Lords, Ladies and Babies: A Regency Romance Set with Little Consequences

by Meara Platt

  Also by Tammy Andresen

  Collect the whole Lords of Scandal series:

  Duke of Daring http://tammyandresen.com/books/duke-of-daring/

  * * *

  Marquess of Malice http://tammyandresen.com/books/marquess-of-malice/

  * * *

  Earl of Exile http://tammyandresen.com/books/earl-of-exile/

  * * *

  Viscount of Vice http://tammyandresen.com/books/viscount-of-vice/

  * * *

  Baron of Bad http://tammyandresen.com/books/baron-of-bad/

  THE PERFECT LITTLE MARQUESS

  By Annabelle Anders

  His father dies before turning forty. His oldest brother, the original heir, turns up his toes at the age of two and thirty. And this year, his last remaining brother is killed in a duel. Things aren’t looking good for this third-son-turned-heir. The new duke of Warwick needs to secure the line... And quickly!

  Chapter One

  White’s Gentleman’s Club, London, Spring 1826

  Christian Masterson, the newest Duke of Warwick, swallowed a healthy pour of brandy in hopes of subduing the unease that had been growing inside him for eight weeks now.

  Although copious amounts of alcohol numbed his mind, no amount whatsoever had managed to subdue his anxiety. And the day was young. He glanced at his timepiece; not even one o’clock in the afternoon.

  “I can’t leave Bernadette unprotected when I die. My father’s cousin is a wastrel and a blackguard and would delight in tormenting her. I can’t allow that to happen. I won’t allow that to happen. One would think the good lord might take this into consideration before calling me home to join my ancestors.”

  At the age of six and twenty, unlikely responsibilities fell upon Christian all too soon when his last remaining brother had died rather suddenly— quite prematurely.

  “Marry one of the chits who came out this past spring. Any of them would pounce on the opportunity to become your duchess— even if the Grim Reaper is chasing you down. Send a notice to one or two of the mothers, have them return to London with their daughters, and then decide which of them suits you best. Better yet, flip a coin and only invite one,” Corny made his suggestion with no reverence at all. As the second son of the Earl of Hastings, as well as one of Christian’s oldest friends, Cornelius White was the proverbial spare and had no such worries. Christian hadn’t either, until the passing of both of his brothers within a scant amount of years.

  Christian pushed away the ache of loss and instead focused on the wellbeing of his last remaining sibling. Bernadette was only seven and ten and if anything was to happen to him, she’d be left to endure the bitter mercy of a distant cousin of their father’s. Christian had met the man but a few times and his revulsion had grown upon familiarity. Great-uncle Liverman was an immoral blackguard of the worst kind.

  Christian relaxed the grip he had on his glass before it shattered. He would go to great lengths to avoid leaving his sister dependent upon such a villain but would not, however, willingly hurt some other unsuspecting debutante to do so. What kind of man would that make him?

  He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Marry some innocent, have conjugal relations until she’s carrying my heir, and then abandon her when I meet certain death? How would that make me any better than Liverman?”

  “Both of you are speaking nonsense,” exclaimed the third fellow in their party that evening—Oxley, the Marquess of Middleton. “Your fears are ridiculous, Warwick, and White’s suggestions are abhorrent.”

  “What’s ridiculous is the life expectancy of males in the Masterson line,” Christian snapped as he slid his spectacles back into place. “I need to do something. I can’t simply wait around to die without making provisions for her.”

  “You could always marry Bernadette off.” Cornelius shrugged.

  “She’s just turned seven and ten,” Christian growled. Such an option sounding equally repugnant. “She’s still a child.”

  Oxley rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “By George, I’ve got just the solution.” Corny snapped his fingers. “Place an ad in one of the broadsheets.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Wanted: Independent woman willing to bear me an heir who won’t be devastated upon my death.”

  If only such a woman existed. Christian could promise her lifelong security, not to mention nearly unmatched social standing as his duchess. If she married him knowing what to expect in the future, Christian needn’t worry that she’d be overcome with grief when he turned his toes up prematurely.

  “Best not to use your title in such an ad though. That would stir up far too much commotion, I expect, and defeat the purpose altogether.” Corny reached for a nearby piece of foolscap, a pen, and an inkwell.

  “Which is?” Oxley queried with a lift of his left brow. Nicholas Oxley would one day make a fine duke. At the age of six and twenty, he’d already managed to affect more arrogance than most titled men in London.

  “Haven’t you been listening, Ox?” Corny scoffed. “To set Warwick here up with a woman willing to bear him an heir. A woman without expectations of love or other such nonsense. A noble purpose, indeed.”

  Christian smiled grimly as his outrageous chum dipped a quill into the ink and then hovered it over the paper. The paper, as well as Corny’s fingers, would likely be covered in ink before he finished. Corny never failed to bring chaos into most situations.

