The Wastrel

The Wastrel
Margaret Moore

A Most Unsuitable Lord!Clara Wells's eccentric family drew enough sidelong glances her way that she could do without the attentions of London's most notorious rake. But the sinfully charming Lord Mulholland was renowned for getting whatever, or whomever, he desired… .Paris Mulholland had long guarded his heart with a string of elegant, casual conquests, yet Clara's defiant pride enticed him in a way no coy flirtation ever had, and the prim and proper miss was proving a most engaging opponent in the war between the sexes… .

“You expect me to behave better than you, Miss Wells?” (#ud8824179-76f9-5e4f-b460-9cc2f0e6f894)About the Author (#ucc88de3f-91e4-55a5-b3a3-05d0eeba5cc3)Title Page (#u707f62ee-dd93-5e27-90a5-49be272ccc0d)About the Author (#uf17686ab-b133-54ac-89fd-dd62cd72698d)Dedication (#u876e3b45-41f3-539e-9f4c-59f914327432)Chapter One (#u89a8af50-7599-52de-ab0a-5611ffd6b88e)Chapter Two (#u8a3335a6-171d-5488-ba21-9f729dc2b601)Chapter Three (#ue4287016-9f0b-5733-bd5c-86a1c5a6e905)Chapter Four (#u5d61aacd-46de-50ab-be93-3c4b1cf91cbc)Chapter Five (#ue9b4f12b-f51c-5f78-98c8-60a36dffae92)Chapter Six (#ueffcc2d6-8dd0-503a-a78f-a018d455dbb2)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“You expect me to behave better than you, Miss Wells?”

Paris asked softly, a wry smile playing about his lips.

“Yes, I do,” Clara answered, trying to sound determined, all her effort threatening to be undone by the pleasure his touch sent thrilling through her.

“You present me with an interesting dilemma. Most people believe me to be the epitome of wasted profligacy, yet you seem to think me to be an honorable nobleman. I wonder why, and which you would truly prefer?”

“I expect you to be honorable all the time,” she said, her pulse throbbing in her ears, her breathing rushed and shallow. She felt like a moth trapped in the flame of his eyes. Suddenly, he blew out her candle, trapping her in the darkness.

“That would be your mistake,” he murmured, and she felt his arms go around her and draw her to him....

Dear Reader,

The Wastrel, by Margaret Moore, introduces a new series of Victorian romance novels from this award-winning author, featuring a trio of “most unsuitable” heroes that she has aptly named MOST UNSUITABLE.... The Wastrel is the magical story of a disowned heiress and a devil-may-care bachelor who learn about love with the help of her colorful relatives. Don’t miss it.

Longtime Harlequin Historicals author DeLoras Scott is back this month with The Devil’s Kiss, a Western romantic comedy about two misfits who discover love, despite Indians, outlaws and themselves. And with her is talented newcomer Tori Phillips, whose new medieval novel Silent Knight, is the tale of a would-be monk and a French noblewoman who fall in love on a delightful journey across medieval England.

A Western from Rae Muir, another 1996 March Madness author, The Trail to Temptation, about a star-crossed couple who fight their attraction on a trail drive from Texas to Montana, rounds out this month’s selection.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope Harlequin Historicals will keep you coming back for more. Please keep a lookout for all four titles, available wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Wastrel

Margaret Moore

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

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

To my brother, David,

who teased me.

You’re forgiven.

Chapter One

England, 1862

“We should be there, should we not?” Aurora Wells demanded anxiously as she leaned toward the window on her niece’s side of the hansom cab and peered out onto the foggy streets of London.

“We haven’t been gone quite long enough, Aunt,” Clara Wells replied patiently. She surreptitiously tried to extricate the skirt of her gown from beneath her aunt’s ample hip before the expensive silk was hopelessly crushed.

Aunt Aurora’s turban of cloth of gold perched on her henna-dyed hair tilted over one pale blue eye and threatened to tumble into Clara’s lap. “It cannot be this far to Lord Pimblett’s, surely,” she insisted, this time addressing her husband, “not even in such fog. I do believe the cabbie intends to cheat us!”

