This Earl of Mine

by Kate Bateman

  Georgie managed not to roll her eyes. “Twenty-five, as of today,” she murmured.

  Mother had decided that Georgie would soon be a widow—thanks to the short life expectancy of criminals in the Antipodes. She’d been suggesting potential second husbands with depressing regularity.

  “Oh, look, there’s Clara Cockburn. Admiral Cockburn’s wife.” Her mother waved at a plump, dark-haired woman across the room then raised her fan to hide her mouth. “Odious gossip. I don’t care what you say, Georgie, that woman has a mustache. I swear, in certain lights—”

  “Shh!” Georgie smothered a laugh. “Someone will hear you! You wouldn’t want to ruin Juliet’s chances, would you?”

  As if by unspoken agreement, they both turned to watch her younger sister, who was dancing in the center of the room. A tiny frown wrinkled the perfection of Juliet’s otherwise smooth forehead. Mother sucked in a breath. “Oh dear. It doesn’t look as if she’s finding the Duke of Upton amusing.”

  Not for the first time, Georgie wondered how she could be related to such a beautiful creature. Juliet literally turned heads wherever she went. Just this morning, walking to Hatchard’s, a distracted carriage driver had taken one look at Juliet and pulled so hard on his reins that his horse had crashed into a street vendor’s stall. A torrent of apples had rolled down from the poor merchant’s carefully constructed pyramid. A besotted young buck had rushed forward to shield Juliet from the fruity threat—ignoring Georgie in his haste—and when Juliet had thrown him an absent-minded smile of thanks, he’d backed away, bowing, until he’d bumped into a window cleaner’s ladder. Both of them had toppled to the ground.

  Juliet, as usual, had been oblivious to the trail of destruction that followed in her wake. It was, however, impossible to dislike her because she was completely free from vanity or conceit. No one was immune to her sunny charm, from the eighty-year-old vicar to the two-year-old in leading strings; one sweet smile from Juliet’s rosebud lips and the hardest of hearts melted.

  Georgie completely understood Juliet’s appeal. Her own sense of humor was sometimes dry and at the expense of male pride, and she was often uncomfortably direct. Who wanted that when they could have Juliet’s delicious folly?

  Juliet’s incredible clumsiness, however, had always been a source of slightly guilty pleasure. This, surely, was evidence of Mother Nature giving the less pretty girls a sporting chance. No one should be allowed that much beauty and coordination. It just wouldn’t be fair. Even as she watched, Juliet turned the wrong way in the dance and stepped on her partner’s foot. The duke didn’t seem to notice. His rapt gaze never left her face, and he seemed genuinely crestfallen at the need to restore her to her family when the cotillion ended. Juliet gave him a sweet smile, nodded at his pleasantries—and expertly sent him on his way.

  She turned to Georgie with a little huff as their mother excused herself to go to the powder room.

  “Something wrong, Ju?” Georgie ventured.

  Juliet gave an elegant shrug of her milky-white shoulders. “Do you know how tiresome it is to be constantly likened to classical deities? I swear, if one more person compares me to Diana or Aphrodite, I’ll … well, I don’t know what I’ll do. But it will be bad.”

  She pursed her lips, and Georgie bit back a smile. If the men thought of Juliet as a Greek goddess, they probably considered her a Harpy or a Gorgon.

  “Why must men be so silly?” Juliet sighed. “Lord Dunravin said he’d slay dragons for me. There aren’t any dragons anymore, are there? At least, not in England.”

  “There are no dragons left in England,” Georgie agreed, with a straight face. “Unless you count Lady Cockburn over there. How dare he offer to rid the world of imaginary beasts?”

  “Well, what would you want a man to do for you?” Juliet asked, suddenly serious. “If not slay dragons?”

  Georgie considered the question. She’d given up hope of a man wanting to do things for her about five insincere proposals ago. “I’d want him to make me smile,” she said after a moment. “And make my stomach all giddy.”

  The way her prisoner had done.

  “And be aware that there are no dragons in England,” she added for good measure. “Intelligence in a man is always a welcome surprise.” She nodded toward the duke. “You’re not seriously considering Upton, are you?”

