Rake’s Honour
Lady Lovett’s Little Dilemma
The Cavalier
Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly
Available in
hardcover and Kindle
Paperback
(August 2012)
Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly
Summary
Falsely branded an adulteress and an unfit
mother by her vengeful late husband, Olivia, Lady Farquhar disguises herself to
reclaim her son.
When she unexpectedly finds love with the boy’s
kind and gentle guardian, Max, an unexpected threat forces Olivia to choose
between love with Max and her son's future... for how can she reveal to Max
that she has unwittingly stolen his birthright?
Long and Short Reviews
- 4 1/2 Stars
"Sweet with heat and hard to beat, Lady
Farquhar's Butterfly gains momentum as it builds to a terrifying climax....
Beverley Eikli’s concise, smooth, and subtle
writing reveals characters and their motivations with a style that makes Lady
Farquhar's Butterfly fascinating—a thoroughly enjoyable, page-turner of a
tale."
Chapter One
1816
‘YOUR
REPUTATION IS in tatters, Olivia’ – Aunt Eunice looked up from adjusting the
stirrups of the little grey mare upon which her niece sat nervously –
‘and you have lost everything! The time has come to take charge of your life.’
Olivia
gripped the pommel with whitened knuckles. Opening her mouth to mutter that the
truth was of little account when opinion was against her, she gasped instead as
the docile animal shifted beneath her.
So much for the studied
detachment she’d cultivated during seven years of marriage with Lucien. Her
fear was as transparent as that of a frightened schoolgirl’s. Now she was on a
madcap venture doomed to fail, showing as much backbone in the face of her
aunt’s determination as she had when her late husband bent her to his will.
Grey storm clouds
scudded from the west and the icy wind stung her face.
‘An unfit mother, a
faithless wife....’ She muttered the words imprinted on her brain; the words
with which Lucien had condemned her in his will. Then, unable to conquer her
terror of the placid beast, ‘Please, Aunt Eunice, must I do this?’
‘You must fight for justice,
Olivia.’ The determined ‘brook-no- opposition’ expression that characterized
Eunice Dingley’s plain, leathery face brought memory flooding back. Olivia was
obedient now but how well she recalled the altercations they’d had when she had
been a strong-willed child. How single minded had been her rebellion eight
years ago as a headstrong debutante?
She had paid the price;
it was why she was here.
Stepping back into soft
mud that sucked at her boots, Aunt Eunice regarded her critically. ‘Well,
child,’ she said with grudging admira- tion, ‘you look well enough. Don’t tear
your riding habit when you fall off.’
Olivia winced as her
aunt raised her hand to slap her horse’s flank. ‘What if he’s like Lucien?’ she
hedged, bringing her mount around. ‘Mr Atherton has already refused my request
once. He must believe the stories—’
‘He is a man.’ Aunt
Eunice said it as if that fact alone guaranteed Olivia’s success. ‘For
goodness’ sake, Olivia, we’ve already agreed this is your best course,
regardless of what Reverend Kirkman thinks.’
The Reverend Kirkman.
The knot of fear in Olivia’s stomach tight- ened. The reverend had his own
ideas as to how Olivia should win back her son.
This was not one of
them.
She closed her eyes. Yet
surely this was the best way? If there was any justice in Max Atherton’s heart
then truth and openness must triumph over the lies which had dogged her during
her marriage and cost her the custody of her son?
A great black crow
settled on the dry stone wall behind her aunt. Like her aunt, it regarded her
with tilted head, eyes bright.
Her voice softening,
Aunt Eunice laid her hand on Olivia’s knee. ‘Max Atherton came back from the
Peninsular campaign a war hero. That, for a start, distinguishes him from his
cousin. I’ve heard nothing to suggest he bears any resemblance to Lucien.
Entrance him, Olivia, as you entranced that good-for-nothing husband of yours.’
‘Mr Atherton believes
Lucien’s version of accounts. You read his reply to my letter.’ It was not the
cold that now made her tremble.