“‘Had we but world enough, and time,”’ Uncle Byron quoted absently from his place on the opposite seat, his gaze fastened on the water-stained ceiling of the cab.

Despite his distracted manner, he was, Clara noted approvingly, dressed in very proper evening clothes, unlike Aunt Aurora. With his beatific expression and shoulder-length white hair, Uncle Byron looked kind, and even quite wise. Kind he certainly was, and wise he might have been, had his mother not made the fatal error of naming him Byron, for her son had come to believe that with such a name he must be a poet.

Her aunt, on the other hand, wore what might have been fashionable among the artistic set fifty years ago. Her gown was a Regency style, with the waistline beneath her substantial bosom and made of several layers of flowing white muslin, which was at least inexpensive, if not flattering. The style was intended to look Grecian. Over this, she wore a flowing stole of gold-colored taffeta that matched her usual exotic headdress.

Aunt Aurora blessedly shifted and Clara’s dress was momentarily out of danger.

The gown had cost far more than Clara had been willing to pay. Unfortunately, her aunt had been embarrassingly insistent. After all, she had exclaimed several times, regardless of the other customers in the dressmaker’s shop, Clara should dress as befitted her station. She was a duke’s granddaughter, even if her mother had been disowned by the old reprobate, and this was to be her introduction into London society. It was only by using her knowledge of her aunt’s mental processes that Clara had managed to avoid a garish gown of bright peacock blue or deep purple and a headdress that resembled an overgrown bouquet. Clara had convinced her aunt that she should appear demure, almost nunlike, in case word of her appearance should get back to her grandfather. Let there be nothing — nothing — about Clara’s clothes or demeanor that anyone could fault. Fortunately, Aunt Aurora had agreed, so Clara had no cause to be concerned about her garments — provided they could escape being squashed.

“Perhaps Lord Mulholland will be there, too,” Aunt Aurora said excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful—the handsomest man in England, or so they say! What a triumph it would be to do his portrait!”

“I daresay he already has several, if he is the conceited wastrel people say he is,” Clara replied. “He’s probably a vain coxcomb without a brain inside his handsome head,” she concluded, for she had indeed heard of the wealthy nobleman whose first name, Paris, seemed to have been chosen with predestination. Paris of Troy was the legendary seducer of Helen of Sparta, an act which caused the Trojan War.

No one possessed of such a combination of looks, wealth and title would pass unremarked in London. Unfortunately, Clara could easily imagine how such a man would respond to her aunt.

“I am absolutely certain the cabbie has gone out of his way,” Aunt Aurora declared again, straining to see outside. “Is that not Rotten Row? We should not be in Hyde Park! I feel sure he is going to deceive us!”

“No, Aunt,” Clara said calmly. “He is going the right route.”

She kept a bemused smile from her face, for even if the cabbie was trying to cheat them, Aunt Aurora would never confront the man. It would be Clara’s responsibility to pay the cabbie, just as she paid all the household bills for her guardians. She had done so from the time she had come to live with them after her parents’ deaths when she was thirteen. Clara realized then that Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron had minds above the daily practicalities, or so they honestly believed.

For her part, Clara was in no great hurry to get to the London mansion of Lord and Lady Pimblett, for the distance from their lodgings in Bloomsbury to this exclusive part of the city was much farther socially than it was geographically.

She wasn’t even sure why or how they had been invited to this ball. She had been lingering over one of the mummies in the British Museum when she realized that her aunt had approached an extremely well-dressed, extremely poised older woman and engaged her in conversation.

Clara had immediately suspected the worst: that her aunt was asking if the lady wished to have her portrait painted.

No matter how many times her aunt approached complete strangers with the object of obtaining a commission, Clara never got used to it. This summer, her aunt had been worse than usual, and Clara knew it was all her fault. If she had not been over the age to be “out,” her aunt would have been much less persistent. Clara sighed as she wished that she didn’t have to grow up at all, if this...this solicitation were to be part of the price.