He gave his head a wry shake.
It was the reason he’d not dismissed his mother’s pleas outright. Instead, he sat here contemplating the possibility of taking Lady Minerva as his wife. Their families being lifelong friends, they were not in any way strangers and though they had once been friends as children, with time they’d grown apart. There was, however, still more familiarity between them, greater than most unions began with.
He’d always been practical and reasonable. The same sentiments that had driven his successful business dealings also influenced his personal ones. When his youngest brother, James, and older brother, Charles, had been the romantic ones, Gregory had been more like Damian. Logical. Steady. Committed to family and honor. Nearly thirty years of age, with a flourishing business, the time for a wife to serve as his partner and hostess was certainly near. He stared morosely into his drink.
Perhaps it was fatigue from two long days of traveling in the cold. Or mayhap it was looking at his once staid brother, now happily married to a lady their mother had once despised. But he felt a panicky resentment at being the one the dowager duchess would turn to in order to restore the Renshaw honor.
Gregory tossed back the contents of his glass. Restless, he surged to his feet and then froze. Mayhap he was more tired than he’d credited, after all. He squinted in the darkened space and peered across the room. Were those…? He took one step forward. And another. And another. The sight remained. A dainty pair of white-slippered feet jutted out from around a sofa.
The frustration previously thrumming inside, stopped.
“You see me. Don’t you?” That resigned question was followed by a lengthy sigh.
And for the first time since he’d arrived to a lecture from his mother, he managed a real grin. “Indeed.”
Another whispered exhalation of air filled the library.
Gregory strolled over to the corner and paused. The lady, with her wide brown eyes and golden curls, stared up. Well. Miss Carol Cresswall. The very same lady he’d spent four years avoiding. She flashed him a grin, revealing two rows of slightly crooked teeth. “Lord Gregory,” she greeted in perfect tones, as though they met in a formal parlor.
He sketched a bow, pausing over her. “Miss Cresswall,” he returned in deliberately serious tones. Why was he not surprised to find her tucked away in her host’s library, upon her back, no less? Was there any other place for the lady who’d thumbed her nose at a centuries’ old feud and helped his sister-in-law gain entry into the Renshaw residence? “Never tell me Theo was so gauche as to not have a chamber prepared for you, which forced you to take rest here?”
His words rang a startled laugh from her. He started. The ladies of his acquaintance had always been careful and reserved with smiles and laughter, handing them out as though they were carefully selected gifts. This unabashed mirth was a sincerity he’d believed a young woman incapable of.
Her laughter faded. “Never tell me I’ve something in my teeth, too?” she whispered, promptly displaying those endearingly crooked front teeth. Her cheeks immediately split into a teasing smile.
By God, Miss Carol Cresswall really was rather, enchanting. He blinked slowly. She couldn’t be enchanting. She was…Carol. “I’d never be so rude,” he managed through that uncomfortable discovery.
“Ah,” Miss Cresswall said with such a regretful note to that utterance it begged a question of him.
“What?” he asked, the inquiry tumbling forth.
“You would be one of those who allowed a lady to go about with something stuck in her teeth, then?”
“I might,” he confirmed, his lips twitching. “It would depend upon the lady.” Lying in repose, she tilted her head at an endearing little angle. He clarified. “If she’s one of those nasty, cold sorts.” A snorting laugh escaped her. He held a hand out and Miss Cresswall placed her palm in his. A sharp charge of heat radiated from the point of contact, holding him transfixed. Her skin was soft like satin. Her fingers were delicate in his own larger hand and, yet, there was a strength to that unapologetic grip.
She looked quizzically up at him, springing Gregory into movement. He quickly settled her on her feet and retreated several steps. “I take it you are hiding?” he asked, to fill the void of silence.
Miss Cresswall nodded. “Yes.”
He should allow her to take her leave. Regardless of their families’ connection, remaining closeted away without the benefit of a chaperone was the kind of act that saw a man hastily wedded by special license. Gregory returned to his discarded glass and took a sip. “Avoiding a determined suitor?” Was it Lady Theo’s unwed brother, the future heir, who’d set his sights on Miss Cresswall? A slight frown pulled at his lips. Why did that thought grate?
