The Golden Season Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty- three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty- six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Connie Brockway

  So Enchanting

  “Exceptionally entertaining characters, a wildly original

  plot that cleverly spoofs the spiritualist craze of the late

  Victorian era, and deliciously humorous writing give So

  Enchanting its bewitchingly irresistible charm.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Although her contemporary romances are delightful, Brockway here delivers a historical that will make her fans rejoice.”

  —Library Journal

  “Two perfectly matched protagonists engage in a sexy and entertaining battle of wits and wiles as RITA Award-winning Brockway triumphantly returns to historical romance. With its expertly detailed Victorian setting, deliciously clever writing, and captivating plot, this wicked romance will cast a bewitching spell.”

  —Booklist

  Skinny Dipping

  “Realistically quirky characters, delightfully clever writing, and a warmly nourishing story about family, friendship, and love come together brilliantly in Skinny Dipping, Connie Brockway’s latest beguiling tale of a woman who discovers life is all about commitment.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Spiked with her addictively acerbic wit, Brockway’s latest beguiling blend of women’s fiction and romance . . . unfolds into a richly nourishing tale of family, friendship, love, and laughter.”

  —Booklist

  “Bittersweet and touching . . . [a] most satisfying tale.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Just right for a long winter day.”

  —Minnesota Monthly

  “A witty, warmhearted novel that will keep the reader laughing. This hilarious, mysterious, and romantic book is a keeper.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “An exquisitely rendered setting, an abundance of complex family dynamics, a story that explores what it means to belong, and a beautifully developed romantic relationship guarantee the appeal of this well-crafted tale for both romance and women’s fiction fans alike.”

  —Library Journal

  Hot Dish

  “Rapier wit and dazzling prose. . . . Brockway writes sheer magic.”

  —Elizabeth Bevarly

  “A dazzling contemporary debut!”

  —Christina Dodd

  “A hilarious, bittersweet look at going home.”

  —Eloisa James

  “Wry, witty, and wonderful! This cast of unforgettable characters will tickle your funny bone and your heart-strings.”

  —Teresa Medeiros

  “This combination caper and comedy-of-errors story is just wacky enough to keep you giggling. Brava!”

  —Romantic Times

  “A smart and funny page-turner.”

  —All About Romance

  “Splendidly satisfying. With its surfeit of realistically quirky characters and sharp wit, Hot Dish is simply superb.”

  —Booklist

  ALSO BY CONNIE BROCKWAY

  Hot Dish

  Skinny Dipping

  So Enchanting

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February

  Copyright © Connie Brockway, 2010

  Excerpt from So Enchanting copyright © Connie Brockway, 2009 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18478-3

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  For Lilah , whom I loved before I met

  Chapter One

  March 1816

  “You had best look over these papers, Lady Lydia,” said Robert Terwilliger, senior partner of the Royal Bank of London, to the exquisitely beautiful woman sitting across the desk from him. The beauty reluctantly accepted the sheaf of papers he held out and began reading, allowing Terwilliger the opportunity to study her.

  At twenty-four, when most young ladies would have been considered on the shelf, Lady Lydia Eastlake showed no signs of relinquishing her place not only as one of the ton’s most notable nonpareil but the nonpareil.

  Even Terwilliger, no follower of fashion—his three grown daughters’ attempts to educate him notwitstanding—could appreciate Lydia Eastlake’s
dash. Ecru- fluted silk trimmed the emerald green pelisse covering her elegant and well-curved figure, while her shimmering burnt-caramel-colored curls peeked out from beneath a spring bonnet bedecked with feathers, fronds, and flowers. The glossy locks framed a face noted for the perfect proportion of her small, angular jaw, straight nose, arched dark brows, and high cheekbones.

  And then there were the eyes: long, dark lashed, and exotically tilted, they were a color so vividly, deeply blue that they appeared purple. Strong men, it was said, could lose themselves in the thrall of her eyes.

