Someone Perfect (Westcott Book 10) Read online

  Mary Balogh grew up in Wales and now lives with husband Robert in Saskatchewan, Canada. She has written more than 100 historical novels and novellas, more than 30 of which have been New York Times bestsellers. They include the Slightly sestet (the Bedwyn saga), the Simply quartet, the Huxtable quintet, the Westcott series and the Survivors’ Club series.

  Visit Mary Balogh online:

  www.marybalogh.com

  www.facebook.com/AuthorMaryBalogh

  Praise for Mary Balogh:

  ‘One of the best!’

  Julia Quinn

  ‘Today’s superstar heir to the marvellous legacy of

  Georgette Heyer (except a lot steamier)’

  Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  ‘Ms Balogh is a veritable treasure, a matchless storyteller

  who makes our hearts melt with delight’

  Romantic Times

  ‘Balogh is truly a find’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Balogh is the queen of spicy Regency-era romance, creating memorable characters in unforgettable stories’

  Booklist

  By Mary Balogh

  The Westcott Series

  Someone to Love

  Someone to Hold

  Someone to Wed

  Someone to Care

  Someone to Trust

  Someone to Honour

  Someone to Remember

  Someone to Romance

  Someone Perfect

  The Survivors’ Club Series

  The Proposal

  The Arrangement

  The Escape

  Only Enchanting

  Only a Promise

  Only a Kiss

  Only Beloved

  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

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-43155-0

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Mary Balogh

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Praise for Mary Balogh

  Also by Mary Balogh

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  One

  England was not renowned for long runs of perfect summer days. This year so far even brief runs had been in lamentably short supply. It seemed something of a miracle, then, when the morning had dawned with the promise of being yet another lovely day. The second in a row.

  By the middle of the afternoon, the sky was a deep indigo blue and cloudless. The air was hot without being oppressive— the merest hint of a breeze saw to that. It also caused the leaves to flutter on the trees and the water to ripple on the river. The grass on both sides of the river was green and lush after all the rain, and liberally strewn with daisies, buttercups, and clover. Birds trilled from among the thick foliage of the trees, though it was not always easy to see them. Unseen insects whirred and chirped in the grass.

  So much life. So much beauty.

  Lady Estelle Lamarr had been walking along the riverbank, but she stopped in order to fill all her senses with the perfection of the moment, wild nature at its most profuse and benign. Even the old single-arched stone bridge farther along seemed to be an integral part of the scene rather than a man-made intrusion upon it, just as a bird’s nest or an anthill or a beaver dam would be. There surely could not possibly be anything to surpass the loveliness of the English countryside on a summer day. How very privileged she was to live here.

  Yesterday she had fretted a little at being kept at home on a similar day by the impending departure of her uncle and aunt and cousin, who had all been staying at Elm Court for the past three weeks. Although Aunt Jane had talked of leaving early, by eight o’clock at the latest, it was actually after three in the afternoon by the time their carriage rolled out of sight down the drive and the chance to enjoy the outdoors had been virtually at an end.

  First Uncle Charles had lingered over breakfast as though he had all day, deep in conversation with Bertrand, Estelle’s twin brother. Then Ellen, their cousin, had decided she really ought to send a quick note to her betrothed to explain that their return home would be delayed because her mama had decided they must call upon friends who lived not far off their intended route, and those friends were bound to invite them to stay for a few days. The conversation finally at an end and Ellen’s letter written, Aunt Jane had been hopeful of a midmorning start. But that hope was dashed when the vicar arrived from the village and was positively delighted to find that he had come in time to send the travelers on their way with a blessing.

  The Reverend John Mott, a deeply pious man, was a longtime acquaintance of Aunt Jane’s and a great favorite of hers. At her urging, the blessing had developed into extended prayers and scripture readings in the sitting room and had been succeeded by a lengthy discussion, initiated by Aunt Jane, about the deteriorating moral fiber of the nation, especially its heedless youth. And since by then noon was fast approaching, Estelle had invited the vicar to join them all for a light luncheon that she had guessed— correctly— their cook was already preparing with feverish haste for six people instead of the two she had been planning for.

  After the dishes had been cleared from the table and their second cup of coffee had been poured, the conversation had turned to a discussion of the uncertain future of the monarchy, since King George IV was in perennial ill health and the only heir closely related to him was a young girl, Victoria, da
ughter of the Duke of Kent. The other royal dukes had been prolific in the production of children, it was true, but not, unfortunately, of the legitimate variety. It was all quite scandalous, in Aunt Jane’s opinion.