  “Would you require she be of the upper classes? I wouldn’t suppose that her lineage ought to matter at this point.” He side-eyed Christian. “Beggars can’t be choosers, you know. You must, however, require that she be healthy and intelligent. You won’t want to have a simpleton for an heir.”

  Christian winced but also laughed at the details one would consider for such a ridiculous advertisement.

  One might as well laugh as cry.

  “Merchant class,” Cornelius continued. “Nothing lower. And she must have some looks to speak of. Would be dashed embarrassing to sire an homely heir.” Cornelius crossed a line out and then added another. “Remember, Christian, you will have to bed her… possibly several times. It would be a shame if you couldn’t engage your sentiments enough to… perform.”

  Christian shook his head but laughed again and poured another splash of brandy into his glass. “I’d like a woman old enough to know her mind. That’s the trouble with the debs who come to London… they’re essentially children dressed up as ladies.”

  Yes, if Christian had a say in such a matter, he’d rather not marry a naïve girl. He’d want a woman who understood the ramifications of her decision.

  Cornelius held up his document and read it aloud: “Applicants are to present themselves for consideration, with references, at 312 Chesterfield Hill promptly at… Say, what time would you like these chits to start coming ‘round?”

  “Very funny, Corny.” But Christian appreciated his friend’s attempt to cheer him up.

  “I think ten in the morning is reasonable. Early enough that applicants will have to show some initiative but not so early as to force you out of bed at an obnoxious hour.” He wrote more before blowing on his handiwork and then dusting it with sand. “Here you go, Christian, the answer to your troubles.”

  Christian accepted the mock advertisement and managed to read it through despite the crossed-out words and occasional drips.

  Wanted: Intelligent female between the ages of 25 and 32 in good health to perform a task of a sensitive nature, in exchange for lifelong security. Present yourself for consideration at 312 Chesterfield Hill in Mayfair this Thursday at exactly ten in the morning. Squeamish ladies need not apply.

  Christian folded the paper in quarters and stuffed it into his jacket pocket as he rose from his chair. Placing an advertisement in the Daily Gazette was most definitely not the answer to his troubles.

  “It’s quite obvious I won’t find any help here.” Christian signaled to one of the club attendants who promptly retrieved the tall hat and coat Christi
an had checked earlier. “Come around to Master’s House if you think of any rational suggestions.”

  “What’s not rational about placing the ad?” Cornelius had the temerity to look hurt at Christian’s casual dismissal of his handiwork. “What can it hurt?”

  Which gave Christian pause, if only for a fraction of a second. “If word got around that I’d resorted to something so desperate, I’d have even more troubles to contend with.”

  Corny gave another of his impudent shrugs.

  “Let this be the end of it.” As long as Christian had known Cornelius, his friend had had a tendency to act first and consider the consequences later.

  Christian slipped the missive into his long coat and plunged his hat atop his head. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He bowed mockingly before heading for the exit.

  Swirling liquor wasn’t going to solve any problems. He’d stroll over to Bond Street instead and meet with his solicitors for the hundredth time this month. There must be something he could do.

  As he walked along the street, tipping his hat in the direction of a few acquaintances and swinging his cane with enthusiasm he didn’t feel, he searched his mind for any other solution to his troubles. Nearly everything he owned was entailed, but even if it wasn’t, Livermore would have control of them until Bernadette reached the age of five and twenty.

  Livermore could wreak all sorts of havoc in her life before she could claim her independence. Christian would have cursed out loud if he’d been alone.

  He grimaced.

  Not ten feet ahead of him, a lady had stepped out of a storefront carrying several bags and hatboxes presumably filled with frivolous purchases. As she turned to make her way on the sidewalk, she began juggling them somewhat precariously and before Christian could reach her, she sent them tumbling onto the pavement.

  “Oh, good heavens,” she muttered—along with a few undecipherable exclamations. Christian crouched beside her as she hastily scooped some lace and fabrics back into their boxes.

  “Allow me to assist you, Madam.” Christian reached for a purple feathered… hat? And then stockings? Silky items he probably ought not to be handling.

  A small, pale hand snatched it away at the same time the lady… growled? “It’s not necessary, sir. Thank you all the same.”

  Coffee-colored eyes glanced over at him in exasperation.

  “My apologies,” Christian responded. A crimson hue had flushed her cheeks, making it obvious she wasn’t only irritated but embarrassed. At the same time, slightly crooked but pearly white teeth worried her bottom lip… Cherry red lips that were quite plump and soft looking.

  “I ought to have had them delivered but my mother wanted them this afternoon.” She’d stuffed the items back into the boxes, but she’d stacked the smallest of them on the bottom. They would have toppled over again if Christian hadn’t reached out to prevent them from doing just that. He caught a subtle scent of lilacs as he did so; pleasantly feminine without being overpowering.

  “Perhaps if we move this one…” He rearranged the order while she looked on, creating a stable platform, placing the largest on the bottom and the second-largest next, and so forth until he topped them off with the smallest. “Are you going far, Madam? I’d be more than happy to assist you to your coach.”

