by Allegra Gray
Harold nodded, waving off his friend and choosing to ignore the faint distaste he thought he detected in the man’s tone.
He was far more interested in the new idea taking hold of his mind. Elizabeth Medford could still be of use to him.
Her father could no longer pay his debt. But she could. Maybe not in pounds…but how much better would it be to have her obeying him, serving him, as she’d been so loathe to do before? He’d touch that sweet body, own it, and in the meantime, he’d use whatever connections the Medfords had left to further his political purposes. Before, he’d courted her, minced about, hoping to curry favor. But now, with proof the family owed him, he had leverage.
Harold smiled. He would call on them directly.
The duke was true to his word. Even after the Grumsbys’ other guests returned to London, he remained. Everywhere Elizabeth went, it seemed he was there.
She wondered how long he could possibly prolong his visit. Could she outlast him in this game of cat and mouse before succumbing to those meaningful, desire-laden gazes he shot her when no one else was looking?
It was wrong. It was dangerous, to feel this way. But she’d wanted Alex Bainbridge to notice her from the moment she’d attended her first ball and seen him standing there, starkly predatory and surrounded by all-too-willing prey. He’d been everything she, as a female and the eldest Medford daughter, was not allowed to be.
She’d been standing at the edge of the Peasleys’ ballroom, drinking lemonade after a disastrous waltz with an overenthusiastic partner, when her gaze had been inexorably drawn toward the duke.
She’d stayed back, content to observe, for Beaufort traveled with a faster, more daring set than she was comfortable with. Another man in his party told a joke, leaning into the admiring crowd to deliver the punch line. It was quite scandalous, judging from the duke’s laugh and the shocked expressions of several of the young ladies—whom Elizabeth doubted were actually very shocked. One of the aspiring women used the opportunity to arrange a delicate swoon, aimed directly toward the duke’s arms.
He’d caught her gracefully, of course, but he’d looked up as he’d done so and caught Elizabeth’s eye. He’d winked.
Before the slightest notion of proper behavior had entered her mind, Elizabeth had rolled her eyes.
The duke had thrown his head back and laughed. Amazingly, Elizabeth had managed to maintain her composure, in spite of being shocked at her own audacity. She’d simply smiled and glided away.
He hadn’t spoken to her that night.
But from that moment on she’d watched, and dreamed, always with the knowledge that Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, Marquess of Worcester, and holder of who knew how many lesser titles, moved in circles far above her. Each year, every matchmaking mama in London prayed her daughter would finally be the one to snare him.
When he did decide to marry—and he would have to, to pass on his estates—it would certainly be to someone unforgettable, a diamond of the first water. Not to someone like Elizabeth Medford.
She glanced down at the stiff gray skirts that composed her governess’s uniform. They were a clear reminder of her new station. She may have lost her heart to Alex Bainbridge years ago, but it was vital she didn’t lose her head as well.
Careful, Elizabeth reminded herself. She had to be very, very careful.
This morning the children were out with their father, a man Elizabeth had come to respect. She’d taken advantage of her freedom by actually choosing one of the poetry volumes from the library—she’d been too distracted last time—and bringing it to her favorite bench in the garden. But her mind wouldn’t focus on the words. Instead it drifted away from the flowery phrases and settled on Alex Bainbridge.
She’d stopped trying to avoid him—not only was it impossible, but after the intimacy of their kiss, she longed for his presence. So she wasn’t surprised to see him strolling toward her.
She sat straighter, consciously gathering her defenses. She could ill afford another indiscretion.
The reminder did little, though, to squash the bubble of joy that rose inside her as he strode her way.
“A fine day for reading, Miss Medford. You make a lovely picture on that bench, surrounded by the roses.”
“Your Grace.” She stood and curtsied. The man was a master of flattery, but she knew better than to take it, or him, seriously. He’d charmed legions of women. She was only the latest in the long line of women who had, temporarily, captured his attention. But, oh, she wanted to believe she was different. That she meant more.
