by Allegra Gray
“Yes, at the Peasleys’ ball,” she answered cautiously. Her mother had chosen not to attend, pleading a headache. Elizabeth had been chaperoned instead by Lady Tanner—an older lady of venerable reputation, who would surely exact a favor in return for having performed the duty of chaperone, in spite of having performed said duty in a rather lax fashion. Just one more thing Elizabeth had to look forward to.
“Is he pursuing you?”
Elizabeth’s attention snapped back to her mother. “I don’t believe so.” She nearly choked on the understatement. Beaufort had made it abundantly clear how little intention he had of “pursuing” her.
“Good. I think it would be best if you did not get involved with him.”
Now Elizabeth was truly confused, for Lady Medford’s statement surely qualified her as the only mama in the entire ton who didn’t want her daughter pursued by the extremely wealthy, handsome, and eligible Duke of Beaufort.
Reminding herself her mother had no idea of what had actually just transpired, she replied, “Mother, I assure you there was nothing untoward; it was merely a dance.”
“Nonetheless, the man has a reputation. Why, he’s practically predatory. Any involvement with him is likely to end in disappointment on your part.”
Well, that much was true. But since when did Lady Medford care about her daughter’s hopes getting crushed? That would be a new development in their relationship—if it was true.
“Also, I don’t believe your father would have approved.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply. Her mother had meticulously avoided unnecessary mention of her father since his death, so why would she bring him up now? None of this made any sense.
It really didn’t matter whether her father would have approved, given that she would not be seen consorting with the duke again any time soon. He’d made that abundantly clear.
“It’s all right, Mother. I’ve no hopes of snaring the duke’s hand,” she said in a tightly controlled voice.
“Right.” Her mother sniffed. “Very well, then.” She sniffed again. “I believe this room needs airing. The servants are becoming intolerably slack in their duties.”
Elizabeth kept her mouth shut. The servants weren’t becoming slack. They were leaving. They knew as well as anyone that her father had died with no heir and considerable debt. Slowly but surely they were finding employ in other, more stable, noble homes. If her mother chose not to recognize that, Elizabeth wasn’t going to be the one to point it out. She turned to go, assuming her mother’s change of topic meant she’d been dismissed.
“No, don’t leave. You have a caller.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Could her day get any worse? First that humiliating and unsuccessful scene at the park. And now, when she wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace, she had to entertain. And to what purpose? Her mother would announce her engagement in mere hours, and Elizabeth had run out of ideas for avoiding it.
“Wetherby is waiting in the drawing room. I wanted to be certain you had no foolish yearnings for Beaufort before I sent you in to see him. But I see that, in this matter at least, you are a sensible girl.”
Elizabeth cringed. She’d been wrong. Talking about the Duke of Beaufort was infinitely preferable to talking to Harold Wetherby. At least her mother hadn’t seen her “sensible” daughter’s behavior thirty minutes ago.
“We can afford to wait no longer, Elizabeth,” her mother told her. “Wetherby’s lack of title may be lamentable, but his income is not. I’ve given him every reason to expect his suit will be accepted, though of course he’ll want to hear it from you as well.”
Elizabeth nodded woodenly. Yes, her day could definitely get worse. Her plan may have failed, but she was not yet ready to face her volatile cousin.
“Yes, Mother. I’ll be in to see him as soon as I’ve had a moment to tidy my appearance.” Her mother was a stickler for propriety, so Elizabeth knew she would approve of the short delay. One did not meet one’s future husband looking mussed from the outdoors.
The baroness nodded. “I’ll have the butler give him your message. Don’t dawdle.”
Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth entered the drawing room, having dawdled only a little. The panicked whispers she’d shared with Charity had given her no new inspiration.
Her unwanted soon-to-be fiancé stood by the window, tapping his expensively shod foot. He did not look especially pleased to see her.
“Harold.” She said it with as much politeness as she could muster, forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile.
“Elizabeth.”
She stiffened her shoulders as he strode toward her.