  “Ugh, no. I know mother would love me to become ‘Her Grace,’ but I can’t imagine marrying anyone except my darling Simeon.”

  Georgie suppressed a groan. Juliet had been besotted with Simeon Pettigrew, the vicar’s son from Little Gidding, the Lincolnshire village closest to their family home, for years. Mother had hoped that Juliet’s first London season would make her forget all about him, but nothing—not even the undivided attention of the unmarried male half of the ton—had done the trick. Worse, Georgie had promised Juliet that if she still wanted silly Simeon after a whole season, then she would lend her support to the union.

  Juliet sniffed. “Don’t look like that, Georgie. It’s not my fault. I never meant to fall in love with a mere mister.” She crossed her gloved hands over her perfectly proportioned bosom and sighed dramatically. “The heart has no discernment. Besides, Upton’s awful. A lord with whom to be bored, as Simeon would say.” She snorted at her own joke.

  Georgie winced. Simeon’s poetry was unaccountably bad. Byron, Shelly, and Keats could rest easy in their beds. Simeon had a habit of trying to make everything rhyme, with no regard for sense or meter, but that hadn’t deterred Juliet, who thought him wonderfully romantic.

  “I do wish Mother would relent. I miss him, Georgie.” Her lower lip pushed out in a hint of a pout. “It’s all right for you. You’re safe from her matchmaking. Even when you married a criminal and she barely batted an eyelid.”

  “That’s because she’d given up hope of me ever choosing a husband. And I wouldn’t exactly say she ‘didn’t bat an eyelid,’” Georgie muttered. “She called me a headstrong, impetuous hellion far too much like Father.”

  “She meant it affectionately. You know how much she loved Papa. And she’s secretly proud of the fact that you’ve inherited his talent for business, even if she dislikes you to show it in public.”

  So unladylike, Georgiana. No man wants a wife who dabbles in trade.

  Georgie sighed. Maybe she should take a lover? She was twenty-five, for heaven’s sake. Most girls had been married off at sixteen or seventeen. She’d missed out on seven years of knowing what physical pleasure could be had between a man and a woman. Such an arrangement might lack the steady friendship and loving support that her parents had found in their marriage, but at least it would be something.

  She cast her gaze over the assorted crowd and tried to muster some enthusiasm for one of the titled fops who milled around. If she were to avoid a scandal, she needed a rake. A discreet rake. There were a few potential candidates in attendance. But Turnbull was too loud. Coster was too sweaty. Elton was too short. Woodford was too old. Wingate was attractive, but irredeemably stupid.

  Not one of them made her heart thump in her chest or made her stomach swirl in that delicious way her prisoner’s wicked gaze had done.

  She’d dreamed of him. Alone at night, tucked in her lonely bed, it was his eyes she imagined, his big hands touching her skin. Their brief kiss haunted her, teasing her with a hint of how much more there was to experience in life. It was just her luck to discover she was attracted to rogues, instead of gentlemen. To lean, dark ruffians with soft brown hair and taunting eyes.

  What he was doing, her pirate, her highwayman? She’d never actually discovered his crimes. Wherever he was, she hoped he was alive and well. It did her heart good to think of him laughing somewhere in the sunlight, thumbing his nose at convention, having adventures in the great wide world.

  Part of her wished she could have gone with him. She wanted that freedom, the challenge of the great unknown, the excitement of knowing whole uncharted continents lay ahead, just waiting to be explored. She wanted to
be Robinson Crusoe, or Gulliver, or Byron’s Corsair, sailing “o’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea” to find some “Pirate’s Isle.” She owned ships that sailed across the world, to exotic locations like Alexandria and Ceylon, Calcutta and Peking, but she’d never been adventuring on any of them. She’d never even been over to France, given Britain’s near-constant state of warfare with that country for most of her adult life.

  Ladies don’t do that, Georgiana.

  But, oh, how she wanted to.

  The closest she’d ever been to a life on the ocean wave was sailing her single-mast sailboat, L’Aventure, on the artificial lake Father had created back in Lincolnshire.

  Lucky pirate.

  It was a shame she’d never see him again.

