Before Cas could speak, Dade appeared in the foyer behind him.
“I’ll manage this,” Dade said.
Morgan moved back as Dade stepped outside and quickly closed the door behind him. It was the second time that day that Morgan had been refused entry. Perhaps he should get used to it.
“I shall only take a moment of your time, Dade.”
• • •
THE MAN HAD a bloody lot of nerve.
What happened at the ball had been horrifying. Not only had Bliss been publicly shamed; Dade had, too.
And every word Neville said in that ballroom had been true: Dade was a coward. He had not defended his cousin’s honor when he should have. Dade had backed down at Bliss’s request when he should have challenged Pryce’s duplicity without delay.
Dade had failed to protect his family, and when Morgan publicly humiliated Bliss, he had exposed Dade’s failure, too—to all of London! Dade would never forgive him.
And yet . . .
The Morgan Pryce who stood before him on the stoop of Worthington House did not possess the air of an unrepentant rogue. He did not appear insolent or haughty. It was clear he had not come for an argument.
In truth, Pryce appeared broken. He raised hollow eyes to meet Dade’s gaze. “I most sincerely beg your pardon for any grief I have caused your family. You did not deserve it.”
The naked remorse of those words caused Dade to take a step back.
Pryce’s face tightened with despair. “Is she . . . is she all right? Tell me she is well.”
Dade recalled the long night of frenzied housekeeping, and did not know how to respond. “She’s a bit . . . distraught.”
“Oh no.”
“She’s quite miserable, really.”
“Oh God.” Pryce turned away for a moment, as if to collect himself. When he turned his attention to Dade once more, his jaw was set in determination. “I must speak with her.”
“Ah . . .” Dade glanced at the door behind him, imagining the scene unfolding in the kitchen at that very moment. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I’ve made a blasted mess of everything, Worthington, and it is my duty to fix it. Let me speak with her.”
“She’s—”
“Bliss’s happiness matters more to me than anything.” He fixed his gaze upon Dade. “I desire most sincerely to do right by her—but to do so, I must survive this damned duel!” Pryce took a deep breath. “Worthington, I have come today to request that you serve as my second. I have no one else to ask.”
Dade was stupefied. Never would he have expected Pryce to make such a request of him, and in such a humble and heartfelt fashion. Spotting a gentleman’s true character was something at which Dade had always excelled, and at this moment he believed Pryce spoke earnestly.
But this?
Dade heard himself laugh shortly. “Ah . . . given the circumstances, I hardly know how to respond.”
“I have no intention of shooting Neville and I do not wish to be shot.” Pryce raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “Yet my attempts to find a bloodless resolution have failed. He will not speak with me. He won’t see me. I must have someone at my side I can trust to get both of us out of this alive.”
Dade rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to clear his thoughts. This was certainly an unexpected complication. “Yes, well, I’m afraid Cas has already agreed to be Neville’s second. Neville asked him last night.”
Pryce rolled his eyes up to the sky, then closed them for a long moment. “I cannot do this to her.” Pryce opened his eyes once more, shaking his head. “I cannot leave Bliss a widow before I even own my own ship! What will she do? How will she live?”
Dade felt his eyes widen. Morgan Pryce had no idea whom he had married. It was an interesting twist.
“She will manage,” Dade assured him.
“But she is not the type of woman who should be forced to simply manage,” Pryce shot back. “I’ve come to believe that Bliss is like the sleekest ship in a very fine fleet. She is beautiful and endlessly capable, but shines brightest when she has careful tending. She needs companionship, Dade. Looking after. She needs a man who will constantly check her rigging—”
“Pryce, please!” Dade held up his palm. “You are speaking of my cousin.”
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is that Bliss deserves to live in loving security for all her days. If I die she’ll—”
“Pryce.” Dade simply had to interrupt the poor man. “Bliss is quite well off. I estimate she’ll have more than five thousand pounds to help her ‘survive’ should anything happen to you.”
Pryce scowled. It seemed to take him a moment to understand Dade’s words. “What?” He appeared stunned. “She has five thousand pounds? I assumed she had resources, but she is that rich?”
Dade tried not to appear pitying. “No, you idiot. That’s only the annual interest off her principal. It’s her pocket money.”
Pryce’s jaw unhinged.
“Listen, my man. Bliss is so wealthy that her fortune makes the Duke of Camberton’s appear shabby. Now do you understand?”
Dade noticed how Pryce could not help letting his gaze take in the shabby exterior of Worthington House, its peeling paint, its unruly shrubbery.
He knew that some explanation was in order. Regardless of how it happened, Pryce was, indeed, Bliss’s husband. “She comes from a different branch of the Worthington family tree—the one that grows the golden apples. Now, that is all I can say. She must be the one to tell you more.”
Morgan blinked. He remained silent for a moment, then broke out into a wide smile. “You know what, Worthington? If Bliss did not have a shilling to her name, I would not give a damn. I loved her when I suspected she was a gold-digging fraud. I could do nothing to prevent it. She . . . overwhelmed me. I’ll never be able to stop myself from loving her.”
