Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  “All of which only proves my point, Sylvia,” William replied. “If Anne is searching for a manageable husband, she won’t choose a gentleman with intelligence and a sense of responsibility. Such attributes would surely mean he would demand to have influence in her life.” He frowned. “Also, if memory serves me, Rhys is infamous for his avoidance of marriage-minded females.”

  “Precisely.” Marguerite clapped her hands with gleeful satisfaction. “Yet he seeks out Anne at every opportunity. She and I join Sylvia for tea and a long visit several times a week. Rhys often chooses that moment to drop in and visit his favorite aunt.”

  “If his attentions are that marked, why haven’t I read anything about it in the gossip rags?”

  “He’s very circumspect,” Sylvia hastened to reassure him. “Rhys would not do anything to cause a scandal or gossip,” she said firmly. “But nonetheless, to those of us who know Rhys well, and Anne”—she nodded at Marguerite—“it’s clear that they’re drawn to each other. Sylvia and I feel it wise to encourage the friendship. But we cannot push or Anne will bolt. They must come to understand their feelings for one another on their own.”

  “I see.” William pondered their comments. Marguerite and Sylvia would not lead Anne down the same path that Bella trod, of that he was sure. Could they be wrong about the duke? The women knew William better than he knew himself, so it was unlikely. But still, a possibility. And if they were not? Anne would be a duchess, her life settled and serene, just as she deserved.

  He had no choice but to trust them. Blast, but it felt as if he were back on the battlefield with no practical options left. “So, what is your plan then? I assume you have one.”

  “We will keep a watchful eye on the two and send you regular updates,” Marguerite said. “You must reject any offers from other suitors.”

  “And what about him? Is he likely to wait for her to come around to your way of thinking?”

  The two women burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, William,” Sylvia finally managed to say. “Rhys has no idea that Anne is the one woman for him. And if the thought should happen to fleetingly occur to him, I’d wager he’d immediately deny it.”

  “He needs as much time as Anne to realize what Sylvia and I recognized in the space of a week.” Marguerite smiled warmly.

  William shook his head. “Women. I’ll never understand them.”

  Chapter 6

  The Maldens’ Annual Musicale

  Mayfair, London

  “I do hate a musicale,” Uncle William muttered as he led Marguerite and Anne into the Maldens’ grand music room.

  Anne stifled a laugh as Marguerite chided the man gently, pointing to where rows of chairs were arranged before a number of instruments. “Come now, William. Behave. There are enough seats available in the front row for us all. And next to Lady Lipscombe. What luck!”

  “That is not luck, Marguerite,” Uncle William answered, slowing his pace. “Quite the opposite. No escape route should the evening prove unbearable.”

  Anne patted her uncle on the back and gestured toward the chairs. “It is lucky, Uncle. Both you and Lady Lipscombe share the same opinion when it comes to musicales. You shall be able to commiserate to your heart’s content,” she assured him, looking about the room for the duke. “Go. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Uncle William huffed with displeasure but did as he was told, allowing Marguerite to lead the way.

  “I abhor musicales.” The low tone sounded very near Anne’s ear and she attempted to restrain a shiver of anticipation.

  “You and my uncle, both,” she replied, turning to face the duke. “Fortunately, you’re not here for the music.” The only hope Anne had of subduing the worrisome reaction both her mind and body produced in the duke’s presence was to stay the course. She needed to find a husband. And the duke needed to be more helpful. And soon.

  Anne peered over the duke’s right shoulder and nodded. “Lord Abrams is in attendance, I see.”

  The duke turned to take the man in, returning his gaze to Anne’s almost immediately, disapproval in his eyes. “Habitual gambler. He’d have your dowry reduced to rubble within a year.”

  Anne stifled a groan. She could not abide a man who would so frivolously waste money—and most likely his life and hers. “All right. And what of Lord Finch?”

  “Believes a woman should bear no less than six children if she’s to hold her head high in public,” the duke replied dryly, eyeing the rather portly earl with severity. “And, some say, he has a rather passionate interest in women’s toes.”

