by Donna Hatch
“I presume you’re here in response to last night’s debacle, Lord Averston.”
It wasn’t a question, but Richard nodded once.
“I also presume you have come to resolve the difficulty without a duel.”
Richard tried to quiet the fluttering in his stomach. “Your Grace, my brother acted impulsively and he shall be strongly reprimanded. He is prepared to do anything you ask: a public apology, or whatever you and the marquis see fit to remedy the situation.”
The duke sat on a gold brocade settee facing him and crossed one leg over the other. “My daughter has been compromised and her reputation is sullied. An apology will not suffice.”
Richard’s stomach dropped. Barely holding on to his composure, he raised a brow. “He merely kissed her, sir. Her virtue is still intact.” Providing she hadn’t already given it away to someone else, that is.
Pemberton’s face darkened. “She was caught alone with an infamous libertine by some of the biggest gossips in London. And according to the marquis, your brother was touching her in a most intimate manner.”
Richard winced. Stupid, stupid Tristan!
Pemberton held out his hand. “Still, I do not wish for any harm to befall my son, and I respected your father, God rest his soul. For their sake, I am willing to negotiate an alternative.”
Relief trickled through Richard. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I will prevent the challenge from being issued. My price is marriage.”
Richard nodded, unsurprised. “Of course. My brother’s follies are merely the foolishness of youth. He’ll rise to the responsibility and shall be a good husband to your daughter. He has a substantial allowance, and a number of profitable investments. She will lack for nothing.”
Pemberton frowned. “You are mistaken. I refuse to allow any daughter of mine to wed a man with such unacceptably flawed character, and a mere second son at that. The only husband I will accept for her is you.”
The floor gave way beneath Richard’s feet. He gripped the back of the nearest chair. In silence, he wrestled with the enormity of the duke’s demands. Marry the chit himself? A girl who either lacked sense or fancied herself in love with his brother? “Sir, I did not compromise her.”
“Your brother is responsible for her difficulties, therefore your family honor is at stake. Clearly, your duty as head of the family is to make amends in the only way acceptable. As a man of unimpeachable character, and a peer, you are the only member of your family suitable to marry a duke’s daughter.”
Numb, Richard paused, searching for an escape. “Miss Leticia Wentworth and I have an understanding.” His voice sounded faint to his own ears. Or perhaps the roaring in his head drowned out his voice.
“Are you officially engaged to be married?” the duke demanded with an imperious tone.
Richard searched for a way out of this trap. In the end, he could only confess, “No, sir, I have not yet formally sought her father’s permission, but it’s always been understood—”
“Then there’s no reason why you cannot marry my daughter. She’ll bring you a substantial dowry, and she has been schooled in everything expected of a young lady of her standing. She was raised to marry a peer of the realm.”
Gripping the seat, Richard tried to draw in a breath but failed. Give up Leticia? He’d always planned to marry her. She was perfect for him—gracious, witty, intelligent, loyal, strong enough to assume the role of countess, and he’d loved her since he was a child. Best of all, he trusted her. It had never occurred to him to marry anyone else.
Besides, failing to marry a girl when everyone of their acquaintance expected a proposal was decidedly bad form, even for a peer. More importantly, he’d raised her expectations. She had made her affection clear. If he failed to come up to snuff, he’d break her heart. How could he hurt a childhood friend in such a callous way?
No. It was unthinkable. The idea of striking such a mortal blow to Leticia twisted his gut as if someone drove a blade straight through him.
The duke frowned. “Do you not find my daughter desirable?”
“She’s lovely,” Richard managed, though at the moment, he had trouble remembering her face. “But Miss Wentworth’s expectations, not to mention her feelings—”
With a growl, the duke leaped to his feet. “Very well, if you refuse to marry my daughter, I see no reason to prevent my son from issuing a written challenge. I warn you, he is an excellent shot, and is undefeated at fencing.”
Aghast, Richard stared. “You wouldn’t risk your son’s safety, nor encourage him in such illegal activity.”
