HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  A good thing since Agnes was having more luck in love than Hazel. Lord Brooks had yet to approach the birthday girl. Not even after they had been introduced had he seemed interested in continuing the acquaintance. While she had no experience with flirtation, she did not think her strategies too terrible, or so her mirror showed when she had practiced batting her eyelashes and striking conversation.

  He stood across the room from her, talking with a group of his friends.

  Hazel huffed.

  She was not the only lady disappointed by the affair. A multi-day party yet the gentlemen had not bothered to show until the second day, arriving late afternoon at that. What did they expect? To be compromised into a leg shackle? That was not at all the intention. After all, there were no chaperones to catch them.

  The party was not completely improper, as it would not do for the ladies to be ruined when they each had high hopes to marry. Although the party was devoid of proper chaperones, it did host several married couples who would keep the occasion decorous should word of the party spread—couples who would also turn a blind eye to kisses in dark corners. And besides, no harm came from a little fun.

  Hazel’s attention returned to Viscount Brooks. The rumors had not exaggerated. The man defined fashion. His heels were tall, his frock coat frilled, his blonde hair curled with a teasing dash of powder, his figure the slimmest in the room, and the corner of one eye adorned by a delectable heart-shaped patch. A perfect specimen of manhood!

  Pinching her cheeks, she plucked her courage. If he would not come to her, she would go to him.

  One of her mirror’s favorite flirts was her smile. Hazel flashed it now as she walked across the room to the tune of a Bach prelude and the accompaniment of conversation and laughter. Her approach would be subtle. You’re my guest of honor. More subtle. Good evening. Less subtle. Would you care to kiss me? Fiddlesticks. All her well-planned words flew out the drawing room doors, a lump lodging in place of witticism.

  As she drew near, her path was intercepted by Lady Melissa Williamson. An ebony beauty from the West Indies, she had married for love a week after her seventeenth birthday, an act that inspired all her friends to want to marry for love, shaking their quiet submission of marrying whomever their parents desired. With a knowing smile, Melissa tucked her hand under Hazel’s elbow and walked with her to join the group of gentlemen rapt in conversation.

  Lord Brooks’s first reaction was a creased brow at being interrupted. His second reaction was to school his features into placidity and offer a bow promptly mirrored by his peers.

  “Ladies,” he greeted, drawling the word with a sensual promise that forgave the creased brow.

  With an encouraging nod from Melissa, Hazel curtsied and said, “I hope you’re finding the party to your liking, especially the company.” However unpracticed her flirting, she slipped into the role with the ease and comfort of donning a favorite pair of shoes. She sidled next to him, touching a hand to his forearm. “You may think me bold, but it is my birthday. That grants me special privileges. Will you dance with me?”

  Brooks partook in a thirsty perusal of Hazel from head to toe and waved a ringed hand to the young lady at the pianoforte.

  Conversation around the room buzzed as guests realized the onset of dancing. Couples paired off to join the set as others moved to the perimeter to continue their tête-à-tête, hope for a future partner, or observe the fun. Not that Hazel noticed. Her gaze was riveted on Brooks. They took their positions, facing each other for the first dance of the evening, and waited for the music to begin. The wait proved long and awkward as the miss at the pianoforte did not know what to play and begged for a friend to take her place.

  Hazel stared at Brooks.

  Brooks stared back.

  “Are you fond of dancing?” she asked when the silence stretched.

  “Yes.”

  Her smile broadened as she gifted him with the full force of her wiles. He replied with a tight-lipped expression that might pass for a smile in any other company, but Hazel’s heart beat an erratic rhythm to realize he was not as taken with her as she was with him. She needed to try harder. How else was she to get her first kiss? How else was she to make this man fall in love with her?

  Once the dance began, their witty banter of question and one-word response halted. They moved away from each other and back together throughout the set, a heavy silence weighing their steps.

  In many ways, the evening was far too short for Hazel’s liking. In other ways, it dragged forever and could not end soon enough. Agnes had already approached Hazel with the news that Lord Driffield planned to escort all single gentlemen out of the house before he took his leave for the evening, his way of protecting his ladylove and her friends from scandal.

  Not all ladies present wanted his protection, but he meant well. His intentions were among the many reasons he was a perfect match for Agnes, making her parents’ disapproval all the more heinous. That he was not any aristocrat, but an earl made no difference to them. Rather than get to know the gentleman, they trusted rumor alone, ridiculous rumors of gaming and rakish behavior. This unfounded belief in gossip went to show how little parents knew or cared about the happiness of their daughters and how wrong society was about love and matrimony.

  Hazel’s opportunity to isolate Brooks was diminishing with every tick of the clock. He had returned to his friends after the dance and had stayed with that same group, using them as a protective shield, or so it seemed to her. Did he not find her attractive? Had she not given him obvious enough overtures? If he gave her the slightest of chances, she was certain she could sway his opinion. For the course of the evening, she danced with others, circulated for conversation, envied Agnes and Driffield their love, as well as Melissa and Chauncey their marriage, and pined for Brooks to notice her.

