A life of deceitâ¦
On the surface, Jenny Dell appeared the model lady,
but nothing could have been further from the truth. For her, every word and every act was a deception. Until she met Brant Claremont, the Duke of Strachen, and learned firsthand about love based on a lie.
âNo matter how much any one of us pretends to be someone else, in the end we always are what we are.â
âAhh.â For whatever reason, Brant relaxed. âThen you are a fatalist? You believe that we can never change from what weâre born? That our destiny remains always the same, with no hope of growth or improvement?â
âNo, no, no! Itâs not so complicated as that, Your Grace. I only meant that no matter how many changes you may make for the world to see, you are still at heart, or in your soul, the same creature you were born. Thatâs what I know,â Jenny said with conviction.
She did believe it. How could she not, when so much of her life was unabashed deception? If she didnât believe in herself independent of whatever new identity sheâd concocted, why, then, sheâd have nothing at all.
Praise for bestselling author
MIRANDA JARRETT
âA marvelous authorâ¦one of romantic fictionâs
finest gemsâ¦each word is a treasure, each page an adventure, each book a lasting memory.â
âThe Literary Times
âMiranda Jarrett knows how to put life and love
into her pages and make you believe every word!â
âRendezvous
âMs. Jarrettâs ability to always draw the reader>
into a fast-paced tale peopled with likable and realistic characters and a thrilling plot is a crowning achievement.â
âRomantic Times
Harrow Public School
Middlesex 1788
T he five boys sat cross-legged in a tight circle on the attic floor, the lantern in their center shaded so that just enough light filtered through to show the cards clutched in their hands and the hoarded heaps of coins before each of them. It was late, very late, and long past the six oâclock lock-up for the night, but no one would dare consider leaving this game.
Brant, as usual, had made sure of that. Through the sheer power of his personality, heâd made being asked to these clandestine games the most desirable invitation in the entire school, and the staggeringly high stakes that could gobble up a termâs allowance in a single hand of cards only served to increase Brantâs own mystique.
But why shouldnât it? Brant Claremont was the sixth Duke of Strachen, Marquess of Elwes, admired as much for his wit as for his daring on the cricket field. As an orphan, he had only a distant, disinterested guardian to answer to, and his two younger brothers had been sent so far away that there wasnât even a hint of fraternal competition. To the other boys in his form, Brantâs life seemed as close to perfection as any mortal British male could wish for.
Only Brant himself knew otherwise. Still months shy of his sixteenth birthday, he already understood all too well the terrifying obligations that his wastrel fatherâs death two years before had thrust upon him, along with the dukedom and a string of mortgaged, decaying properties.
Not that any of that mattered here in the chill of this drafty attic. Now Brant smiled as he leaned forward, the lantern turning his fair hair as gold as the guineas heaped before his crossed legs. He was winning, winning deep, and he did not want his luck to turn just yet.
âYour play, Galsworthy,â he said, his voice deceptively languid. âDraw or show. Any time before Michaelmas will do.â
The others sniggered nervously while the Honorable Edmund Galsworthy scowled down at his hand. âI say, Claremont, thatâs cutting it a little rough,â he grumbled. âNot all of us are so deuced quick with ciphering as you are.â
âThatâs why we call him the Golden Lord, Galsworthy,â said another boy, obviously with a better hand of his own. âHe can turn pasteboard cards direct into guineas if you let him. Your guineas.â
ââTis luck, no more,â murmured Brant with a modest shrug, careful to mask his own excitement. It was luck, but it was also skill, coupled with the rare gift he had for recalling cards. He could sympathize with Galsworthyâs dilemmaâsympathize more, really, than anyone here would guessâbut not now, and not with so much at stake. Nearly every shilling Brant won was sent off against his fatherâs debts, while Galsworthyâs mother was some sort of tin-mine heiress. The poor oaf could afford to lose almost in equal proportion to how desperately Brant himself needed to win.
âBut you do know the rules of this game, Galsworthy,â he said. âLaggards must forfeit, else the rest of us fall asleep.â
âIâm considering, not lagging,â snapped Galsworthy, his fingers leaving moist dimples in the edges of his cards as he studied the red and black figures one last time. Slowly he puffed out his cheeks and spread his hand on the floor for the others to see.