by Cheryl Holt
“I’d rather not,” Hunter flippantly responded. “I’d rather eat supper and move on from the Graves family.”
Isabella piped in with, “You’re lucky you figured out the error before you proposed to the wrong person.”
“I was lucky,” Hunter said, “although I wouldn’t have minded Hannah Graves. For her, I’d have been tempted.” He peered over at his father. “Did I tell you she owns a bookshop and lending library here in the city? She runs it herself, although she has guidance from Thumberton. He keeps an eye on her.”
Hunter liked having the opportunity to speak about Hannah. Since he’d returned from Parkhurst, he’d nearly stopped by her shop a dozen times to see how she was faring, but that would be deranged conduct, so he’d stayed away.
“She owns a shop?” Neville said. “She runs it herself? Thank goodness Thumberton is in the picture. When her mother contacted me, I had no idea she was so unusual.”
“Mrs. Webster isn’t her mother. She’s Miss Graves’s stepmother, and Mrs. Webster has no authority to betroth her. Apparently, Miss Graves has no guardian, so she could select a fiancé for herself without Mrs. Webster’s interference.”
“She could engage herself?” Neville said. “With property in the balance? That is the strangest notion I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, but she believes men are idiots, so matrimony isn’t on the table with her.”
Neville snickered. “Every woman yearns to wed. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I’m not interested in it,” Isabella said.
“Liar.” Neville caustically studied how closely she was snuggled to Hunter. “If Hunter proposed this very second, you’d leap at the chance. Wouldn’t she, Hunter?”
Isabella’s cheeks heated. “I hate that you’ve put him on the spot about me.”
“You’re my son’s latest mistress, Isabella,” Neville coldly said, “and you should never forget the place you occupy in my family. And you won’t occupy it for much longer, will you? Hasn’t your contract with Hunter just about expired?”
It was a horrid remark, and Hunter would have warned Neville to be silent, but Isabella had had enough.
“It’s clear you’re out of sorts with me this evening,” she said to Neville, “so I’ll leave you and Hunter to enjoy yourselves without me interrupting.”
She stood and stomped off in a huff. Neville’s friends peeked over to assess the brief kerfuffle she’d caused with her exit from the parlor, and they smirked into their glasses, not terribly surprised to have Isabella fuming.
All of them had constantly been attached to flamboyant slatterns. They were doxies who eschewed moral living and grabbed onto the debauched existence the demimonde provided. They had tempers that flared hotly when they were irritated.
The men were used to it. They were wed to more demur, reticent females, and they liked the two varieties that shaped their worlds.
“You can be such an ass, Neville,” Hunter said to him.
Neville scoffed. “Isabella has grown too possessive of you. Best watch your back as you set her aside.”
“I’ve never needed nuptial advice from you, and I definitely don’t need your advice as to how I should handle my paramour. You’re not exactly a fellow who should furnish romantic instruction to anybody.”
“It’s my bad choices that make me such an expert.”
“There’s not a single person in the kingdom who deems you to be an expert at amour.”
Neville sipped his wine, and he was looking older again—and tired. Hunter glanced away, refusing to feel sorry for him. It was how Neville had coaxed him into visiting Parkhurst, and he wouldn’t allow his father to spur him to rash decisions in the future.
“Let’s talk about Hannah Graves,” Neville said. “The one you liked? Tell me more about her.”
“The only relevant fact is that she’s not about to marry.”
“I could persuade her.”
“With what? With a bribe? Or maybe with our elevated status? She’s not impressed by us, and if you tried to claim she should be impressed, she’d laugh in your face.”
“You’d be amazed by how I can coerce a female.”
“No, I wouldn’t, and as to Miss Graves, even if you could wear her down, I would never betroth myself. She’s the half-owner of Parkhurst. Sir Edmund had two daughters, from his two wives, and he bequeathed the property to Hannah and her sister.”
“Hannah, is it? It sounds as if you became cordial.”
