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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

Devonshire

Copyright © 2009 by Lynne Connolly

ISBN: 978-1-60504-349-4

Edited by Angela James

Cover by Natalie Winters

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2009

www.samhainpublishing.com

Devonshire

Richard and Rose Book Two

Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

The door to the parlour opened and my sister-in-law bustled inside. A gust of wind followed her stocky shape and some of the pasteboard invitations on the mantelpiece fluttered to the floor. I put down my book and stood, then bent to retrieve the cards. We couldn’t accept most of them. We were still in mourning, our shield from our importunate neighbours, but not for much longer.

Martha held a wicker basket covered with a fine linen cloth. “Rose, dear, I have some treats for old Mrs. Hoarty in the village. Will you take them to her?”

Restless and bored, I was glad of any distraction. “I’d love to.”

I tucked the invitations back behind the clock to join the others. “Never mind,” Martha said, following my wistful look. “We should be able to attend social events again soon.”

“The end of this month. I never thought I’d miss attending those dreary functions, but I’d welcome anything that killed some time.”

Martha smiled. “Never mind,” she repeated, and then went, as was her way, to the heart of my dissatisfaction, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

She meant my betrothed and beloved, Richard Kerre, Lord Strang. After a month apart, I missed him terribly. And I could not distract myself by attending the local social functions, although invitations arrived every day, not unconnected, I suspected, with the news of my betrothal. But we were in mourning, for cousins we had only met once, and felt little for. But since my brother James had inherited the title they’d held, we had to enter the required period of three months’ full mourning and three months’ half.

“Is Lizzie coming?” I paused before the mirror to tidy my hair. I’d never found a maid who could cope with my thick, curly chestnut mane, and it was forever tumbling out of its pins. I sighed and tucked the loose strands away. I smiled at my reflection, then sighed again. No, I still couldn’t see it.

“What is it, dear?” Sharp-eyed Martha had seen my doubt.

I turned away from the mirror. “I still can’t see why he should want me. Why not choose Lizzie?” I smoothed the folds of my gown, and shook it out at the back. It was of plain grey wool, one I’d had made after my father died. That reminder of deeply felt, sincere mourning, was one reason I felt like a hypocrite now. On the first day of April, we reverted to wearing colours again and a full social life. I could hardly wait.

“Lord Strang has fallen head-over-heels for you.” Martha smiled. She had a pleasant smile that made everything she said reasonable. She always denigrated her homely looks, but I don’t think she had ever been properly aware of that smile. “And you with him. You brightened, just at the mention of his name then. Don’t ask why, dear, just accept it.”

I still felt I would wake one day and still be Miss Golightly of Devonshire, the overlooked elder sister of the beautiful Lizzie. I had resigned myself to the role of dependant old maid long before I met Richard, thinking my future would consist of caring for nieces and nephews, not children of my own. Years of constant denigration by the local belles had given me a feeling of inferiority I found hard to shake off.

I turned away to give myself time to regain my composure and then looked back at my sister-in-law. It had happened to her, too. My brother James was tall and handsome, but he’d fallen in love with homely Martha, and after ten years of marriage, was still in love with her.

When I left the parlour with Martha, the sounds of the manor house became more noticeable. We walked through to the small hall, and I heard the shouts and clanging coming up from the kitchen below, a state of constant activity, mingling with childish cries from the nursery above. “Have you given the children a holiday from their studies?”

“Mr. Somerfield is ill.” Martha referred to the tutor who came in every day. “I couldn’t see to it myself, so I decided they could make do with the nursery maids today.” Martha and James had