“Oh, I assure you, affaires of honor have a long-standing tradition in our family. Honor is everything. If you refuse to correct your brother’s mistake, he shall correct it with his blood.”
Alarm flashed through Richard. He could not bear to risk his only brother in a duel. Even superficial wounds could prove debilitating…or fatal.
Richard peeled his fingers off the chair back, turned away, and paced to the windows, desperate to find another answer. But another answer failed to present itself. He was condemned to marry a girl with no sense of propriety, doomed to repeat his father’s fate of betrayal and heartache and loneliness. Such a future filled him with ice. Worse, hurting Leticia in such a deeply personal way would leave scars on his soul time would never heal. She may never recover from the heartbreak. Would this decision sentence her to the prison of spinsterhood, alone and broken?
Regardless, he could not stand by and allow his brother to face almost certain death. Fighting back the dark panic that arose at the thought of losing Tristan, Richard took several deep breaths before he could steady his voice enough to speak without losing his dignity. He steeled himself and squared his shoulders. Duty always came first. “Very well, sir. I will wed your daughter.”
Pemberton cursed. “You make it sound as though you find the task unpleasant.”
Richard tempered his rising ire. “Your Grace. I would be honored”—he almost choked on the word—“to marry your daughter. Joining our houses would be advantageous to us both. In many ways.” He offered a respectful bow.
Satisfaction glinted in the duke’s shrewd eyes. “Excellent. Then we are agreed.”
They finalized the arrangements, all the while Richard keeping a tight rein on his building sense of entrapment, and the dread at having to break the news to Leticia. They agreed to notify their solicitors to draw up papers for a marriage settlement.
Sick at heart and exhausted from the effort of controlling his inner turmoil, Richard all but rushed outside to the gardens. His restlessness drove him to the site of the fiasco last night. Now that he’d saved Tristan from being shot or stabbed, he wanted to wring his neck.
A figure stood in his path. Scowling, he looked up at Leticia. Her smile faltered at the thunderous look he no doubt wore. He wasn’t prepared for this encounter. Not yet. Shoring up what was left of his tattered composure, he forced himself to approach her.
She eyed him. “How fared negotiations with the duke?”
“Just grand,” he said.
She stiffened at his tone. Or perhaps his expression. “He agreed to a compromise?”
He nodded grimly and drummed his fingers on his leg, pacing back and forth by the fountain. Wishing for a gentle way to reveal the awful truth, he hedged, “He agreed to prevent the marquis from issuing the challenge.”
She waited, her expression grave. “Then what is it?”
He braced himself as if awaiting a blow. “He demands marriage.”
“Oh.” She let out a sound of relief. “’Tis not so bad. Expected, even. Perhaps once he marries, Tristan will reform—”
“Not Tristan.” A weighted silence settled over them. “I am to be the sacrificial lamb.”
Her mouth parted. “The duke wants you to marry his daughter?”
“Yes. Otherwise, he will allow—no, encourage—the marquis to demand satisfaction.”
Her clothes rustled as she sank onto a ben
ch. “I see.” Her shoulders slumped and her bottom lip quivered.
His heart writhed at her obvious pain. “I’m so sorry, Tish. I would not have courted you had I known that we would not be…er…oh, hang it all. I had planned on approaching your father this Season to ask for your hand.”
Her voice grew faint. “I suspected you would. I hoped.” As if finding strength from some inner source, she raised her head to look him in the eye. “Of course, I understand you’re obligated to marry Lady Elizabeth, given the circumstances. Besides, a duke’s daughter is the ideal match for you; she has a generous dowry and powerful connections. Much more than I.”
He sat beside her. “Surely you know those have nothing to do with this union.”
Her eyes grew moist. “I know. It’s just…” She swallowed and looked away. “I’ve loved you forever. But now, it doesn’t matter.” Pain etched lines in her face and poured off her body like a blood from a mortal wound. Before he could form a response, she stood and hurried away.
Richard fought back his impulse to run after her, draw her into an embrace, and declare he’d find another way. He cursed. There was no other way.