  Robert Terwilliger was not a strong man. And it would take a very strong man indeed to rein in the likes of Lady Lydia Eastlake. She was a headstrong, self-indulgent voluptuary, but also absolutely captivating, utterly charming, and infectiously merry. But worse, she was completely independent.

  Since she’d come of age three years ago, Lady Lydia had not been under any single man’s supervision as daughter, sister, niece, wife, widow, or ward.

  Terwilliger hadn’t known her parents personally, having inherited the position as her personal banker, but he’d heard of them. Their affair had been for a short while notorious.

  His older brother’s death had left Ronald Eastlake heir to an enormous fortune that had its basis in the noble family’s many ancestral land holdings and had been expanded by his brother’s willingness to invest in trade—literally. The Eastlakes owned a shipping empire. It had also left his brother’s widow, Julia, free to marry.

  That the pair had been in love for some time was obvious, for no sooner was the mourning period ended than Eastlake convinced Julia to elope with him to France because no clergy in the country had been willing to marry them. They’d cited “affinity”—the old biblical edict against marrying one’s brother’s widow—as a reason.

  Luckily, the French clergy was not so traditional.

  Once wed, because of the enormous fortune involved, and because anyone might bring a suit to have the marriage annulled on the grounds of affinity against them, they decided never to return to England and put their marriage at risk. Their resolve to uphold this decision was strengthened by the birth of their daughter less than a year later.

  By all reports—and there were many—exile suited them very well. The Eastlakes were renowned in international circles for their glamorous, globe-trotting lifestyle, their recklessness and their laissez-faire attitudes. They’d taken Lydia with them everywhere they went. The courts of Europe had been her playgrounds, the far reaches of the English empire her backyard.

  Famous, sought after, rich, and in love they might have been, but to Terwilliger’s mind none of that excused their neglect of their child’s future. The notion that they might not always be young and vibrant and alive apparently never occurred to them, for they’d neglected to make provisions for the care of their only child should something happen to them. Which it had, in the form of a fatal carriage accident.

  Thus their deaths had left Lady Lydia at fourteen the heir to one of England’s largest unentailed estates, meaning the property was hers alone to do with as she wished and did not need to be preserved to be passed on to another generation. Having no kin, she’d become a ward of the crown and the Prince Regent had named as her guardian one of his own cousins, an elderly, fiscally responsible but physically unavailable cousin of the old king, a Sir Grimley. Poor lass had gone from being the pet of a dozen European courts to being the only child in Sir Grimley’s Sussex house with only paid caretakers for companions.

  Then, when Lydia had turned sixteen, her godmother and mother’s childhood friend, Eleanor, the widowed Duchess of Grenville, had taken the budding beauty under her wing and presented her at court. To this day the two women remained fast friends, despite the fact that as soon as Lydia reached her majority and inherited her wealth, she’d flown free of what few constraints the duchess had imposed upon her and become reliant only on her own whim. That surely was the only counsel she’d ever seen her parents heed. Still, as a sop to convention, she had engaged a Mrs. Cod as her companion.

  Terwilliger glanced at the woman who was seated even now at Lady Lydia’s side, a small dumpling of a female with frizzy rufous hair and a habit of popping her chin in and out that gave her an uncanny resemblance to a spruce grouse.

  Soon after reaching her twenty- first birthday, Lydia had begun introducing Emily Cod as her chaperone and companion, claiming the older woman was a widowed second cousin. Rumor had it Lady Lydia had plucked Mrs. Cod out of the madhouse to fulfill the position rather than submit to a more suitable—and less lenient—chaperone.

  Certainly, Emily Cod was suspiciously well suited to play doyenne to a high-spirited and independent girl. She was amiable, uncritical, and had the laudable (at least, from a debutante’s viewpoint) ability to fall comfortably asleep while sitting upright. She also had an unnerving propensity for “collecting” things from the homes they visited, an open secret amongst the ton that had given rise to the Bedlam rumor.

  “What exactly are all these numbers to tell me, Mr. Terwilliger?” Lady Lydia abruptly asked, looking up from the papers on her lap.

