Most Eagerly Yours
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Praise for the Novels of Allison Chase
Most Eagerly Yours
“I thoroughly enjoyed Most Eagerly Yours. Allison Chase is a masterful storyteller. Her plots are intriguing, her talent for crafting a mystery unparalleled, and her love stories are touching as well as sensual. I am now a fan! She is a writer who delivers a book that delights me in every way, interlacing sensuality and romance with stunning detail, gripping mystery and intrigue, plus fabulous characters who steal into my heart and keep me turning the pages. If you yearn for a story that engages all your senses and makes you sigh with satisfaction at the end, I highly recommend an Allison Chase book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Anderson
Dark Temptation
Winner of the Romantic Times Award
for Best Historical Romantic Gothic
“The windswept, forbidding coastline is the ideal location for Chase’s second Blackheath Moor gothic, where fear, deception, and passion dwell together. She sends chills down your spine as she heats up the pages with passionate love scenes and frightening incidents. Chase’s name is fast becoming synonymous with delicious, heart-stopping thrillers.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
“An enthralling adventure. Sophie is a spirited, witty heroine and Chad is a tortured hero who truly has some heavy crimes on his conscience. . . . Allison Chase takes the classic gothic romance style of Victoria Holt or Daphne du Maurier and brings it into the twenty- first century with her addition of some spicy love scenes . . . makes an enthralling read.”
—Romance Junkies
“In Dark Temptation, the reader will want to go all the way to the end. . . . An interesting read for both mystery and romance fans. Get cozy and prepare to have an adventure.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Dark Obsession
“This wonderfully moody and atmospheric tale, with its brooding hero, troubled young child, unquiet spirits, and unfriendly housekeeper, has many of the accoutrements of the classic gothic of the sixties. In fact, except for the ramped-up sensuality . . . it is reminiscent of Victoria Holt. . . . The solid writing, riveting opening, and clever plot twists recommend this worthy debut.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“Allison Chase’s Dark Obsession dishes up a wonderful story in a charming, romantic tradition, complete with a handsome and tortured hero, real conflict, and a touch of mystery! Anyone who loves . . . a well-written historical romance will relish this tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham
“Following in the footsteps of Daphne du Maurier, Victoria Holt, and Phyllis Whitney, Chase delivers a classic gothic complete with a haunted house, an intrepid heroine, dark secrets, and grand passion that will enthrall readers.”
—Romantic Times
“A compelling and exquisitely written love story that raises such dark questions along the way, you’ve no choice but to keep turning the pages to its stunning conclusion. Allison Chase is a master at touching your heart.”—Jennifer St. Giles, author of Bride of the Wolf
“Intriguing! A beguiling tale. Moody and atmospheric.”
—Eve Silver, author of Seduced by a Stranger
Also by Allison Chase
The Blackheath Moor Series
Dark Obsession
Dark Temptation
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, March 2010
Copyright © Lisa Manuel, 2010
All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18547-6
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Joan Hammond,
a dear friend and a true champion of historical romance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks again to Ellen Edwards and Becky Vinter for continuing to encourage me to achieve my best work, and for keeping their faith in me; and to Evan Marshall for his professionalism, and for being that calm voice on the other end of the line.
Special thanks to my good friend Benay Unger, who is always eager to talk books and history, and is willing to drop everything at a moment’s notice to help me hunt down a historical fact or dig up some invaluable research materials . . . and doesn’t seem to mind when I don’t return them for a really long time.
And my thanks and love to Paul, who never fails to be there when I need him.
Prologue
June 1830 From the Diary of Miss Laurel Sutherland
Guests came to Thorn Grove today, and with them came the knowledge that the close little world I have shared with my three sisters these past eleven years will change, change for always.
Only rarely do we receive visitors on the small Surrey estate we have called home since the death
of our parents. So young were we when we came to be in our uncle Edward’s care that I cannot now discern what I recall of my early life and what my imagination has conjured. I do know I have been happy here, and that I never suspected how readily the larger world might intrude upon our quiet borders and upset our peaceful existence.
Princess Victoria arrived this morning with her mother, her uncle Leopold, and the small host of servants who habitually travel with them. Her beloved King Charles spaniel, Dash, accompanied her, too, bounding from the open coach door like a windy shadow to scamper about our skirt hems and convey his enthusiastic if rather wet salutations.
