The Scoundrel Who Loved Me

by Laura Landon

  The duke’s blond hair was turning to silver, but his pale blue eyes, the same color as the walls, were still sharp. His face was always stern. There were no laugh lines at the corners of his eyes or mouth. In all her almost one and twenty years, she had rarely seen him smile.

  She wondered why she had been summoned. She could not think of anything she had done to displease him. Then again, that was not difficult to accomplish. No matter how well educated or talented she or her brothers and sisters were, he never seemed to be happy with any of his children. Although, he saved most of his ire for her eldest brother, the Marquis of Hawksworth. For his part, Damon did not appear to care what their father thought. He had an inheritance from his mother, the duke’s first wife, and did exactly what he pleased. Laia was tempted to sigh. To have such independence was something to which she could never even aspire. At the rate she was going, she’d live and die an old maid.

  “Sit down girl.” The barked command was so sudden she almost jumped.

  “Yes, father.” Laia sank into the chair behind her, knees together, her hands folded in her lap, eyes cast modestly down.

  “I have found you a husband.”

  A shiver of trepidation slithered down her back. She was not to be a spinster after all. She should have expected it. After all, he had arranged matches for two of her brothers. Not that either Damon or Frank had wed the women Father had chosen. Still the news was such a shock she could think of nothing to say. He had so little to do with her she had almost believed he had forgotten she existed. That he had gone out of his way and arranged a marriage for her was more than she had hoped for.

  “He is the Duke of Bolton.” The duke tapped his pen on the desk as if in a hurry. “You will be married at his estate in Hampshire in July.”

  Bolton? Wasn’t he already wed? Or had she gotten him confused with another duke? Not that there were many of them. Yet, she must have. After all, she could not be marrying him if he already had a wife.

  Somerset speared Laia with a look reminding her that he probably wanted a response even though there was only one thing to stay. “Yes, Father.”

  “You may go.” He picked up a document and began to read it.

  She rose and almost fled the room. Still . . . was that all he thought she needed to know? Steeling herself for a rebuke, she asked, “When will I meet him?”

  The duke raised one thin white brow, and Laia fought the urge to escape as quickly as she could. Yet, this was the rest of her life they were discussing and it was the nineteenth century not the fifteenth century. She would like to get to know her prospective husband before actually saying her vows.

  “I have arranged for a house in Bath. Your mother is convinced that you need to be in Society before taking your position as the wife of a peer. If he can take the time, I assume you will meet Bolton while you are there.”

  “Yes, Father. Thank you.” Skirting the chair, she walked as swiftly as she was able from the study and headed straight to the library.

  Since she had apparently forgotten who the Duke of Bolton was, Debrett’s would be able to answer many of her questions, and her mother the rest. She hoped.

  But Bath! That was above all things absolutely wonderful! It was true that Bath was no longer as popular as it once had been, but there were assemblies, and other parties, and the famous Pump Room where people met, not only to take the waters but to see others and be seen. Neither Laia nor her sisters had been allowed to attend even the local assemblies. The promise of Bath was wonderful indeed. And then she was to be wed! What a momentous day this was turning out to be.

  A quarter hour later, uncertain what to make of her discovery, she closed the latest copy of Debrett’s. How could the Duke of Bolton be so careless to have lost four wives? One or two might be understandable, but four seemed a bit excessive. Particularly as he did not even have any children to show for his unions. Then again, perhaps they and their mothers had died in childbirth. Unfortunately, it happened more often than one would like. Thankfully, Laia’s mother had never had a problem in that respect. Perhaps that was the reason the duke wished to wed her.

  He was rather old. Yet Father was much older than Mama, and they seemed to get on well. Laia wished he would have chosen a younger man. A handsome, younger man. If one was to dream, one might as well wish for everything, and no one could argue that four and sixty was not old. If only the duke was four and thirty or even four and forty . . . Still, having children and her own houses to manage was a dream come true. At the rate her father was going, she and her sisters had been convinced that their brother, Damon, would have to ascend to their father’s title before they would be allowed to wed.

