“Not by choice, by God,” Bainbridge vowed. “Not yet, in any event.”
“I’ve been in search of you all evening,” Sutcliffe said. “Westfall wants a word. Something about a horse he wants to acquire.”
With a weighty sigh, Bainbridge straightened. “Yes, I think I’ve located the stud he’s been seeking. Oh, and Pennington, so far, I’ve not been able to find the matched grays you asked me to watch for. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Max had been trying to find Breckensole’s stolen horses for the better part of a month without luck. They’d show up eventually though. A fine pair like that would draw attention and when they did, he intended to recover the team. Not out of any great love for Breckensole. Although, he’d been admirably civilized since Gabriella announced she would marry Max with or without her grandparents’ blessing.
Personally, he believed Breckensole had agreed to the quiet ceremony the next day because he truly loved his granddaughter and was absolved from having to part with coin for a formal wedding. That, and if the old curmudgeon cut her off, not so much as a farthing would make its way from Max’s purse to Breckensole’s.
Though it was boorish of him, Max had no interest in standing up with another lady for a set or two, and instead went in search of the card room. At least that’s what he told himself as he wended a path to the exit Gabriella had disappeared through several minutes before.
Once he’d ascended the magnificent curved staircase, he turned right. If memory served, Westfall’s private salon and the retiring rooms were along this wing. He contemplated Bainbridge’s dilemma as he marched along. Poor sot. An arranged marriage with a child, practically.
Praise God Max had been spared that horror.
A white-gloved feminine hand shot out and grabbed his arm as he passed the salon. “Maxwell,” Gabriella whispered, hauling him into the room. “You must see this.”
Had she been snooping again? In his four weeks of marriage, he’d learned his darling wife had a curious streak. About more than sexual acts.
She swiftly closed the door and with an impish wink, guided him to the fireplace. Flames burned low in the grate, and a turned down lamp sat upon a side table.
“What exactly is it I’m supposed to be looking at, chérie?”
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and pointed to the fur rug before the hearth. “It’s fur,” she needlessly announced as she removed her gloves.
“Yes?” Max crooked an eyebrow, glancing between her and the thick sable fur. He grinned as comprehension dawned. “Why, Duchess, are you suggesting an erotic assignation on a fur rug during a ball?”
What a wonderfully naughty minx.
“What if I am?” She tilted her chin up.
Chuckling, he locked the door then gathered her into his arms. “I can deny you nothing,” he murmured, lowering her to the lush pelt. He leaned over her, brushing a kiss across her rosy lips as he raised her skirts. “You do realize we shall be hopelessly rumpled and wrinkled afterward. Everyone will guess what we’ve been about.”
“We’re newly wed.” She rolled a shoulder, giving him a sultry look that singed his hair and hardened his groin. “Besides, I don’t care if you don’t.”
She should, and so should he. But damn, he didn’t. She reached between them, unfastened his falls, and encircled his sex with her warm hand.
Max groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. “I love you, Gabriella. You are my very life.”
“Make love to me, Maxwell,” she whispered against his throat before kissing his jaw. “I want to feel you inside me. I want you to give me a child.”
And of course he did. In that precise order.
London, England
Late April 1810
With a nervous glance over her shoulder to assure no one had observed her ill-advised flight from the Duke of Westfall’s ballroom, Miss Jessica Brentwood hoisted the skirts of her white silk gown and dashed through the open French windows. She’d steal a few minutes of much-needed respite and return before anyone noted her absence.
At least she hoped to do so. After all, this was London and a haut ton event. Dozens of busybodies’ tongues wagged and ears flapped, either spreading on dit or eagerly listening for a succulent tidbit to pass along to their cronies.
Some claimed wealth and power the ruin of human decency. Jessica, however, believed the tongue far more destructive.
As she slipped onto the terrace, the brisk night air hit her with the force of a wet towel thrown in her face. The temperature was such a drastic contrast to the over-heated ballroom, and she gasped in surprise. A shiver skittered across her almost-bare shoulders and slithered down her spine as she swept a wary glance about the deserted verandah and lawns.
