My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex)

by Morgan, Angie

  White’s, he thought as he entered the establishment, was unusually quiet. Only a few members of the private gentleman’s club graced its tables, including one who was not known for small talk. It suited Gray’s current mood just fine.

  “Langlevit,” he greeted the earl. “May I join you?”

  “Of course.”

  Nodding politely to the others at the table, Gray settled himself into an empty chair with a large glass of whiskey as play at the table resumed. Placing his bet, he stared distractedly at the hand of cards he’d been dealt, his mind occupied. He’d ridden ahead to London, forgoing a strained carriage journey along rough, rutted roads for a bruising ride on Pharaoh. It had done little to clear his head or his capricious temper. The last few days had taken a brutal toll on his patience.

  Signaling a hovering footman for a second drink, he downed the liquor in one gulp as another round of cards was dealt. Notwithstanding his own scandalous behavior with Lana, he’d been forced to endure his mother’s herculean matchmaking efforts with Lady Cordelia by singing the girl’s praises every half hour. He’d also had to hold himself back from insulting their odious neighbor, the Duke of Bradburne, who seemed intent on pursuing Briannon and procuring a wife less than half his age. Each day following the Gainsbridge crush, the manor house at Ferndale had been filled to bursting with flowers, and it seemed that Bishop House in London was doomed to follow the same fate. He could barely breathe this morning with the scent of lilies in the house. And neither could Brynn, for that matter.

  His mother was thrilled at the prospect of her daughter becoming a duchess, no matter that Brynn was as repulsed by the thought of the match as he. Bradburne was old, but that wasn’t his greatest fault. He was a lecher, a complete and utter reprobate who collected lovers and mistresses the way some men collected horseflesh or lands. And yet the duke’s intentions toward Brynn had been more than clear. They’d been invited to an eleventh-hour dinner that very evening at the duke’s residence on Park Lane, but Gray would have suffered a public flogging rather than attend. He’d declined to his mother’s—and Brynn’s—infinite disappointment.

  Unease trickled into his chest and stomach whenever Gray thought of Bradburne or his son, the Marquess of Hawksfield. Both were libertines, though Hawksfield was not as flagrant in his lifestyle as the duke. Gray knew the dark pleasures that came with charming a willing woman in order to satisfy his own base desires. Using, discarding, and then forgetting her, sometimes all within the course of one evening. It was disgusting how much Gray had once had in common with the duke and marquess.

  Could a man change?

  He’d thought he could. He’d tried. His self-imposed celibacy had been a tremendous test of will. But this last week with Lana had sown seeds of doubt within him. He wanted her with an overwhelming swell of lust, stronger than he could ever remember feeling. And Gray saw the same simmering thirst in the Marquess of Hawksfield’s eyes whenever the man looked upon Brynn. He wanted nothing more than to keep his sister far away from both him and his lecherous father. Brynn deserved to be something more than just an object of desire, something that a man fancied for a short while.

  So does Lana.

  The thought struck him with the force of a mallet. His conscience was merciless, it seemed. And accurate. Perhaps that was at the core of what needled him so deeply—he recognized the debauched, most primitive side of himself in those men. One that Lana had unknowingly awakened. He craved her with a raw need that demanded he satiate his body with hers, consequences be damned. And there would be consequences if he gave in. For himself. For her. For his family.

  So maybe he was far worse than Bradburne or Hawksfield.

  Perhaps he loathed them because he loathed himself more.

  For while either of them could do right by Brynn, there was nothing Gray could offer Lana. Especially marriage. She could only be his mistress. The little he knew of her told him that, despite her heated response to him, she would never accept. And he would never suggest such a thing, not if he wished to maintain some degree of honor. She was a lady’s maid. He was a viscount. They’d be shunned by polite society. While the ton would tolerate him because of his family’s influence, they would publicly humiliate her at every turn.

  Gray didn’t know what it was about her that bewitched him. She carried herself with bafflingly quiet poise, and though he knew that she was from a genteel family, that innate sangfroid gave him pause. Even compared to someone such as Lady Cooper, Lana possessed a refined self-confidence that surpassed hers. It was something that could not be taught. Lana was a mystery, one that he was determined to unravel.