  Her chance arrived when Agnes sneaked next to Hazel during a conversation with a group of guests.

  Agnes leaned in and whispered for Hazel’s ears only, “You must visit the terrace to admire the stars.”

  With a playful pinch to Hazel’s arm, Agnes drifted to another group. Hazel made short work of excusing herself for fresh air. In truth, she would not mind the cool August air, for the room had become stifling. She could not be certain why Agnes wanted her to visit the terrace, but she could hope.

  Aside from the candlelight spilling onto a portion of the terrace, outside was shrouded in darkness. No moon shone tonight, brightening the twinkle of the stars. A soft breeze tickled Hazel’s skin. The room had been overly warm, but she did not realize how hot until the autumn night air prickled the perspiration at the back of her neck. After a few deep breaths to give her eyes time to adjust, she searched the terrace for Agnes’s birthday surprise.

  She spotted him a short distance away, leaning a shoulder against a Grecian column. Rustling to Viscount Brooks, her hands pressed to her embroidered stomacher to still the butterflies, she readied herself for the most pivotal moment of her life—when the man of her choice would fall in love with her.

  “Lord Brooks,” she said, lowering her voice to a husky imitation of how she had once heard Melissa speak to Chauncey.

  He turned, surprise etching his features. Despite the shadows, his face spoke the truth: he had not been expecting her.

  “Miss Trethow,” he replied with a frown. “What brings you outside?”

  Her attempt at allure was lost to the night, for he would not be able to catch the sultry way she looked at him from beneath her lashes, not with the light of the room at her back. Words would have to win her love rather than seductive glances.

  “Desire,” she answered. “I desire to live a life of my choosing. Without the interference of well-meaning relations, I aim to live and love. This party is the beginning of my forever.”

  Brooks coughed.

  “Have I shocked you?”

  “Not for the reasons you might thi
nk. As it is, your desires are none of my concern.”

  Hazel wringed her hands. Her nerves were failing her with each passing second. “What is it you desire, my lord?”

  “A new pair of riding boots, but the best cordwainer is in London. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Trethow.”

  With a hasty bow, he left her alone in the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Harold met his friend’s knowing glance across the dining table, the two sharing a silent understanding regarding their supper companions.

  The sweet voice of his mother, high pitched and melodious, rang out in continuation of her story. “And I said to the gentleman, ‘What do you mean you practice medicine? Shouldn’t you know by now what you’re doing without needing more practice?’ I wouldn’t want him practicing on me!”

  The guests shared in the laughter as Helena Hobbs, Baroness Collingwood, tittered.

  From the head of the table, Lord Collingwood said, “You needn’t understand such matters, Lady Collingwood. You need only be beautiful.”

  His mother simpered at what she must have thought a compliment.

  One of the guests, a young lady who made her eligibility known by way of flirty poses, offered her own pearls of wisdom. “I believe a woman’s greatest accomplishment is to decorate the arm of her husband. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hobbs?”

  His friend Patrick suppressed a cough.

  “On the contrary, Miss Evans,” Harold said. “A woman should possess a myriad of skills, least of which is serving as an ornament. A keen mind, ingenuity, compassion, companionship—I could list a dozen I would value over superficiality.”

  Nonplussed, Miss Evans looked to the other guests. “What a gentleman says he rarely means.” She laughed, the others joining in. “By a keen mind, do you mean a woman who reads? Such marked intelligence is the ruination of beauty!”

  The young woman sitting next to him concurred. “It’s a known fact education leads to madness in women. We simply haven’t the sensibilities for it.”

  Harold spared a glance for Patrick who raised his wine glass in mock salute.

  The last course before the women would return to the drawing room dragged. This was the second supper party—in what he suspected would be a long line of supper parties—hosted by his mother in the hopes of arranging a marriage with a woman of means. Dowry, holdings, inheritance, anything would do. The previous supper party had entertained two wealthy widows and one spinster. Tonight’s guest list included three misses of reputable lines.

  The parents of each attended, giving Harold unsolicited insight into what marriage might be like with such in-laws, for good and ill. One young miss had such sensible parents, he would be tempted to pursue the match to further their acquaintance, but not even their company could entice him to consider the suit with so shallow of a girl.

  His only pleasure of the evening was the company of his closest friend Patrick March, Viscount Kissinger, heir to the Winthorp earldom. In Patrick, Harold knew his own thoughts of the evening reflected. There was a multitude of reasons Harold was pleased to return to England, the reunion with Patrick being one of the most significant. The two had enjoyed a friendship since childhood, thrown together on many occasions since Lord Collingwood set stock in wooing the Earl of Winthorp as a potential investment partner, a success he never could realize.

  “Come, ladies,” his mother said at last. “Join me in the drawing room where we can make ourselves pretty before the gentlemen join us.”

  Chairs scraped. Dresses swished. Panniers swayed.

  Thanks to his father, he was released from the obligation of conversing with the fathers, for Lord Collingwood launched into talk of his investment plan, something each of the men were enthralled to hear. Not only did Harold not wish to hear the lunacy, he also did not wish to give any of the men false hope that he would court one of their daughters.