  “I never said I would refuse children,” Anne countered, weighing whether his proclivity for feet crossed him off the list.

  Deciding it most definitely did, Anne searched the room. “Ah, there now, Lord John Thorpe. Surely you cannot find fault with him.”

  Anne felt a swell of satisfaction. The duke couldn’t possibly have anything to say against Lord John. No one ever did.

  “He plans to move to America once his overbearing mother passes on.”

  “Oh,” Anne replied, attempting to buoy her mood. “Well, I’ll admit, I’ve never thought to go so far afield. It would be an adventure, I suppose.”

  The duke eyed her doubtingly, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And leave your three dear friends?”

  Anne willed her body to ignore the duke’s closeness and concentrated on the newfound information. It was enough to break her heart, the thought of Ellie, Bea, and Cordelia so very, very far away.

  And the duke, her internal voice whispered.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered, feeling overly warm.

  He tipped her chin up, concern pooling in his eyes. “Are you feeling well, Anne? You look flushed.”

  Almost every last piece of her heart wanted him to answer. But the last sliver? It knew she could not bear to hear the truth.

  “I am tired, that is all,” she offered, looking to where her uncle and Marguerite waited. “Tired of waiting for you to find a suitable match. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but you’ve yet to produce even one possible candidate. I’m running out of time, Your Grace.”

  “I know,” he ground out.

  His stern tone urged Anne to look at him. The brilliant blue hue of his eyes had darkened as a sky threatening to storm would. “I said I would help, Anne, but I never said I would compromise. You deserve better.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I deserve,” she answered, surprised by the passion underlying her words. The room was growing too hot. Anne could feel perspiration gathering at the nape of her neck.

  Her very idea of what she deserved was changing. What had he done to her?

  “Don’t ever say such a thing, Anne,” he growled. “You deserve the best. And I will see that you have it.”

  No more. Not tonight.

  The Malden girls walked toward their instruments and those still milling about took their seats.

  “Come, we must join the others,” Anne said, refusing to meet the duke’s gaze.

  “Anne,” the duke said, reaching out for her arm.

  Anne avoided his fingers just barely, moving toward the safety of her uncle and Marguerite. And away from the danger of the duke.

  Chapter 7

  The following morning, Anne sat at her writing desk in her bedroom. Sunlight shafted through the tall windows, casting bars of bright, warm yellow over the blue, gold, and red of the carpet. Quill in hand, she bent over a sheet of foolscap. A creased, well-read letter lay open atop the desk’s polished cherrywood surface.

  She read the letter once again, smiling at her friend’s chatty news, and dipped her pen in the inkwell to reply.

  Dear Bea,

  I was so pleased to receive your note. How I miss you, Ellie, and Cordelia and long to have you all here in town with me. Society events are sadly dull without your company but have been enlivened by the Duke of Dorset’s assistance in my search. While it’s true I’ve yet to find a husband, I feel sure the duke’s help
will lead to a marriage.

  My uncle has joined us in Belgrave Square so we are a threesome now. I know some find him off-putting, but I adore the man, even if he’s misguided when it comes to my future.

  I must close, my dear Bea, as I am promised to join Marguerite and Lady Lipscombe for a museum visit. Please write soon and tell me everything. I so love to hear about your days in the village although I wish you were near me in London.

  With love,

  Anne

  Anne had not exactly lied. She’d simply omitted some of the truth. The duke most assuredly did enliven events, in a manner of speaking. The Maldens’ musicale the evening before would have lacked in frustration, vexation, and a few other choice words that ended in “ion” if not for the duke. He claimed to be on Anne’s side, even her champion in the search for a husband. And yet, no less than three potential candidates were wiped from the list, all thanks to him.

  What was he playing at? Anne honestly didn’t know. But one thing was for sure: He needed to stop. She was running out of time—and men. And she suspected her heart could not take much more of his brand of help.

  “Why are we in a museum and not at Tattersall’s inspecting the newest arrivals?”

