not offend her in the least; his anxiety to keep her at bay was perfectly understandable. She was extremely dirty.