Good. No one she must avoid or offer explanations to about her hasty departure from the festivities. No one to raise a haughty eyebrow in askance. No one else to judge her.
Constantly surrounded by people since she’d come to Town, she simply needed a few moments alone to compose herself. Unlike the practiced and polished members of the le beau monde, Jessica hadn’t acquired the ability to disguise her feelings and reactions behind a mask of disdainful politesse. She doubted she ever would, and she couldn’t claim remorse for the deficit.
Her dratted expressive eyes gave away her every thought. She might as well blab them aloud, so transparent was she. Or so her sister, now the Duchess of Sutcliffe, claimed. In point of fact, Jessica wasn’t altogether positive she’d be better off if she’d been able to master such a facade anyway. Plainly put, she wasn’t deceptive by nature.
Her gloved hands wrapped about her shoulders to help ward off the sharp chill, she hurried forward rather than return to the crowded ballroom, with its abundance of sweaty bodies, cloying perfumes, and stifling atmosphere.
Stealing a few calming minutes outdoors, gathering her equanimity, and reining in her seething temper wouldn’t result in a chill or ague. Possessed of a robust constitution, she rarely suffered from illness.
Wrestling her anger into submission might take more than a few minutes, truth to tell. Much more, such restrained fury simmered behind her ribs. No, she mightn’t be dishonest by nature, but she did have a temper when incited. And, by damn, she’d just been provoked mightily.
Guilt poked her for silently swearing. Her parents would be mortified. Jessica gave a mental shrug. Sometimes an expletive was required, if only in one’s thoughts, and despite being swathed in virginal hues.
Even with the mansion’s windows aglow, her pale gown—unfortunately similar in color and style to those worn by every other insipid debutant present tonight—stood out in stark reprieve against the night’s crisp darkness.
An image of dressed-up dolls on display came to mind—ladies on the Marriage Mart. Paraded before potential husbands, the misses’ qualifications—or lack thereof, in her case—were easily attainable with a murmured request in the right ear.
She’d have preferred a rich emerald or royal purple gown, but young women were expected to appear pure and untouched in their shades of whites and ivories. Innocent. Unspoiled. Untouched. Bah. What poppyswallop and baldercock.
Or was it poppydash and balderswallop?
Jessica shrugged. What difference did it make? What did matter—a great deal, truth be told—was that she mustn’t do anything untoward to draw the acrid eye of an Almack’s peeress or other noble.
Such as slap the faces of tart-mouthed, mean-spirited chits. No matter that they heartily deserved a harsh, public reprimand.
To do so would’ve brought immense satisfaction. Oh, indeed, it would’ve done. She tightly pursed her lips. Alas, immense censure, too. Disapproval, she could ill afford, more’s the pity. Not that she’d give a hen’s tail feather about what anyone thought about her.
Well, she might care a little, but not enough to change who she was. Such artifice sickened her. A grimace pulled her mouth downward.
Still, Jessica had promised to try to conform. She wante
d to embody the epitome of decorum. To display pretty manners and modesty. Truly, she did.
Liar!
Fine…not truly. But she did strive to—to the degree she wouldn’t knowingly disgrace herself or her family—and she still might also enjoy a lovely time. For London did offer ever so many entertainments and distractions. One Season ought to see her curiosity satisfied. Then back to the country for her, where she could be herself again. Where she wouldn’t have to worry about every word or action.
Briskly rubbing her arms, Jessica wet her lower lip. As nippy as the outdoors was, she’d welcome a glass of lemonade or ratafia. She’d become quite parched while dancing in the ballroom’s sweltering heat.
Her partners thus far had been amicable, the dancing passably good. She wasn’t a nymph on her feet, so she didn’t hold her partner to a higher standard than herself.
In fact, unable to locate her sister, brother-in-law, or a friend to accompany her, she’d decided—perhaps unwisely, she grudgingly admitted to herself—to make her way to the refreshment tables in search of a much-needed glass of…anything.
