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  A marriage most inconvenient…

  After losing his first love in childbirth, Nicholas Alden knows with a great certainty that he must never be a father. But to be a husband is a very different matter—mandated by South Australian society, necessary for his family name. So when he meets beautiful social climber Charlotte, he believes he has found a wife he can keep at arm’s length. He is terribly wrong.

  Born on the wrong side of the sheets, Charlotte hopes Nick can prop up her reputation long enough to secure a suitable match for her beloved cousin. She assumes that is all she can ask of her new husband—until they succumb to a night of uninhibited passion. Her heart is won in his embrace, but he doesn’t know the truth of her scandalous parentage. If he did, all would be lost.

  Still, somehow, Charlotte dares to hope that her match of convenience could become something more. It is a reckless gamble, but the prize—a marriage of blazing lifelong desire—is one worth any risk…

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Virginia Taylor

  South Landers Series

  Starling

  Ella

  Charlotte

  Wenna

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Wenna

  A South Landers Novel

  Virginia Taylor

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 by Virginia Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: January 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0010-1

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0010-7

  First Print Edition: January 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-928-6

  ISBN-10: 1-61650-928-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Author’s Foreword

  Years ago when I was a newbie writer, via online groups I met a best selling romance writer named Deborah Smith. Deborah is a woman with a wild sense of humor and a personality larger than life. This incredibly talented woman helped all us newbies with our queries about writing. Not only did she reveal ‘the secret’ of writing a best seller that every newbie writer thinks exists, but she did one thing for me that still puts a lump in my throat. I told her I had never read a book she had written. We didn’t have any in the book shops in Australia. We also didn’t have Amazon in those days. Not long after that, a huge box of books arrived for me, all signed by her. She had even found books that were out of publication and bought them to send to me. I was then and still am stunned by her generosity.

  So, thank you Deborah Smith for being Deborah Smith.

  Chapter 1

  South Australia, January, 1865

  A warm, yeasty aroma wafted from the bread resting on the kitchen window ledge, making this the only compensation for being in the hottest room of the house. Garbed in the cook’s second-best calico apron, Wenna Chenoweth sliced knobs of butter into a big white mixing bowl. Although a lady’s maid wouldn’t normally help the other servants, Wenna’s employers kept their country house half-staffed during the summer sojourn into the Adelaide hills, and with a houseguest to cater for as well, Wenna had offered to make an almond cake.

  Elsie, the scullery maid, glanced up shyly as she heaved a bag of sugar onto the table beside Wenna. “You’ve seen Miss Patricia’s beau, Miss Chenoweth. What does he look like?”

  Wenna used a cup to scoop and pour the sugar onto the butter. “I’ve only seen him from a distance, mind, but my impression of him is that he is very handsome. He dresses well.”

  “Rich, too, I suppose?” The trim gray-haired cook, Mrs. Green, dumped a load of washed vegetables onto the table.

  Wenna considered her answer while she whipped her mixture of sugar and butter with a long wooden spoon. “Would that matter to the Brooks? What they want for Miss Patricia is class, and he is connected to our former governor, which makes him an English gentleman, or so Mrs. Brook said. I expect her father’s money would be his lure.”

  “You’re a one, you are.” Mrs. Green laughed. Her gnarled fingers efficiently peeled the potato in an endless, almost transparent, length. “You don’t want Miss Patricia to hear you talking like that, not when she’s already got it in for you.”

  “She thinks finding fault is indispensable to a lady, but a real lady treats her servants with respect.” Or so Wenna’s mother had said, and she had been employed as the personal maid to a countess back in the old country, Cornwall, that she had taught Wenna to call home.

  “I don’t know why she treats you like dirt under her heel. You’ve gotta be one of the hardest workers I’ve met. Not too many lady’s maids would take on all the extras you do.”

  “It’s the extras that make my job interesting.” The extras made Wenna’s job bearable. She had risen to the top of her profession because she could read, match hairstyles to hats, gowns to jewelry, cook, run a household, and shut her mouth when need be. Her parents had never expected her to end up in service, but her parents had also not expected to die young.

  “I s’pose you’re right. Doesn’t do a body no good to be too specialized, not if a body is planning to marry one day.” The cook winked at her.

  “When I find the right man, Mrs. Green.” Wenna cracked two eggs into her bowl.

  The cook stared at her, her bright brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Just look around you. There’s more men than women in this colony, and any man would snap up a smart woman like you.”

  Wenna smiled, hoping she looked flattered, but only in her dreams would a woman with skin that blotched like a bullfrog’s in the sun, and shocking, bright red, frizzy hair attract the sort of man she would accept—a man with brains and ability, one who would work alongside her to better himself.