  Laia would have liked to marry for love like her brothers Damon, Frank, and Quartus had done. Yet they had all defied Father in their choices. He was still extremely upset about that. Their names—the wives’ names—were not even to be spoken aloud. At least not in Father’s hearing.

  Laia sighed. There was absolutely no possibility he would even consider allowing her or her sisters to find their own husbands. Then again, it was hard to look for a spouse when one was never allowed to meet any gentlemen at all except the elderly dancing master and the servants.

  Nevertheless, she should be happy. Her father had gone out of his way for her, and she must trust he had chosen a gentleman who would treat her well.

  Rising, she shook out her skirts before making her way to the morning room where her mother could usually be found. There was packing to be done, and she wanted to ask when they were leaving for Bath. Fighting the urge to skip, she hastened her step. Just the thought of visiting the spa town made Laia giddy.

  As she expected, her mother was with the cats in the morning room reading. A tea service was on a low table in easy reach of the chair upon which she sat.

  “Mama.” Laia waited while her mother placed a marker in the book and closed it.

  Her mother searched her face before saying, “Is something wrong?”

  “I do not believe so. Father has informed me that I am to wed the Duke of Bolton.”

  Mama’s already straight back seemed to straighten even more and her brows lowered. “Bolton?”

  “Yes.” Laia nodded. “He also said we were to visit Bath.”

  Her mother’s lips tightened for a moment, but then she smiled and rose. “We are indeed. You should inform your maid. There is much to do before we depart. I must write a letter.”

  “Yes, of course.” She followed her mother out of the room. “When do we leave?”

  “In a few days.” Mama’s voice sounded distracted. “Yes, that will do.” She glanced up as if surprised to find Laia still next to her. “Run along now.”

  She left her mother muttering to herself. What could be the matter?

  . . .

  Guy Paulet, former army officer, current Member of Parliament, and nephew and putative heir to the Duke of Bolton had just sat down to tea with his good friends, Damon, Marquis of Hawksworth and his wife, Meg, when their butler entered the well-appointed, sunny parlor carrying a silver salver.

  “My lady”—the butler bowed—“a letter from her grace has just arrived via messenger. I gather it is urgent.”

  “Thank you, Saunders.” Plucking the missive from the salver, she popped the seal, and shook the paper open. A few moments later a fine line had formed between her brows and she addressed Hawksworth, “It appears we are going to Bath for the summer.”

  “Indeed?” he asked after a few stunned moments. When she did not respond he continued, “I suppose at some point you will get around to telling me why exactly we must go to Bath.”

  Meg Hawksworth’s frown deepened as she re-read the note. “Somerset has decided that your sister Laia is to marry the Duke of Bolton—I would love to know how that came about—Catherine has convinced your father that Laia must be brought up to snuff before the wedding if she is not to embarrass the family—of course, if he had let her come out like a normal lady. . .”—Meg shook her head seemingly
disgusted—“As the Season has only another week to go, and your father will not allow her to come to Town or Brighton in any event at all, Bath it is.”

  Guy loosened his jaw as the pain radiating from his back teeth became intolerable. If this union occurred, it would be his uncle’s fifth marriage. And he had no doubt at all that it would end the same as the others. In the death of his wife. In this case, the sister of one of his friends.

  Bolton, with his massive sense of self-worth, would not even consider the fact that he might be the cause of his wives’ failure to breed.

  Well, Guy was damned if he’d allow another lady to die for failing to give the duke an heir.

  Especially an innocent such as Lady Laia Trevor.

  One way or another, this engagement must come to an end. Guy would see to it.

  Before he could voice his objections, Hawksworth spoke, “What the devil is the old man thinking? Bolton will never see sixty again.”

  “Not to mention the tendency of his wives to depart this earth in an appallingly consistent fashion,” Meg murmured in a dry tone. “However, to answer your question, my love, he is thinking that his eldest daughter should wed a duke.”

  “And as Bolton is in need of a wife, he’ll do.” Hawksworth scowled. “That’s too simple. There is something Somerset wants from Bolton, and he’s using Laia to get it.”