  Gray remembered those slender, unblemished fingers of hers and felt an indescribable need to feel them upon him right at that moment. He’d forced himself not to think about that night belowstairs in the sewing room, but now, it seemed that his memories wanted to torture him.

  Her nervous hands sliding along his arms. Her intoxicating scent. Her mouth. Her sweet tongue pushing against his. Her taste. God, her full, satiny breasts.

  On cue, Gray’s trousers drew uncomfortably tight right there in the middle of the goddamned card room. From a days-old memory. Rattled by his body’s untimely response, he composed himself with a rough shake and sat upright in his chair. He focused on the game. And dead puppies. Dead puppies being trampled by a herd of drunken elephants. The resulting appalling image helped. Somewhat.

  With a strangled breath, Gray placed a bet and drained the contents of his glass, signaling for another. It appeared that he was doomed to remain at the table for at least the next hand, as standing would invite considerable ridicule from the other men seated around him, all of them barely acquaintances. Growing stiff in the middle of a card game. He’d never imagined he’d be so pitiable.

  Then again, he hadn’t been with a woman in ages. That probably had much to do with his terrible humor and near-constant state of half-arousal. There were measures he could take to prevent unwanted pregnancies, avoiding the very situation that had befallen his prior mistress, but Gray hadn’t felt inclined to satisfy his baser urges. At least not until Lana. Now it felt as if he had a raging mongrel in his trousers every time he thought of her, which was far too often. He adjusted himself again, resigned to the sorry fate he had created for himself.

  “Northridge,” a cynical voice intoned. “Surprised to see you in town so early for the season.”

  Gray’s head craned in slow motion, although he had already recognized the voice’s owner as the subject of his earlier murderous thoughts. His jaw clenched. “Hawksfield.”

  “May I?” the marquess asked, taking one of the empty seats at the table. He lowered himself into a chair beside Lord Langlevit, receiving a courteous nod of welcome from the earl.

  “Suit yourself,” Gray replied, his ill humor only slightly dulled by the whiskey he’d consumed. At least the marquess’s disagreeable presence appeared to be marginally more distracting than the puppies and rampaging elephants.

  As always, Hawksfield was impeccably dressed from the crown of his head to the tips of his polished boots. He wore his arrogance like a second skin, and it rankled Gray like no other. He’d seen the man disappear with Brynn onto the balcony at the Gainsbridge masquerade, and though his sister had insisted nothing untoward had happened with the marquess, she’d been inexplicably agitated upon her return. He’d bet his last farthing that Hawk had overstepped his bounds.

  “It’s been awhile, Hawk,” Langlevit said. “Although, I’m not sure I’m keen to have you divest me of my coin. Northridge has been on a colossal losing streak all night and has fattened up my purse.”

  “Langlevit,” Hawk greeted him. “Good to see you returned from duty in one piece. I haven’t yet congratulated you on your promotion. Field marshal, eh?”

  The earl shrugged off the impressive new ranking. After so many years of service in the Royal Army, he’d received the highest honor a military man could achieve.

  “Thank you,” was all Langlevit r
eplied.

  “A man of many words,” Hawk joked, toasting him. “How is your mother?”

  Gray noticed the earl tense but then relax as he answered the question. “Sadly, my mother is unwell of late and has retired to the country for some peace and quiet. I expect it shall be good for her to have a break from a constant stream of guests.” He cleared his throat, his expression turning solemn. “Will Lady Eloise be joining you in London for the season?”

  Gray eyed him. The earl had danced with Hawksfield’s sister three times at the Gainsbridge masquerade, igniting rumors that he had set his cap at her. Looking at him now, Gray nearly laughed. The man was practically perched on the edge of his seat waiting for Hawk’s answer.

  “No,” Hawk returned. “She is to remain at Worthington Abbey.”

  Disappointment clouded Langlevit’s face. “That is a pity.”