“Please, sit,” he said.
She did, and he planted himself beside her. If anyone made a lovely picture that morning, it was he. More handsome than lovely, Elizabeth mentally amended. He was clad in a fine lawn shirt and breeches, his jacket a deep claret. The wind toyed with his dark hair, and she resisted the urge to smooth it back into place.
“Would you care to accompany me on a drive tomorrow afternoon? I believe our last conversation in the library was interrupted, and I’m anxious to continue it.”
Interrupted, indeed.
“You’re too kind, Your Grace, but I simply couldn’t.”
“Why not? Tomorrow is Sunday, and I know for a fact my sister makes a point of spending Sunday afternoons with her children. It would seem you are free.” He frowned. “Unless, of course, you’re trying to avoid me.”
“No, Your Grace, of course not.” The answer slipped out before she could think of a better one.
“Then you’ll come?”
“Er…” She should tell him she’d already made plans. But for what? Silently Elizabeth cursed the mental lapse that robbed her of common sense whenever he was near.
His frown cleared, replaced by a satisfied, lazy smile, as if he’d already anticipated her capitulation. He placed his hand over hers, his thumb stroking small circles in her palm. “I know of a lovely route we could take. The flowers have all just begun to bloom. Rather like yourself—a beautiful bloom unfurling before my eyes.” His eyes twinkled.
Elizabeth grew warm. “Your flattery is outrageous, Your Grace. Besides, it would hardly be proper.”
“Is that your concern, then? Propriety?” He stroked the inside of her wrist.
Elizabeth melted. Desperately she tried to remember the many reasons why getting involved with Alex Bainbridge was a very, very bad idea.
Propriety. Yes, that was it.
“Of course,” she managed, but her voice came out a whisper.
Alex grinned wider. Obviously, he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
She turned away, but he clasped both her hands in his.
“There’s no need to play coy. I know you are not adverse to my attentions, else you would never have come up with that fascinating proposal. Let me see…how did you put it? Oh, yes. You asked me to ruin you.”
She stood indignantly. “It is most ungallant of you, sir, to bring that up,” she admonished, though from the amusement in his eyes, her scolding had little effect.
He gave her arm a tug that landed her back on the bench—this time much closer to him.
“Besides, that was when I thought your involvement would be beneficial,” Elizabeth continued, trying to ignore the fact that their thighs were nearly brushing. Thank goodness for the layers of her skirts. “Now that I’ve managed to avoid my unwanted suitor and secure a position on my own, there’s really no need for you to even think of me.”
“I disagree.” He slid even closer, and the heavy-lidded intent in his eyes told Elizabeth he meant to kiss her. “I’m quite certain there is, uh, need.”
She scooted back, heat rising in her cheeks.
“There would be advantages for you, you know.”
She cocked her head, uncertain how to respond.
“Let me be bold. I would have you as my mistress, Elizabeth.”
The cad! Elizabeth grasped at the shreds of her dignity. “Hardly a position to ascribe to,” she said haughtily. That wasn’t true, though. Any number of women would
gladly accept the position, even if, or particularly if, an offer of marriage was not forthcoming.
Alex knew it, too. “Au contraire, cherie. As my mistress, you would be supported in far more luxury than you can support yourself as a governess.”
She looked away.
“Come, Elizabeth,” he said, his tone gentling, “we both know you are not suited to governess’s work. You are a creature of passion.”
With one strong finger he traced her ear, her jaw—a touch that, had he known it, confirmed his assessment of her.
“And yet,” she replied, drawing her spine as stiff and straight as possible, “a governess holds a respectable position. My family may be upset with me, but at least I am not ruined in the eyes of all Society. And if I am to remain respectable, I must be a governess of unimpeachable reputation, sir.”
“It was not so long ago you were more amenable to being ruined. May I point out that my offer is actually much better?”