That was another silly rule. Why a young woman couldn’t traverse a room milling with people without a chaperone did not make sense.
A most unpleasant encounter with a trio of claws-bared females had detoured her from her goal, and now her thirst remained unquenched. Three smugly satisfied female faces paraded before her mind. God save the poor chaps who ended up married to those mean-spirited shrews.
Prior to that, she’d genuinely been having a grand time, her youthful bashfulness no longer a constant, exasperating presence. Why, her dance card bore the names of several gentlemen—including no fewer than three dukes. And although undoubtedly not the belle of the ball, she couldn’t complain that her first official foray into Polite Society was a dismal failure.
She permitted the tiniest little proud smile to arc her mouth. It seems she truly had outgrown her shyness. Not that she’d ever be outgoing or seek attention. A diamond of the first water she was not, nor did she have any desire to be. Not that she was a dowd, by any means.
Though appropriately white, her gown, with its delicately embroidered overskirt and seed pearls, was a confection straight from a fairytale, as was her sapphire parure and her intricately styled hair.
Theadosia, her dearest sister, vowed the sapphires exactly matched Jessica’s eyes. Not exactly. Her eyes were green-blue. Nonetheless, she quite felt like a princess, silly as that might seem.
As a little girl, she’d always pretended she was a princess. Only, as an innocent child, she’d believed a charming prince would fall madly in love with her. Never mind she was a humble vicar’s dowerless, youngest daughter.
Not dowerless any longer.
She shoved the intrusive thought aside and resumed her fanciful reverie. Dowerless worked better for her daydream, and fairytales weren’t based in reality, after all. It was much more romantic to wed for love than to be bartered off for a substantial marriage settlement, a title, or a parcel of land.
Her handsome and oh-so-entrancing prince would place her before him on his magnificent white steed—for fairytale princes must always ride white steeds—and they’d gallop away into the burnished sunset to live happily, passionately ever after. Because, quite naturally, happily-ever-afters required passion.
A wry smile tilted the edges of her mouth.
Twaddle, rubbish, stuff and nonsense. The whole of it.
Jessica had been all of ten when she first realized marriage was often something far different than happily-ever-afters. Nevertheless, good fortune did fall upon a lucky few, like her older sister, Theadosia, and her adoring husband, Victor.
They boasted friendships with several prominent peers and could be credited with her pleasant reception and acceptance into le bon ton so far. Almost everyone she’d met had been agreeable, if a trifle stuffy, formal, and exuding self-import.
But the upper ten thousand held pompous, elevated opinions of themselves and believed everyone else ought to as well. They also hid their true characters behind facades. At least, that was her perception of them thus far. Most were harmless, but a few—like the viper-tongued Medusas she’d just overheard—were the embodiment of cruelty and spite.
Vicious gossips.
She couldn’t abide tattlemongers in any form. People who had nothing better to do than spread rumors as casually as buttering warm toast. Or who were such miserable wretches they sought to make themselves feel better by disparaging others. The worst of the chinwag lot, however, were those that contrived on dit simply because they enjoyed the trouble their tarradiddles wrought.
Such were despicable, contemptible dolts, and she had no patience for them or their nastiness. Nor did she have any desire to be their target, which meant she’d need to return to the ballroom before her next dance.
Pulling her eyebrows together, she studied the elaborate fan-shaped dance card.
If she recalled correctly, this set remained unclaimed. She’d be remiss to leave a partner searching for her. Such inconsideration wouldn’t do. Not when she must remain above reproach. Already, dishonor hovered about her family like a soiled gray mantle.
Initially, she’d been eager to leave Colechester behind, mistakenly believing the mortifying shame and humiliation of Papa’s disgrace would lessen with a bit of distance between her and the parish he’d stolen from. How wrong she’d been.
It was almost as if le beau monde was waiting, watching, expecting her family to misstep, and if they inadvertently did, those lofty denizens would pounce like a panther on a defenseless gazelle.
After perusing the dance card in the filtered light, Jessica relaxed a fraction.