  The carriage had been outside the door at three o’clock, had been fully loaded with its three passengers by quarter past, and had finally rolled on its way at half past, all the last-minute thanks and well-wishes and reminders to do this and be sure to avoid doing that having been called out the window. By Aunt Jane, of course.

  “So much for a perfect summer day,” Estelle had said, turning to her brother— but with a twinkle in her eye. For of course she was exceedingly fond of her relatives and had actually enjoyed the day as it unfolded.

  “All in a good cause,” Bertrand had said. “We will miss them. There will be other lovely days to spend outdoors.”

  And sure enough, along had come the unexpected gift of today.

  When she had left the house earlier, Estelle had intended to walk all the way to Prospect Hall to call upon Maria Wiley. The heat was giving her second thoughts by now, however. The hall was a mile or so beyond the bridge, on the other side of the river, and she had already walked more than a mile. She looked down at the wildflowers at her feet and stooped to rub a hand over the grass. It was dry. And blessedly cool to the touch. She changed her mind about going farther and sat down close to the river’s edge. She arranged her skirts neatly about her legs and clasped her arms around her raised knees.

  Aunt Jane would have been horrified at such unladylike behavior, especially in a public place where anyone might come along at any moment and see her. Estelle smiled fondly at the thought. Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles had raised Bertrand and her. Their mother had died in a horrible accident before they were even a year old, and their father, overcome with grief and guilt over his conviction that he had caused their mother’s death, had effectively disappeared from their lives except for brief, unsatisfactory visits twice a year or so. He had acquired an unsavory reputation as a rake, though they had not known that, of course, until much later.

  He was back in their lives now and had been for the past eight years. Estelle loved him dearly, but that did not change the fact that their formative years, from one to seventeen, had been spent in the care of Aunt Jane, their mother’s elder sister, and Uncle Charles. And in the company of Oliver and Ellen, their cousins, both older than they.

  It had been a strict upbringing, with much emphasis upon duty and moral rectitude and self-discipline and piety. Estelle and Bertrand had also been loved, though. But there had always been a gaping hole in their lives, partly because their mother was dead, though mainly because their father was not. They had longed and yearned for him, watched for him from the attic room of Elm Court, where they had lived through most of those years and lived again now. Yet whenever he had come, they had held themselves aloof from him, waiting and waiting for him to … to open his arms and his heart to them. Or give some other sign. Make the first move. Stay.

  After he left, usually sooner than he had intended, they hated him and wept for him— yes, Bertrand had wept too— and resolved to forget all about him, to cut him from their lives. Until, that was, they found themselves in the attic again, watching for his return. Yearning for him.

  Ah. Estelle shook her head. She had not intended to sink into those memories today of all days. Today was for simple enjoyment. Tomorrow there might be clouds and blustery winds and chill temperatures and rain again. Three days in a row was too much to hope for with any confidence this year. Today she was free to do whatever she wished. Much as she had loved having her aunt and uncle and Ellen to stay, she had, as always, felt constrained by their presence. As though she needed to be on her very best behavior every single moment. And to listen meekly to almost daily harangues— though no, that was unfair. Harangues was a negative word. Aunt Jane loved her and wanted the best for her—and of her. She gave suggestions now, and they were often sound advice.

  Her aunt did not approve of Estelle’s living at Elm Court virtually alone, though Bertrand lived there too and they had always been extraordinarily close despite the fact that they were not, of course, identical twins. Estelle, in Aunt Jane’s opinion, really ought to have a female companion living with her— just as Lady Maria Wiley of Prospect Hall did, and very proper too, though one could wish that her companion was a decade or so older than she was. It was bordering upon scandalous that Estelle did not have one at all. Aunt Jane could not understand why the marchioness did not insist upon it. The marchioness was Estelle’s stepmother of eight years, her father’s second wife. He was the Marquess of Dorchester.

  Estelle did not want a companion. Not a female one, anyway. She had Bertrand, and he was enough for her. For a few years, just before their father’s marriage to Viola Kingsley and then afterward, they had lived at Redcliffe Court in Northamptonshire, where they had been taken after their father inherited the title and property. Two years ago, however, they had come back to Elm Court, just the two of them, having found themselves overwhelmed by the life of the ton into which they had been thrust— with great success, incidentally, and even some enjoyment, until suddenly it had been enjoyable no longer.