  She was shaking her head, and in doing so, dislodged a blond curl from beneath a jaunty hat. The silky strand of gold managed to frame her heart-shaped face almost perfectly on one side.

  “I’ve not far to walk. I’m quite capable.” Except when she rose to stand, the top box slid backward and tumbled over her shoulder, causing her to growl again.

  Christian collected it, along with the newspaper they’d both missed, and jammed them into one of her bags, amused at the choice words she breathed just loud enough for him to hear.

  “Thank you, again.” She gathered herself enough to address him politely.

  “You are quite certain?” He itched to reach out and take the packages from her, giving her no choice in the matter, rather than watch her struggle along the street and possibly injure herself or another pedestrian. If she was Bernadette, he would have done just that.

  Christian brushed at his own jacket instead. She was no responsibility of his. He had enough already without taking on even more.

  “I will be fine.” And then she smiled sheepishly over the top of her packages. Although her hair partially covered her face, her apologetic glance sent something warm shooting through his veins. “Have a good day, sir.” She dipped her chin and then turned and continued along her way.

  “You as well.” He wanted to ask her name but before he could think of an appropriate reason for doing so, she was already carefully making her way along the walk.

  Which, he reminded himself, was just as well. He had no business flirting. He straightened his jacket and continued toward his solicitor’s offices.

  Nonetheless, a twinge of regret bothered him when she turned off his route at the next corner, disappearing completely.

  Perhaps Cornelius had been right in his first suggestion.

  Perhaps Christian should settle upon one of the ladies he’d met earlier that year—before Calvin’s death.

  He hated not having a plan.

  And yet, by the time he’d nearly arrived at the law offices of Smythe and Smith, he’d failed to conjure a single female who might be capable of coping with what laid ahead. Christian planted his cane on the walkway with more force than necessary and frowned.

  At the same time, a runaway coach drew his attention. It was careening along the street and the driver was standing and yelling at the two out-of-control horses pulling it.

  Heading directly for Christian.

  In one swift move, he jumped over a vender’s cart and then tugged the elderly man who tended it against the storefront behind them. The horses swerved, but the coach smashed into the poor vender’s cart, sending fruit and various vegetables onto the walkway and into the street.

  But for a few inches to spare, both Christian and the vender would have been in the same condition as the dozens of smashed tomatoes strewn at their feet.

  A black fog edged Christian’s vision and his heart felt as though it had jumped into his throat.

  But for the vendor’s cart, he would have met his demise today.

  He needed to protect Bernadette, by God, and he needed to do something soon.

  * * *

  Two days later, Christian laid in bed staring at the blurred colors of the ornate ceiling he’d not yet become accustomed to. Sleeping in this room felt wrong. This chamber belonged to his father, or one of his brothers. It was never meant to have become his. He closed his eyes and raised one arm to shut it out.

  The solicitors hadn’t offered any new fail-safe plans for Bernadette. Not only had they failed to offer any new solutions, but they’d dismissed his fears as baseless. He ought to sack the whole lot of them.

  Christian wished he could dismiss his fears as easily.

  As a result of the runaway coach incident, he’d not ventured out again since arriving home that evening. The event had been a harsh reminder of his fate and although he knew he could just as easily be killed in a household accident, he’d felt a semblance of safety holed up inside of Master’s House

  He’d have to force himself outside today, however, as he’d promised Bernadette he’d escort her to a particular museum exhibition she was interested in. That was, unless he could persuade her to postpone the excursion.

  His heart raced at the thought of leaving the house.

  He’d speak with her right away before she had her mind set completely.

  Lunging forward, he tossed back the counterpane. “Simmons!” he called out. “Is my sister up yet?”

  “Your Grace.” His valet entered as though he’d been standing at the ready. “I believe Lady Bernadette is taking her breakfast. There is another matter—“

  “I need to speak with her at once.” Christian hopped to the floor and reached for the linen
shirt he’d worn yesterday, pulling it hastily over his head.

  “I do have a new shirt and breeches laid out for you, Your Grace.” Simmons frowned and disappeared into the dressing room. “About the other matter—”

  “I won’t be going out today, Simmons. I’ve estate reports to read, and I’ve already put them off too long.” Christian had tucked the long garment into his breeches and was just fastening them when Simmons returned, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

  Before Christian located the waistcoat he’d worn yesterday, his dedicated valet stood smoothing Christian’s shirt and holding out a newly pressed coat for him to slip his arms in.

  “She will be most disappointed, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I know, Simmons.” He daren’t risk it, however. If there was nothing Christian could set up legally, perhaps he’d have to go another route. Oxley might be willing to steal her away until she was of age—set her up in one of his country estates.

  The idea would have to be a last resort, as it would ensure she’d never have a Season. Good lord, Society might consider her ruined. Unless either Ox or Cornelius consented to marry her.

  But she would be safe.