by Lyn Stone
This time he knew he must rely on different currency for the negotiations. The women he had been well acquainted with in his life thus far had proved rather shallow, valuing a handsome face, charm and practised manners well above anything else in a man. They left it to their practical families to ascertain whether their choice possessed the necessary means to support them.
Now he must find a suitable woman desperate enough to overlook his altered appearance and lack of social inclinations to settle for his prospective wealth and title. More important, as he had impressed on Trent, he needed one who would not impact on the time he would require to fulfill his duties as earl. The task of handling the earl’s business matters already proved daunting. He must live up to it.
Trent’s words troubled him. Did such a woman as he required actually exist? He continued scanning the ballroom, dwelling on the corners where the wallflowers perched, trying to conceal their hopes and dreams behind fans and half smiles. None of their smiles were directed at him.
Suddenly, his good eye landed on one in pale yellow, a painfully thin figure with lank brown hair, a colorless complexion and enormous, doelike eyes. Caine immediately sensed in her a mixture of hopelessness and resignation, yet she somehow maintained an air of calm dignity he admired. “A definite possibility there,” he muttered, more to himself than to Trent.
The girl was not precisely ugly, but it was certain no one would describe her as pretty. He felt a tug of…what? Sympathy? No, more like empathy. She did not wish to be here, either, most likely for similar reasons. Yet they must be here, probably striving toward the same goal—a suitable match.
These mating rituals were such a trial for any not blessed with the allure necessary to attract the opposite sex. At least he would have wealth and the title to recommend him. She had only her dignity apparently. If she were an heiress, she would certainly be better dressed, coiffed and bejeweled. Her pale neck and earlobes were completely bare.
If he could look past her surface, perhaps she would be willing to look past his. But he must put it to her in a way she would find palatable. He couldn’t very well say “You look like a quiet, unprepossessing chit I could count on to not complicate my life any further than it is already.”
Could he summon enough charm, persuasion and outrageous bribery to convince this one to have him? Yes, he decided, approaching her might be worth the risk of rejection.
“Yes, I think so,” he said to himself. “That one, Trent,” he said, nodding toward the candidate. “The one in the lemon-colored frock. She’ll do.”
“What? She’s a bean stalk, Morleigh, and the beans don’t appear to have developed yet.”
“I’m not out for beans,” Caine said tersely, his gaze still resting on the waiflike girl.
“Well, she looks like death on a plate. I doubt she’ll live through the month, much less the rigors of a wedding.” He nudged Caine with his elbow. “Besides, you said you’d let me choose.”
“Don’t be tedious. I believe she’s the one, so go. Do what we came to do,” Caine said simply, straightening his sleeves.
He hoped to have the selection completed with this one foray into society, because it was damned uncomfortable submitting himself to all these stares. He knew he wasn’t that monstrous looking and that they were mostly curious, but it bothered him.
His left eye bore only a few scars, but those surely made everyone imagine the very worst of the one he kept covered. The right, he always avoided looking at in the mirror and concealed it behind a rather large eye patch whenever he was in company.
That was probably a useless vanity due to the well-broadcast observation of Miss Thoren-Snipes, his former fiancée. She had declared to one and all that he was a horrible sight that turned her off sick, a fright she would never forget, one that caused her nightmares.
To her credit, his aunt’s reaction that day had verified that Belinda did not exaggerate by much. He made women faint, cast up their accounts and scream in their sleep. Avoiding that hardly qualified as vanity on his part. No, more like a gentleman’s consideration, he thought.
Trent did not understand, and why should he? He had the wherewithal to pick and choose and take his own sweet time about it. No woman would refuse Gavin Trent, handsome as he was, a hero of the wars and witty as hell. Caine owed him his life, admired him enormously and wished him well. Envy had no place in a friendship as enduring as theirs. But Trent’s eternal optimism and infernal teasing tried his patience to extremes.
The girl in yellow was now getting an earful from one of the other unfortunates, an overweight dumpling who seemed entirely too vivacious to qualify as second choice if he needed one. Her glance left no doubt about whom she had chosen to revile.
Caine wondered if perhaps he was overly sensitive and tried not to be, but he was unused to it yet. He had attended none of these functions since his return to London. He was grateful that he was still able to see and wished he could simply bypass mirrors forever and ignore how he looked. If not for this acquiring of a wife, he could be content with himself as he was.
The object of his future suit looked up and her very direct gaze again met his across the room. He should march right over and ask her to dance. Three times running. That would seal the deal. But not yet.
Caine snagged a glass of champagne off the silver tray of a passing waiter circulating among the guests. He raised it slightly, toasting the girl, and forced a smile as he spoke to his friend. “Go, Trent. Find out who she is. I’ll wait here.”
“You’re certain you want to go through with this?”
“Yes, quite.” He sipped the sparkling wine and concealed a wince. He preferred a stouter drink with some substance to it.