“We didn’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Hunter ignored the question. “Sir Edmund has a bastard son who’s popped up too.”
At his mentioning Jackson, Hunter wanted to ask Neville if he had ever sired any bastards, but it wasn’t a conversation he should have when Neville’s parlor was full of guests. Then again, if Neville had some natural children, his guests likely all knew about them.
“He was a rutting dog,” Neville said, “so that’s not news. Did the boy receive anything?”
“No, and Sir Edmund gave money to his widow that she’s already squandered. And he left the estate to his daughters. It’s an insane tangle.”
“I can’t imagine his reasoning.”
“The dunce who weds either girl will toss himself into a dual ownership with the other sister, then with her husband once she’s married.”
“What a ridiculous situation. I wonder if Thumberton drafted the Last Will. I can’t believe he’d have permitted Sir Edmund to behave so stupidly. Yet Sir Edmund was a pompous blowhard. Thumberton probably couldn’t dissuade him.” Neville added, “If you’re not keen on Miss Graves, you have to let me pick someone else.”
“No, I don’t, and I can’t oblige you in this. You’ve never had my best interests at heart, and I have no idea why I assumed this scheme would be any different.”
“I’ve always had your best interests at heart. Your brothers’ too. I’m stunned that you remember it that way.”
“We shouldn’t invent a history that never transpired. I was raised like an orphan, by lazy, incompetent servants.”
“You turned out fine.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
Neville’s friend, Sybil Jones, strolled by. She managed the gambling club where Hunter and Neville were premier members. Hunter was often curious if she and Neville were more than friends. He’d once inquired of Neville, and Neville had insisted that he’d never be brave enough to seduce her.
She gobbled up men for her dinner, and she spit them out when she was finished, their bones picked clean.
To Hunter’s surprise, Neville watched her intently, his fondness so blatantly clear that Hunter said, “Are you and Sybil finally involved?”
“Gad, no. She recognizes what a wastrel I am. I have no secrets from her, and she detests me.”
“You could wed her, and she’d take over your house and life in a manner you might enjoy. From how she runs her club, it’s obvious she has many skills. She might be the wife you always hoped to find.”
“I’m afraid of her. If she was my wife, I couldn’t carry on as I do. She’d expect me to shape up and act sensibly. Then where would I be?”
“At least you like her. That’s more than I can say for your two previous brides.”
“I like her now, but if I’ve learned one thing about matrimony, it’s this: The process alters a woman. You presume you’re getting a sweet, biddable girl, but after the vows are spoken, she can become a shrew.”
“You’re telling me this at the same time you’re pushing me to marry. You’re not exactly encouraging me to heed you.”
“I could talk to Hannah Graves. I swear I could change her mind.”
“You are not talking to Miss Graves, and your marital search on my behalf is ended.” Neville smiled slyly, providing stark evidence that he was considering mischief, and Hunter said, “I’m not joking, Neville. You will not pester Miss Graves.”
“Spoilsport,” Neville grumbled,
and he threw up his hands in disgust. “You’re determined to be a brat, so I’ll leave her alone, and I’ll leave you alone too. Go ahead and remain a bachelor. You can dawdle and play until I eventually pass away. You can let the title lapse and our name fade into oblivion. Why would I care if you abandon your responsibility to me?”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Your attempt at melodrama is humorous, but it won’t work. Why don’t you harass Warwick and Sheridan? Maybe they’ll rush to the altar for you.”
“I absolutely plan to begin harassing them, but you’re the oldest, so we must settle your affairs first.”
“It’s not happening, Neville, and if you nag, we’ll fight. I’d rather not bicker, but is that what you want?”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“I should locate Isabella and calm her down before we’re called into supper. If I don’t, she’ll glower through the meal and give you indigestion.”
“You shouldn’t waste your energy on doxies like her.”
