Heartless Read online

  Dear Reader,

  I am very delighted that Heartless (with its companion piece, Silent Melody, to follow next month) is being republished in this lovely edition. It has one of my all-time favorite heroes. The story is set in eighteenth-century England, an earlier era than my usual Regency setting. I made the change deliberately so that I could dress up my characters in all the splendid plumage of the time. Lucas Kendrick, Duke of Harndon, has just returned from Paris, undisputed center of the fashionable world, having unexpectedly inherited his title and position as head of the family that had spurned and exiled him many years before. Now he has power to wield and old scores to settle, and he looks upon his world with a cold and dangerous cynicism.

  I enjoyed creating that very masculine aspect of his character, but I positively reveled in clothing him in all his Parisian splendor. He attends a ball early in the book in a wide-skirted scarlet coat and a gold waistcoat, both sparkling with gold embroidery, while white lace froths at his neck and wrists. He wears satin knee breeches with white stockings and jeweled shoes with high red heels. His long hair is powdered and crisply curled at the sides and bagged at the back, and he wears cosmetics and carries a fan. But he also carries at his side a jewel-hilted sword with which he is said to be more than ordinarily adept, and for all the languid grace of his manner, there is that look in his eyes—a look he soon directs across the ballroom at Lady Anna Marlowe.

  And so begins a passion-fraught love story that kept me pounding the keyboard until they had found their happily-ever-after. I hope you enjoy seeing the two sides of Luke as much as I did creating them. And I hope you consider Anna a worthy heroine for him.

  Mary Balogh

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF MARY BALOGH

  Longing

  “Balogh capture[s] the allure of the land and the culture of the proud people of Wales . . . a very different sort of historical romance. Ms. Balogh’s writing has a very lyrical quality to it which draws out the feelings of yearning so that the reader can palpably sense them . . . pretty powerful.”

  —The Hope Chest Reviews

  “A particular favorite of mine.”

  —The Romance Reader

  Beyond the Sunrise

  “Thoroughly enjoyable.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor

  “Balogh’s . . . epic love story is a winner . . . absorbing reading right up until the end.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “High intrigue, daring exploits, a passionate love affair, what more could you want in a romance? Balogh gives us a humdinger of a tale set during the Napoleonic Wars. Great fun. Highly recommended.”

  —Manderley Magazine

  “Beyond the Sunrise is an utterly absorbing, powerful tale of a love that was once doomed and yet blooms again amidst the intrigue and ordeal of war. With infinite care and deft plotting, Ms. Balogh spins an intricate tale with the skill of a master weaver. She draws you into the era by evoking the aura of the war and the passionate emotions of her characters. If you have never read another book by Mary Balogh, then Beyond the Sunrise will be your introduction to a writer of remarkable talents.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  FURTHER PRAISE FOR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR MARY BALOGH

  “One of the best!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn

  “Balogh is today’s superstar heir to the marvelous legacy of Georgette Heyer (except a lot steamier)!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “With her brilliant, beautiful, and emotionally intense writing, Mary Balogh sets the gold standard in historical romance.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “When it comes to historical romance, Mary Balogh is one of my favorites!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James

  “Mary Balogh has the gift of making a relationship seem utterly real and utterly compelling.”

  —Mary Jo Putney

  “Winning, witty, and engaging . . . fulfilled all of my romantic fantasies.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

  “Mary Balogh just keeps getting better and better . . . interesting characters and great stories to tell . . . well worth your time.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Mary Balogh is a superb author whose narrative voice comments on the characters and events of her novel in an ironic tone reminiscent of Jane Austen.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Mary Balogh reaches deep and touches the heart.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Joan Johnston

  “A writer whose books belong on every romance shelf.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  ALSO BY MARY BALOGH