  Rhys glanced sideways at his friend and noted the black scowl. “You didn’t have to come with me, Lucien,” he said mildly. “I told you I would meet you later.”

  The frown on the Earl of Penbrooke’s face only darkened. “Didn’t want to chance you being delayed by your aunt.”

  “I promised to join her party this afternoon and view the exhibit. I didn’t pledge to spend the day here. We’ll be off to Tattersall’s within the hour.”

  Lucien grunted. “Don’t know why you agreed to ramble around a bloody museum with a pack of females.”

  Distracted, Rhys only half heard his friend’s grumbling as they left the anteroom and stepped into the expansive space that hosted a new exhibit of Egyptian artifacts. Fashionably dressed groups of ladies and gentlemen strolled across the marble floor, pausing to view selections or gather in clusters to chat. Impatient, Rhys scanned faces but didn’t see his aunt Sylvia.

  “There she is.” Lucien nodded to his left.

  Rhys turned and found his aunt, standing with a group of women, halfway down the long room. At that moment, she saw him and lifted a hand in a gracious gesture, beckoning him. He acknowledged her with a slight nod, but before he could move, Anne’s attention was caught by his aunt’s wave. Her features lit with pleasure when she turned and saw him. Green eyes sparkled with delight, her hair gleaming gold against the frame of a sky blue bonnet, trimmed in cream, that matched her pelisse.

  The world instantly brightened. Damn, he thought, bemused by her smile and unaware he smiled back. Somehow, she made even Egyptian relics seem irresistible.

  “Well, well.” Lucien’s deep voice held amusement and a distinct male interest. “Now I know why you insisted on joining your aunt. Who’s the chit?”

  “None of your damn business.” Rhys strode forward, ignoring Lucien’s chuckle as he followed.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Rhys sketched a bow, his gaze moving over the five females standing with his aunt. “I trust you’re enjoying the exhibit?”

  “We are,” his aunt replied. “It’s kind of you to join us, Rhys. And you as well, Lord Penbrooke.”

  Rhys automatically murmured appropriate greetings as his aunt introduced him and Lucien to the three young women he hadn’t previously met. When she made Lucien known to Anne, however, his attention sharpened. He barely restrained the instinct to step in front of Anne and block Lucien.

  “A pleasure, Miss Brabourne,” Lucien drawled, interest sparking in his eyes as he bent to brush his lips against her gloved fingers. He stepped back and met Rhys’s gaze. “And why have you not introduced me before, Rhys?”

  Rhys narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Perhaps because you refuse to attend any suitable social occasions where such introductions are made.”

  “Alas.” Lucien pressed his palm to his chest and gave a theatrical sigh. “If you had told me how beautiful and charming your friends were, I would have attended without fail.”

  Rhys stifled an expletive. “Of course.” The wry disbelief in his voice was obvious and Anne’s eyes sparkled as her gaze met his.

  “Let us move on,” his aunt interrupted. “There is much to view, and I for one wish to see each of the exhibits.”

  “Of course.” Rhys held out his arm to Anne. “Miss Brabourne? Shall we?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, let’s do proceed.” Anne took his arm and they strolled off, joining a slowly moving throng idling down the long room. “I didn’t know you would be here today,” she commented.

  “I promised Aunt Sylvia I would.” Rhys looked down at her. The blue ruching of her bonnet framed her hair and face as she tilted her head back, her expression open and warm. No artifice, no holding back, she always looked at him as if she were seeing him, Rhys the man, and not Rhys the duke. No other woman of his acquaintance ever looked at him quite the way Anne did, he realized. He liked it. Liked the way it warmed his heart and erased the distance he normally felt from friends. He’d never thought of himself as solitary, or lonely. Now he thought he might feel exactly that were Anne to disappear from his life.

  “And do you enjoy Egyptian artifacts?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You said that so smoothly, I suspect you are not being entirely truthful,” she teased, eyes twinkling up at him. “But I’ll let it go.”

  “I am curious about Egyptian history,” he amended, “but I hate uncomfortable furniture with arms and legs shaped like crocodile feet.”

