Synopsis from Amazon:It is the start of the Season and the rakish Earl of Stanhope is less than overjoyed when he is forced to rusticate to Sussex. His foolish, foppish cousin has, it seems, managed to wager away the reputation of one Miss Calista Ashton. Country spinster. Vicar's sister. Radical. Bluestocking. Why, the mere description is enough to call forth a sigh. Nonetheless, in the name of the family honor--and well, to be honest, maybe partly to escape from his two mistresses who are arguing over him--Stanhope heads to the little town of Deepdene. And is surprised indeed. Hardly the elderly, dried-up spinster he had been led to expect, Miss Ashton is, it turns out, possessed of a fine sense of humor, a fine pair of eyes, and under her frumpy brown dresses, a fine. . . well, a gentleman really should not notice that at all. And, oh yes, the lady, as it also turns out, is already engaged. Naturally, being a man of action, Stanhope sets out to remedy the situation. But what will Calista find in his impeccably Weston-tailored arms? Sweet seduction or true love?
My rating: 4 stars
Excerpt: [from Chapter 1]
Thursday, April the third, dawned over London with fair skies. As fashionable London slumbered a breeze came up, blowing away all traces of the acrid yellow fog that so often choked the city.
In Deepdene, Sussex—the other town with which we are concerned where the day had also dawned fair, and where the villagers as a matter of course rose earlier than their London counterparts—the day was already well under way for our cast of characters.
At the vicarage, Miss Calista Ashton, clad in a shapeless gray wool gown nearly indistinguishable from the nine other shapeless gray wool gowns in her clothing press, was in the morning room. She was attempting to simultaneously tackle the huge pile of linens needing mending while reading Considerations on Religion and Public Education, with Remarks on the Speech of M. Dupont, Delivered in the National Convention of France, Together with an Address to the Ladies, &c. of Great Britain and Ireland by the notorious Hannah More. Calista was poised to hide the book should she hear the slightest hint of approaching footsteps. Her efforts at both reading and mending were somewhat hindered as she was unable to lean back due to the fact that the vicarage had recently been redecorated by her sister-in-law, Hermione Ashton, to feature only backless sofas in the fashionable Egyptian style.
Miss Ashton’s brother, the Very Reverend Adolphus Ashton—who due to the family’s less than fortunate financial circumstances had been forced to take orders and who had had the living at Deepdene these past eleven years—considered Calista’s reading tastes to be nothing short of heretical, and was sure to read her a crashingly dull and extremely lengthy scold should she be discovered.
Searching out Calista, however, was the last thing on the Reverend Ashton’s mind. Having breakfasted early, he was now closeted in his study, ostensibly writing tomorrow’s sermon (tentative title: “Parishioners! Give Thanks to the Merciful Almighty for Giving You the Opportunity to Serve Your Titled Betters”), but was in actuality reading a most unimproving work on hunting, while eating at a prodigious rate the sugarplums confiscated from Master Billy Trent at Bible study.
His wife, Hermione, having rung for her morning chocolate, reclined on her pillows and debated whether the day should bring a megrim or a much more energy-consuming spasm. In the end she decided against succumbing to a spasm, which would in all likelihood keep her confined to her bed ruining the chances for a comfortable cose with her bosom bow, Lady Gladys Lyttworth.
Lady Lyttworth, who prided herself on keeping town hours (“One in my position,” she was fond of saying, “must strive to maintain some modicum of civilization even here in this”—here a delicate shudder would traverse her ramrod-straight spine—“backwater”), was abroad at such early an hour only because she was eager to inspect the new addition to her art collection. It was a portrait she had recently commissioned from Hethering. Lady Lyttworth’s painting was not precisely a Hethering original but, rather, an Elizabethan-era portrait that Mr. Hethering had less than happily but as instructed amended to bear the charming nose of the daughter of the house, Miss Sofie Lyttworth (who was, incidentally, still abed with a concoction of mashed cucumber on her porcelain complexion).
The Baron Lyttworth was in the library snoring behind the Morning Post from a sennight ago Tuesday. That the news was woefully out of date was of little consequence, as its main purpose was to keep him from being disturbed during his habitual post-breakfast, pre-lunch, late-midafternoon, and early-evening naps. Lady Lyttworth insisted that she had long since given up relying on the Post for the latest gossip. Her dearest London friends, she said, corresponded quite frequently enough to keep her apprised of all the latest on-dits. If any of her acquaintances privately thought Lady Lyttworth’s news not much fresher than that contained in their own out-of-date Posts, they were much too polite to mention the fact.
The Lyttworths’ nearest neighbour, Squire Everard Greystock, sat alone in his breakfast room, his seven children having been banished to the nursery in order that he be able to enjoy his morning meal in peace. It had been his late wife’s idea to have so many children, which was exactly, he thought, the type of rackety hen-witted caper that was to be expected from the weaker sex. Despite the fact that he had not been particularly fond of his wife, her demise some eighteen months previous had discommoded him sadly. A few crumbs fell from thick lips as he polished off the remains of a rack of toast. Despite employing a veritable gaggle of nannies, nursemaids, and governesses, the squire was constantly being plagued by his offspring.
As he attacked the last morsel of creamed kidney, the idea that what his children really needed was a stepmama crossed his mind. If he must needs marry again, rot the luck, he thought, it would have to be someone who would be grateful for his offer. Someone past her last prayers. Someone who would set a fine table, not insist that he bathe, or interfere with his passions—riding to the hounds and drinking port. Someone, in fact, not unlike Calista Ashton. Bit of a favour to his crony Adolphus, actually. Lord knew, the gel needed a man’s influence to set her to rights—going to end up dashed potty, she was, if left to her own devices. And come to think of it, she might make a nice armful come a cold winter night—he’d wager that hidden under all those frumpy clothes there were some curves to tempt a man.
Suddenly feeling at charity with the world he belched and rang for a second platter of sliced ham.
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