  THE SURVIVORS’ CLUB SERIES

  The Proposal

  The Arrangement

  The Escape

  Only Enchanting

  Only a Promise

  THE HUXTABLE SERIES

  First Comes Marriage

  Then Comes Seduction

  At Last Comes Love

  Seducing an Angel

  A Secret Affair

  THE SIMPLY SERIES

  Simply Unforgettable

  Simply Love

  Simply Magic

  Simply Perfect

  THE BEDWYN SAGA

  Slightly Married

  Slightly Wicked

  Slightly Scandalous

  Slightly Tempted

  Slightly Sinful

  Slightly Dangerous

  THE BEDWYN PREQUELS

  One Night for Love

  A Summer to Remember

  THE MISTRESS TRILOGY

  More Than a Mistress

  No Man’s Mistress

  The Secret Mistress

  THE WEB SERIES

  The Gilded Web

  Web of Love

  The Devil’s Web

  CLASSICS

  The Ideal Wife

  The Secret Pearl

  A Precious Jewel

  A Christmas Promise

  Dark Angel/Lord Carew’s Bride

  The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

  A Christmas Bride/Christmas Beau

  The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

  A Counterfeit Betrothal/The Notorious Rake

  Irresistible

  A Matter of Class

  Under the Mistletoe

  Longing

  Beyond the Sunrise

  Silent Melody

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  Published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Previously published in a Berkley edition.

  Copyright © Mary Balogh, 1995

  Excerpt from Silent Melody copyright © Mary Balogh, 1997

  Excerpt from Only a Kiss copyright © Mary Balogh, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and al
lowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Balogh, Mary

  Heartless/Mary Balogh.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-698-15630-2

  I. Title.

  PR6052.A465H43 2015

  823'.914—dc13 2015004808

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Letter to Reader

  Praise

  Also by Mary Balogh

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  An Excerpt from Silent Melody

  An Excerpt from Only a Kiss

  About the Author

  1

  “FAITH, child,” Lady Sterne said to her goddaughter, “’tis time you gave some thought to yourself. Always it has been your family—first your mama, may God rest her soul, and then your papa, may God rest his, and always your brother and the girls. Well, now, Victor is of age and has come into his inheritance, Charlotte has married, Agnes is as pretty as a spring meadow and is like to marry as soon as we have presented her to some eligible gentlemen, and Emily . . . Well, you just cannot make yourself a martyr to your youngest sister. ’Tis time you looked to your own interests.”

  Lady Anna Marlowe smiled and watched her younger sister at the other end of the gallery being fitted out for fashionable clothes suitable to be worn in London. Bolts of fabric, mostly silks and shimmering satins, were piled on tables, some of them partly unrolled. There was some excitement about the scene and about the anticipation of seeing the clothes made and worn, she had to admit.

  “Agnes is eighteen, Aunt Marjorie,” she said. “I am five-and-twenty. On the shelf, one might say.”

  “And I vow that is where you wish to stay,” Lady Sterne said sharply. “Life slips by fast, child, and increases in pace as one gets older, I swear. And life can become filled with regrets for what one might have done in the past but did not do. ’Tis not too late for you to seek a husband, but in another year or two perhaps it will be. Men do not look for breeders among women who are staring thirty years in the face—and men of course look for breeders when they choose mates. You have a great deal of love to give, Anna. You should now be looking to giving it to a husband and to receiving love in return—and position and security.”

  That last point hit home. Victor, Anna’s only brother, had recently celebrated his twenty-first birthday. With university days behind him and his title still new to him—he had been the Earl of Royce since Papa’s death a little more than a year ago—he was soon to return home to take up his responsibilities there. And he was newly betrothed. Where did that leave her? Anna wondered. And Agnes and Emily? Suddenly their home did not seem quite home any longer. Not that Victor would turn them out, or Constance for that matter. But one did not like to intrude on a newly married couple in their own home—especially not in the status of spinster sister.

  She was a spinster. Anna clasped her hands rather tightly in her lap. But she could not marry. The thought brought with it the familiar shortness of breath and coldness in her head. She fought off the dizziness.

  “I brought Agnes to London at your urging, Aunt,” she said. “’Tis more likely that she will find an eligible husband here than in the neighborhood of Elm Court. If she can be settled, I will be content.”

  “Lud, child,” her godmother said, “I urged you to bring your sister, not send her. I intended that you both find husbands. But you most of all, Anna. You are my godchild—my only one. Agnes is nothing to me except the daughter of my dear Lucy. For although you are all sweet enough to call me aunt, I am no such thing, you know. I see that Madame Delacroix has all but finished with her measurements.” She got to her feet. “I will have you, too, decked out properly for town, my dear. Excuse my bluntness, but you look quite rustic. Even your hoops— they should be twice the size they are.”