Our ties to Victoria’s family stretch back to before I was born. Under the command of Victoria’s father, the Duke of Kent, Uncle Edward and my father served as officers in the Seventh Royal Fusiliers in Canada. They attended the duke again some years later, during his governorship of Gibraltar. I am told my family used to visit with the Duke and Duchess of Kent at their seaside cottage in Sidmouth, but I retain no memories of those occasions.
Today, as soon as the watchful eyes of the adults seemed sufficiently distracted with tea and conversation, the princess caught my hands and with urgent whispers drew my three sisters and I down the terrace steps. Dash followed, his nose working furiously as he darted into the edges of the flower beds and back again to tangle in our feet. With a backward glance at her mother and uncle, Victoria led us into the rose-edged yard of what was once the estate’s dovecote.
Surrounded by a fragrant stillness broken only by buzzing bees and the spaniel’s playful whimpers, Victoria turned as somber as I have ever seen her. My sisters and I sat on the stone bench, but as she remained standing before us, a chill of foreboding grazed my nape. Silently I waited as she drew a fortifying breath that squared her shoulders and imparted definition to the soft curve of her chin.
She had passed her eleventh birthday but a month ago, and I pondered what could possibly etch such gravity upon those childish features and cause her to seem so much older, older even than I, though at seventeen I am six years her elder.
“I am not who I was last time we met.” Her statement took us aback, but waiting for more, we said nothing. “I may continue to call you Laurel, Ivy, Holly, and Willow as I have always done. But you may no longer call me Victoria. At least not . . .” Here she faltered, her lower lip trembling. Tears magnified her eyes and reminded me once more of her tender age. “At least, you must not within the hearing of others. For you see, I have but two days ago come to an astonishing realization.”
My heart stood still as she spoke her next words: “I will one day be your queen.”
My queen. The Queen of England.
I suppose had I ever paused to consider the origins of my little friend, I would have reached this obvious conclusion long ago. But the workings of the monarchy were so far removed from our safe little haven at Thorn Grove.
The truth was that Victoria, with her large solemn eyes, sweet smile, and tiny stature, would someday assume the weight of an empire, because neither the recently deceased George IV nor his brother, the newly ascended King William, had produced a legitimate heir. Victoria’s own father, who might have one day succeeded William, had died many years ago, quite soon after my own parents passed away.
Dash, grown weary of chasing insects, came to stand with his forepaws propped on my knee. Absently I petted him behind his drooping ears as my sisters and I stared dumbfounded at Victoria. My throat closed around everything I might have said, for good or ill. Reassurances, warnings, and a deep, sorrowful lament stormed through my mind as I remembered the tales of intrigue and rivalry, along with the excesses and downright corruption of the Hanover family.
Would Victoria be spared all that? King William was elderly. What if he passed away a mere year from now? Or a week? What then for the little girl standing so bravely before us?
The bees echoed loudly in my ears. The air, thick from the recent rains and stiflingly sweet from the close circle of roses, weighed heavily in my lungs. Then Willow, barely older than Victoria, slid from the bench and sank to the grass in a deep curtsy.
“Your Highness,” she whispered. Tears beaded the tips of her thick lashes.
The twins, Ivy and Holly, followed, their heads bowed to the hot summer sun and the alarmed gaze of the princess. Perhaps thinking it a game, Dash pranced around them, nudging them with his moist nose.
Victoria’s gaze shifted and locked with mine, and the raw emotion in its dark depths prompted me to jump up and throw my arms around her. Drawing her deeper into the concealing curve of the rose hedges so that the adults on the terrace could no longer see us, I held the princess tight as she sobbed against my bosom.
In an instant Holly, Ivy, and Willow formed a tight ring around us, their arms interlocking and their heads bent over Victoria’s. Their tears—our tears—mingled with hers.
“I am frightened,” she whispered. “So frightened of the future. I feel so alone.”
“You need not be afraid, dearest.” Pressing kisses to her hair, I murmured reassurances. The spaniel sat looking up at us, his head cocked in an aspect of sympathy. My heart nearly broke as I considered that, aside from my sisters and me, Dash was the princess’s truest friend in all the world.