  Light momentarily flooded the room as the back door opened. “Miss Chenoweth?” One of the men hired locally to help in the garden stood staring hopefully at Wenna. “Mrs. Brook sent me for you. Something about Miss Patricia’s hat.”

  “What about her hat?” Wenna beat her egg-and-butter mixture into a frenzy while she frowned at the man.

  “Dunno. S’pose she wants you to fix it.”

  She glanced at the almonds and flour on the table. “I wonder if she would rather have a readjustment to a hat, or cake for afternoon tea?”

  The man laughed. “Reckon she’ll get both.”

  “For the price of one.” Sighing, Wenna wiped her hands and removed her apron. “I won’t be long,” she t
old the cook with a helpless shrug. “I’ll be back in time to finish the cake, clean the house, sew a new gown, and repair the roof.” She checked that she had the comb and the sewing kit in the little leather pouch she kept buckled around her waist, never knowing when she might be called.

  “Likely you could do just that.”

  Wenna left the cook laughing, which pleased her. If she could learn to relax more often, people would grow to like her. Not too many in the household did because she was “uppity.”

  Her father had been a mine manager in Cornwall when he had married her mother, an educated lady’s maid. He’d always said Wenna was just like her mother. He’d meant “ambitious” like her mother. In looks, Wenna didn’t compare.

  Her beautiful Mumma had convinced Da they would be better off in the south land, Terra Australis, where thick copper lodes had been discovered. “A better life to bring up our children,” she’d said, but she’d only produced one girl, much to Da’s disappointment. Nevertheless, he had insisted Wenna have the education he would have provided a full house of sons.

  In this new land, each man was as good as his work, and Wenna’s work was superb. She’d made each of her mistresses into the stepping-stones of her ambition. Now twenty-six years old, and at the peak of her profession, she could only better herself by working for herself, which she planned to do as soon as she found a few more potential clients. She had an idea that might make her enough money to achieve her aim, which was to go back to Cornwall wealthy enough to be of use to her elderly grandparents.

  She followed the gardener through the sun-dappled orchard to the scythed open grassland behind, where gentlemen in white stood dotted in various positions while playing their cricket match. The beautifully clad ladies sat in grouped chairs along the sidelines, guarding picnic baskets and stone bottles of ginger beer. In the paddocks beyond, tall gums stirred lazily in the heat.

  The hollow knock of the ball sounded as the fair gentleman, the house-guest meant for Miss Patricia, swung his bat high. He ran, and even the leg pads he wore couldn’t make him look clumsy. His effortless strides took him to the other wicket and back again before the ball was returned to the bowler by another gentleman. Wenna would have liked to stay and watch, but Miss Patricia was making hastening movements with her arm.

  “My hat was dislodged, and now my hair is a mess,” she said as Wenna reached her side. But for her pouting discontented mouth, she would have been very pretty, endowed as she was with thick brown hair and large brown eyes. “Don’t dawdle. You’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Don’t be ungracious, darling,” Mrs. Brook, Wenna’s mistress, said to her daughter. “It’s unbecoming.”

  Since birth, Miss Patricia had been indulged with every luxury, her father having made his fortune in the colony’s first building boom. With a flick of her head, she ignored her mother and dragged Wenna by the arm to a chair at the end of the row.

  “Would you like me to fix your hat back on your head, or fix your hair?”

  “Both, you stupid creature.”

  Miss Daphne Grace, a pretty young lady who invariably dressed in too many frills and flounces, turned, apparently surprised by Miss Patricia’s words. Miss Patricia batted her lashes, and Miss Grace redirected her attention to her friend, an understated, dark-haired beauty. Most of the young ladies in the colony knew each other and attended the same functions. Wenna doubted that any would recall who she was, but she always remembered the names of the well-connected. In her profession, politeness and a scrupulous reputation were essential.

  “Carefully, Chenoweth. Stand in front of me. I don’t want the gentlemen to see my hair on end.”

  Dutifully, Wenna moved in front. While on holidays in the country, she “did for” the daughter as well as the mother. “I brought my comb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” She removed the hastily placed hatpins from Miss Patricia’s smart blue hat and put the creation on the lady’s lap.

  Miss Patricia tapped her foot while Wenna combed sections of the lady’s enviable hair, re-pinning the loose curls. Satisfied, she stood back and placed the young lady’s hat precisely. “Now you look perfect again,” she said with a pleasant nod.

  “You’re so slow today.” Miss Patricia checked her hair with her hand. “I’m sure you dawdle around just to annoy me. I hope you didn’t do anything too fussy. My hair is my crowning glory.”

  “You’re very lucky, Miss Patricia. If I could do my own as simply, I would be the happiest woman in the colony.”

