No Occupation For A Lady

No Occupation For A Lady
Gail Whitiker

CAN SHE EVER PEN HER OWN LOVE STORY?Meeting Alistair Devlin, London’s most eligible bachelor, causes Victoria Bretton no end of problems. Masking her attraction is even more difficult than concealing her alter ego – playwright Valentine Lawe – not to mention the fact that this man’s unsettling gaze is causing her the most terrible writer’s block!Alistair’s not in the market for love…although he can’t help but be beguiled by Victoria and intrigued by the secrets she’s hiding. As they grow closer the lines between fact and fiction become blurred. Can she be the heroine of her very own happy ending?

‘Mr Devlin—’

‘Alistair,’ he whispered.

‘Mr Devlin,’ Victoria repeated, closing her eyes. ‘I beg you to listen to me—’

‘I don’t want to listen,’ he said, drawing close.

‘I want … this.’

And then … he kissed her.

Victoria had been kissed before; once by a fumbling youth in a childhood game and once by a friend in a Christmas theatrical. But she had never been kissed like this. Never been made to feel as though she was in danger of losing her mind. The searing heat of Alistair’s mouth obliterated every rational thought, and for a moment she didn’t care that she must tell him a potentially damaging truth.

All she knew was that she was falling in love with Alistair Devlin. Whatever happened tomorrow would have no bearing on that.

Slowly, reluctantly, they drew apart, their eyes holding each other’s in the dim evening light. Victoria hadn’t known it was possible to feel like this, but she did know that things would never be the same between them again. Soon she would have to tell him the truth. Soon she would have to explain why this secret life had been imposed on her. But in the aftermath of his kiss all she wanted to do was draw his head down to hers and kiss him again …

About the Author

GAIL WHITIKER was born on the west coast of Wales and moved to Canada at an early age. Though she grew up reading everything from John Wyndham to Victoria Holt, frequent trips back to Wales inspired a fascination with castles and history, so it wasn’t surprising that her first published book was set in Regency England. Now an award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels, Gail lives on Vancouver Island, where she continues to indulge her fascination with the past as well as enjoying travel, music and spectacular scenery. Visit Gail at www.gailwhitiker.com

Previous novels by this author:

A MOST IMPROPER PROPOSAL* (#ulink_022b904e-298b-5858-bb1e-0c9758499940) THE GUARDIAN’S DILEMMA* (#ulink_022b904e-298b-5858-bb1e-0c9758499940) A SCANDALOUS COURTSHIP A MOST UNSUITABLE BRIDE A PROMISE TO RETURN COURTING MISS VALLOIS BRUSHED BY SCANDAL IMPROPER MISS DARLING

* (#ulink_88a2608d-6f5e-5c06-ae73-a2e39a3706d7)part of The Steepwood Scandal mini-series

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

The theatre has always been a popular form of entertainment, and it was well attended during the Georgian and Victorian periods. Jane Austen frequently went to performances at Drury Lane and Covent Garden when she was in town, and many a notable actor and actress rose to fame during this period. To others, however, it was a breeding ground for sin and corruption.

NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY was born out of a single question. What might a gently bred lady do that was not entirely respectable and not widely approved of by society? The answer? Almost anything to do with the theatre—so naturally my heroine had to become deeply albeit secretly involved with the writing and production of plays.

This meant I needed an aristocratic hero who was not an avid theatregoer, who despised deception in all forms, and whose own interests were as far removed from the frivolous world of the theatre as possible. Throw in an eccentric uncle who owns a theatre, a mother who thinks it’s the devil’s playground and a brother who hates the spotlight and you have the makings of a family disaster—and, hopefully, of a compelling love story.

I hope you enjoy this light-hearted romp through the world of Regency theatre!

Author’s Note

The Licensing Act of 1737 introduced the heavy hand of censorship to the British theatre. It was initiated by Robert Walpole, one of the period’s most influential and powerful men, and its main purpose was to prevent satirists of the day from lampooning politicians—Walpole in particular—and from presenting anything felt to be subversive or distasteful to the British public. As such, it required that a Lord Chamberlain and his ‘Examiners of Plays’ approve every play prior to its first public performance. Any content deemed to be insulting, derogatory, inflammatory or controversial was removed.

The Act also restricted the production of serious dramatic works to Drury Lane and Covent Garden, two theatres already in possession of royal sanctions. Theatres that did not hold this distinction—like the fictitious Gryphon—resorted to producing melodramas, ballad operas and burlesques, which relied heavily on musical interludes, facial gestures and body movements, and either eliminated or restricted the use of spoken dialogue altogether.

The scope of the Licensing Act caused a resurgence in the works of William Shakespeare, given that plays written before 1737 were not subject to censorship and could be performed without permission from authority, but it also fostered a deep distrust of government officials by both playwrights and the public alike. As a result, many successful playwrights turned their hand to writing novels, which were not affected by the same strict rules. Surprisingly, the Act remained in effect until 1968, when it came up against mounting pressure from influential anti-censorship groups.