“One day, many years from now, you shall make a splendid queen,” I told her. “And you will always have us. We shall always be your friends, your servants if ever you need us.”
For all my attempts to comfort her, I wondered: how long before her mother and the royal court deemed my sisters and I, common-born and lacking in fortune, unfit to keep company with the future Queen of England? Were it not for the military ties among our father, our uncle, and the Duke of Kent, we should never have crossed paths.
Yet we had loved her—adored her—from the moment she first tottered into the front hall of Thorn Grove some nine years before. Perhaps it was our mutual lack of a father that forged the initial bonds among us; who better than the Sutherland sisters to understand the sad, wistful yearnings of a fatherless child?
Some minutes passed before I felt Victoria pulling straighter, taller. She stepped back from our embraces. With a brave sniffle, she raised her chin. “We shall remain friends, shan’t we? I do so wish us to.”
“Of course we shall.” The assertion came from Willow, who, a year older, stood head and shoulders above Victoria. Dearest Willow, young enough to retain her optimism, too young to realize the truth.
I gazed at Holly and Ivy, who at fifteen could not be more different despite their being twins. Holly, with her auburn hair, freckles, and violet-blue eyes, nodded vigorously in agreement with Willow’s sentiment. Ivy, her expression as dark as her coloring, managed a shaky smile even as she flashed me a look of despondency.
The certainty that time and circumstance would inevitably remove Victoria from our intimate circle filled me with sadness. But, as my sisters did, I conjured a smile for my little friend, took her hand in mine, and knelt before her to look her in the face.
“You will always have us,” I repeated. “Ivy, Holly, Willow, and I will always be your friends. Your secret friends, if need be. You must always remember that. When you are queen, if there is ever anything you need, any way that we may serve you, you have only to call on us.”
“My secret friends,” the princess repeated, tilting her head to savor the words. She glanced down at Dash, still sitting quietly as if grasping the solemnity of the occasion. Suddenly the fear and apprehension drained from Victoria’s features. Squeezing my hand, she gave a resolute nod. “My secret servants . . .”
Chapter 1
London, July 1837
Beneath what was, for London, a dazzling noonday sun, Aidan Phillips, ninth Earl of Barensforth, suddenly found himself short one illegitimate, slightly inebriated prince, and he was damned unhappy about it.
Maneuvering his gelding through Knightsbridge Street’s close-packed crowds, he avoided colliding with the other riders, carriages, and carts, and the constant
zigzag of hurrying pedestrians. The sidewalks bore an even heftier burden, jammed tight as if with several days’ worth of shoppers all at once.
Despite the inconvenience, a festive air hung over the multitude, as cheerful as the red, white, and blue striped bunting draped along the building fronts. Costermongers squeezed through, hawking the delicacies brimming from their handbarrows, their shouts of “Pasties,” “Gingerbread cakes,” “Oranges,” “Pickles” . . . rising above the general din. Young children sat breathlessly atop their father’s shoulders. Older boys climbed halfway up lampposts and clung there.
“Sir! Excuse me, sir!” A uniformed policeman came briskly alongside Aidan’s horse and placed a hand on the bridle. “You’ll have to move off onto a side street, sir. We’re closing off Knightsbridge now. The queen will be coming through shortly.”
Aidan replied with a quick salute. The officer moved away to repeat the order to others clogging the way.
Squinting against the glare, Aidan peered into the westward distance. The royal procession would soon pass by on its way to the recently renovated Buckingham Palace, conveying England’s brand-new queen to her brand-new home. Aidan saw no sign yet of the cavalcade, and for that bit of good luck he breathed a sigh of thanks.
An oath of frustration followed. He was supposed to have kept a sharp eye on the queen’s cousin George Fitzclarence, eldest son of the late King William and as unhappy a royal as Aidan had ever encountered. Not that old Fitz was royal in the strictest sense, mind you, for he’d had the ill fortune of being born on the wrong side of the imperial sheets.
Hence the problem, and Aidan’s present dilemma. Fitz wanted to be king. Badly. And he could not be convinced of the futility of that wish. Not even being Earl of Munster, a title conferred upon him by his father, proved sufficient balm to ease his blistering disappointment.