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Notorious Lord, Compromised Miss
ANNIE BURROWS
Debutante Katherine Malahithe has come to London determined to resist the fortune hunters only interested in her money.Her efforts to appear unattractive successfully ward off most suitors—except for Viscount Maldon, a man who wants to avoid marriage as much as Katherine.The handsome, provoking Viscount becomes an unlikely ally, but can either of them escape the altar when friendship turns to passion…and scandal?


Annie Burrows has been making up stories for her own amusement since she first went to school. As soon as she got the hang of using a pencil she began to write them down. Her love of books meant she had to do a degree in English literature. And her love of writing meant she could never take on a job where she didn’t have time to jot down notes when inspiration for a new plot struck her. She still wants the heroines of her stories to wear beautiful floaty dresses, and triumph over all that life can throw at them. But when she got married she discovered that finding a hero is an essential ingredient to arriving at ‘happy ever after’. Please visit her website at www.annie-burrows.co.uk

Available now from Annie Burrows:
CAPTAIN FAWLEY’S INNOCENT BRIDE

Author’s Note

It is really exciting to be taking part in this new venture for Mills & Boon in the twenty-first century. I believe there are all sorts of gadgets available nowadays that you can download and read this story on…most of which would probably totally baffle me!

I do hope you enjoy reading this love story, set in the days long before computers had ever been dreamed of, and life went at a much slower pace.

Notorious Lord, Compromised Miss
Annie Burrows

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
Chapter 1
Viscount Maldon ran a finger round the inside of his neck cloth, uncomfortably aware that by entering this place, he was putting his neck in a noose. He should have had a stiff drink before coming out. Everyone knew they did not serve anything stronger than lemonade in Almack’s Assembly Rooms. And lemonade was not going to do a thing to steady his nerves.
The dancing was already under way, and the lobby was currently deserted, so nobody had noticed him yet. But once he set foot in that ballroom, there would be no going back. He would be at the mercy of every girl that men who could afford to be choosy had already passed over. The fat ones, the ones with annoying laughs, or bad breath, or, heaven forbid, facial hair…
Breaking out in a cold sweat, Viscount Maldon veered sharply away from the entrance to the ballroom, and ducked into an alcove that was partially screened by the luxuriant foliage of a potted palm. A man required nerves of steel to walk, unarmed as it were, into the all-female domain of the marriage mart!
How had Acton ever thought he could do it?

“You have got to show your creditors you mean business.” The family’s elderly man of business wheezed as he pushed a piece of paper across the desktop with his gnarled forefinger. “Merely setting foot in Almack’s will send out a clear-enough message. But if you can manage to secure a dance with one or more of the females on this list whilst you are there…”
Viscount Maldon had meekly pocketed the list. He had taken it home and studied it. He had learned all the names on it by rote.
So there had been no need to put it in his breast pocket before setting out tonight. He had been somewhat surprised, when he had given his appearance one last critical appraisal in the mirror, that it had not distorted the fit of his cutaway coat: it felt like a ton weight against his heart.
But he looked just as he always did. His spare frame elegantly covered in well-tailored clothing, his fair hair tidily clipped and neatly brushed. Only the clouds dulling his gray eyes might have given those who knew him well a clue that something troubled him.
The list, that was what troubled him. The list of all the women Acton had ascertained might be prepared to accept his suit.
“You are not free to gad about like a younger son with no responsibilities, now you have come into the title,” Acton had lectured him. “It is up to you to save the estate, and marrying well is the most effective way of going about it.”

Marrying well! He grimaced. Pursuing some unattractive female for the sake of her dowry was not his idea of marrying well.
But men with their pockets to let did not, as Acton had querulously pointed out, have the luxury of choice.
Surely, Viscount Maldon thought mournfully, amongst all the eligible maidens upon the list Acton had given him, there must be one who was not too repulsive? At least, not too repulsive to dance with.
He had to demonstrate that he was the man to sort out the muddle his father had created and his brother compounded, with their reckless gambling. It had to be done some time, and, since he had got this far, it might as well be tonight.
Having talked himself into accepting his fate, Viscount Maldon peered through the foliage, towards the open door of the ballroom, and took his first real look at the assembled throng. By some cruel irony, the first face he recognized, amidst the swirling mass of humanity, belonged to Acton’s first choice.
Dressed entirely in white, Miss Harriet Millbury was bouncing through the steps of a cotillion on the arm of an elderly earl, a muddy-complexioned man, who everyone knew was in search of a third wife to provide the heir his first and second wives had so signally failed to produce.
Looking at her, he was put forcibly in mind of a ship in full sail, bobbing along on the waters of the Thames in a stiff easterly breeze.

