The ton calls her Lady Blundering Blythe Leigh. So what if she can’t dance, or run, or even walk more than ten steps without a stumble, fumble, or bumble. Blythe knows she’s intelligent, thoughtful, considerate, loving—for all the good it does her. Since that disastrous first dance during her first season, she hasn’t been able to live down her reputation as an accident waiting to happen.

 

The ton calls him Lord Deft. Lord Daniel Cynarme, Marquess of Cynedroit enjoys a life free of conflict and confrontation. His unequaled accuracy with a pistol, his unparalleled reputation as a lover, and his uncanny ability to use the right word at the right time, ensure that his life stays that way. He has no regrets—well perhaps one. Years after that unfortunate waltz, he still wishes he could change disaster into delight. However, Lady Blythe won’t give him a chance.

Can polar opposites find love in Regency Era drawing rooms?

Excerpt:

Leigh Chase, Leicestershire, late fall 1811,

Daniel Cynearme, Marquess of Cynedroit sat on Nimble his Irish gelding, surveying the chaos around him as the Duke of Leigh’s Hunting Master organized the day’s hunt. The huntsman was directed to assemble the hounds at a good distance in front of the field of riders. Whippers-in followed the dogs. Riders began to assemble in order of skill and precedence. Daniel waited patiently for one of the first riders to calm a recalcitrant horse. Then the entire scene disappeared.

A young woman emerged from the direction of the stable yard riding a leggy black Andalusian. She was young, enough that she had not yet had her come out or he would most definitely have noticed her.

The horse, like most of its breed was stunning. It’s long mane and tale carefully braided as was appropriate for a hunt. But the woman. The woman was beyond stunning, incredibly so, because she was not beautiful.

She wore a pale green riding habit, a darker green military style spencer accented with gold buttons and epaulettes. The spencer’s high collar emphasized her slender neck, and even at this distance the ensemble’s colors threw her bright green, gold flecked eyes into high relief from her alabaster complexion.

A straight blade of a nose sat between high sharp cheekbones. Pink tinted the golden skin over those bones in pale competition with the bold rose of her mouth. A mouth that was just a tad too wide for beauty. All captured somehow in a face just the tiniest bit longer on the left than on the right. A low-crowned, paisley shako adorned with a small spray of peacock feathers sat atop a profusion of nearly white curls.

He estimated her to be nearly as tall as he, given that she seemed perfectly proportioned for the towering height of her steed. The rest of her was slender but curvy enough to make the most hardened rake’s mouth water. What a shame she was an innocent and ineligible to him as a mistress or lover.

When Daniel was finally able to tear his gaze away from her person, he noted the effortless elegance of her left hand on the reins. Her fingers, gloved in dark green leather to match her spencer, held the lines securely but relaxed—much as an expert held and rapier. Her right hand held a whip with a fairly long shaft and a short lash. With the smallest moves of fingers and whip, she conveyed her wishes to the splendid mare beneath her. She moved past him, to the area where the last of the riders would assemble. Odd that. She sat her steed with all the grace of a goddess. In addition, the skill with which she commanded her mount led Daniel to suspect she was a more expert hunter than many men present.

“Ah.” his friend Glenlewis rode up beside him. “I see you’ve noticed Lady Blythe Leigh.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. “That’s Lady Blythe? The clumsy one whom that rag the Teatime Tattler writes of so often?”

“One and the same,” the Scottish Duke replied. “The mare’s name is Harmony.”

“I’m surprised she is permitted out of the house let alone given the reins of any mount, especially one like that Andalusian.” He noted where Lady Blythe positioned herself. She’d be bringing up the rear of the field.

“I’ve known the family forever,” Glenlewis remarked. “Though I’ve never met the daughters. According to her brother the duke, Lady Blythe is just as horse mad as the rest of the clan. He told me she is more often in the stables or the kennels than in the house. Even hinted that she’s involved herself in the training and breeding of both horses and dogs.”

“Hmm, she must be successful, for no one gossips about that.” Daniel mused.

Glenlewis laughed. “True, success is never fodder for tittle tattle. Although I’m certain some scandal could be made of her interest in hunting and other masculine pursuits. As she’s not out yet, and does not flaunt her hobbies, the subject is of little note.”

Perhaps, it is only the more feminine pursuits at which Lady Blythe is awkward and accident prone? Pursuing activities at which she might succeed suggested the presence of a mind to go with her beauty. Daniel decided he would find out.

Although he wished he had. Then he rather than the footman would have had the pleasure of helping her into the saddle, assisting her to arrange he skirts and talking with her all the while to discover who she was and where she’d sprung from. She was tall, blue-eyed, rose hued lips, and the most blindingly blonde, nearly white hair. Everything about her from her clothing to the regal way she sat her hunter screamed a lady of quality. All he needed to know was if she were an innocent or not. He could ask one of the other men, or his host, but Daniel knew that discovering direct from the lady herself would provide much more fun. Pray heaven she has some wit, or I’ll wish I’d asked Glenlewis.