  “I believe you are correct. Somerset doesn’t give anything away, even his children.” Meg placed the letter on a small cherry table next to her. “Well, there is nothing for it. We must think of a way to stop the marriage from occurring.”

  “The question is, short of putting my sister on a ship to Frank and Jenny in New York, what are we going to do?” Hawksworth glanced at his wife.

  Guy favored the idea of sending Hawksworth’s sister to his brother and sister-in-law. Even Somerset couldn’t get to her in America. Or could he? From what Guy had heard of the duke, he’d go to any lengths to get his way. Meg was right. Stopping the marriage was the only sure way of saving Lady Laia.

  The conversation paused as the butler carried in a tea tray complete with tarts, biscuits, and small sandwiches. Once Meg had ensured Guy and her husband had cups of tea, and even fuller plates, she said, “We shall find another gentleman for Laia to wed.”

  That sounded easy enough. Guy wondered if Meg had someone in mind.

  “That said, the gentleman must be at least marginally acceptable to Somerset.” Hawksworth bit off half of his biscuit, chewed, and swallowed. “Unlike my brothers, my sisters are well under Somerset’s thumb. And if she marries someone of whom he will not eventually approve, it will go worse for the other girls.”

  “You have a good point.” Meg nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of tea as Guy applied himself with gusto to the offerings on his plate. “Guy, I think you would be the perfect solution.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Guy choked and hastily covered his mouth to keep food from spewing over himself and the furniture. Laughing, Hawksworth slapped Guy on the back. “Me?” Guy croaked, barely getting the words out. “But I’m not ready to be leg-shackled yet.”

  “Since Meg and I married, I’ve never been happier,” Hawksworth assured Guy in a manner he assumed was meant to be helpful.

  “Aside from that,” Meg added, “if you wish to progress in your career, you must wed.”

  Yes, but not this minute or even this year. “Why me?” Not only that, but her suggestion was preposterous. He did not even know the lady. He had to find a way to change her mind. “There must be dozens of gentlemen more eligible than I. Somerset will never approve of me. I don’t even have a title.”

  “Not in Bath.” Meg’s tone brooked no argument.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear,” Hawksworth said. “But I believe you have jumped ahead in the conversation. Not what in Bath?”

  “Gentlemen.” Her eyes widened as if she was amazed her husband and Guy were confused. “Most of them will be in Brighton.” Well, that was distressingly accurate. “Aside from the obvious, Somerset wants a duke, and when Bolton dies, Guy will ascend to his title.”

  “Our family is amazingly long lived.” Guy groped for a way to get Meg to change her mind. “It will be years before I become a duke.”

  He glanced at Hawksworth in a vain hope of finding support.

  “She is right, you know.” He smirked. “You are the perfect candidate.”

  “I have never even met your sister.” Guy hoped the desperation he felt did not show. Meg Hawksworth was like a dog with a bone when she got one of her ideas.

  “No one has, really. All the girls have been kept close.” Hawksworth seemed to consider his words for a moment before saying, “If it comes to that, I had never met Meg before I was introduced to her.” Glancing at his wife, Hawksworth’s eyes seem to smolder. “After that, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.”

  “And you were the last person I wished to fall in love with.” She grinned, her gaze lingering on her husband for several moments before she turned back to Guy. “The very least you can do is allow us to introduce you to Laia. If, for some reason, you take a violent dislike to each other, we shall attempt to find another gentleman.”

  “You cannot judge by that, my love.” A slow smile dawned on Hawksworth’s face. “Look what happened when you decided you couldn’t stand me.”

  She met Hawksworth’s smile with one of her own. “Quite right, my love.”

  This was getting Guy absolutely nowhere. “Very well. I agree to meet her.”

  “Excellent.” Hawksworth wandered to the bell-pull and tugged. A moment later, Saunders appeared. “Inform Mr. Cummings that I have need of a house in Bath . . .” He looked at Meg.

