All's Fair in Love & Seduction (The Elusive Lords, Novella)

by Beverley Kendall

  “Was I too rough?” His lips coasted the shell of her ear.

  “Never.” It came out sounding like a purr.

  “No nausea?”

  With a playful nip to her ear, Derek dropped his head onto the pillow. Elizabeth rolled onto her side to face him, propping up on her elbow.

  She smiled down at him. “Not this morning.”

  “Maybe I should always wake you like that.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted to her breasts.

  She chuckled. “But you do.”

  He continued to eye her breasts. “Do they still hurt?”

  Before she could answer, he lightly brushed her nipple with his thumb until it pebbled. They had discovered she was with child the month before and now in the third month of her pregnancy, she was starting to see a slight rounding to her stomach.

  “Not when you do that.” Her release only minutes before had rendered her practically enervated but his touch began a slow simmer of pleasure in her blood. But sadly, they didn’t have time for another bout of lovemaking.

  “Derek, you know we cannot. There isn’t time. Charlotte would never forgive me if I came late to her wedding.”

  “Good God, is that today already?” he teased. Elizabeth had talked of little else the past fortnight.

  The marriage was to have taken place six months ago, but the death of Alex’s brother and heir to the duchy had made it necessary to move it forward so a year of mourning could be observed.

  Lung fever had taken Alex’s brother Charles in a matter of weeks. But now things appeared to be better. Alex was slowly healing from the loss with Charlotte’s unwavering love and support. If any two people deserved happiness, those two certainly did.

  Elizabeth and Derek’s own wedding had been held at St. George’s and was well attended by ton’s standards. No blood had been spilled when his brother and her sister saw each other for the first time in over six years. And he and her parents had buried the past upon Derek’s apology.

  Elizabeth could happily say, it had been one of the most memorable and wonderful days in her life. And in six months, they would welcome the birth of their own child.

  “If they are even half as happy as we are, they will be truly blessed.” She leaned down and placed a feather of a kiss on his lips, pulling back when he tried to take it deeper, hunger evident in his eyes.

  He smiled, chagrined and then oh so tenderly ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I count my blessings every day.”

  Prologue

  London, 1859

  A hushed silence greeted Alex Cartwright’s arrival into an antechamber in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Attired in navy frock coats, precisely knotted neckties, and light blue trousers, the Viscount Armstrong and Rutherford, the Earl of Windmere, were certainly suited up well enough for the occasion. At least in dress if not demeanor, for their faces held the grayish cast of men bound for the gallows. And Rutherford’s hair appeared as if it had been plowed more times than a seasoned whore.

  Pausing just inside the threshold, Alex let out a dry laugh. “Come now gentlemen, it can’t be as bad as that,” he teased. “The occasion does not call for black dress or armbands. This isn’t a funeral you’re attending, but my wedding.”

  Such a comment would have customarily elicited a wry smile, at the very least. Neither man blinked, and another silence the weight of a ship’s anchor descended upon the room, blanketing him in air as cold as London’s fog was thick.

  Determined that whatever their affliction, it would not spoil the most important day thus far in his twenty-eight years, Alex quelled the sense of unease beginning to unfurl in his gut.

  Under a domed celestial frieze of cherubs and angels, Alex advanced toward the pair standing motionless in front of a large marble-topped table, his footfall muffled by the carpeted floor. He would have welcomed more noise, some sort of distraction from the somberness surrounding him, be it in human form or décor.

  Located in the south transept of the church, the chamber boasted dark burgundy drapes of some thick, expensive fabric, and surrounding the black marble fireplace were three chairs crafted with enough gild, scrollwork, and velvet to satisfy royalty. But then, with the sudden death of his brother—the much beloved son and heir to the Hastings dukedom—wasn’t Alex now regarded as such? Despite his mother’s vehement opposition to the marriage, when Alex had made it clear he’d marry Charlotte with or without her approval, she thrown her considerable ducal weight into ensuring his wedding would be the most celebrated event in Society for at least the next decade to come.