  Chapter 7.

  He was back.

  Benedict had spent three weeks chasing down leads, trying to glean something from the idle chatter in London’s darkest and least salubrious taverns. But apart from some vague whispers about the plot to rescue Bonaparte from St. Helena, he’d learned little of value.

  He’d rarely bothered with ton parties since his return from Belgium; he preferred to spend his free time in the card rooms at the Tricorn, listening to the gossip, but Alex had begged him to accompany him tonight, and he hadn’t had the heart to refuse.

  Ben glanced sideways at Alexander Harland, second son of the Duke of Southwick, the man who, along with Sebastien Wolff, had been his best friend since their first days at Eton. All three of them were younger sons, the “spares” as opposed to the “heirs,” shipped off to receive a decent education without the stifling expectation of one day inheriting a title or having to take their seat in the House of Lords.

  They shared a wicked sense of humor and an unquenchable thirst for adventure, and their friendship had sustained them through school and their subsequent studies at Cambridge. When they’d left university five years ago, they’d thrown themselves enthusiastically into town life, not rising until midday, drinking and flirting away the nights. They’d gleefully cultivated reputations as gamesters, reprobates, and all-around rogues.

  But even London’s endless whirl of dissipation had begun to pall, and when Nelson trounced Napoleon at Trafalgar, the three of them had signed up to the Rifles, looking for adventure, naively convinced the war would all be over in a matter of months.

  But their “short stint” in the Rifles had turned into three long, grueling years—years which had included any number of close shaves, hellish conditions, moments of elation and despair, hardship and loss.

  Benedict shook his head. War had made men of them, had shown their previous existence to be shallow and frivolous. They’d made a pact, one evening, seated around a smoky campfire on a sodden field in Belgium, the dawn before Waterloo. A vow that when they returned—if they survived the battle ahead—they’d make their fortunes together.

  Alex and Seb already had money, of course. Alex was wealthy in his own right, thanks to a generous maiden aunt who’d left him a tidy sum, and Seb was the younger son of a duke and had his own funds.

  In stark contrast, Benedict’s father had left his offspring in dire straits. Benedict’s older brother, John, had inherited the title Earl of Morcott, but little else save a monstrous pile of debt, which Benedict felt honor bound to help him reduce. John had sold off everything that wasn’t entailed and had managed to retain the principle seat, Morcott Hall, and a few hundred acres, and was busy returning the estate to profitability. He was currently in town on the lookout for a wealthy wife, but Ben hadn’t caught up with him for weeks.

  He’d offered John the money he’d received when he sold off his commission and left the Rifles, but John had staunchly refused. Not out of pride—he appreciated the gesture, but he insisted that Benedict invest in something to secure his own financial future.

  And so Benedict had put his money in with Alex and Seb, and they’d opened the Tricorn Club, named after the three-cornered hat favored by rogues and highwaymen. They’d deemed the name both appropriate—since there were three of them in the joint enterprise—and suitably disreputable. The club, after all, would be open not just to an elite few, like White’s or Brooks’, but to any who could pay the subscription fee, honor their gambling debts, and abide by the house rules. The Tricorn was the most progressive of clubs: It welcomed lords and ladies, actresses and tradesmen, bankers and lawyers.

  Conant had been correct in his initial assessment; the Tricorn was a bridge between all levels of society, the perfect place for ferreting out secrets and overhearing gossip. Drink, pretty women, and an intimate atmosphere, all encouraged men to talk. Fortunes changed hands at the turn of a card, the roll of dice, and those who owed money could often be induced to divulge valuable snippets of information in exchange for forgiveness of their debts to the house. The owners of the Tricorn held a great deal of power. The power to tear up incriminating IOUs, or, conversely, the power to call in the debts and ruin a man completely.

  Ben, Alex, and Seb had slipped back into their previous roles, appearing to the world as reckless, aimless pleasure-seekers, but this time they had a purpose. As ex-soldiers, they didn’t flinch at encountering the darker elements of society, but they were also on friendly terms with all but the highest sticklers in the ton.