She shrugged. “Obviously I was a bit desperate when I succumbed to such thoughts. Luckily I came to my senses and found something more stable. If I were your mistress, I would be in constant danger of losing my position, for your interest in me would soon wane.” The string of mistresses he’d left behind was legendary. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Then where would I be?”
He brushed aside that argument with a wave of his hand. “You underestimate yourself.”
He was flattering her, but she steeled her will. “I cannot know that for sure, Your Grace. Better I look after my reputation.”
“Still, you are attracted to me.”
The confidence in his voice made her want to smack him. Of course, it was true, and he knew it. “That’s hardly the point.”
“Then why did you kiss me in the library?”
He had her there. She could point out that he’d initiated said kiss, but they both knew how she’d responded.
“You don’t need to decide now.” He stood. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock tomorrow. We’ll go driving in the country.” His features softened for a moment. “My carriage will be devoid of insignia—you needn’t fear being seen.”
“You’ll be wasting your time, Your Grace,” she told him, though her voice lacked conviction. “I won’t come.”
He gave her a tolerant smile. “Oh, I think you will.”
She studied the ground. He knew her too well.
He pressed a kiss to her hand as he left. “I shall be counting the hours.”
Elizabeth remained on the garden bench, desire warring with her trepidation. She stared blankly at the volume of poetry she’d brought outdoors. There was no way she could read it now.
Alex rubbed his temples and stared at the letter on the desk. Upon returning from the garden, he’d found a pile of correspondence waiting for him. His secretary had thoughtfully gathered it for delivery to the Grumsby estate, knowing his master was not one to let business linger.
Alex momentarily wished the secretary was slack in his duties, for he had no desire to see this particular letter.
Even after death, the Baron Medford continued to be a thorn in his side.
He was well aware the man had died still owing him a considerable debt. In fact, this letter didn’t address the half of it—most “gentleman’s debts” were never recorded. Alex was mildly surprised to learn the scoundrel had kept track at all. Now, Medford’s solicitor had sent a letter explaining the status of the estate after his death. To put it succinctly, there was no estate.
Alex tore the letter in two. Disgusting. Men in Medford’s situation had no business gambling. He’d frittered away a respectable, if not especially large, fortune on “investments” that amounted to little more than outright gambling, then worsened the matter with his actual gaming.
Trying to recover the funds would be futile. At this point, Alex would be content simply never to be reminded again of his connection to Lord Medford.
Medford’s daughter, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.
Elizabeth baffled him. When he’d offered her the position of mistress, he’d done so, at least in part, just to see her reaction. And she’d surprised him. He’d had her pegged as a schemer, but what was she after? One minute she melted passionately in his arms, the next, primly informed him she preferred a respectable life of near-poverty to the pampering she would receive under his protection. Why?
That wild mane of red hair belonged spread across a pillow—preferably his—not tucked up under a governess’s cap. He’d lost precious hours of sleep imagining where that kiss could have led.
But he’d made a promise to dissociate himself from any further involvement with anyone bearing the name of Medford. That promise had driven him to turn down Elizabeth’s offer that morning in Hyde Park.
Now that he knew her better, it was a promise he was seriously coming to regret.
Alex poured himself a brandy. Hell, what was one more broken promise after a lifetime of sins?
If anything, he was beginning to think Lord Medford, in a weird and twisted way, had been onto something when he’d tried to thrust Alex and Elizabeth together.
A gruff, cynical laugh escaped him. He must be losing it, if he was beginning to trust Lord Medford’s judgment. He tossed the brandy back, savored the slow burn as he swallowed.
He’d once considered Medford a close acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. But that was before he’d learned the man’s true nature.
They’d gambled together, with Alex assuming the baron could cover his mounting losses. Eventually, Alex had mentioned something about payment, not liking to leave things lingering too long. Medford had stalled, which had tipped off Alex that all was not as it seemed. Finally, the man had approached him, with an apology and a proposal so vile, Alex still had trouble believing it.