“Avoiding a matchmaking mama,” she clarified.
“Ah.” He lifted his glass in salute. “Now, that, I can certainly relate to. And who is the gentleman she’d have you make a holiday match with?” he asked, bringing his snifter to his lips. Mayhap the lady had more wit than he’d credited over the years. Lady Minerva’s brother was a stuffy prig and between the remaining unwed Raynes, they were surly, miserable blighters no young lady ought to be married to. Gregory tossed back his drink.
“You,” she said matter-of-factly.
He dissolved in a paroxysm of coughing.
She slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. “Take faith, Lord Gregory. I’ve no intention of falling in line with my mother’s machinations.” She glanced at the closed door. “Though, given our presence here, alone,” she spoke on a teasing whisper, “we’d both be neatly trapped.” He flared his eyes in horror and she laughed. “I assure you, I’ve far more honor than to go about trapping a gentleman, particularly you.” With a curtsy, she started for the door. He should let her go. Certainly, as she’d pointed out, there was only peril in them being closeted away together. Yet, with her swift retreating form, regret filled him.
“Particularly me?” he called out and she stopped mid-movement. For surely she didn’t expect he’d simply ignore that thinly veiled insult.
The lady wheeled slowly back to face him.
Gregory folded his arms at his chest. “Do enlighten me.”
Most ladies would dip their eyes and issue a stammering reply at being blatantly challenged. Bold as the night was dark, Miss Cresswall wandered over. She paused several steps away. “Despite my mother’s efforts,” she said with a calm matter-of-factness his own mother had never evinced. “I’m not desperate for a match. Even with my advancing years.”
Her advancing years. He scoffed. “You cannot be more than three and twenty.”
“Four and twenty,” she confirmed with a nod. “Which was the very point I made to my mother. Hardly a fresh-eyed debutante.” Simpering ladies never personally held an appeal for Gregory. “But neither a spinster. Not yet.” Interesting. Those two words revealed much. Did the lady see herself walking that eventual path? She’d more spirit than all of the ladies he’d partnered with at his mother’s behest. “Even if and when I do become a spinster, I’d not marry a man who took great pains to avoid me for four, almost five years.”
A dull flush warmed its way up his neck and he gave thanks for the cover of darkness. Had he been so very obvious in his attempts? And now, something new and unpleasant settled in his belly. Guilt. At having been so callous. He’d seen Miss Cresswall as a mere extension of his mother’s quest for power and, as such, he’d not given thought of her as a young woman who saw much—too much. He, usually, was ready with words and an affable reply but found himself—speechless.
Miss Cresswall leaned close, shrinking the space between them. “You were,” she whispered.
He furrowed his brow.
“That obvious.” A little twinkle glimmered in her chocolate brown eyes and Gregory cocked his head. Over the years, he’d had but a handful of meetings with the lady before he ultimately turned on his heel and marched in the opposite direction. Now, with her standing but a foot away, he appreciated the fla
xen blonde of her golden curls. An errant strand hung over her shoulder, bringing his gaze to the generous swell of her décolletage and lower still to the flare of her hips. Hips a man could sink his fingers into and—
Good God. “My apologies,” he said hoarsely, swiftly yanking his gaze up. “It was unpardonably rude for me to—”
“To be honest?” she cut in and scoffed. “Bah, I would have taken greater offense with you courting me because your mother and my mother wished it.”
Isn’t that the same favor my mother currently seeks from me now…the same one I am very seriously entertaining? Miss Cresswall’s words, on the heels of his meeting a short while ago with his mother, struck him in the chest.
“Well, then, Lord Gregory,” the lady said with a parting finality. “All things considered, I should allow you your privacy and seek out my rooms.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Can’t very well go risking discovery and a lifetime bound together.” She paused. “Even if it would be something of a gift to my determined mama.” She followed that up with a saucy wink, startling a laugh from him.