I have taken a certain amount of artistic licence with regard to the content of Victoria Bretton’s plays. I tend to think her remarks about members of society and the clergy would probably have been ‘red lined’ by the Examiners, but for the sake of the story, I wanted there to be some ‘controversial elements’ in her work. And while it is true that a number of women were successful in writing plays in and around the Regency, it was still not a recommended occupation for young ladies. Oh, how far we’ve come!

No Occupation

for a Lady

Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Chapter One

It was important that one dressed appropriately for the theatre, if for no other reason than to spare oneself the embarrassment of being under-dressed should someone of consequence happen to be seated in the box next to you. After all, one never knew when a marriageable viscount or an eligible earl might wander in for an evening’s performance, and with so many single young women looking to find husbands, a girl couldn’t afford to miss a single opportunity.

That, at least, was the justification Mrs Bretton had always given her two daughters for looking their best, and as Victoria Bretton studied her reflection in the cheval glass, she supposed it was not a bad way for an ambitious mother to think. The importance of presenting unwed daughters in the most favourable light possible could not be understated, whether it be at a musicale evening, a grand ball, or at the début of a new play at the elegant Gryphon Theatre, even if only Victoria thought the latter an occasion worthy of attending.

Fortunately, what she saw in the glass was enough to reassure her that it would not be her appearance that fell short of expectation that evening. Her gown of imported ivory silk was in the first state of fashion, and the exquisite pearl-and-ruby necklace lent to her by her aunt served as the perfect accessory. The flashing crimson stones nestled sweetly in the décolletage of her gown, which, as Aunt Tandy had pointed out, was neither too demure nor too daring, and her hair, once likened to the colour of clover honey, had been swept up and arranged in a most sophisticated style by the skilled hands of her aunt’s French maid. She looked every inch the proper young lady society expected her to be.

What would they say, Victoria mused as she turned away from the glass, if they knew what this evening was really all about?

The house was quiet as she made her way down the long curving staircase to the black-and-white-tiled hall. Candles flickered brightly from wall sconces and chandeliers, casting a warm golden glow over the elegant furnishings, while portraits of long-dead aristocrats stared down at her, their critical expressions seeming to offer silent disapproval of her plans.

Victoria paid them no mind. Her concern was with the living, not with the dead.

Besides, they were not portraits of her ancestors. The paintings, like the house, belonged to her father’s brother and wife, an eccentric pair of retired actors who owned a theatre as well as several houses in and around London. They had kindly allowed Victoria’s parents the use of this house for the past two Seasons so that Victoria and her younger sister could make their entrance into society. Victoria had taken her bows last year, and with Winifred doing so this year Mrs Bretton was hopeful that at least one of her girls would end up married by the end of it.

The prospect of returning home to Kent with two unwed daughters in tow was simply too humiliating to be borne.

‘Good evening, Miss Bretton.’ The butler greeted her at the door. ‘James has the carriage ready. Your brother has already gone out.’

‘Thank you, Quince.’ Victoria turned to allow the elderly gentleman to settle a velvet cape about her shoulders. ‘Do you know where my parents and sister are dining this evening?’

‘I believe with Sir Roger and Lady Fulton, miss.’

Ah, yes, the baronet and his wife—a prominent society couple with two sons of marriageable age, the eldest of which Winifred was hopeful of attracting. She certainly wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to spend time with him for something as trivial as a night at the theatre.

After all, what was the opening night of Valentine Lawe’s newest play when compared to the prospect of batting eyelashes at Mr Henry Fulton over the silver epergne?

‘Thank you, Quince,’ Victoria said, careful not to betray even a twinge of disappointment. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, miss. Oh, and your father asked me to wish you … a very successful evening. He said you would know what he meant.’

Victoria smiled. A few simple words, as enigmatic as they were brief, and her spirits rose immeasurably. Dearest Papa. Always her ally, even in this. She thanked the butler and walked out into the cool evening air. The late April day had been unusually warm, but the evening temperatures had begun to drop as soon as the sun went down, making her grateful for the enveloping warmth of the cape.

‘Evening, Miss Bretton,’ the coachman said respectfully.

‘Good evening, James.’ Victoria smiled as the under-coachman helped her into the carriage. They didn’t have an under-coachman at home in Kent. There they functioned with only a cook, two maids, a kitchen helper and a good-natured fellow who served as both footman and groom. If they had to get anywhere, they either walked or used the gig. It was only since coming to London that Victoria had been exposed to such luxuries as personal maids and closed carriages, and the one into which she stepped now was sumptuous in the extreme. The interior was lit by the glow of two small lamps, the walls were lined with maroon silk festooned with gold tassels and the cushions were of plush maroon velvet.