“You’re looking well,” he told her, stopping only when they were separated by a scant few inches. “Better than I expected for someone distraught with grief.”
“Right. Well. One must go on,” she lamely replied. What was he after?
“One must. Though to hear it, you’ve been doing a bit more ‘going on’ than I would like.”
Elizabeth held her chin up but said nothing. If he was going to accuse her of something, she wanted to know exactly what.
“Nothing to say for yourself, my sweet?”
“Your meaning is unclear.” She managed to keep her tone modulated and polite, though she clenched her fingers in the folds of her gown.
“No? Then let me explain.” His voice was silk but his quivering jowls gave away his simmering rage. “Why do you think I offered for you?”
Elizabeth had several theories on that, but as Harold wouldn’t appreciate any of them, she kept silent.
“Respectability, Elizabeth!” He was openly angry now. “Your lack of dowry I can tolerate—I’ve sufficient funds of my own. But I plan to go places in Society, and I damn well want the respect that comes with marrying a nobleman’s daughter!”
“I see.” She was a means to an end for him. Well, she’d known that. “But that doesn’t explain why you chose me.”
“You know bloody well why. Your father, gambling fool that he was, left you within my reach.”
“I see,” she repeated. She refrained from mentioning that for someone who claimed to want respectability, he didn’t seem to have any qualms about using vicious language in front of a gently bred woman.
“Obviously you don’t see, or you would have more care for your reputation.”
“My reputation is my own to worry about.”
“Now see here, Elizabeth! I won’t have a wife who speaks back. Or one who has sullied herself.” The acrid scent of sweat assaulted Elizabeth’s nostrils as he railed at her.
Insulted though she was, a ray of hope filtered through her anger. She hadn’t done anything inappropriate—a fact she was all too aware of—but if Harold believed otherwise, perhaps she could convince him she was not worth marrying. She’d have to play it right.
“I am not your wife yet, and you overstep your bounds if you dare accuse me of impropriety.”
“Oh? Then what is this all about?” His fleshy finger viciously prodded the bustline of her gown.
“How dare you! You should leave. Now.” She stepped away, furious, her glance flicking down as she thought about the alterations she’d made to the gown earlier that spring, when she’d still hoped to attract a more desirable suitor. The ploy hadn’t worked.
“Why shouldn’t I dare?” He advanced again, giving her a nasty leer. “You’ve gone to great lengths to put yourself on display. Why else if not for a man to touch? A respectable woman would take more care to cover herself. You will do so, at least in public, as my fiancée and my wife.”
“I will most certainly not—”
“And furthermore,” he cut her off, “you should take more care in the company you keep.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Now he really went too far. She stepped beyond his reach.
“The Duke of Beaufort!” he exploded, face red and eyes bulging.
She folded her arms. “If you’re so concerned with advancing in Society, you sh
ould be pleased to be marrying someone sought after by more prominent personages than yourself.” Elizabeth couldn’t help firing back at him, though it filled her with disgust to refer to their impending marriage.
Harold blew past her retort. “For all the duke’s prominence, he’s a known libertine and rake! Everyone knows it, yet you cavort with him as though you were a common serving wench!”
Perhaps her plan was working. She tossed him a deliberately provocative look. “His Grace appreciates me.”
“Bah. He appreciates how gullible you are, perhaps. But from now on, you’ll keep your flirtations, and that delectable little body of yours, for me alone.” Spittle flecked his lips as he raged at her.
“I hadn’t realized you were so, er, old-fashioned. Hardly anyone in the ton expects a faithful marriage.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it was accurate enough and suited her current purpose. “Perhaps we aren’t so well suited after all.”
“We’re well suited enough.” He stepped forward, closing a meaty fist around her arm. “I won’t have you sullied by another man. The right to your body is mine alone. I’m marrying a baron’s daughter, not a tavern slut.”
Bile rose in her throat at the idea of enduring intimacy with such a beast. Without thinking, she reached up and slapped him with all the force she could muster.
