For Love Alone Read Online Free PDF Page A

something—a laugh?—caught his attention.
    Like a tiger scenting prey, his head lifted. The crowd before him parted suddenly, and there she was.
    Gripping Percival’s arm, he demanded, “Who is she?”
    Percival, in the midst of discussing a complicated military maneuver, looked nonplussed for a second. When his gaze followed Ives’s, he groaned.
    â€œOh, absolutely not! Of all the women here tonight, she arouses your interest?”
    When Ives remained unmoved, his gaze fixed intently on the scintillating creature at the center of a circle of admiring males, Percival sighed. “Oh, very well, if you must know. She is Sophy, Lady Marlowe, the Marquise Marlowe to be exact.”
    Ives was stunned by the sensation of dismay that filled him. “She is married?”
    Percival sighed again. “No. Widowed.”
    Ives’s face brightened, and, with renewed intensity, his eyes wandered over her. She was like a butterfly. A lovely, golden butterfly. From the crown of her golden curls to the tantalizing glimpse of her golden slippers beneath the hem of her golden gown. Her bare shoulders even gleamed like palest gold in the light from the many crystal candelabra gracing the high ceiling of the large room. And when she laughed . . . when she laughed, Ives was aware of an odd thrill going through him. She was, he thought dazedly, absolutely the most exquisite creature he had ever seen in his life. Tall and slender, she looked as if the slightest puff of wind would send her drifting away, and yet there was an air of strength about her. The profile turned his way was utterly enchanting.
    â€œIntroduce me,” he commanded.
    â€œDash it all, Ives! Did you not hear a word I just said? She is a widow—a widow with a nasty past, believe me.”
    Ives glanced at his friend. “What do you mean?”
    Percival grimaced. “Do you even know who Simon Marlowe was?”
    â€œI seem to recall my father mentioning his name once when I was home on leave, but no, I do not know him.”
    â€œWhich is just as well! He was by all accounts a nasty piece of work. Not a gentleman, despite his title—and certainly not a man any self-respecting family would wish one of their daughters to marry.”
    Ives frowned. “Are you saying that her family is not a respectable one?”
    â€œNot exactly. Her father’s family is exemplary.” Percival looked uncomfortable. “It is her mother’s family . . .” He cleared his throat and fumbled for words.
    He had Ives’s full attention now. “What about her mother’s family?”
    Knowing from long experience that Ives was not going to give up until all his questions were answered to his satisfaction, Percival muttered, “Damme, I had hoped your paths would not cross and that . . .” He took a deep breath, and blurted out, “Her mother was Jane Scoville.”
    Ives stiffened as a new, dangerous element added to the intensity of his gaze which was still fastened on Lady Marlowe’s profile. “The same Jane Scoville that charmed my brother, Robert?” he asked in a deadly tone.
    â€œThe same,” Percival admitted uneasily. “Now do you see why she is absolutely the last woman you would be interested in? And the identity of her mother is aside from the fact that there are rumors that Lady Marlowe murdered her husband.”
    A silence fell between the two men, Ives hardly hearing Percival’s last sentence. Jane Scoville, he thought, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists. The heartless, silly jade who had beguiled Robert, until he had been mad with love for her. So besotted that he could not accept the news of her engagement to the Earl of Grayson. So very mad, so despondent, that on the day she had married the Earl, he had hanged himself in the main stables at Harrington Chase. Ives had just turned ten years old at the time, but it was as if it had all happened yesterday. He