Hunter had just downed a swallow of wine, and he choked on it and pounded a fist on his chest. “In light of your history with slatterns, that might be the most ludicrous comment you’ve ever uttered in my presence.”
He stood and walked off, wondering why he visited his father. Neville was an unscrupulous prig, and that problem couldn’t be fixed. Hunter especially couldn’t fix it.
With Neville aging, he was having regrets about how he’d carried on over the decades, but Hunter couldn’t bear to listen to his moralistic advice, particularly when so much of his bad conduct had sent consequences raining down on Hunter and his brothers.
He marched off to find Isabella, not eager to loaf by her side, but figuring it was better than enduring another second of Neville’s drivel.
****
Hannah rounded a corner, and there—like magic—was Hunter Stone.
She blinked over and over to be sure it was him, and yes, he was really there in front of her. She wasn’t daydreaming.
Since returning from her horrid trip to Parkhurst, she’d pondered him constantly, so if she’d conjured him into a hallucination, she wouldn’t have been surprised. Every time the door opened at her shop, her pulse would race, as she would be certain it was him, stopping by to flirt with her.
She was confused about what had occurred between them in the country, but it had been sweet and riveting. He had a reputation as a scapegrace and libertine, but he was actually quite marvelous. She felt as if he was the only person she’d ever encountered who truly understood her, and she’d missed him very, very much.
Why had he stayed away? It had to indicate that, whatever fond feelings had been generated on her end, they hadn’t flourished on his. He was surrounded by glamorous women, and he regularly engaged in dalliances. No doubt he’d been humored by tedious, provincial Hannah Graves.
After he’d ridden away from Parkhurst, he probably hadn’t thought about her again.
She was at Sybil Jones’s beautiful home, out in the garden and strolling down one of the groomed paths. The property skirted the river, and Hannah had been enjoying the view before she left for her much more meager lodging in the heart of the city.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and Miss Jones had just hosted her monthly meeting of female proprietors. No men were welcome, so Hannah had no idea why Hunter Stone was present. It was like a gift, wrapped in a pretty bow just for her, and she filled her eyes with the sight of him.
He was wearing a blue coat, tan trousers, and knee-high black boots. His clothes were expensive and perfectly-tailored to enhance his masculine physique. His golden hair was loose and curling over his shoulders, and it gleamed in the bright sunshine, making him look dashing and splendid.
He hadn’t seen her yet, and fleetingly, she debated whether to call to him, but she didn’t. Because he hadn’t visited her, she was positive she’d misread their relationship.
She would have tiptoed away, but he moved before she could, so he was facing directly toward her. He blanched with astonishment, then he smiled the most delicious smile. Apparently, she was still warmly regarded. What a lovely discovery!
“Hannah Graves!” he said. “As I live and breathe! Is it you?”
He hurried over to her, and he reached out and clasped her hands, giving them an affectionate squeeze. Then he dipped in and kissed her on the cheek.
“Hello, Viscount Marston.”
“It’s Hunter, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. Hello, Hunter.”
“You know Sybil, don’t you? I’d forgotten.”
“She has a women’s society. For ladies engaged in commerce? We share information and advice. We had a meeting.”
“I’ve heard about it, and I’m glad you have a friend like Sybil. Between her and Thumberton, perhaps they’ll keep you in line, so you don’t dig too deep a hole for yourself.”
Hannah chuckled. “Your confidence in me remains overwhelming.”
“How have you been?” he asked, his affection growing even more blatant.
“I’ve been good. How about you?”
“I’m always grand. I’m busy and…busy.”
“You’re not busy,” she scolded. “You’re a rich, lazy wastrel, and you haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“Sybil has a private card game starting in a bit. She invited me.”
“She allows gambling at her house? I thought it was just at her club.”
Hannah frowned with worry. She fretted over her association with Miss Jones, and she conveniently assumed that Miss Jones’s corrupt activities didn’t matter. The older woman was kind and had assisted Hannah in innumerable ways. Could Hannah be faulted for ignoring her dubious conduct?
