Secret Desires of a Gentleman

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Maria Martingale.

  He hadn’t known she was in London. In truth, he hadn’t thought about her enough to consider her whereabouts. If he had ever been inclined toward such pointless contemplations, he’d have envisioned her the wife of some poor, hoodwinked sod—not a man of the aristocracy, for if she’d risen that high, he’d have heard about it. No, he’d have imagined her married to some florid, middle-aged merchant and living in a terrace house in Hackney or Clapham. But there had been no wedding ring on her finger, a surprising thing, really, when he thought about it.

  Perhaps she was some man’s mistress now. He considered that possibility as he crossed Charles Street and entered Berkeley Square, but by the time he reached his destination, Thomas’s Hotel, he’d been forced to reject the idea of Maria as a courtesan. Though her bewitching beauty might serve her well in such an occupation, he couldn’t quite see her in the role. No, Maria was a pretty flirt, the sort who dangled her virtue and held out for marriage, and there were plenty of men glad to end such torture by offering a ring. His brother had certainly been willing enough to marry her. The idiot would have done it, too, if Phillip hadn’t been able to make him see sense.

  Thankfully, the elopement crisis—only one of many involving his brother—had been averted. Phillip hadn’t expected to ever see the girl again. Not in Mayfair, and certainly not on a street corner right outside his home.

  He came to an abrupt halt outside Thomas’s Hotel, earning himself a surprised look from the liveried doorman holding the door for him. What was Maria Martingale doing in Mayfair anyway, mooning about by his front steps?

  A vision of her came into his mind—enormous hazel eyes in a heart-shaped face, tendrils of wheat-blonde hair peeking out from beneath the brim of a straw boater hat, soft pink lips parted in surprise.

  “Surprise, my eye,” he muttered under his breath as he entered the hotel and crossed the lobby toward the tearoom. The little schemer had a purpose.

  The news that his brother had returned from America and had taken up residence with him in Half Moon Street had been reported in all the society papers. She’d probably read about it, along with the rumors of Lawrence’s impending engagement to American heiress Cynthia Dutton. So now she was loitering by his house, waiting for an opportunity to see his brother. But to what end?

  She couldn’t be thinking to rekindle her romance with Lawrence, not after twelve years? He paused outside the tearoom, contemplating that question as he brushed a speck of lint from his dark blue suit and gave a tug to his silver-gray waistcoat. Perhaps she’d simply been curious. Or she might have come to ask for money, though that would have been a futile endeavor. He’d already paid her enough to support her for the rest of her life, and she had to know he’d never give her another penny. And Lawrence, though much softer of heart, was absolutely flat—the usual case with Lawrence.

  He glanced through the doorway of the tearoom and noted that his brother had arrived before him. Lawrence was never on time for anything, but his punctuality on this occasion was no doubt explained by the fact that seated opposite him were the lovely, auburn-haired Miss Dutton and her mother. Miss Dutton was having quite a steadying influence on his wayward younger brother, and Phillip could only hope the trend continued.

  He lifted his hand to the base of his throat. After verifying that his pale blue necktie was still a perfect knot between the starched points of his wing collar, he started to enter the tearoom, casting a perfunctory glance at his lapel as he did so. He stopped in his tracks.

  “Damn the woman,” he muttered, staring down at what had been a pristine white camellia a short while ago, but was now a tattered, mangled mess thanks to Maria Martingale.

  Justifiably annoyed, he turned around, retraced his steps back across the lobby, and exited the building. He paused before a flower seller, and as he searched for an appropriate boutonniere, the powerful fragrance of the flowers penetrated his nostrils.

  Unbidden, a memory from the past came into his mind. A perfect August afternoon in the rose garden at Kayne Hall. Maria, seventeen, gathering a nosegay of flowers, Lawrence helping her, himself seated on a bench nearby, going over reports from his land agents. Twelve years ago, but Phillip could still see the pair in his mind’s eye, standing by the arbor, a bit too close together for propriety, Lawrence playfully tucking rosebuds in her hair and making her laugh. He should have appreciated then how far things had gone between them, but all he’d been able to think about was how her throaty laughter was distracting him from a study of estate expenditures.