  Benedict gave a wry smile as he glanced around the room. The disapproving matrons kept inviting him to their soirées, clutching their pearls in scandalized dismay. Most of them secretly hoped he’d show an honorable interest in their daughters. Or a dishonorable interest in them. He’d lost count of the number of married women who’d offered themselves to him over the years.

  He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw, relishing the smoothness. His handsome face and family name had always allowed him access to the highest society. Scandalous and debt-ridden he might be, but he was still a member of one of the oldest aristocratic families in England. Still a catch.

  At least, he would be, if he weren’t already married.

  Benedict’s heart gave an impatient lurch. She was the real reason he’d braved Lady Langton’s ballroom. His wife. Georgiana Caversteed. Or rather, Georgiana Wylde.

  He’d relived the brief moments they’d spent together in the flickering torchlight over and over, trying to make sense of it. She must have been in considerable trouble to have resorted to such a plan, but that was no excuse. He didn’t have time to become embroiled in some spoiled princess’s machinations.

  He’d been deliberately crass in Newgate to test her reaction. Everything about her—from her soft skin to her crisp voice—had proclaimed her a lady of quality. He’d wanted to shock her into reconsidering her plans. And yet she’d countered his raw cheekiness with a cool confidence he’d found amazingly attractive. Georgiana Caversteed was an extraordinary woman, no doubt about it. Her stubborn intelligence intrigued him almost as much as the taste of her had aroused him. But that still didn’t mean he wanted to be married to her.

  The only consolation was the fact that she’d be as keen to dissolve their union as he was, once she discovered his true identity. He couldn’t wait to watch those generous lips part in shock.

  “What are you smiling about?” Alex shot him a sidelong glance.

  Benedict shrugged. “Women. Or rather, one woman in particular.”

  Alex’s brows lifted. “I thought we were here to pick up rumors, not find you a new mistress.”

  Benedict sent him an enigmatic smile.

  “She’s not married, is she?” Alex asked warily. “Married mistresses are more trouble than they’re worth, believe me. Widows are infinitely more amenable. No irate husbands to deal with, for a start.” He eyed Benedict’s evening attire with a severe eye. “You should have come in uniform. No woman can resist the allure of a military man. It’s a basic law of physics. The amount of scarlet, gilt braiding, and medals on your chest is directly proportional to how attractive a girl finds you.”

  Benedict shook his head in mock disapproval. “So cynical.”

  His
companion shrugged. “We escaped relatively unscathed from Boney, when you consider it. Not a missing limb between us. No dashing facial scars.” He nodded across the room at a seasoned old soldier surrounded by a gaggle of admiring ladies. “Look at Uxbridge over there. Lost half his leg at Waterloo, and he’s a bloody hero.”

  “I got a ball in the shoulder at Salamanca,” Benedict reminded him mildly.

  “And I have a sabre cut on my thigh and a blind spot in my left eye,” Alex finished. “My point is, you can’t play the ‘gallant wounded hero’ sympathy card with injuries like ours. No one knows about my loss of vision unless I tell them about it. And by the time a lady sees my scar, we’re already a long way past the sympathy stage.” He grinned wickedly and tilted his head. “I wonder if I should contrive a limp?”

  Benedict snorted. “As if you need any help getting women.” Alex took after his mother, who had been a famous beauty, and his sulky good looks had females sighing and salivating over him wherever he went. “If you must know, I’m looking for one of the Caversteed girls.” He enjoyed the look of surprise that passed over his friend’s face; he should have waited until Alex had a mouthful of champagne.

  Alex turned to the dance floor and unerringly picked out a girl who was dancing with the Duke of Upton. “What, the fair Juliet? She’s a beauty, I’ll give you that, but you don’t stand a chance. She’s turned down a whole raft of suitors. You’re overestimating your charms if you think she’ll have a fling with a scapegrace second son who’s part owner of a gaming hell. The mother’s after a title. A marquis, at least.”

  Benedict eyed his wife’s younger sister as she swirled about the floor. The girl was undeniably beautiful, but her features seemed watered-down versions of the ones he’d found so arresting in her sibling. Her nose was too small, her eyes too doll-like, her rosebud mouth lacking the sensual generosity of Georgiana’s.