Lord Medford had met Alex at White’s that evening, then waited until Alex’s fellow card players had all abandoned the table and the servants were out of earshot.
“This is a hard thing for a man to say,” Medford had muttered, not meeting Alex’s eye, “but I simply can’t cover those debts right now. It’s a bad time.” He laid down his cards.
Alex briefly felt sorry for the older man. Irritated, certainly, but also sympathetic, as he assumed the problem was temporary. “How long do you need?”
“Well, that’s the problem. I simply can’t say.” He looked up. “But I thought perhaps there was another way we could even the score.”
“I’m listening.”
“You may have my eldest daughter in marriage.”
“What!” Alex shook his head to clear his ears.
“I thought if we joined families, then the debt wouldn’t matter. And Elizabeth is an attractive girl.”
“See here, Medford, your thinking is awry.” Alex forced the words through a clenched jaw. “For one, the days of the man paying a bride-price are over. They were over centuries ago. But that is what you’re essentially asking me to do. Generally, it works the other way around. Women come with a dowry, which makes them more attractive to a man.” Alex didn’t need any woman’s dowry, but that didn’t change the principle of the matter.
“But Elizabeth is special,” Medford said. And Alex hated the desperation in his voice.
“I don’t even know the chit!” Not only did he not know her, he had no intention of marrying anyone in the near future.
“Does that matter for a ton marriage?”
“Medford, you disgust me. You’re trying to turn your losses into profit. Just think—you’d be out of debt, you’d have an unwed daughter off your hands, and, to top it all off, you’d have an alliance with one of the premier families in England. Exactly how do you see this as a way to, as you put it, ‘even the score’?”
Medford twisted a playing card in his hands and remained silent.
“Now, perhaps if she were willing to work off your debt in other ways…” He spoke with deliberate crudeness, wanting to see Medford, weasel that he was, squirm a bit. But though Alex was
no stranger to debauchery, he had no intention of dragging an innocent girl into this matter.
“Now see here,” Medford bleakly replied, his face pale, “Elizabeth is a respectable girl. She ought to marry. You, Your Grace, must be thinking of an heir.”
Unbelievable what the man thought he could get away with. There was no way Alex was marrying a woman he’d never met. “That’s not your concern.”
“No.” The baron swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He began muttering to himself.
Alex picked out a few phrases, including “wouldn’t be the end of the world,” “figured it would come to this,” and “after it was said and done, could still marry her off to an older man who didn’t mind a chit with a bit of experience.”
Alex turned away. He knew some families viewed their daughters as a liability, worth only the social advancement they might gain from marriage, but he certainly didn’t want to hear this man say so aloud.
“I suppose we could consider that option,” Medford said finally, “if Elizabeth were willing, and if we could somehow keep her mother from knowing—”
“No,” Alex said shortly. “Forget I said anything. It’s both preposterous and vile. Just pay me when you have the funds.”
Alex had then left quickly, anxious to remove the baron from his sight. Many nobles ran short of funds occasionally, but there were far more genteel ways to handle it. Alex had wanted only to make the man squirm until he agreed to pay up—and with money, not with his eldest child. This man was a gambler, a schemer, and, judging from what he’d been about to agree to, a panderer. Disgusting.
What galled Alex the most was how he’d misjudged the man. Alex prided himself on his ability to tell a man’s character, but here he’d been dead wrong. He’d never knowingly gambled with a man who could not afford to lose. It kept things civil. But the baron’s easy demeanor, so unlike the hollow-eyed, drawn faces of others who were desperate, had fooled him enough that he’d not thought it necessary to look any deeper—at least until that last night. The man had possessed extraordinary skill at deception.
Alex moved to a more exclusive gaming club, and his contact with Medford had mercifully been cut off. A peaceful eight months had gone by, and though Alex had not been repaid, he’d believed he was rid of the scoundrel.