His mirth fading, Gregory stared after her retreating frame, appreciating the gentle sway of her shapely hips. Another bolt of desire went through him. “Miss Cresswall?” he called out, again staying her.
Miss Cresswall glanced back.
He flashed a grin. “Had I known you were this refreshingly honest, I would never have fled your company.” Those glib-intended words, momentarily staggered him with the truth that brought them forward.
She snorted. “I am flattered.”
“Oh, and Miss Cresswall?” he asked, interrupting her flight.
The golden-haired beauty stared on, a question in her eyes.
“I would beg a truce of sorts.”
“I’d no inclination we were at war.” Amusement underscored that retort.
God, she was breathtaking. Direct. Unabashed. Honest. Wholly unlike the ladies of the ton. “Oh, yes,” he said with mock solemnity, drifting over to her, like one of those hopeless moths who’d caught sight of a flame. “A very battle for free choice and independence.” Two gifts, he’d now cede, if he wed Lady Minerva. Thrusting aside the unwanted thoughts, he held a hand out.
Miss Cresswall eyed it contemplatively. “A truce, then,” she agreed, placing her fingers in his.
Heat singed his palm and he folded his fingers about hers, not wanting to sever that heated connection. “Given our mothers had once intended a match for us,” one his own mother had wholly moved away from, “I expect we might refer to one another by our Christian names?” Where had that maddening offer come from?
Her smile widened, dimpling her right cheek. “You’d so easily end the war between us?”
“It is the Christmastide season,” he pointed out.
She made to speak, but an unexpected solemnity settled over her delicate features as she searched her gaze over his face. “Gregory, then,” she said softly, shattering all hint of levity so that the awareness between them sizzled like the roaring fire in the hearth.
He abruptly released her hand and, this time, allowed the lady her retreat. Gregory stood staring at the heavy paneled door, long after she’d left. “Carol,” he murmured into the quiet.
Who would have imagined that the lady he’d spent four years studiously avoiding could be so captivating?
Chapter 4
Seated in the empty breakfast room with the snow falling outside the frost-paned windows, Carol buttered a piece of warm bread. Her stolen exchange with Lord Gregory played out in her mind. Nay. Not Lord Gregory. Simply Gregory. After all, they had put an end to the war between them.
A smile tugged at her lips and she took a small bite of her flaky bread. Having avoided her for the better part of four years and having heard the gentleman speak, albeit without her knowing, about how little he wished to wed her—he’d rather have a bur stuck in his backside than make the match his mother approved of, to be precise—she’d taken him for a stiff, pompous lout.
Third in line to one of the oldest titles in the realm, his aloofness had perfectly fed every opinion one might have for those lofty gentlemen. Their only kindnesses were for equally powerful families and people to expand their own greatness and prestige.
Of an honorable family with a rather recent title and a modest dowry, Carol would never be one of the Lady Minervas of the world. Which was all well and good. She had no wish to be. As she’d said to her mother, she wanted to be desired for who she was and married to a man who celebrated her willingness to speak her mind.
Gregory was certainly not that man. Or, that is the manner of person she’d taken him to be.
She distractedly tore a small piece from her bread and popped it in her mouth. Who’d known Gregory wasn’t stiff and formal, but rather capable of teasing and mirth? Granted he’d not wanted to wed her…but neither had she, in fairness wanted to marry him, a stranger. And certainly not because their mothers desired that match. She’d spent years resenting him for feeling the very same way she’d felt these years.
It was a rather humbling, if not an eye-opening revelation to come to.
“Carol Cresswall, are you woolgathering?”
On a shriek, she looked up. Theo stood in the doorway, grinning. A blush warmed Carol’s cheeks. “Hardly,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Did her friend hear that telltale indicator?
Waving off a servant, Theo hurried over to the sideboard and made herself a plate. A footman rushed forward to pull out the chair she claimed opposite Carol. “I require a bough,” she said without preamble. At that diversionary statement, some of the tension left Carol’s shoulders. Theo carefully diced up a piece of bacon. “A lot of them,” she added from the side of her mouth.
Carol puzzled her brow.