  “Are you all right, guv’nor?”

  The flower girl’s query pulled him out of the past, and Phillip yanked a white carnation out of the girl’s basket with an aggravated sigh. He dropped tuppence into her palm, and stalked back toward the hotel.

  By the time he reached the tearoom again, he had tossed aside the damaged camellia and replaced it with the carnation, handed over his hat and gloves to the doorman, and cast aside any unwanted memories of Maria Martingale. If her intent was to cause trouble between Lawrence and Miss Dutton, Phillip knew she would not succeed, for he would be there to prevent it.

  His brother spied him first. “At last!” he exclaimed and stood up as Phillip approached the table. “Wherever have you been? You’re twenty minutes late.”

  “Twenty minutes?” Astonished, Phillip pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, certain his brother was exaggerating, but to his surprise, he found that Lawrence was right. He was twenty-two minutes late. “My profound apologies,” he said to the ladies as he returned his watch to his waistcoat pocket, then he sat down in the empty chair beside his brother. “I was unavoidably detained.”

  “The planets are standing still!” Lawrence proclaimed with glee. “My brother,” he said in a confidential tone as he leaned toward the two ladies across the table, “is as reliable as the British rails. He is never late, so his lack of punctuality on this occasion must mean something catastrophic has happened. Supplies not arriving at the shipyards on schedule? Longshoremen on strike? Cynthia’s papa deciding not to let us build his transatlantic liners after all?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Phillip gave a tug to each of his cuffs and nodded to the waiter who was hovering nearby with a silver teapot. “As I said, I was detained, that’s all, and not by anything catastrophic, I assure you.”

  “But it was a matter of business, if I know you, Phillip.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t,” Miss Dutton put in. “Perhaps your brother met a charming young lady and lingered with her longer than he should have.”

  He stiffened in his chair, but managed to maintain an expressionless countenance. Maria had always been charming, but thankfully, he’d always been able to resist her. Lawrence, however, was a different matter.

  Phillip glanced at his brother, feeling another glimmer of uneasiness. What was Maria up to?

  “Impossible,” Lawrence declared in dispute of Miss Dutton’s suggestion. “My brother sacrificing punctuality to romance? Never!”

  Cynthia ignored that and turned to Phillip. “Who was she, my lord? Tell us.”

  He spread his hands, palms up in a gesture of innocence. “There was no young lady, I assure you, Miss Dutton.” That wasn’t really a lie, since Maria Martingale was not a lady.

  “Told you,” Lawrence said with a certainty Phillip found rather irritating. “My brother is not a romantic sort of fellow.”

  The girl shook her head, laughing, her teasing gaze still on Phillip. “My lord, this will not do,” she told him with mock severity. “You are a marquess, with titles and estates to consider. You must marry.”

  Lawrence laughed. “For that, my dear girl, he would have to stop conducting matters of business long enough to conduct a courtship.”

  “Pay no attention to my brother, Miss Dutton,” Phillip told her. “He’s always talking nonsense. Now tell me,” he added, cutting off Lawrence’s cry of protest and deliberately diverting the conversation, “what have the three
of you been doing today?”

  “We have been shopping,” Miss Dutton told him, but she was immediately contradicted by Lawrence.

  “No, the ladies have been shopping. I have been relegated to the role of list bearer and package carrier. Only on rare occasions have they solicited my opinion on matters of taste. It wounds me.”

  “Wicked boy!” Mrs. Dutton said, the indulgent amusement in her voice belying the reproving look she gave Lawrence. “Everyone knows gentlemen do not care about carpets and draperies.”

  “Carpets and draperies?” Phillip inquired as he accepted the cup of tea poured for him by the waiter. “I thought the house in Belgrave Square was to be let to you for the season fully furnished.”