He’d broken Leticia’s heart like a merciless beast, choosing Tristan’s life over Leticia’s. If he’d married Leticia when he had the chance, the duke could not have issued his ultimatum, and he and Leticia would be wed. Perhaps he was unworthy of Leticia, but she was perfect for him and she didn’t deserve to have her heart so brutally wounded. Worse, being dismissed by a man everyone expected would marry her would call into question her reputation.
Then again, if Richard were already married, the marquis would be delivering his formal challenge for a duel at this moment, and Tristan could very well die.
Richard walked without seeing his surroundings. An arranged marriage. To a girl of questionable judgment. Questionable morals. Questionable fidelity. How could he ever trust her?
Lady Elizabeth would likely cuckold him at her first available opportunity. Probably with his own brother.
He hardened inside. Never. He’d take her in hand and inform her that he would not tolerate such disgraceful behavior. He would not be made a fool. Perhaps it would do to be a bit heavy-handed at first.
It was time to leave the house party and return home. He had arrangements to make. He’d pay his respects to his future wife—the brainless twit—and then go home, dragging his errant brother with him by his ear. Insolent whelp, thinking with his nether regions instead of his brain!
Richard returned to the house and rang for Wesley. “Prepare to leave today. Where’s Tristan?”
Wesley paused. “I believe he’s still abed, my lord.”
With rising irritation, Richard strode into Tristan’s room and threw open the door. “Tristan, you irresponsible pup, get up. We’re leaving.”
Still wearing his evening clothes, Tristan groaned, rolled over, and pushed himself to a seated position. An empty bottle of brandy sat on the nightstand.
Richard wanted to slap him. “Pull yourself together. We leave within the hour.”
Tristan held on to his head as if he feared it might roll off his shoulders. He staggered to the washstand and splashed his face. After washing, he turned back and studied Richard through bloodshot eyes. “What happened?”
“I met with Pemberton.”
Tristan slumped in the nearest armchair. “And?”
Richard pinned him with a cold stare. “No challenge will be forthcoming.”
Tristan closed his eyes, but instead of his shoulder sagging with relief, his hands fisted. “And his price?”
“He demands I marry his ruined daughter.”
Tristan’s eyes popped open. His mouth worked for a moment before he stated, “You agreed.”
“Of course I agreed!” Richard exploded. “I didn’t have much choice.”
Tristan turned away, the muscles of his jaw working. “I’m not surprised he wouldn’t settle on a second son…nor one of my questionable reputation.”
“No one questions your reputation. You’re undoubtedly the most dissipated libertine in England. Now I must pay for your sins.”
In a rare flash of temper, Tristan leaned in, eyes sparking and fists clenched. “You don’t have to pay for my sins, you pompous boor. You decided to get involved, not I. If you’d get out of my business and let me teach that hotheaded brother of hers a lesson—”
“You’d what?” Richard took a step toward him. “Shoot her brother? Do you think she’d want you with her own brother’s blood on your hands?”
That checked Tristan. He slouched and pressed a hand to his head. “I can fight my own battles.” Despite his brave words, the fire had left his voice, leaving only the sullenness of a thwarted child.
“Fight your battles, but not on the dueling field.” Richard threw open the draperies and raised a window.
From behind him, Tristan hissed in his breath as light flooded the room. Unsympathetic, Richard rested his hands on the windowsill and stared outside, wishing the breeze would cool his boiling anger.
Behind him, Tristan asked. “Does Tish know?”
“Yes.” Richard glared at the clouds flitting across the sky.
Tristan’s voice hushed. “How did she take it?”
“With the grace of a lady,” Richard ground out.
Tristan let out a long breath. “Poor Tish.”
Leticia’s visible pain haunted him. Richard’s anger bubbled up all over again that Tristan had backed Richard into such a corner that he’d been forced to break the heart of a childhood friend and a true lady, not to mention the girl he’d planned to wed for as long as he could remember. “If I hadn’t gone to such trouble saving your miserable skin, I’d shoot you myself.”