Her hand connected with his beakish nose—the only part of him where bones were more prominent than flesh—with a satisfying crack. He released her so swiftly she staggered.
“You vicious little bitch!” he bellowed, holding his nose.
“Get out. Just get out.” She pointed an imperious finger toward the door.
He stalked over to the door, then turned. “Don’t think this is over, Elizabeth. You may get away with this now, but as my wife you’ll learn to bend to my will. Bend, or break.” He shut the door behind him with enough force to leave it reverberating in its frame.
Elizabeth sat, limbs quaking, on the nearest available piece of furniture—an uncomfortable beige settee she usually avoided. She pressed a hand to her heart, then hugged herself tight. Her flesh still burned where he’d prodded her. There would be bruises tomorrow.
She’d thought for certain that Harold’s railing at her meant he was about to cry off. He couldn’t possibly treat her that way and still expect to marry her!
But, apparently, given his exiting remark, he did.
Rage and humiliation coursed through her. How could her mother care so little for her eldest daughter that she would see her married to such a pig?
Well, she wouldn’t have it. Elizabeth stood with renewed purpose. She’d told Charity she could work for a living, and so she would. Her mother might announce her engagement to Harold in every one of London’s papers, but Elizabeth wouldn’t be there to fulfill it.
Alex stared at his brandy. Darkness closed in on the windows of his study, his business for the day long since concluded. He’d thought to spend the evening at home, but the morning’s incident in the park kept replaying itself in his mind. Weakness. Why couldn’t he simply block it—her—out? The red-tressed chit was as mad as her father, for certain, but the hint of desperation he’d seen in Elizabeth’s misty green eyes ate at his soul.
She’d never have come to him if she’d known what he’d done. Or maybe, he reflected after a long swallow of the brandy, she would have. After all, he’d had a hand in the family’s destruction, however unintentional. Why shouldn’t he be the one to finish the job?
No. Irredeemable though he was, he’d not stoop that low. It went against his code.
The Code, as he liked to think of it, was a sort of modified creed of honor. It wasn’t going to get him nominated for sainthood, but there were lines even a dissolute rake such as he shouldn’t cross. Don’t hurt anyone, and don’t get involved with anyone who doesn’t know how the game is played. It had worked for drinking, gaming, and women. Except that once, last fall. And there was no atoning for it now.
Elizabeth’s hurt green eyes flickered into his mind. If only she knew.
It would have been no hardship, her suggestion. He could easily envision himself kissing the fullness of her lower lip, or the corner of her wayward smile. He’d explore the slim column of her body, the ripe curve of her breast, that impossibly smooth skin…
Alex tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood. Even thinking of her aroused him. Damn Medfords.
“Hanson!” he bellowed for his valet. He needed diversion. A night of cards and drinking. Since he’d pensioned off his last mistress, and had no liking for the bawdy houses, he’d restrict himself to the gentlemen’s clubs. Besides, another woman would only remind him of the one he was trying to forget.
Chapter Two
Alex arrived at White’s later that night, only a little drunk, and went immediately to his regular table. Lords Stockton, Wilbourne, and Garrett, veteran gamblers all, were already seated, engaged in the pleasurable pastime of betting obscene amounts on the trivial fall of the cards.
As Alex sat, a waiter appeared with a glass of his usual brandy. He quaffed it eagerly, as the three he’d drunk before leaving home had not sufficiently dulled his memory of the tempting minx who today had rashly offered up her own ruination. Nor had they dulled the memories of that same minx’s father.
The other men dealt him into a game of five-card loo. They played several hands, but Alex’s mind wasn’t on the cards.
“Do you ever wonder,” Lord Wilbourne joked as he raked in the cards after winning a hand, “how wealthy Beaufort would be if he didn’t insist on losing such large sums to me?”
Alex grinned, the additional brandy having softened his mood. “I won twice that sum from you last week, Wilbourne.”