With a distracted frown
Aunt Eunice smoothed Olivia’s russet skirts. ‘He has no other account to go by.
He thinks he’s doing what’s best for the boy.’ Squeezing her knee, she said
briskly, ‘Go, now! Take that tumble in his barley field so you can set the
record straight.’
*
Max squinted through the
blinding rain as he turned up the collar of his greatcoat.
It was hard to be sure
from this distance, but the little grey mare sheltering beneath the elm tree at
the far end of the paddock appeared to be equipped with a side saddle.
A lady’s mount ... but
where was the lady?
His gaze raked the sodden field.
‘No bran mash
until we find her, Odin,’ he murmured into his stal-
lion’s ear, sensing its
reluctance to proceed in the face of the rising storm.
He’d been returning from
his inspection of the new sheep he had been breeding in the northern paddock
when his eye had been caught by a flash of scarlet. A female? Curious to make
the acquaintance of any woman under forty in these sparsely populated parts,
he’d watched the rider canter around the bend that separated his property from
his neighbour’s hoping she’d cross his path later. Instead, he’d happened upon
her horse.
Lightning split the
black sky and Odin snorted. Across the field, eerie in the strange light, the
little grey mare gave a frightened whinny as it eyed them balefully.
‘Steady, boy,’ soothed
Max, urging his mount forward.
Thunder boomed like
cannon fire. The riderless mare bolted while Odin reared, forelegs pawing the
air. Straining to keep his seat, Max scanned the field desperately for a sight
of the woman, horror spearing through him as he caught a glimpse of russet
beneath them; heard a faint female cry. Muscles knotted and straining, he
hauled on the reins as he fought to control the terrified stallion.
Another crack of
thunder. Foam sprayed from the mouth of the maddened animal which bucked again.
Before its four legs
were on firm ground Max hurled himself from the saddle and ran to kneel at the
woman’s side as Odin bolted. Pushing back the folds of his multi-tiered coat
which whipped his face, he felt for a pulse at the side of her neck.
She had cheated death
but he feared the extent of her injuries. A bloody gash streaked the mud which
caked her forehead; her body lay twisted. She did not stir as his hands checked
the limbs beneath her skirts for breaks or other obvious injury.
Raising his head, he
assessed the distance to Elmwood. He could see the battlements above the froth
of rain-lashed trees which gave his home its name. In fine weather with no
burden it might be a fifteen- minute walk. Now, with the ground a marsh and the
wind and weight of sodden skirts it would be more than twice that, but he could
not leave her to fetch help.
She was still
unconscious when he lifted her. Turning his head from the sharp, icy rain which
lashed his face and knotted the grass about his legs, he pushed forward, the
wind keening like a banshee. His neck and shoulders ached and his breath rasped
painfully. The heavens, it seemed, were using full force to hinder his efforts.
Once, he’d carried an
injured soldier to safety under enemy fire; but there had been no storm and the
artillery barrage had left them unscathed.
Now, the going was much
harder. Glancing down, he was reassured at seeing the young woman’s eyelids
flutter and wondered if she were beautiful beneath all that mud. It no longer
mattered. He’d been struck with a sense of purpose he’d not felt since he’d
volunteered to fight for King and country nearly eight years ago.
Gradually the wind
calmed and the rain became a gentle shower as the storm moved on. Reaching the
tree-lined drive which led from the park to the formal gardens he tried to
recall if Amelia had mentioned any newcomers to the neighbourhood. His sister’s
efforts to find him a wife after he’d returned from the Peninsula too
battle-crazed to care suggested she would have.
‘Max!’ shrieked Amelia
as she stood on the top step having sent two footmen to relieve her brother of
his burden. ‘Who is she? What has happened?’ She had seen him from the
drawing-room window labouring up the drive amidst the steady rain.
‘Take her to my room,’
he directed, resting his aching back against the wainscoting in the downstairs
entrance hall.