With a scoff, Tristan said sarcastically, “Maybe you should ship me off to Italy like you did Selina.”
“I didn’t ship her off; I agreed to let her go.” Perhaps Richard should have tried harder to be involved in his sister’s life, but he’d been so busy rescuing Tristan that he’d all but ignored Selina until she’d started getting into trouble, too. Hopefully when she returned from Italy where she was painting to her heart’s content, she’d be more manageable. With any luck, the maiden aunt he’d sent as a chaperone would imbed her with better sense. The weight of all Richard’s roles bore down on him.
He turned back to face his brother. “I have arrangements to make for my upcoming nuptials. Ready yourself to return home. Clearly, I cannot trust you to remain here. No telling what else you might do.” He strode to the door where he paused and turned. “Before we leave, I require something of you.”
Tristan eyed him, his mouth set in a mulish line.
The pup’s obstinacy only fueled Richard’s determination. “Go to Lady Elizabeth and apologize for everything—toying with her heart, compromising her, and forcing her to marry a virtual stranger.”
Tristan stood to do battle but winced at the motion.
“Then make your apologies to Pemberton and Martindale.”
His brother blanched as if he’d been handed a death sentence. Facing the girl’s father and brother might help heal relations between the families. If nothing, else, it would be good penance for Tristan. Richard wrenched open the door. Tristan’s valet hovered in the doorway, eying Richard fearfully.
Richard ordered, “See that he’s prepared to leave within the hour—make that two hours.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Shaking in barely suppressed fury, Richard walked the corridor clenching and unclenching his fists. There was only one way to truly let go of his anger. He had to run. After warning his valet to have a change of clothes and a bath ready, he strode as quickly as he dared through the gardens to the wide-open fields beyond. Once safe in the protective anonymity of nature, he tore off his cravat and frockcoat, tossed them over a nearby hedgerow, and broke into a run. Focusing only on keeping his footing on uneven ground, and the hiss of his breathing, he ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs turned to
liquid.
The sun had reached its zenith by the time he slowed. He turned back to the house and walked. A breeze cooled the perspiration-damped hair on his brow. He let his anger and frustration dissipate with each breath. He could do his duty. He would do his duty.
Refocused and in control of his emotions, he strode back to Lord Einsburgh’s house. Careful to avoid any areas where he might encounter guests, he recovered his abandoned articles of clothing and returned to the ministrations of his valet. Without comment, the aged, trusted valet transformed a sweaty runner into an earl. Back in the persona, Richard made arrangements to have his hunting horses returned home, his belongings packed, his carriage made ready. Most of all, he must prepare himself for his doomed wedding.
Chapter Five
Nervous perspiration trickled between Elizabeth’s shoulder blades, but she didn’t dare move; her parents had no tolerance for fidgeting. Instead, she sat near a window of Lord Einsburgh’s library with her hands clasped together, her head bowed, praying she appeared appropriately contrite. Her inevitable punishment loomed over her. She must find the strength to endure what was to come, and to survive the separation from Tristan.
Father had wasted no time informing her of her betrothal…to the cold and stern earl.
Tristan was forever out of her reach—unless he found a way to rescue her.
Voices murmured at the door to the library. Elizabeth raised her head. One of the voices resonated like Tristan’s. Hope flared. He’d come to declare himself and demand to be allowed to marry her!
The tension in her shoulders lifted, yet still mindful of her parents, she resisted the urge to raise her head.
“Very well, but make it quick,” came her father’s voice.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as a pair of gleaming Hessian boots approached. The cushion next to her sank under the weight of a body. She finally allowed her gaze to move upward, passing over a pair of buff-colored breeches hugging muscular legs, a chocolate brown frockcoat embracing a broad chest and shoulders, a scarlet and gold waistcoat, a crisp cravat, then to Tristan’s handsome face. His gaze drew her. She clenched her hands together to prevent herself from touching him. Faint circles under his eyes suggested he’d suffered the same tortuous thoughts that had haunted her last night.