“My mother-in-law does not believe in festive occasions,” the other young lady explained, on a hushed whisper. “Gatherings should be formal and reserved.”
“But…but it is Christmas,” Carol sputtered. What was a holiday without colorful decorations or the smell of fir boughs?
“I know,” Theo said sadly, spreading preserves on a piece of bread. “My husband never knew a hint of what the Christmastide entailed until we’d wed.”
That gloomy childhood certainly explained how the Duke of Devlin had become the somber, solemn gentleman he had been. That was, until he’d met Lady Theo and fallen hopelessly in love. Had he, as ducal heir, been the only one stripped of joy? Or had Gregory, too, had such a straitlaced existence, devoid of cheer and mirth?
Carol nibbled at her lower lip. Gregory’s infectious amusement hinted at a man who’d learned laughter and reveled in it, so at odds with the cold picture Theo had painted of the Renshaw family. That, and his rejection of the dowager duchess’ matchmaking efforts spoke volumes of his character—he was one who’d scoff at Societal expectations. Admiration filled her.
“Carol?”
She started and, cheeks warming, Carol forced herself to go still under her friend’s scrutiny. “Yes?”
“I had asked whether you might assist me in transforming Castle Renshaw for the season.”
“Of—” Footsteps sounded in the hallway and her heart kicked up a beat. She peeked at the front of the room. Her heart dipped.
Theo’s brother, Mr. Richard Rayne, entered the breakfast room. A rush of disappointment filled her and she quickly joined Theo in standing.
“Theo. Miss Cresswall,” he greeted, not so much as making eye contact as he made his way to the sideboard.
“Mr. Rayne.” Carol returned to her chair. A sliver of sadness struck. Once grinning, charming and affable, Mr. Rayne had his heart broken in a public display two years earlier. The woman he’d loved had, instead, wed the second-born Renshaw. It had left him a jaded, laconic version of himself.
Filling his plate, he joined Carol at the table, taking the seat at her right.
How very different this morose, brooding gentleman was from Gregory. Then, a broken heart would do that to a person. Had she not
felt that same pain after discovering her father was a faithless bounder? After that, she’d become an ugly, snapping, snarling girl…until with time and maturity, she’d resolved to never be weakened by any man’s perfidy.
Another set of footsteps sounded in the hall. She swallowed a sigh as her mother appeared in the doorway. The viscountess lingered her gaze briefly on the future Earl of Lavery and then, with a frown, skimmed the long, empty table. “Where is…?”
Carol curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Please do not say it.
“Lord Gregory?”
She slid her eyes closed. She’d said it. That humiliation was only somewhat dulled by the gentleman’s ab—
“Lady Fennimore,” that deep, mellifluous baritone filled the breakfast room.
Cheeks burning, she glanced with pained reluctance to the tall, wiry gentleman who stood in the entrance of the room. Oh, please let the duchess’ floor open and swallow her now. By the amused glint in his sapphire eyes, he was very much enjoying this humiliation. The bounder.
“We were just speaking of you,” the viscountess beamed, waving at him and calling his attention briefly away from Carol.
“Indeed,” he drawled, flicking his gaze once more in her direction.
Mr. Rayne didn’t so much as glance at him but rather drank his coffee, gaze trained on his glass. Did that harbored resentment come from their ancient feud? Or from the recent broken heart suffered when Miss Candace had chosen to wed a Renshaw? Either way, it spoke to the man’s bitterness that he’d condemn a man who’d nothing to do with either fate.
“Isn’t that correct, Carol?”
“Er…” The humiliation continued.
“Your mother and I often remarked on how lovely it would be if you—”
Carol shoved back her chair and it scraped noisily along the floor. “Saw to the Christmas boughs,” she said on a rush. It was long considered unlucky to bring greenery into a household prior to the eve of Christmas and, yet, Carol would take her chances with ill-luck over a greater heaping of humiliation. Her chest moved quickly with the force of her shame as the collection of guests stared on with varying degrees of pity. Blast it. Even Mr. Rayne had pulled himself from his moroseness to favor her with that pathetic emotion.
’Twas the Night Before Scandal Page 3