  “Whichever one will you choose?” Patrick asked, his words hushed as he slipped into the vacated chair next to Harold. “The one who values beauty above brains? The one who wants to raise swans…inside the house? Or the one who needs confirmation from her mother after every voiced thought? A shame you can’t have them all.”

  Harold snorted. “Somewhere there’s a gent for each of them. I’m not that man.”

  “Pity. The one with the pink hair powder—who told her that looked good?—was so set on having you, she twice dribbled bits of food on her bosom in hopes you would notice her assets.”

  “Did she?” Not that he would want to see such silliness, but the absurdity made him laugh. “Observant of you to notice.”

  “How could I not? Only twice was she successful. The other three times, the food deflected and landed in my lap instead.”

  Once the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room for tea, Harold’s mind wandered to an unlikely person—Miss Hazel Trethow. He had not spoken to his father about the matter since the first day of his arrival, but he wondered if the baron had written to Mr. Trethow yet about the understanding, releasing their children from the arrangement and freeing Miss Trethow to marry whomever she wished. He could not imagine her being disappointed. In all likelihood, she did not remember meeting him those many years ago and may have already set her cap at someone else.

  And yet he could not help mourning the loss of a match with a woman he did not know. His plan had been to return from his father’s business ventures and pay her call, an easy distance from Trelowen in Devonshire to her home in Cornwall. If the initial conversation went to plan, he would have used the winter months to court her, and they could have married before spring or waited to marry in London.

  They probably would not have suited, he told himself, turning his attention to the ladies bickering over who would play the pianoforte first.

  “London?” Harold stared at his father in disbelief. “I’ve only been home for a week.”

  Lord Collingwood drummed his fingers on the desk. “You’ll be back in time to greet our guests. I need this done before the hunting party begins.”

  “I realize you don’t agree with how I managed the earnings, but there was ample time for you to send a message to our solicitor in London with instructions before I docked. As it was, there was no message, and it was left to me to sort.”

  His father’s drumming slowed, each finger falling with a disapproving thud. “A quick trip will unsort it and resort it to my liking. I need that money at the ready for the new deal. Key players will be attending the hunting party, and I aim to gather additional backing from them. If I can think of a way to better represent the deal, I could potentially gather enough capital to cover my portion as well, and they’d be none the wiser. Unless you’ve taken to one of the girls your mother has introduced this past week?”

  Harold scowled.

  “Thought not. Yes, this is the way of it.” Although Collingwood continued, he spoke more to the desk than to his son, as though working out his own plan rather than collaborating with Harold. “Driffield is invited, you know. A wealthy earl is just who I need to convince. That man has too much wealth for his own good, but the tables have done him no favors; already gambled away a sizable portion of his inheritance I heard. This investment is far more sound for his pocketbook. Butterbest is attending, also. He could be influential in convincing others.”

  While his father continued to mutter about the guest list, Harold eyed the table clock, wondering if it was too late to make headway for London. No sense in wasting time at home.

  His ears perked at his father’s next words.

  “I have the highest hopes for Trethow. Wealthy, sensible, loyal. I’ve already written to him about the potential lucrativeness of this deal, so if I can persuade him to join with my refigured numbers, his capital could cover what I’m lacking. He’ll want what’s best for his son, and with the money we could make on this deal, his son could purchase a far grander estate than Trethow’s
modest Teghyiy Hall. Or at least that’s how I aim to convince him.”

  With a tilt of his head and furrow of his brows, Harold asked, “You would cheat your friend? More to the point, you would cheat him with a deal I’ve warned you could fail?”

  “Have faith. It will not fail. I’d be cheating him if I stole his money. As it is, I’d be borrowing it to help make him a great deal more. If anything, I’m thinking in his best interest. He’ll double, even triple, his wealth with my guidance.”

  “By using a portion of his money to pay your capital.” Harold flexed his fingers then clenched his fists behind his back. Not in a lifetime could he imagine lying to Patrick or having the man lie to him on such a scale. Loyalty in a friendship was reciprocal.

  “You aren’t seeing the full scale of the plan. That’s what’s wrong with you. You’ve never seen the bigger picture. Details, semantics, they’re nothing to the larger stratagem. In time, you’ll understand. With age, you’ll understand. You’re far too young to know the decisions a man must make, a peer of the realm. Follow my lead, my boy!”

  When Harold returned to his room, he shut the door quietly behind him, a contrast to the rush of blood in his veins.

  His father planned not only to ruin them with this deal but to bring down others in the process, including Miss Hazel Trethow’s family. Had his own future not seemed bleak, he would pity her the fate she did not yet see coming, a fate she may not fully comprehend even when it came crashing down; that is, should her father agree to invest. Perhaps Mr. Trethow was wise enough to decline. There was the slimmest of chances his father was correct and that this deal would make them all wealthy beyond measure, but Harold did not believe it for a moment, not with the trouble brewing in Bengal, not with the opium trade, and not with Lord Collingwood’s risky choices.