A quarter hour later, Trent rejoined Caine. “She’s Wardfelton’s niece, Lady Grace Renfair,” he declared. “His lordship laughed in my face when I spoke with him. Told me she has no dowry. She’s penniless. Worthless was the word he used to describe her, an ailing, aging millstone around his neck and none too bright.”
“Aging? How old is she?”
“Twenty-four or thereabout. I inquired of a few others, as well as her uncle. Lady Nebbins, that old talebearer, told me the chit was orphaned at sixteen, engaged to Barkley’s second son, a lieutenant in the navy, who died aboard The Langston six years ago. She lived as companion to the lad’s widowed mother until that lady remarried. Lady Grace has been with Wardfelton for these past two years.”
“Ah, good. Of suitable birth then. And something in common already, noble uncles with a foot on our necks. Perhaps she’s ready for a change.”
Trent hummed his agreement. “I don’t doubt that. Rumor about town had it she was perhaps dead. People had begun wondering aloud whether she was deceased and how she came to be so. It’s thought Wardfelton has trotted her out tonight to dispense with the gossip. I must say, she might yet make it a fact. To call her frail would be kind.”
Caine smiled. “No matter. I can go forward with it then.”
“Ah, well, there’s a fly in the ointment,” Trent informed him. He rocked to and fro as he spoke. “Wardfelton didn’t take me, or my request on your behalf, seriously at all. He thinks we are making fun of his simpleminded niece and seemed to find it highly amusing that we should do so.”
“Simpleminded?” Caine didn’t believe it for a second.
Trent shrugged. “He doesn’t think much of her, obviously. Probably exaggerated. I would remind you, you did ask for dull of wit.”
“He didn’t refuse outright to let me address her, did he?”
“No, he doesn’t really expect you to,” Trent admitted. “I spoke
with Lord Jarvis, too. He says she is the daughter of the previous earl. Wardfelton’s actually the third brother to hold the title. The second, Lady Grace’s father, was a physician until he inherited. Only held it for a couple of years before he died of the cholera during the outbreak here, along with his wife. The girl was left home in the country and escaped their fate. And as I said, Barkley’s mother took her in.”
Caine nodded. “Ah, an earl’s daughter. Uncle should consider the match entirely acceptable. If she is willing and I could obtain a special license from the archbishop, we could marry this week.”
“You know what they say about marrying in haste.”
“Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today,” Caine retorted. He shoved his glass at Trent. “Hold this for me. Better yet, get me another with something more bracing than bubbles. Courting’s thirsty work.”
He left Trent standing there staring at the delicate crystal stem and went to ply his suit.
Chapter Two
Grace Renfair shifted her gaze elsewhere, determined not to look back at the man standing across the ballroom. His intense regard unnerved her. Why did he single her out so pointedly? Probably wondering who was so witless as to sponsor a creature such as herself.
She felt exposed, woefully underdressed and incomparable in the worst sort of way. No matter. She lifted her chin and paid only scant attention to the vile chatter of the girl beside her.
“I could never abide a man so tall and large as Captain Morleigh, even if he were handsome!” exclaimed Miss Caulfield. Grace did not reply, even to nod or shrug.
He was large, yes, but not frighteningly so. Grace thought he cut quite a figure when compared to the fashionably slender or the aging portly gents milling around him at the moment.
“He would frighten the life out of anyone! Belinda is well out of that match! She says he has turned unbearably cold and cruel since the war. Why, he probably slew dozens of people before he was nearly killed himself!”
Wasn’t he expected to do that when he was a soldier? Grace ignored Miss Caulfield’s comment. Would the girl ever change topics? No, she prattled on. “Look at his shoulders! All that swordplay, I should think. No padding there, I’d wager!”
Not a bet Grace would take. She had also noted that his features were well defined and rather stark above that square jaw and stubborn chin. The eye patch added a dash of interest, as perhaps it was meant to do, though if he had been wounded in battle, it probably was not simply for show.
The black evening attire topped by a snowy neckcloth looked impeccable, though his straight-shouldered military bearing was such that he might as well have worn regimentals. His height was remarkable, too, putting him at least half a head above the men around him.
“Yes, his looks are compelling,” Grace said, before remembering she should not speak at all.
So why should she mind if he caught her looking at him, since everyone else seemed to be? Perhaps she should thank him for drawing inquisitive stares away from her.
When she finally gave in to curiosity and shot another glance in his direction, she saw this Captain Morleigh heedlessly interrupting the progress of the quadrille by walking directly through it. Now, there was a man who did precisely as he pleased. She would give anything to be that bold.
She had been once, but had changed so much she hardly knew herself any longer. The face in her mirror seemed a stranger, as did her almost-lifeless form swathed in the dated ball gown her uncle had provided. There had been no maid to dress her, to help with her woefully straight hair or even produce pins for it.
Her uncle had brought her here to show her off, so he said. She believed that to be true in the very worst sense and wondered if perhaps he thought he must. He had kept her a virtual prisoner for well over a year. Did anyone question where she was keeping these days and what had happened to her? Or did anyone remember her at all?