  “Ah, yet another thing we can agree on.” She tugged on his arm, steering him toward a sarcophagus displayed against the wall. “Come, let us investigate this intriguing piece.”

  Rhys and Anne strolled across the marble floor, viewing objects both large and small. While he registered comments and voices of the rest of the group following behind, he paid little attention. They found themselves in an alcove, bent over a glass-topped cabinet to view the jeweled daggers within.

  He braced his hands on the case, bracketing her much smaller form, and leaned forward. Her bonnet brim kept him from her skin, but her slender shoulders met his chest and the swell of her hips was a bare inch from his.

  “Are you fascinated by the daggers, or is it the jewels that have caught your rapt attention,” he murmured, pleased when she turned her head to look up at him.

  “It’s the artistry,” she replied, her voice a musical whisper. “They’re really quite beautiful.”

  He didn’t look away from her at the case. “Yes, they are.”

  She blushed, color staining her cheeks, and her small hands fisted on the case next to his.

  “Your Grace,” she murmured, his name on her lips a soft almost-plea. “Is Lord Penbrooke here for my consideration? I’ll admit he was never on my list, but I trust that you have my best interest at heart. And, as you are well aware, I am running out of time. I do not want to lose faith in your abilities, but after last night, I am beginning to wonder whether your standards are not higher than my uncle’s.”

  A high-pitched giggle broke the alcove’s quiet privacy.

  “We must find the jeweled daggers, Abigail, I’m certain Lord Endsley specifically said they were along this wall.”

  Rhys dragged in a deep breath and stepped back. With controlled restraint, he tucked Anne’s hand through the bend of his arm and led her out of the alcove. “No, Lord Penbrooke is most certainly not here for you. And do not doubt me. I will find you a husband if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She tilted her head back and looked up at him, her eyes bright with emotional turmoil, before focusing on a guide’s lecture. Rhys drew another deep breath and forced himself to focus on the droning commentary, but didn’t register a single word.

  It was more than an hour later before he and Lucien took leave of the women and reached the street.
>
  “Well, that was an enlightening hour,” Lucien commented as he settled into the ducal coach.

  Across from him, Rhys also leaned back against the squabs. “Why enlightening? Did you actually find the company of my aunt Sylvia enjoyable?”

  “Of course, the marchioness is always entertaining,” Lucien replied. “But even more interesting was watching you with the lovely Miss Brabourne.” He leveled a finger at Rhys, a grin curling his hard mouth. “You, my friend, are trapped.”

  “What?” Rhys glared at him.

  “You heard me. Trapped. Ensnared by the charms of a beautiful woman. Never thought I’d see the day.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Next thing we know, you’ll be getting leg-shackled and spending your nights at home. I don’t relish the prospect as that means I’ll be visiting the gambling hells alone. Of course”—he paused thoughtfully—“this also probably means I won’t be losing as much of my blunt to you at cards. You’ve been annoyingly lucky lately.”

  “Perhaps we should give Tattersall’s a miss and go to Jackson’s club. I feel the need to knock you about in the ring.”

  “I must decline.” Lucien waved a negligent hand. “You promised to look at the bays and I want your opinion. Later, if you still feel the need to punch me, we can visit the club.”

  “I seriously doubt I’ll lose the urge to injure you in some way,” Rhys said dryly, failing to be amused. “Nonetheless, I can’t have it said that I broke a promise. Tattersall’s it is.”

  Chapter 8

  Dear Anne,

  Bless you for writing so promptly for I, too, cherish the newsy letters from my friends. I confess I am intrigued by your observations of the Duke of Dorset as I was unaware you were acquainted. My neighbor tells me he has a reputation as a bit of a rake, but if Marguerite has approved your friendship, all must be well. Her wisdom on such matters has always proved reliable. You are so fortunate your uncle chose her to be your companion. I quite adore her. I’m so pleased you have the duke’s company and happy that he’s been enlisted to help in the husband search. I must admit that it never would have occurred to me to employ such tactics, but it does rather make sense.