  Miss Patricia cast disdainful eyes over Wenna’s lace cap, which hid most of her tightly braided, densely packed hair. “The way you wear yours completely out of sight is suited to your position. It doesn’t do for the maid to imitate the mistress.”

  Wenna nodded, hoping the fair young giant didn’t need Miss Patricia’s money. She was, without a doubt, a very unpleasant young woman.

  “If you’ve finished with my hair, check the fall of my gown, would you?” Miss Patricia said in her loud, over-privileged voice. She stood.

  With a critical eye, Wenna rearranged the loops at the back of the pink crinoline so that when Miss Patricia sat, the skirts would fan around her.

  “You’ve done well, Chenoweth. You may go.”

  Wenna inclined her head and turned, only to be stopped by Mrs. Brook at the other end of the row of chairs.

  “Thank you,” her elegant mistress said in a low voice. Under Wenna’s tutelage, Mrs. Brook had become one of the most stylish ladies in the colony. “Daphne Grace tried to help her, but she couldn’t do a thing with her hair, and then Patricia starting making such a fuss that I thought she might not be showing herself to her best advantage. You have an efficient way, Chenoweth, of smoothing out situations.”

  Wenna smiled. “Or at least smoothing out hair. I’m glad I could help.”

  Unfortunately, her mistress’ gratitude didn’t abate Wenna’s irritation about being told that she was only a maid, when she was a lady’s maid, and her position didn’t call for her to hide her ugly hair. If she chose, she could leave off her silly frill of a cap. She glanced one last time at the fair cricketer who was standing with his bat waiting for the bowler to run up, knowing handsome young gentlemen would never be part of her world. Her cake awaited.

  Already pulling off her cap, which she decided she would never wear again, she reached the slatted gate of the orchard. With her tight arrangement now disturbed, some of her pins had loosened, and the long plait of her hair unfurled down her back. Using her fingers as a comb, she loosened the braiding and shook out the frizz of her hair in defiance. Behind, she heard the shout of male voices yelling, “Out, out,” and she glanced back.

  The young gentleman walked to the closest wicket, trailing his bat along the grass, a big smile on his handsome face. “Thank you, Worthing,” he called as he walked. “I’ll bowl you out when your turn comes.”

  The auburn-haired man holding the ball laughed. The guest passed his bat to another man, fixed his gaze on Wenna, and starting walking in her direction. She stood transfixed, not knowing what he might want of her. Her first thought was to pretend she hadn’t noticed and go on her way, but he was staring straight at her and coming closer with each step.

  “Do you need me for anything, sir?” she asked before he got too close. His cricket whites and light hair contrasted with his golden tan.

  “I’m parched. Could you lead me to a gallon of cool water?”

  The color of his hair reminded her of Da’s, and her heart constricted. Her father, the big, blond Cornishman, had been crushed during a mine cave-in. Always frail, her mother had died soon after, leaving Wenna to fend for herself from the age of thirteen. But fend she had. In the thirteen years since, Wenna had worked her way from being a kitchen helper in the mining town of Clare, to being a lady’s maid in a wealthy urban household.

  In two paces, he stood beside her. She glanced up at him, watching his gaze travel over the untamed outlines of her hair. His ex
pression said that he, unlike everyone else, didn’t find a frizzed mass of bright red appalling. He lifted a hand, wound a spiral around one finger, and smiled down at her.

  She stepped back, jerking her head away, her cheeks heating. He wasn’t her father, but a stranger taking liberties, as gentlemen liked to do, though not usually with prickly Wenna. “Water. Yes. In the kitchen.”

  A flock of lorikeets swooped into the orchard, their bright red-and-green plumage blending into the leaves, which trembled as they searched for ripening pears.

  “Lead on.”

  Wenna stiffened her spine. The man was a golden god with a straight nose and a perfectly chiseled jaw, and he strolled beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a handsome young gentleman to accompany a spinsterish tongue-tied maid through an orchard.

  “I’m Devon Courtney,” he said in a cultured voice, staring at her with a question in his eyes. He had the thickest brown eyelashes she’d ever seen, and stark clear blue eyes. His hair shone dappled white in the orchard.

  Her pulse quickened, and she lost the thread of her voice. “I’m Mrs. Brook’s maid.”

  “Is that Cornwall I hear in your accent?”

  “Is it? I don’t know.”

  “It sounds like Cornwall.” He rolled his words with a lilt like Da’s. “Do you have a name? I can’t call you ‘maid.’”

  “Wenna.” She should have said “Miss Chenoweth.” She should have kept her hair confined.

  “Wenna. Definitely Cornwall.”

  “My parents came from Cornwall. I might have picked up their speech.”

  “No doubt about it, lass.” He stood, blocking her way, glancing from her hair to her mouth. If he wasn’t trying a line with her, she didn’t know the ways of the gentry.