‘The blue room,’ Amelia countered,
adding, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max. What would she think to wake up in a
gentleman’s bed?’
‘If she wakes,’ Max
said, glowering, because he wanted to have her in his room where he could watch
over her, and where he had the tools to dress her wounds and set her bones, if
necessary.
‘Of course she’ll wake,’
Amelia said, sharply.
Thick dust sheets were
spread upon the large tester in preparation. Amelia had wanted to strip the
linen, but Max had decried such inhos- pitable practicality, reminding her it
was not her house.
‘And only yours, Max,
for a few more years,’ his sister muttered, as she made the counter order of
dust sheets to Mrs Watkins, the house- keeper.
Ignoring her, Max also
asked for a fresh nightgown, and a comb.
‘One would think you were
in the habit of attending to the needs of a lady, Max,’ Amelia said, more
archly than unkindly as her heels clicked across the boards to the window
embrasure from where she regarded him with amusement.
‘And plenty of hot
water.’ Rubbing his aching arms Max took a seat by the unconscious young
woman’s side. ‘So you have no idea who she might be?’ he asked, pushing back
his cowlick. ‘There’s been no talk of visitors to the neighbourhood?’
Amelia shook her head.
‘Do you think she’s broken anything? Shall I check?’
‘Her limbs seem in fine
form,’ Max replied, with a wry smile as he took up the sponge Mrs Watkins had
just placed beside him. ‘As for her face, she has a nasty cut.’
Amelia came up beside
him. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she remarked, for it was true, and Amelia never minced
the truth. Or kept her thoughts to herself. ‘But don’t get romantic ideas into
your head, Max, for she’s probably spoken for, or is a widow with no money and
six children, and you know very well you can’t possibly take a wife to suit you
unless she has at least two thousand a year.’
Gently, Max rubbed at a
smudge of dirt along their visitor’s jawline.
‘I shall do whatever I
please to suit myself, Amelia,’ he said, gazing at the perfection of the
unknown young woman’s features: the gently curving mouth, the wide-set eyes
beneath finely arched brows, the high, rounded cheekbones, ‘for I answer to no
one, and certainly not to you.’
The first suggestion
that Olivia was nowhere familiar came from the scent of lavender. Without
opening her eyes she sniffed appreciatively. Aunt Eunice was not fond of
lavender but surely only she would have sprinkled it upon Olivia’s pillow in
deference to Olivia’s partiality for it? Because Olivia was not well. Vaguely
she acknowledged this, for the dull throbbing of her ankle and the sharper pain
across her brow impinged upon the general comfort she felt nestled into what
surely must be the softest mattress she had ever slept upon.
She opened her eyes with
a start and struggled on to her elbows, her heart pounding at the confusion of
her last memories.
Aunt Eunice had returned
to their cottage. Wherever she was, Olivia was to fight this battle, alone.
The day was well
advanced. Sunlight slanted into a large and airy room, handsomely decorated in
shades of blue. She noticed a book upon the chest beside the bed. A book of
poems. Byron? She squinted to make out the author and her head began to ache.
Touching her fore- head she felt the bandage.
‘Good. You’re awake,’
came a voice from the doorway, and she twisted her head to see a young man
advancing, his face obscured by the pile of books he carried. ‘I was beginning
to grow concerned.’
Bowing slightly, he
introduced himself before taking a seat at her bedside and, to her
astonishment, picking up her wrist.
‘Your pulse is a good
deal stronger,’ he said. ‘You appear to have twisted your ankle quite badly,
but only you can assess the extent of that injury. The wound above your eye
looks worse than it is. It should heal with no scar. In the meantime I thought
you might enjoy some poetry.’
She was too taken aback
to utter a word. Perhaps struck dumb with horror would describe it better, she
thought, as she stared into eyes the colour of rain-washed slate. The dark,
fathomless, unreadable eyes that had belonged to her late husband.