She had never made her debut, having been betrothed so early on. Then her mourning had been extended much longer than usual. She had lost both parents and soon after, her husband-to-be. The comfort of his mother, Lady Barkley, had been such a balm, she had been loath to give up the sweet lady’s company. Not one to intrude on her dear friend’s newlywed state, Grace had insisted on removing herself to the care of her only relative. Such a mistake that had been, and so irrevocable.
She and Wardfelton had gotten on quite well in the beginning. She even played hostess for several entertainments he had held at the country house. Then, literally overnight, things had changed. He suddenly turned into nothing short of a jailer, insisting she remain in her rooms except for a supervised walk about the enclosed gardens when weather permitted. Her meals were sent up. Her correspondence disallowed.
It seemed he thoroughly enjoyed humiliating and even frightening her in every way he could devise. She shuddered just thinking of the tales he had told of young English women disappearing, sold into white slavery, never to be seen or heard of again. Though not an outright threat, there had been warning in his eyes. Why, she could not fathom, but he obviously meant to keep her terrified and biddable for some reason or other.
Perhaps he feared being called to account for squandering her inheritance, if indeed she had ever possessed any such thing. She could not look into it herself and whom did he think would do so on her behalf? No one cared.
Well, her looks were gone now and she much doubted any foreign sultan with proper eyesight would want to buy such as her. What more could Uncle do to her other than offer her up to ridicule as he was doing tonight?
Murder was still an option, even though he would be the most obvious suspect. She had pointed that out to him when he deliberately had left out that book of poisons for her to see. He had laughed at that, but she had sensed his unease. More likely, he intended to drive her to suicide so he would look blameless.
If only she knew someone here, she would plead for escape. But would anyone believe her? Would anyone care?
“He’s coming this way!” Miss Caulfield announced. “Should we venture to speak to him?”
Grace knew she was being watched, for Wardfelton had told her she would be. He also warned rather adamantly that she was to hold no personal conversations with anyone present. She was only to been seen, not heard. Grace held her head high despite all that. He would not steal what little dignity she had left.
Nor would this man approaching with a patently fake smile upon his face. He stopped directly in front of her.
“My lady, please allow me to presume and introduce myself.”
“You would be Captain Morleigh,” she replied, to save him the trouble. She held out her hand and watched with interest as he lifted it almost to his lips. Damn Wardfelton. Let him do his worst. Damn them all. She was sick of living in fear.
“Lady Grace,” he said, holding her gaze, as well as her hand. “I see that our reputations have preceded us. Such a pleasure to meet you. Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”
Grace cocked her head to one side as she continued to peer up at him. He bore a few scars from the war, pinkish and still healing, random marks upon his forehead and around his uncovered eye. They did proclaim the validity of the eye patch he wore that lent him his roguish air.
Misses Caulfield and Thoren-Snipes were so wrong. The man was not hideous at all. More’s the pity. She had never trusted handsome men, especially arrogant handsome men who presumed too much, as he did now. She forced a half smile. “Not for all the gold in England would I dance with you, sir.”
His eye twinkled and he smiled more sincerely, a crooked expression that war
med something inside her. “I’m not offering all the gold,” he said, “but a significant portion could be yours if you’re amenable.”
“A proposition, sir?” She raised an eyebrow with the question. “Am I to run weeping at the insult or deal you a resounding slap? How do the bets go that I will respond?”
“No bets and no proposition. I have a very decent proposal in mind.”
“I am already the object of ridicule,” she told him frankly, withdrawing her hand from his, flipping open her fan and giving him the signal to leave her alone. “Go, find another to tease who will at least earn you points for originality.”
He inclined his head. “Certainly no ridicule intended, my lady. I merely ask to be considered. I have some trouble in that quarter as you have no doubt heard.” He cast a pointed look at her overfed companion, who promptly blushed and hurried away.
Morleigh returned his attentions to Grace. “Will you not grant me a small favor, at least, and take a turn about the floor?”
Perhaps this was an arranged jibe, compliments of her uncle. “Do you know Wardfelton?”
“I have not met him yet, but I shall seek him out immediately if you will give me leave to ask him for you.”
“For my person? Not only a dance? How droll.”
“For your hand in marriage,” he said without equivocation.
A short laugh escaped in spite of her dismay. The man was either woefully desperate, quite mad or downright cruel. “I should give you that leave, my lord, and hold you by law to your word. It would serve you right for carrying this jest too far.”
Amazingly, he stretched his hand closer, his expression totally devoid of sarcasm, his deep voice rife with sincerity. “Please do. I would be forever grateful. Perhaps we could dance and discuss it further?”
His madness must be contagious. Whatever he had in mind could hardly lower her any more in public estimation than did the way she looked tonight. And why should she care if it did? None of her former friends were in attendance, not that she had ever had many who would be here in town.