  Halting in front of his friends, he quirked a brow. “Surely you’re not commiserating over my nuptials?” Alex found light sarcasm served as a wonderful vehicle to lift a dour mood. “I would think not, as you both have walked—” He executed a mock bow. “I stand corrected gentlemen—vanquished this course years ago.”

  And most assuredly they had, both men happily married with nary a complaint regarding the oft-bemoaned rigors of the institution. Indeed, each had been passionate in its recommendation.

  Armstrong shot Rutherford a look, one Alex instantly recognized. He’d seen it often enough over the course of an acquaintance numbering twenty-six years. In that instant, he knew something was terribly, perhaps tragically, wrong.

  Panic bloomed and anxiety burned like acid in his throat. Alex’s gaze flew to Rutherford. “It’s Charlotte isn’t it? Something has happened to Charlotte.”

  The earl averted his gaze.

  In an abrupt move that brought the two men practically nose to nose, Alex grabbed Rutherford forcibly by the arms. Even if his friend’s delay had been infinitesimal, it measured what felt like an eternity too long.

  Holding the other man in a vise grip, Alex gave him a teeth-jarring shake. “Tell me damn it. What’s happened to Charlotte? Is she hurt? Where is she?”

  Bending his imprisoned arm at the elbow, Rutherford offered up an envelope. “She sent this for you,” he said hoarsely.

  Dropping his hands to his sides, Alex took a cautious step back. At first, he could only stare at the innocuous rectangular paper, uncomprehending, a little dazed. Slowly, the fog released its hold on his senses.

  His gaze darted to the sheaf of paper crushed in Rutherford’s other hand. He then recalled the footman hurrying down the hall. In that instant, he knew the man he’d passed with so little regard, so consumed with his own happiness, had been the bearer of the news that had sent his friends into this morbid melancholy. News that would assuredly send him someplace far worse.

  Charlotte wasn’t hurt. The evidence stood before him in the form of her brother. Had she been injured or taken ill, a stable full of horses wouldn’t have been able to drag Rutherford from her side. But too swiftly on the heels of staggering relief nipped a growing fear. For penned in her signature slopes and curls was his name emblazoned across the front of the envelope. A letter from her on the day of their wedding could signify only one thing.

  “She’s not coming is she?” His cravat—silk mulberry that his valet had fussed into an elaborate knot—felt as if it had a stranglehold on his words.

  “Cartwright—”

  Alex’s head jerked violently in the direction of his friend, the set of his countenance effectively cutting Armstrong off at the utterance of his name.

  With a hefty sigh, Armstrong ran his hand through his thatch of golden hair, regarding him with eyes filled with the kind of compassion no man should have to countenance on his wedding day. Sympathy was bad enough, but pity, intolerable.

  Directing his attention back to Rutherford, Alex stared at the envelope unclaimed in his friend’s hand knowing its contents promised to deliver him the felling blow.

  “What does she say?” he asked, his voice a hollow imitation of his former self.

  “I didn’t read it,” Rutherford muttered gruffly, extending his arm so the tan paper touched the bare flesh exposed at Alex’s wrist.

  Alex jerked back at the contact and retreated several steps, s
urveying it with abhorrence, like something truly reprehensible.

  “What did she tell you?” he asked quietly, dragging his gaze up to Rutherford’s.

  Six months ago when his friend had paced the halls outside his wife’s bedchamber awaiting the birth of their third child, he’d worn the same expression he did at present, a helpless sort of fright.

  “What does she say!” Alex’s voice exploded like a cannon blast in graveyard silence. “Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?”

  Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you? The echo transcended the room to storm the corridors of the prestigious church.

  Rutherford appeared to have to rally his courage, swallowing, and then drawing in a ragged breath before he said, “The footman brought the letters only moments before your arrival. I was coming—”

  “God dammit man, quit all your blasted blathering. Just tell me what she wrote!”