Yes, she was free for the next thirty minutes. However, the dance afterward was promised to Crispin Rolston, the enigmatic Duke of Bainbridge. The arresting nobleman had positively flummoxed her by explicitly requesting that particular waltz.
She scrunched her forehead further, uncertain why a degree of unease coiled in her belly, making her shudder in apprehension.
Bainbridge was a pleasant enough chap. Quite dashing, actually, if she were wholly honest. Oh, very well. Extremely dashing. From the moment she’d laid eyes upon him, she thought so. She’d encountered him several times in the past year, and he’d grown impossibly more stunning upon each occurrence.
Why had God deemed the male of the species should be the more attractive? It was most unfair. As a young girl of perhaps eleven or twelve, she’d voiced that thought to her mother. Mama had laughed and said that was often true of birds but not necessarily of humans and other animals.
The Duke of Bainbridge made her sweet, pious mother into a liar.
His rakish smile could melt a glacier. And those eyes. Lord, those magnificent eyes. Quicksilver gray, they shone with a seductive gleam that had stolen her breath more than once.
Not, by Jove, that she’d ever admit such a thing. Vicar’s daughters didn’t entertain such notions. Seductive gleam? Stolen breath? She shook her head in self-reproach but allowed her mind to wander a bit longer.
Bainbridge’s wavy, dark-blond hair—a lovely shade similar to sugared pecans—had a tendency to fall over his noble brow, enhancing his devil-may-care roguishness. His sculpted cheeks, angular jaw and chin, striking, almost severe eyebrows—several shades darker than his hair—and the sharp blade of his nose all added to his masculine appeal.
He was tall, of course, but not overly so. She didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his startling eyes. And he had nice hands: clean nails, square tips, a light smattering of honey-colored hair across the knuckles.
Couldn’t he have one flaw? Crooked teeth? Long nostril hair? Bad breath? A squeaky voice?
Honestly, she was hard put to find a single fault in his appearance. Neither, evidently, could the dozens of other simpering, ogling women continually surrounding him. To Jessica’s credit, she didn’t blink like a fly had landed in her eye, turn lobster red, or trip over her tongue in his presence. He wa
s, after all, just a flesh-and-blood man.
Yes, but such a scrumptiously attractive one.
If she could’ve scolded her subconscious for stating the obvious, she would’ve done so.
But it was his voice, such a deep, resonant timbre, she found nearly irresistible. Jessica could listen to him speak for hours. Did he sing? She thought he might with that voice—as rich as melted chocolate. She’d never sat close enough to hear him when the hymns were sung the few times he’d attended Sunday services.
Placing her palms flat on the balustrade, she breathed out an exaggerated sigh. Crispin, Duke of Bainbridge, in all his sleek, male glory, was precisely the stuff of which fairytale heroes were made.
No. He isn’t!
She narrowed her gaze at his name, scrawled across her dance card in penmanship as indolent as the scoundrel himself. Bainbridge was exactly the type of wicked libertine and philanderer Papa had always warned his daughters against.
Handsome. Wealthy. Confident. Privileged. Charming.
Rakehell. Roué. A man about town. Heartbreaker. Scoundrel.
Papa’s list of unfavorable characteristics went on considerably longer. Pages longer. And yet, her own father, a clergyman, couldn’t cast stones. Not with the burden of his own sins made so very public. In truth, the duke was the more honest of the men. He didn’t hide his flaws behind piety.
Bainbridge was an aristocrat who drew women of every station and status to him like plump, fragrant summer blossoms enticed, clumsy nectar-drunk bees. If his allure weren’t so awfully pathetic to witness, she might find female reactions to him amusing.
Elderly dames batted their stubby eyelashes while thrusting out their saggy bosoms, hoping for a kind word or one of his devastating smiles. Married women and widows curved their painted mouths upward seductively and slid him inviting glances.
Precisely what those invitations entailed, Jessica refused to ponder, lest her cheeks heat with blistering color. Blushing debutantes and calf-eyed wallflowers observed his every move with something akin to hunger—or huntresses stalking their unsuspecting prey.
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