Repressing a shudder of revulsion, he shrank further back into the recess behind the potted palm. Plenty of men might find Miss Millbury quite attractive. Larger women, so he’d been reliably informed, provided a softly cushioned ride.
But then, it was not only big women he had an aversion to. The second name on the list filled him with even more trepidation. He had met Miss Framlingham at a house party not long after she had emerged from the schoolroom. She had pale eyes and long features that had instantly put him in mind of a particularly irritable goat his great-aunt had kept. Her temper might not be as unpredictable as her face led him to believe, but since this was her third season and she was still single, despite her temptingly large dowry, there was definitely something about her that put men off.
He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he need not actually propose to anyone tonight. He was only here, in London for the season, to buy himself a breathing space. He was only here, in Almack’s tonight, to demonstrate that he was following the sensible course that his man of business had recommended.
He shut his eyes tight, concentrating on the task of breathing in and out, which had, just for a moment or two, proved unaccountably tricky.
Only when he felt reasonably confident that he could enter that ballroom without betraying the repugnance he felt at the course he was about to take, did he throw back his shoulders, open his eyes and turn his head deliberately towards that fateful portal.
Where another female caught his eye.
What drew his attention to her was not her face, for he could not see it, but the fact that she was sidling, yes, positively sidling out of the ballroom, and was currently backing stealthily—straight towards the very potted palm he was hiding behind.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the ballroom from which she had just emerged, she was feeling her way backwards with her feet. It was clearly not easy The nearer to him she came, the more she bent over from the waist, with her arms stretched out as though for balance. The irregular method of movement caused the fabric of her evening gown to slither over each buttock alternately, molding the flexing muscles like the caress of a lover’s hand.
The unprecedented sight exerted a hypnotic effect upon him. It only occurred to him much, much later, that he could have coughed, or given the young lady some other warning that her deliciously rounded derriere was on a collision course with his thighs. But at that moment, movement of any sort was quite beyond him. Even if his innate sense of chivalry had come into play, he excused himself later, the alcove was too small to permit him to step to one side. And so he simply stood there, transfixed, his mind capable only of anticipating what those twin globes would feel like when they finally made contact.

Satin cushions. He inwardly groaned when the moment came. Firm, yet yielding, and utterly, perfectly formed… Who could have foretold that coming to Almack’s could have resulted in an encounter of such exquisite sensuality?
A tide of crimson surged up the back of the girl’s neck, telling him that she was aware it was a person, and not the wall, that she had just backed into. Her whole body stiffened; she straightened up and drew in a sharp breath. The kind of breath that all too often—he knew from his experience with his sisters—presaged the utterance of the kind of ear-piercing shriek that was the very last noise any female ought to be making in the entrance lobby of Almack’s.
And he did what he would have done to prevent any of his sisters from making an exhibition of herself. He clapped one hand over her mouth, effectively silencing her scream before it began, and, as a further precautionary measure, flung one arm about her waist, pinning her arms to her sides so that she could not go dashing off and accusing him of, well, at the very least, of cowering behind a pot plant like some kind of maladjusted schoolboy!
“Think twice before you do anything that might be construed as causing a scene, miss,” he murmured softly into her ear, a delicate, shell-like structure, he noted absently, entirely devoid of ornament. “Just calm down, and then—” He winced as she kicked him in the shins. Though her feet were shod only in dainty satin slippers, she had a kick like a mule. So he tightened his hold, pulling her close and spreading his legs so that she was in no position to kick him again.
“Hold still!” he hissed into the cap of dark, sweetly scented curls that were tickling his nose, when she began wriggling like an eel. He had saved his shins, but oh Lord! That softly cushioned rear, rubbing so energetically against his loins, was proving far more dangerous.
The sight of her bottom had been interesting. The feel of it, delightful. But the wriggle…damn but that was beginning to make him downright uncomfortable. His breeches were not cut to deal with that amount of strain.
He was almost grateful when she stamped on his foot, giving him a valid reason for letting her go. Muttering an oath beneath his breath, he braced himself for the aftermath. She was bound to slap his face—or worse, faint—if she did not simply run screaming into the ballroom, complaining that there was a pervert lurking behind a plant in the lobby, grabbing unwary females.
Thus putting an end to his career as a fortune hunter before it had even begun.
A liberating sense of succumbing to the inevitable washed over him. Perhaps a short spell in debtor’s prison would not be so very bad. He could even see himself surviving a lengthy spell of incarceration. Somehow. For it would not be a life sentence. No, he could get out of prison. An unhappy marriage, though…

And that was when he realized that the girl, far from running, or fainting or screaming, was standing ramrod straight, exactly where he had released her.
As though frozen to the spot.
“Please,” he implored her in an urgent undertone. “Just run along now, there’s a good girl.”
As though his words had released her from a spell, she whirled round, to glare up at him through narrowed green eyes.
“You cannot make me!” she said.
Extremely quietly.
Viscount Maldon was impressed. The girl had enough sense to realize that the last thing either of them needed was to draw attention to their encounter.
But if she did not want to be compromised, why was she not taking this opportunity to flee from him?
“What game are you playing?” he asked, his curiosity thoroughly roused.
“I am not playing!” she retorted.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I should have thought it was obvious, I am doing the same as you.”
He doubted very much whether she had a list of prospective suitors in her pocket, particularly since the voluminous gown she wore did not appear to have any pockets.
When it became clear to her that she was a complete puzzle to him, she rolled her eyes in exasperation and explained.