  Rutherford made an uncomfortable sound in his throat before replying in graveled tones, “She wrote to beg my forgiveness for any scandal or shame her actions may bring upon the family but…says she can’t marry you.”

  A roar sounded in Alex’s ears as he grasped the back of a nearby chair, the coolness of the metal frame muted by his silk white gloves. He blinked rapidly in an effort to halt the stinging in his eyes and swallowed to douse the burning in his throat. And a numbness such as he’d never known assailed him turning his limbs into leaden weights.

  “Where is she?”

  Stark pain and fear flashed in Rutherford’s pale blue eyes. “I don’t know. She’s quit the Manor but gave no indication as to where she’s gone. She merely states she is safe and that we must not concern ourselves unduly over her.”

  The weight on Alex’s chest threatened to crush every organ beneath it. But such destruction would do little to his heart, for it had already broken into a multitude of pieces.

  Like that, with the flourish of a pen, she was gone.

  Turning, Alex made for the open door. Around him, he felt rather than saw his friends move in chorus toward him. He stopped abruptly, angled his head over his shoulder and met their gazes. “Let me be. I shall be fine.” But he wouldn’t lie to himself; he would never be fine.

  The two men did not advance any further.

  Alex blindly put one foot in front of the other. With every step, he discarded a piece of the dream of the life he’d foolishly thought to have with her…until there were none.

  He took his leave of the room, his leave of the church, to start his way back to a life obliterated to a pile of nothingness.

  Chapter One

  Berkshire, 1864

  Her sister was gravely ill.

  The knowledge plagued Charlotte Rutherford, consuming her with such fear that a proper night’s sleep had been impossible since her good friend, Lucas Beaumont had informed her upon his return from England.

  The news had catapulted her into a frenzy of activity for two days thereafter. In that time, she’d arranged passage to England and closed up her small townhouse in Manhattan. What came next required all of her endurance: an eleven-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. With too much time to her solitary thoughts, she’d been wracked with inconsolable grief and the bitterest regret...and heart stopping fear that her presence there would open a Pandora’s Box of a different sort.

  Now two weeks to the day after she had learned of her sister’s illness, Charlotte was here. The place she’d once called home. And after an absence of nearly five years, the reality of once again being on English soil—standing at the doors of Rutherford Manor—brought with it the heartbreak of old.

  All of that, however, paled in the light of her sister’s illness. For Katie, Charlotte would endure anything, even if it meant risking exposure and opening a wound that had never healed. One she feared might never truly heal.

  With her heart in her throat and anxiety now a familiar—albeit unwelcome—companion, Charlotte lifted the knocker of the oak door and brought it down three times in rapid succession.

  The ensuing seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Were they home? She hadn’t even considered that possibility when she’d arrived in Town and had proceeded directly to Paddington Station to catch the train to Reading. She shot a glance over her shoulder and regarded the phaeton parked in front of her hired coach. Someone must be in residence, as it appeared they had company. Something else she hadn’t considered.

  At the opening of the door, she gave a nervous start and spun back around. Reeves, the Rutherford butler of thirty odd years, stood in the doorway, his tall, spare frame and lined visage reminiscent of happier times in days long past. But the advance of age had left its mark. Once possessed of a head of hair with equal amounts of gray and brown, his hair now rivaled the unadulterated white of Father Christmas. And his stature, which formerly would have been the envy of any uniformed man, now gently rounded at the shoulders, proving once again just how time spared no one.

  Given he was a man disposed to typical English butler demeanor, she’d never imagined he had it in his personal repertoire to blanch, but that is precisely what he did upon viewing her. He said nothing for several seconds, simply stared, his eyes wide and unblinking. Charlotte stifled a laugh—one of the nervous sort—fearing any attempt at speech would cause her to dissolve into a heap of polka dot skirts at his feet.