  “Ah, well . . .”

  She noted the direction of his gaze and gave an elegant wave of her gloved hand. “There is nothing you can say to me that you cannot say in front of Emily, Mr. Terwilliger. She owns far more of my secrets than you.”

  “Very well, then, Lady Lydia.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “You are bankrupt.”

  She gave a start, then broke into charming laughter. “I just knew you had a sense of humor, Terwilliger. I confess, I had about given up hope of ever seeing it, but I knew it was there.”

  He stared at her, confounded. “But . . . I have no comedic bent, Lady Lydia,” he stammered. “I am quite serious. You are bankrupt.”

  Rather than reply, Lady Lydia blithely reached over and plucked a paperweight from Emily Cod’s lap. Terwilliger hadn’t even noted when the older woman had picked it up. Mrs. Cod smiled apologetically.

  “And this is why you insisted I cancel my luncheon appointment to meet here at your offices? Could this not have waited?” Lady Lydia asked.

  He peered at her closely, trying to gauge whether she understood the full meaning of his words. She had never had a head for numbers, but she was no fool, either. Should she have wished, he had no doubt she could have understood her finances. So he could only surmise she had no wish to do so. And why should she? It had always seemed her funds would be inexhaustible.

  He remembered their original meeting three years ago, when she’d come into her seemingly limitless inheritance and he’d been assigned her accounts. She had been twenty-one, a pretty, immensely wealthy orphan. From a banking perspective it had not been a successful union. He knew he had mismanaged her wealth. But so, too, had most bankers and stockbrokers mismanaged everything during the wretched economy of the time. No, he was not entirely to blame himself. The stock markets had been abysmal, land prices were falling and food costs rising; it was three years of inflation and recession. And she was profligate. Ridiculously, ruinously so.

  “Let me try to explain another way, my lady. Your assets are gone. You are poor.”

  “Poor?” Lady Lydia repeated, tasting the word as though it were some exotic, and not altogether pleasant, flavor. “What do you mean by ‘poor’?”

  “Poor, as in one who has no money. As in, you owe more than you own.” He tapped the thick stack of bills on the desk before him.

  The celebrated violet eyes abruptly lit with amused comprehension. “Ah, I see. This is about the barouche.”

  Again, the heart- stopping smile appeared and Terwilliger steeled himself against her charms, knowing his will alone was an inadequate defense. His duty here was clear. She must leave his offices with no doubt about the direness of her situation. He had allowed her to sally about in blissful ignorance too long.

  “I swear I could not help myself,” she pouted prettily. “It has yellow wheels, Mr. Terwilliger. Jonquil yellow.”

&nb
sp; “It is not simply the barouche, Lady Lydia,” he said. “Your funds have been completely exhausted.”

  She frowned, looking a bit perplexed that her pout had not achieved the desired effect of having him recant his words. “Just how exhausted?”

  “Aside from the new yacht and barouche, in the last three months you purchased six paintings and a pianoforte for some musician—”

  “He’s a talented composer and he needed a pianoforte.”

  “There is always a composer or an artist or furniture maker or someone who needs something that you are always too ready to give,” Terwilliger said in ex asperation.

  It was one of the reasons one cared so much whether Lady Lydia’s spendthrift ways led to her ruin; though madly profligate, wildly impulsive, and supremely spoiled, she was also ruinously generous and marvelously appreciative. She was the consummate bon vivant. Her delight in the most negligible flower was as great as it was for the grandest of academy paintings and just as sincere. One lived more in the company of Lady Lydia. Saw more. Felt more.

  He pressed on. “In the last three years, you landscaped the Devon property, all eight hundred acres of it, made sizable contributions to various soldiers’ aid societies, widows’ and orphans’ societies, and”—he consulted a piece of paper set apart from the others—“single-handedly funded an exploration to North Africa by the Royal Society of Atlantis.” He looked up, hoping she would deny this last allegation. She didn’t.