  They had already been in their twenties when it happened, an age at which Estelle at least ought to have been married, according to conventional wisdom. She had never really been tempted, however, though she liked a number of the eligible men she had met. Instead, she had wanted to … to find herself, for want of a clearer way to describe how she had felt. And of course it was how Bertrand had felt too. They so often thought alike about the important things.

  So they had come back to Elm Court to live. Oh, not to become hermits. Far from it. Just this year, for example, they had gone to London for a few weeks of the Season and had proceeded from there to Hinsford Manor in Hampshire to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of Harry Westcott, their stepmother’s son and therefore their stepbrother. It was a large family party that had turned unexpectedly into a celebration of Harry’s wedding to Lydia Tavernor.

  All of it had been thoroughly enjoyable— for both Estelle and her twin. But they had come back here well before the end of the Season. Sometimes Estelle wondered if they would grow old together here, to be known as those weird and eccentric twins. But life was ever changing. It was impossible to predict the future. She did not even want to try.

  She sat in the sunshine. The heat felt very good. But … Well, it was really quite hot, and temptation beckoned in the form of the river. Poor Aunt Jane would have had heart palpitations. But Aunt Jane was not here, was she? And there was no one else in sight to be scandalized. It was why Estelle always loved walking beside the river north of their property, in fact. No one else ever came here. The bridge, sturdy and picturesque though it was, was rarely used these days, now that the main road nearby had been widened and resurfaced and was far more convenient to travelers than the narrow, rutted track that crossed the bridge. Most people would naturally choose convenience and comfort over a scenic route.

  Temptation was not to be resisted, Estelle decided at last, perhaps because she did not put up any great fight against it. She pulled off her shoes and set them neatly beside her, peeled off her stockings and pressed them into the shoes so they would not go wafting away in the breeze, folded the lower half of her skirt neatly over her knees so that some remnant of modesty would be preserved, and lowered her feet gingerly into the river. She gasped at the coldness of the water, but she lowered her legs farther, wiggling her toes as she did so, and found that they quickly adapted. And oh goodness, it felt delicious.

  She swished her feet and laughed when a few splashes spread into dark circles on her dress and doubtless penetrated each fold of it. One droplet landed on the side of her nose. She brushed it away and dried her hand on her skirt. She felt herself relax as she brought the whole of her attention back to the scene around her— and in her. For of course she was part of the scene, right to the very core of her being. It was not a case of her
and it. She actually was it, just as the birds were and the insects and the grass and the daisies, and that butterfly fluttering over a cluster of clover. This, she thought, was contentment. Even happiness. Just this. She wished Bertrand had come with her.

  Her bonnet was protecting her head from the full force of the sun. The brim was shading her eyes and preventing her from acquiring a red and shiny nose, which her maid would cluck over with disapproval and Bertrand would laugh at. But just for a couple of minutes she wanted to feel it all— the brightness and the warmth. She pulled loose the ribbons beneath her chin and took off her bonnet. One of her hairpins caught in the bottom edge of it, and while she wrestled to free it a whole hank of hair came tumbling down over her shoulder. Bother! But it served her right. She set the bonnet on the grass, pulled out the rest of her hairpins, and dropped them carefully into the hat. She shook her head and combed her fingers through her hair in the hope of achieving something like smoothness. It was impossible, of course, since she did not have a brush with her, but so what? She had already decided that she would not go visiting.

  A sense of delicious freedom welled up in her and spilled over in exuberance. She kicked her feet, careful not to splash herself again. She propped herself up with her hands spread on the grass behind her, tipped back her head so she could feel the sun on her face and cool air on the back of her neck, and closed her eyes.

  This was pure bliss.

  Until, that was, she became aware of someone panting— someone who was not her. And then she heard low, menacing growls. And then angry barking. Her eyes flew open and she whipped her head about to see a huge monster of a dog dashing toward her across the grass, all bared teeth and ferocity and flying spittle and giant paws. If Estelle had not been half paralyzed with terror, she might well have jumped screaming right into the river. Instead she sat up sharply, spread her hands before her face, palms out, fingers spread, and cried out. Something idiotic like, “Good doggie,” she thought afterward. By then she hoped fervently she had not actually said doggie.

  “Heel, Captain!” The voice that snapped out the command came from somewhere behind Estelle. It was a harsh masculine voice— and instantly effective. The dog stopped in its tracks, a mere six feet from Estelle and towering over her. It growled menacingly once, tipped its head to one side, one brown ear flopping against its head, the other swinging free, black jowls quivering, black nose twitching, black eyes glaring death and destruction— and turned to trot to where the voice had come from.