  Mrs. Dutton frowned. “Baroness Stovinsky and I seem to have quite different ideas of what is meant by the term ‘fully furnished.’ Cynthia and I were there first thing this morning to inspect the place before having our things brought over from the hotel, only to find there isn’t a carpet or curtain in the entire house. She took them all with her. And the paintings, too! What is she intending to do with them, in heaven’s name? Cart them back to Saint Petersburg?”

  “She’s sold them, of course,” Lawrence said with cheer, helping himself to a scone. “What else?”

  “You’re joking,” Cynthia accused with a laugh. “Selling the carpets out from under her tenants? Whatever for?”

  “To pay her debts, I should think.”

  “How shocking! Do you hear that, Mama? And she’s a baroness, too.” She turned to Phillip. “If your brother hadn’t called on us this morning after we had returned from Belgrave Square, I don’t know what we would have done. He took us around to all the best shops so that we might select replacements for the things taken by the baroness. We should have been lost without him, my lord.”

  Phillip studied her across the table, noting the wide smile she was bestowing on his brother. A lovely girl, he thought, so steady and sensible, and so obviously in love with Lawrence. He seemed enamored with her as well, not that that meant anything. Lawrence was in love quite often.

  In this case, however, Phillip had reason to be a bit more optimistic. By all accounts, Lawrence had been in her company almost constantly while in New York. She came from a wealthy, well-established family. That connection might prove profitable if her father would allow Hawthorne Shipping to manufacture his new luxury liners. More important, however, was the fact that Cynthia’s love for Lawrence seemed genuine and steadfast. She would make him an excellent wife, if only he’d come up to scratch and actually ask the girl to marry him. But Lawrence, allergic to serious commitments, was dragging his feet.

  He hadn’t dragged his feet about Maria Martingale.

  The moment that thought entered his head, Phillip tried to shove it out again, but he could not escape that uneasy feeling. If Lawrence saw Maria again, his once-passionate feelings for the daughter of the former family chef might be rekindled. No doubt that would suit her down to the ground, but it would ruin Lawrence’s life just as surely now as it would have done then.

  Phillip glanced from Miss Dutton to his brother and back again, and their radiant faces as they gazed into each other’s eyes hardened his resolve.

  Since the age of sixteen, when his father had died and he had become the marquess, it had been Phillip’s responsibility to protect the members of his family. Yet he had been looking out for Lawrence far longer than that, ever since he could remember, in fact. He loved his brother, and he would not allow Lawrence’s future happiness to be spoiled. Until his brother and Cynthia were safely married, Phillip knew he’d best keep his eyes open and his wits about him.

  Chapter 2

  One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

  French proverb

  “You’re certain it was he?”

  That question caused Maria to give the Duchess of St. Cyres a wry glance as she paced across her friend’s elegant drawing room in Grosvenor Square. “Phillip Hawthorne isn’t the sort of man one forgets,” she answered, turning at the fireplace to retrace her steps. “And it wasn’t as if I saw him from a distance. I cannoned right into him.”

  “Not your most graceful moment,” Prudence said, smiling as she picked up the crystal flagon on the table before her and poured Madeira into two glasses. She held one up for her friend.

  “What are the odds?” Maria demanded, taking the glass as she passed. “I ask you, what are the odds of such a dreadful coincidence?”

  “Coincidences do happen,” Prudence pointed out, sounding so reasonable that Maria only felt more put out.

  “Well, they shouldn’t.” She sank into a chair. “Such a lovely shop, too. Big plate-glass windows, and Green Park right across the street. And the kitchen—” She broke off, pressing a palm to her forehead as she made a sound of exasperation. “Why did that horrid man have to take rooms next to the best kitchen in London? Why couldn’t he have stayed at his house in Park Lane with the other rich toffs? Sorry, Pru,” she apologized at once, for Prudence, with her income in the millions and her home in Grosvenor Square, was now among those rich toffs. “I forget sometimes the circles you move in these days.”

  Prudence waved aside the apology. “Is the Marquess of Kayne truly horrid? I haven’t yet met him.”