It was a question that vexed her, and she never answered it to her satisfaction. So far, she’d simply overlooked the manner in which Miss Jones earned her vast fortune. Should she reconsider that position?
“Yes, a gambling party is starting,” he said, “and don’t glower at me about it.” He rubbed a thumb on her forehead, as if he could wipe away her concern. “It’s for low stakes, to pass the afternoon hours. My father is with me, and he and Sybil are chums, so it will be no more scandalous than the gathering you just had with her.”
“You have the most interesting method of rationalizing your wicked antics.”
“Well, I only have wicked antics, so there are no other antics for me to rationalize.” He sighed as if he was delighted by her. “I’ve missed you. I almost stopped by your shop a hundred times, but I told myself to leave you alone.”
“I will admit that, whenever a customer arrives, I’ve expected it to be you. You’re such an annoying nuisance that I can’t believe you stayed away.”
“I can’t figure out what sort of connection we’re supposed to have.”
“Neither can I.”
“We’re destined to be friends. Does that sound silly?”
“No. I feel a bizarre attachment to you.”
“But I’m not exactly a man who can be friends with a female like you, so I shouldn’t prolong the agony of our doomed acquaintance.”
“It’s not doomed. Don’t think that.”
“You didn’t want to be my wife, but how about my next mistress?”
Her jaw dropped, and she would have been insulted, but his eyes were dancing with mischief.
“I’m shocked you’d mention such a sordid topic in my presence,” she said. “What if I was the swooning type? I might have suffered a fit of the vapors and fallen unconscious at your feet.”
“Lucky for me that you’re made of sterner stuff.”
“I forgive you for trying to embarrass me with risqué conversation, but I can’t have you avoiding me for reasons that are too ridiculous to clarify. I insist you visit me when you are in my neighborhood.”
“You shouldn’t invite me. I’m a nuisance, remember? I’ll show up so frequently that you’ll never be able to complete any of your chores.”
“For you, I could probably put some o
f them aside.”
He gazed at her so fondly that, for a wild moment, it appeared he might kiss her, and she wished he would. After they’d been together in the country, she’d thought of naught else. It was particularly thrilling to be held by him, and it was a facet of amour that no one had ever explained to her.
It seemed as if he’d opened a secret door that only adults could peek through. She’d like to peek through that door again, but before he could proceed, a woman called to him from up on the verandah.
“Hunter! Come! The cards are being dealt, and they’re waiting for you.”
He was still clasping Hannah’s hands, and he casually released them and spun to the woman. “I’ll be there in a minute. I’m saying goodbye to someone.”
“Don’t dawdle. Your father is complaining, and I can’t abide him when he’s in a snit.”
The woman looked familiar, maybe even the tart who’d been snuggled with him in that dark parlor the night they’d met. Whoever she was, she had to be a doxy. Her bright blue gown was cut so low in the front that most of her bosom was exposed, and she wouldn’t dare lean forward.
She was very beautiful, tall and buxom, with lush red hair piled on her head. It was intricately styled with curls and braids, and a feather dangled in the back. Her chic comportment made Hannah feel dowdy, plain, and a tad unkempt, even though she wasn’t any of those things.
The woman studied Hunter possessively, cataloguing every detail of his proximity to Hannah, and Hannah received the distinct impression that the woman was furious to have stumbled on them.
She was precisely the sort of flamboyant goddess Hannah envisioned on his arm—when she allowed her mind to wander in that direction. She had no business pondering his trollops, yet here was one of them, and it forced Hannah to realize that she could never have wed him. She was too ordinary, and he’d have regretted it forever.
The woman tarried, as if Hunter would immediately abandon Hannah and join her. When he didn’t, she grumbled a remark Hannah couldn’t decipher, then she whipped away and went inside.
“I should go in too,” he said.
“Yes, don’t let me keep you. I was just leaving myself.”