Wilbourne’s bushy brows lifted. “Quite right. I’d forgotten. I suppose I’ll have to hope my luck holds a while longer tonight.”
Alex knew Wilbourne didn’t care one way or the other. The man was wealthy in the extreme, as were the others at the table. Playing with such companions made the game far more civilized.
They played some more, and Alex’s mind drifted back to a pair of beautiful but desperate green eyes. A waiter appeared to replace his brandy, and he mindlessly took a swallow of the new one.
Lords Stockton and Garrett began discussing some of the more outrageous bets in the book at the front of White’s.
Stockton, the eldest at the table, had a stodgy sense of propriety. Cards were well and good, but he couldn’t understand what possessed people to bet on such foolish things as the type of jewels a certain courtesan would wear to the theater, or whether Lady X’s garden party would be rained out—the latter of which Lord Garrett had bet in favor of and was devoutly hoping would come true, as he’d promised a friend to attend that unbearably dull annual affair.
“I just don’t see how you can engage in such trivia,” Stockton averred.
Garrett grinned. “I can afford it, and it keeps me entertained. What else is a man to do during the Season? Attend Almack’s?”
“God forbid.” Wilbourne shuddered at the mention of the marriage mart. “Even betting on the weather is better than that.” He dealt the cards again.
Alex picked his up and tried to concentrate, both on the game and the conversation. His friends could afford to bet on whatever ridiculous whims they chose, but their conversation reminded him too much of those who couldn’t but did anyway. He took another swallow of brandy and leaned back in his chair, allowing himself to float peaceably in an alcohol-induced haze.
“All right then, what’s the strangest thing you’ve ever won at cards?” Wilbourne asked.
“A small estate in Scotland,” Lord Stockton offered. “Way up in the highlands. Wild place. No Englishman in their right mind would live there.”
Lord Garrett, the youngest at the table, shrugged. “Still, land is land, and is gambled upon often. That’s not so strange. I, on the other hand, recently laid claim to a prize-winning sow.”
Wilbourne laughed. “You, owner of a pig?”
>
“For as long as it takes my man to sell it, at any rate.”
Stockton shook his head. “A man who resorts to betting his livestock ought not be betting at all.” A longtime gambler, he dealt only in cash and land.
“Whyever did you allow the man to bet on it?” Wilbourne asked curiously.
Garrett shrugged. “I was enjoying the game. Didn’t want it to end.”
“A pig.” Wilbourne shook his head. “Beaufort? Anything you’ve won that can top that?”
“A woman,” Alex said, and almost immediately regretted it. He should have stopped drinking about three brandies ago, if he’d reached the point where his mouth functioned faster than his brain.
The other three men looked interested. Wilbourne set down his cards. “Do tell.”
“A servant?” Stockton asked.
“Someone’s mistress?” Garrett guessed.
Alex shook his head, wishing he didn’t have to explain. “Someone’s daughter.”
To their credit, the three men looked horrified.
Alex raked a hand through his hair. “I was gambling with a man who got in over his head. I didn’t know it, or I’d never have played with him. Anyway, suffice it to say, when he realized he couldn’t pay off his many losses, he offered up his daughter to work them off.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Wilbourne breathed.
“The man’s deceased. I’d rather not name him and tread further on his memory.”
“Barbaric,” Stockton grunted.
“Positively medieval,” Wilbourne confirmed.
“Did you accept?” Garrett asked.
“Of course he didn’t,” Wilbourne answered for him.
A man at the table closest to theirs—a man that Alex, in his brandy-induced haze, couldn’t place—stood and brushed past, headed for the entrance. The stranger glanced at Alex a little longer than polite behavior dictated. Clearly, he’d overheard their conversation.
Garrett looked at Alex for confirmation.
“No. I didn’t,” Alex said shortly. Was his reputation truly so bad even some of his friends thought he’d stoop so low? He’d had any number of mistresses and lovers, but he’d never taken a woman who hadn’t come to him willingly. Although, if this morning’s encounter had been any indication of Elizabeth’s willingness…