“Hiding!” She then placed her hands on her hips. “And if you were a gentleman, you would remove yourself. At once!”
He glanced warily in the direction of the ballroom before shaking his head. He was not ready to step out from behind the pillar that supported the potted plant. Not in any sense!
“Not a chance.” Then he folded his arms across his chest in what he hoped was a forbidding manner, and added for good measure, “Besides, I was here first.”
She gasped. “Not only are you clearly not a gentleman, but—” she paused, and he could see that she was reaching inside herself for something suitably cutting to say that would slay him on the spot “—you are a coward! Yes, and, and—” she ran her eyes up and down his person, as though seeking inspiration. “A puny one,” she flung at him in triumph, “at that!”
“Puny!” He drew himself up to his full height, and threw out his chest. “I am not in the least bit puny. I may be slender, but,” he pointed out, “what there is of me is exceptionally muscular.”
“Huh,” she replied, rubbing at her arms. “You could not hold me captive for long!”
“Indeed not,” he replied with an unholy grin, recalling exactly why he had let her go. Simply recalling how arousing that wholly unexpected tussle had been was making his breeches grow tight all over again. Just when he had begun to think her sharp tongue might serve as an antidote to the power of her lush curves. “It is not at all the sort of activity the patronesses encourage within these hallowed walls.”
“No.” She shuddered. “All the groping and lusting is supposed to occur on that dance floor—” she grimaced, turning to peep through the fronds of the palm “—in full view. And in there, I have not the liberty to kick anyone in the shins.” She finished wistfully, “I have to be polite to elderly widowers on the lookout for a nanny for their six motherless children, and smile at all the grubby fortune hunters with roving hands and a desperate gleam in their eyes.”
Until that point, the insults she had been flinging at him had bounced straight off. But that one found its mark.
“Don’t you think, perhaps you are being a little harsh?” he argued. “I mean, possibly fortune hunters look desperate because they are desperate. Perhaps they are on the brink of utter ruin, through no fault of their own. Perhaps the last thing they wish to be doing is looking for a bride. Can you not imagine what a young man might feel like, having been raised in expectations of living life as a carefree bachelor, to be suddenly confronted by the choice between debtor’s prison or marrying without affection, without respect, without any criteria other than that his bride should have money?”
“I would not be a bit surprised,” she observed thoughtfully, glancing over her shoulder at him, “to learn that it might make them feel like hiding behind a potted plant. But—” she whirled round to face him fully, her expression turning mutinous “—they do not have to be quite so oily and insincere, do they? Telling me I’ve captivated their hearts after only one turn round the dance floor! Do I look like a complete imbecile to you? Do I?”
He had already decided that this young lady had a mind like quicksilver. And yet, some devil in him had him drawing out his quizzing glass and inspecting her from head to toe. Her gown, he noted at once, had not been made by a London modiste. The billowing effect that had made her stealthy retreat from the ballroom so utterly entrancing was entirely due to its poor fit. Her figure, he had already determined, was perfectly proportioned to fit in his arms. And her face…well, the nose was a little short, the mouth a little too wide, and her eyes were shooting the kind of sparks that denoted a fiery temper. And yet, the combination of less-than-perfect features somehow rendered the whole remarkably attractive.
“Just tell me one thing,” he said, “and then I will give you my honest opinion. Are you an heiress?”
Her eyes narrowed, her whole face scrunching up in a way that put him in mind of an angry kitten. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Well, only that if you are, I would say you have entirely captivated my heart, too. I would propose on the spot.”
Her mouth dropped open. While she was sputtering, trying to find some suitably withering comeback, he went on languidly, “You know, for a man who has to marry money, you, sweet kitten, would seem a veritable godsend. If a man had to choose between the massive Miss Millbury, the frosty Miss Framlingham, or you, I am certain he would be foolish to do anything but fall head over heels in love with you.”
“F-fall in love with my money—my hypothetical money, you mean.”
“You have no money?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I think one of my aunts must have exaggerated my worth somewhat, thinking I would wish to be a social success. They probably meant well when they described me as coming from the wealthiest family in our town. But it is only a small town, you know, populated with simple country folk for the most part.”
“But you must have good connections, else you would never have been admitted within these hallowed portals. I am sure,” he said gently, “that you will meet a man who will value you for yourself, in time.” He ran his eyes slowly over her figure with such lazy speculation her face went scarlet. “You are definitely worth a second look.”
“I am never going to get married,” she declared with some vehemence.
“Ah!” he grinned at her. “A kindred spirit. I felt exactly as you do, until circumstances removed the luxury of choice. How would you feel about coming to some form of compromise?”

“Compromise?” she gasped, taking such a hasty step backwards that the pot rocked on its stand.
He grabbed it, steadied it, and explained. “I was only going to offer to share my hiding place with you. Come now, kitten,” he said, holding out his hand. “Tell me your name, and let us be friends.”
Her only response was to scowl.
“Katherine!” came an outraged screech from beyond the potted palm.
Looking over her shoulder, Viscount Maldon saw a tiny woman—clad entirely in garments of such a virulent yellow, he could practically taste lemons—making straight for their alcove.

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