  “You haven’t missed anything.” Maria touched one finger to her chin and tilted her head to the side as Pru laughed. “Hmm, let’s see…” she teased, “gadding about the globe to places like Paris and New York with your charming, handsome husband, or being stuck in London, meeting snobs like Lord Kayne.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Dear, dear. What’s an heiress to do?”

  Something in those words caused Prudence to stop laughing. “Are you all right about all that?” she asked, looking anxious. “The money, I mean?”

  Maria lowered her hand and stared at her friend in amazement. “Of course I am! I don’t begrudge you a penny!”

  “You weren’t happy about it at first,” her friend reminded her.

  “Because I was afraid you’d abandon your old friends and become haughty and condescending like Phillip. And money does—” She stopped, but Prudence knew what she’d been about to say.

  “Money does things to people,” her friend finished for her. “Yes, I remember when you told me that.”

  Maria thought of how Phillip had used his money—threatening to withhold it from Lawrence should he marry her, offering it to her as a bribe to disappear. She and Lawrence had both succumbed. For the sake of security, they had allowed themselves to be bought. She thought of Phillip’s matter-of-fact expression that day in the library, and how he’d taken her acceptance of the bribe as a matter of course. Oh, how badly she’d wanted to tear that bank draft apart and throw the pieces in his face, but a thousand pounds was not something a poor girl, alone in the world, could ever afford to refuse, just for the sake of her pride.

  “Rhys might know the marquess already,” Prudence’s musing voice forced Maria out of the past. “School, perhaps, or if Lord Kayne has ever been to Italy. Rhys lived there for twelve years.”

  Maria shook her head. “I doubt they met at school. The duke is three or four years older than your husband. Italy doesn’t seem likely either. Phillip’s father died when he was sixteen, and he became so obsessed with duty and responsibility that he’d never leave his estates unattended and go off to Italy. Still, I’m sure you both will meet him soon enough. You’re a duke and duchess, after all.” She stuck her nose in the air with aristocratic hauteur. “His lordship only associates with the finest so-ci-eh-tay.” She drew out the syllables of the last word as if she were the most condescending of aristocrats, making Prudence smile.

  “Then I shan’t ever meet him. Rhys might be a duke, but he’s always been considered terribly disreputable, and high sticklers don’t want much to do with him, especially since he married me. I am a former seamstress.”

  “Marrying you is the best thing the duke ever did, and he would be the first to admit it.” She pause
d to take a sip of her wine, then went on, “You might be right about Phillip, though. Given your husband’s devilish past, Phillip shall no doubt do his best to avoid an introduction to you, thereby escaping your acquaintance altogether. He certainly had no difficulty giving me the cut today.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Prudence said. “You’ve known each other nearly all your lives. Yet he didn’t acknowledge you in any way?”

  “Heavens, no!” Maria looked at her friend, her eyes widening in mock horror. “I’m the daughter of the former family chef. He is the Marquess of Kayne. Acknowledging me would mean I mattered, darling! One might as well go about claiming acquaintance with scullery maids and hall boys!”

  “At least you’re taking it all in the proper spirit.”

  “I don’t want to,” she confessed and set aside her glass. She slumped in her chair, plunking an elbow on her knee and resting her cheek in her hand. “I want that shop.”

  “Cheer up, dearest. You can start looking for another one tomorrow.”

  “So you think I should look elsewhere?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  She leaned back, considering the question. She’d first thought to take the premises straightaway, but after her encounter with Phillip and the way he’d snubbed her, she had hesitated, thinking it might be best to discuss the situation with Prudence and give herself time to mull things over before committing herself to a lease. But now, after telling her friend all about it, after a few sips of Madeira and some time to consider, she didn’t see why she should alter her plans.

  “I’m not going to look elsewhere,” she answered with a hint of defiance. “I’ve been searching for months, and now I’ve found the best kitchen in London. I’m not giving it up just because that wretched man is living next door. Why should I?”