  “My sister does not enjoy crowds.”

  “Neither do I,” Langlevit said. “Although, at times it is a necessary evil.”

  Gray frowned at the earl’s cryptic words. Just returned from the military overseas, Langlevit would be considered a splendid catch by all the matchmaking mamas of the ton. He was handsome, titled, wealthy, and most importantly, unattached. The tendre he’d developed for Hawksfield’s sister had come as a surprise to more than just Gray, and not only because of the burns upon Lady Eloise’s face, inflicted long ago.

  Brynn had always seemed fond of the girl, but Gray had never quite known how to take her. She was kind and had all the right mannerisms, but something about her struck him as…orchestrated. She bore her illegitimacy with the perfect balance of poise and humility. She wore her veils with the perfect amount of grace and courage. And yet, Gray found Eloise on the whole to be somewhat unsettling, as if she were a projection of someone instead of a real person.

  Play resumed, along with chatter across the gaming table, though Gray could hardly bring himself to focus. He lost three more hands because of it. He could either go home to an empty house, with the object of his lust far too close in proximity, or he could stay here in relative safety and contribute to everyone else’s pockets. There was no choice in the matter. The lost coin was a small price to pay for the retention of his sanity…and what little was left of his dignity.

  Lana’s indifference over the last two days had been a bitter tonic to swallow. He knew she’d been occupied with the unpacking and beleaguered by his mother’s incessant demands to get everything just right, but she’d gone out of her way to avoid being in his presence.

  If he entered a room, she vacated it. If he tried to gain her attention, she busied herself with something else. If he tried to corner her, she found clever ways to extricate herself. It was damned provoking. No, if he returned to Bishop House, he would not be responsible for his actions—she would likely find herself on her back with her skirts tossed over her head before she could blink. His erection rose anew. Gray raked a hand through his hair and loosened the cravat at his neck.

  “Looks like you are settling in for the night,” Hawk noted over the rim of his whiskey glass. “Drowning your devils or your sorrows?”

  “I’ve no better place to be,” Gray said mildly, lifting his own glass and ignoring Hawk’s question. “What’s better than the company of you fine gentlemen?” Toasts of “hear, hear” filled the room. “Although I am surprised to see you here, Hawksfield.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I would have thought you’d be at the duke’s impromptu dinner tonight. My mother was all aflutter at the prospect of encouraging your father’s intentions toward my sister.”

  Hawk’s eyes flew to his. “A dinner, you say.”

  “At your own residence.” Gray paused and smirked. “What, did the duke cut you from the guest list?”

  Hawk set his jaw in answer. It was so, then. Bradburne hadn’t wanted his son present. Gray could guess why. He was not the only one, it seemed, who had noticed Hawksfield ogling Brynn like a lusty rooster.

  “Brynn will be there?”

  “Lady Briannon,” Gray corrected in a lazy tone, “has the unfortunate duty of being forced to accompany my parents, seeing as the invitation specifically requested her presence. And, well, one can’t refuse a duke, can one?”

  Or a viscount.

  Gray went cold with the realization. Brynn, who sat only a few rungs below the duke’s own ranking, had known she could not deny him without consequence. Had Lana, who was not even within the same social sphere as Gray, felt the same way? Unable to deny his kisses, his advances, for fear of consequence? Had he been fooling himself, thinking she had wanted them?

  Gray felt sick and had nearly forgotten the other players at the table until he heard his name being mentioned.

  “So it’s true then that the Dancing Duke is courting your sister, North?” one player, Lord Finton, asked with a waggish grin. “Heard she swooned with delight when His Grace asked her to dance at the Gainsbridge affair.”

  Hawksfield snorted his derision. “The lady was likely overwrought from the unwanted attention.”

  “At least we agree on that,” Gray said in a deprecating tone, meeting the marquess’s stare. “Though, the duke seems to be the only one who is courting my sister properly, and perhaps willing to make a legitimate offer.”

  There was a sudden hush at the gaming table. A muscle ticked in Hawk’s cheek.