  “Near or in Laura Place,” she said.

  “Near or in Laura Place,” Hawksworth parroted as if the butler couldn’t hear Meg.

  “Very good, my lord. I shall inform him immediately.”

  One of Hawksworth’s black brows inched toward his hair line as he considered Guy. “Will you require a house there as well?”

  “No. I have one. Believe it or not, one of my great-aunts has given me a house in Great Pultney Street, not far from Laura Place. I was going to rent it out, but wished to inspect the condition first.”

  “How generous of her,” Meg exclaimed.

  “Not really. Her bosom friend with whom she has lived for many years, died not long ago, and she did not want to pay for the upkeep.” Guy frowned to himself. “For a reason I do not understand, I have been the recipient of a number of properties either by bequest or gift.” He shrugged. “Fortunately, they are all self-supporting and provide me with more than sufficient income to maintain my position in the government.”

  “In that case,” Meg said, setting down her cup. “You will have no problem supporting a family.”

  Guy wanted to groan. He should have known the conversation had not ended. “I promised to meet her, nothing more.”

  Her eyes widened innocently. “Naturally.”

  “I shall make arrangements to post to Bath in the next few days.” He stood to say his farewells. “Please advise me when you will arrive.”

  “We shall.” Meg rose as well. “According to my step-mother-in-law, they will be in Bath next week sometime.”

  He bowed to Meg and shook Hawksworth’s hand. “No need to show me out. I know the way by now.”

  As Guy strolled down the corridor to the front door, a thought came to him. His uncle would not be at all happy if he managed to filch the man’s bride. Still, even though neither he nor his friends thought the young lady should wed Bolton, Guy wondered how easy it would be to turn her from the betrothal. Assuming he even wished to do so. Most ladies dreamed of marrying a duke. Not only that, but from what Hawksworth had said, Lady Laia was very much under her father’s control. Would she refuse to honor a betrothal Somerset had made?

  The situation was not nearly as straightforward as his friends appeared to think it was.

  . . .

  Dear Bolton,<
br />
  I shall inform my daughter of her July wedding.

  My solicitors will send you the settlement agreements. I trust you will make time to visit Bath before the wedding. My duchess has taken a house on Laura Place.

  Yr. servant

  Somerset

  . . .

  By the time Laia, her mother, and her nineteen-year-old sister, Euphrosyne, arrived in Laura Place, it was nearly time to dress for dinner.

  Although the town was not a great distance from their father’s principal estate, Mama refused to allow any of the children to remain there while she was in Bath. She had also stated that not everyone would fit comfortably in the town house. Therefore, the children, Thalia, their third sister who was seventeen, and Mary, the youngest at eleven, had been deemed too young for the entertainments in Bath and had been left at Roselands, a modest family estate only a half hour from Bath. They were accompanied by their nurse, nursemaids, and governess. Their twin brothers, Decimus and William, both thirteen and home from Eton for a holiday were at Roselands as well.

  Gazing at the long row of town houses, Laia now understood her mother’s decision. The house had four floors and what appeared to be an attic, but it was not very wide, and could not have comfortably held everyone else as well.

  “Let us find our rooms and prepare for dinner.” Mama smiled. “Then I have a surprise for you.”

  Laia couldn’t think what would have made her mother so happy. It certainly was not a visit from the Duke of Bolton. After she had told her mother about the betrothal and Mama had muttered something and excused herself to write a letter, Laia spent the next week expecting to hear she was no longer engaged. Instead, preparations for their journey to Bath had consumed all their time. On the day before they had departed, her father gave her a betrothal ring and a miniature of her betrothed sent by the Duke of Bolton. Why they were sent to her father she could not understand. One would think his grace could have sent them to her with a letter.

  She glanced down at the thick gold band set with a large ruby flanked by diamonds of almost the same size. The ring would have looked much better on a dark-haired lady. Laia had inherited her mother’s pale complexion and her father’s nearly white hair and would have much preferred sapphires. Perhaps she should have sent a miniature of herself to the duke then he would know what would look well on her.