  Behind her, a horse whinnied and stomped its hooves and birds continued their cheerful chirping while Reeves appeared to be struggling to find his tongue. At length, he exclaimed softly, “Lady Charlotte.” He spoke as if he believed she was but a vision and any undue noise would send her off into obscurity.

  Charlotte managed a tremulous smile, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Hullo, Reeves. I-I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” The greeting seemed hardly adequate, but she was at a loss to find something fitting to say after so long an absence. So sudden a departure.

  Her voice appeared to galvanize him into action. Throwing open the door, he ushered her through an entrance hall as large as the ground floor of her townhouse and into the vestibule. She’d quite forgotten just how large an estate her brother owned.

  “I fear we were not apprised of your arrival. Such a shame as, just this morning his lordship and her ladyship went into London with the children. However, Lady Catherine is in residence. She will be happy that you’ve returned.” Reeves never smiled, and that hadn’t changed, but he did appear pleased to make the announcement.

  “I hadn’t time to send word of my coming.” She’d naturally assumed everyone would be home with her sister doing so poorly. She was more than a little surprised that James had gone off to London and left Katie alone in the care of the servants—and no doubt the attending physician. Actually, it was inconceivable that he would do so.

  Pivoting sharply to face the elderly butler, Charlotte laid a restraining hand on his black clad arm as he made a move to relieve her of her pelisse. “Reeves, can you tell me anything of my sister’s condition?”

  Reeves’ stilled at her touch. Lowering his hands to his sides, he stared down at her, his brows furrowed. After a pause, the deep creases in his forehead eased to mere lines. “If you’re speaking of that rather nasty cold she fell ill with the month past, then I can assure you she has since fully recovered.”

  A cold?

  The doctor has done all he can for her. If she recovers it will be by the grace of God.

  She could hear Lucas’s words as though he’d spoken them yesterday. Not even the severest of colds rose to that criticality.

  Before she had an opportunity to question Reeves further, the scramble of feet and a high-pitched squeal drew her attention to the top of the double mahogany staircase.

  Her sister stood in the middle of the first floor landing clutching the balustrade, her form poised for flight. “Charlotte, is that really you?” Katie cried. Then in a blur of pale green muslin, she took the right set of stairs with all the refinement of a horde of marauding boars. Her fingers skimmed and skippe
d over the polished mahogany banister as her skirt fluttered and quivered under the breeze of her stampeding steps.

  Transfixed by the first sight of her twin in nearly five years as she flew down the stairs, Charlotte could neither move nor speak.

  Katie wasn’t ailing.

  At least Charlotte had never seen a person whose survival was said to have hinged on God’s mercy with so much bounce and pep, her cheeks flushed with the healthy hue of breathless excitement, not the ravages of fever. No, her sister looked as vital and healthy as any twenty-three year old woman could.

  After a fortnight of anticipating the worst and ardent prayers that she’d arrive to find her sister at least on the verge of recovery, a tidal wave of emotion washed over her, and soon Charlotte was moving, her feet carrying her forward without conscious effort or thought.

  “Oh Lottie, Lottie. You’ve come back,” her sister cried before launching herself into her arms. “Lord, how I’ve missed you.”

  Charlotte choked out a sob at the use of her childhood name as they embraced at the foot of the staircase, clinging to one another under a deluge of shared tears. Joy, relief, and the pain of their long separation had Charlotte trembling uncontrollably. The last time they’d held each other this tightly, they had been frightened five-year-old orphans just arrived at the boarding school. Save a father who’d ensured for only their financial welfare, they’d been very much alone in the world.

  “Oh God, I thought you—” Charlotte broke off abruptly when her sister turned a tear-stained face to her, her joy a living breathing entity. How could she now admit she’d returned because she’d thought her near death’s door? She could not.

  “Thought I was what?” Katie asked in a voice choked with tears.

  “I thought perhaps I wouldn’t find you home,” Charlotte quickly improvised. “Oh Katie, how I missed you too, so very much.”