  “Is there something you wish to say to me, Northridge?”

  “I just did,” Gray answered, though his reply lacked any real force.

  They glared at each other with mutual hostility until the marquess pushed back his chair with such force that it tipped over. He stalked from the room without another word. Truly, Gray felt nothing but self-disgust. He was a sodding hypocrite. He had done exactly the same as Hawksfield.

  The conversation picked up slowly around the table, though the others were still eyeing him with wary looks. He ignored them, and several rounds later, White’s had become considerably more crowded. The occupants of his own table had shifted as the earlier players took their leave, to be replaced by others Gray knew.

  Members and guests wove between tables, stopping to speak and make introductions. One such man approached Gray’s table, a smile of recognition lighting his face when he made eye contact. Helmford Monti’s crop of thick and wild white hair was his most arresting feature. It reminded Gray of the beaches he’d seen in Crete when he’d taken his grand tour of the Continent three summers ago. Greece had been enjoyable, but it was Monti’s home country of Italy where Gray would happily return at the drop of a hat.

  “Monti, haven’t seen you in a while. Back for the season?” Gray asked as the Italian ambassador arrived at the table.

  Monti, who spent more time at social functions than he did at the Court of St. James, nodded and clapped Gray on the back with a lascivious grin. “You know I could not miss the parade of all the lovely English roses.”

  “Don’t they have enough beautiful women in Italy to keep you satisfied?” Gray laughed.

  Monti grinned. “Variety, my lord, variety. Besides, I like to share the wealth of my culture. Your English women can only benefit from knowing the fire of an Italian amante.”

  “I assure you our English women are doing quite well without your heavy-handed flirtations,” Gray replied, his eyes flicking to an unfamiliar man who had just stepped up to Monti’s side. He cut a brutish figure and sported a heavy, dark mustache. The ambassador made a quick, short, apologetic motion with his hands.

  “Gentlemen, Lord Northridge, may I present Baron Viktor Zakorov. He is a Russian diplomat visiting from St. Petersburg on urgent business. I managed to convince him to take a respite and enjoy what your gentlemanly establishments have to offer.”

  Monti eyed two recently vacated seats at Gray’s table and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Please, join us.” Gray answered the unspoken question with the grace expected of a peer, though the Russian appeared too silent and surly to be diverting company. Gray gestured
around the table. “Monti, I’m sure you know Lords Marsham, Esterborough, Fintan, and Langlevit.”

  The others offered their greetings, but Langlevit kept his head down with a grim look upon his face. Gray frowned at his sudden coolness. Strange. The earl was usually a friendly fellow, but he’d become rigid and tense with the arrival of the two men.

  “What business are you upon, Lord Zakorov?” Gray meant it simply as polite conversation, but he was unprepared for the swift, icy glare the Russian shot in his direction.

  “Confidential.” His speech was heavily accented.

  “Of course,” Gray said with a smile that stayed only on his lips. “Though it is a well-heeded rule that what is divulged at White’s remains at White’s.”

  Marsham, Esterborough, and Fintan all chuckled at that, though Langlevit’s grim expression didn’t change. Perhaps it was the news Hawksfield had delivered about Lady Eloise remaining in Essex for the season that had turned the earl’s attitude sour.

  Monti clapped Zakorov on the shoulder before lighting a thin cheroot. “Why not tell them?” he suggested. “They may be able to help you. Lord Northridge is a man of many connections, as are the others.”

  Zakorov looked clearly disinclined to do so, but at the sudden interest from everyone at the table, he nodded after a long pause. “I am searching for two women—Princesses Svetlanka and Irina Volkonsky. They are wanted for crimes against the tsar.”

  Lord Fintan piped up, “That sounds ominous. Two princesses, you say? What are they wanted for?”

  “They are spies for the French, masterminding an assassination plot. My sources say they are here in London.”

  “Russian princess spies,” Fintan mused to himself. “Sounds rather too fantastic to believe.”

  Esterborough laughed. “Like something out of one of the half penny novels my sisters entertain themselves with.”