  “Large hoops look quite ridiculous,” Anna said. Ridiculous, but wondrously feminine and pretty, she thought treacherously. And her godmother had just reminded her that there was no real tie between her and Agnes. Could she be expected to take Agnes about to all the social events at which it was to be hoped she would attract a husband? Was not that Anna’s responsibility? And would not it be wonderfully exhilarating to dress fashionably and to go about in society just a few times? Just for a short while?

  I will return. And of course you will be here when I do so. You will remember, my Anna, that you are mine? Body and soul? The voice was as vivid in her head as if the man who had uttered them stood at her shoulder and spoke the words now. They had been spoken a year ago at Elm Court. A long time ago and a long way away. He would not come back. And even if he did, it would surely do no harm to enjoy herself a little before he did. She was only twenty-five. And really there had been very little enjoyment in her life. Surely just a little. . . . It was not as if she was going to be in search of a husband, after all. She knew very well that she could never marry.

  “Well, perhaps,” she said, getting to her feet to stand beside Lady Sterne, “I could have a few new clothes made so that I will not shame you if I do venture out with you once or twice.”

  “Lud, child,” her godmother said, “’twould be difficult for you to do that when you have such beauty. Nevertheless, fashion is of importance. Come.” She linked her arm through Anna’s and moved her forward across the room. “Let us proceed before you change your mind.”

  Agnes was flushed and bright-eyed and was exclaiming that she could not possibly need all the clothes Madame Delacroix claimed to be the bare essentials for a young lady of quality making her first appearance in society. Anna’s heart went out to her sister. She was eighteen years old and had been in mourning for two years—first for Mama and then for Papa. Even before that Mama had been ill with consumption and Papa had been—well, he had been ill too. And there had been the poverty. There had been very little chance for Agnes to enjoy her youth.

  “Lud, child,” Lady Sterne said to Agnes, “’twould not do at all, you know, for you to be seen in the same dresses time and again. Madame knows her job. Besides, she has had strict instructions from me. And now ’tis Anna’s turn.”

  Lady Sterne had insisted from the start that she would bear all the expenses of the few months to be spent in London. It would be a dream come true for her, she claimed, to have two young ladies to take about and introduce to society. She had never had children of her own. Anna had brought some money with her—Victor had insisted that she take some from the estate though it would be years before he could expect to make it prosper again. And perhaps he never would if . . . But Anna refused to pursue the thought. She was not going to think about any of that for a month or two. She was going to give herself a chance to hea
l a little. She had told her godmother that she would keep a strict account of all that was spent on her and Agnes, that she would consider it a loan to be repaid when she was able.

  And so, after all, she found herself being taken into the capable hands of Madame Delacroix and measured and poked and prodded and pricked and draped. It seemed that she stood still for hours while discussing with the two older ladies fabrics and trimmings and designs for petticoats, stomachers, open gowns, closed gowns, sack dresses—it was all very dizzying. She was laced into stays far tighter than she was accustomed to and looked down in some embarrassment—and some fascination—at the way they pushed up her breasts, making them seem larger and more feminine. And she was tied into whalebone hoops so wide that she wondered how she would pass through doorways.

  She enjoyed every moment.

  How wonderful it was, she thought, to feel young and free. Not that she was either in reality. Youth had passed her by. And as for freedom . . . well. She felt slightly nauseated for a moment when she remembered how very much she was not free. If he should come back from America as he had sworn he would . . . But she was not trying to break free forever. Merely for a couple of months. Surely he would not begrudge her that much time even if he knew about it.

  How wonderful it would be to feel youthful and free for two whole months.

  “I vow, child,” Lady Sterne said when the fitting was finally over, “the years are falling off you by the minute. You have had a hard time and have remained devoted to your family throughout. Now is the time for yourself. And ’tis not too late. As I live, I am going to find you a very special husband.”

  Anna laughed. “’Twill be enough to attend a few balls and concerts, Aunt,” she said. “I will remember it all for a lifetime. I have no need of a husband.”

  “Pshaw!” said her godmother briskly.

  • • •

  “Egad, but you made us all look like bumpkins tonight, lad,” Theodore, Lord Quinn said, slapping his thigh with delight as he seated himself in a deep chair in his nephew’s library and took a glass of brandy from a valet’s hand before the man was dismissed. He laughed heartily. “’Twas the fan that really slayed ’em.”