Dade’s sigh was far louder than he intended. “Look, Pryce. We greatly admire Neville. He and Cas have been good friends for quite some time. I daresay I have no idea how my brother and I can square off against each other as seconds on the same dueling field.”
Pryce laughed bitterly. “I understand your dilemma.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment in silence. They broke out into simultaneous smiles.
“Unless . . .”
Dade nodded. “I was thinking the very same thing.” He extended his hand. “You’ve got yourself a second.”
• • •
BLISS SAT WITH her mother at the kitchen table, a pot of tea between them. Fortunately, it was not Mrs. Philpott’s alarmingly relaxing secret blend, for this was a rather important discussion.
Bliss found Mama to be sympathetic, but in a practical sort of way. No one had ever accused the legendary Mrs. Blythe of being overly sentimental.
“Your father wishes he could come as well, but can you imagine the chaos if we were seen together?” She patted Bliss’s hand with her jeweled fingers. “Anyway, I come as his emissary as well as on my own account.”
Bliss was grateful that her mother did not scold her for the folly of a secret midnight wedding. Neither did she reprimand her for the oh-so-public indiscretion at the Fletchers’ ball. “Oh my. Yes, I recall the heat of the moment—very well indeed!”
However, Mama was positively aghast at the mention of Bliss’s husband and the upcoming duel.
“It almost sounds as if you fear for his safety,” Mama said, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Why should you care what happens to that trickster? That man lied to you!”
Bliss found she had no answer.
Mama continued. “Let the idiots shoot each other, if that is what they wish. Then you can be a widow. It is ever so much fun to be a widow in London!”
Bliss dropped her gaze to her hands, chapped by housework. It struck
her as odd that even after all the scouring and scrubbing, dusting and sweeping, Bliss had failed to establish order in her own heart and mind. As she listened to her mother extoll the benefits of widowhood, Bliss realized she had no idea what she wanted.
Whom she wanted.
One thing was certain. Dearest Neville would never have used her as Morgan had. He would never have traded his honor for a ship! But then, Neville was a duke. He did not need a ship, nor did he need to claw and scrape for a place in the world the way a bastard must.
So what of this superior moral character? What did it matter if she did not love Neville?
And then there was Morgan, a man with so much to prove that he sold his soul for a ship. He was another matter entirely. Did his desperate bargain make him irredeemable? Did the untamed hunger he displayed at the ball make him unworthy of her? What did any of this matter if she loved him?
Bliss suddenly looked up. She stared at her mother as her mind grappled with the truth. Morgan hadn’t accosted her at the ball. She had accosted him!
Perhaps she would never see the truth until she was truthful with herself.
“I pushed him down on that settee, Mama.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I ripped off his clothes of my own free will, and it was wild and wonderful. I never imagined I could feel such passion.”
And I never, ever would have done such a thing with Neville.
Mama took a hearty sip of tea, but it did not hide her small smile.
So now the question was this: How could Bliss survive the rest of her life without doing such a thing again? The thought of it made her ache.
No more rakish smile that hid a sensitive soul? No more hot, gentle hands? No husky voice calling her name?
Widow?
Bloody hell no. I will not allow that to happen.
Bliss stood up. She pressed both hands to the tabletop and leaned close to her mother. “I love him, Mama. I can’t live without him. And I’m going to stop this nonsense right now!”
Mama smiled. “That’s the spirit, dearest! You go fetch your man.”
Chapter 31
“DID my solicitor call while I was out?” Lord Oliver handed Regis his hat, gloves, and walking stick.
“Yes, my lord. He left the papers on your desk.”
“Marvelous news.”
Oliver headed to his study, his mind already focused on the particulars he would find in those documents. He had long known that Mr. Christie was a master of legal gibberish, a barrister of balderdash! Oliver was eager to get a taste of his latest legal confection.
Oliver pressed his hands together in delight. How entertaining it would be to see Mrs. Beckham trapped like a fly in Christie’s winding web of words!
He almost felt pity for the dim-witted widow.
Almost.
“My lord. Don’t forget your correspondence.”
Lord Oliver spun around and held out his hand impatiently. He snapped his fingers. “Don’t just stand there, Regis. I am a busy man.”
“Of course.”
Regis placed one thin and uninteresting envelope in his palm, but Oliver’s gaze went to the hall table, upon which teetered a five-inch-high stack of invitations.
“What the devil is all this?” He pointed to the pile of social correspondence. “I do not have time for more blasted balls! Nonsense! Decline them all!”
Regis stared blankly at Lord Oliver, which was puzzling, as his butler was usually quite astute.
“Well, what is it, Regis? Just spit it out!”
“As you wish, my lord. Those invitations are not addressed to you. They are for Miss Katarina.”
Heat flared beneath Oliver’s cravat. He spun around and made way toward his study. Never again! Never again would he allow guests to reside in Camberton House for the Season. By God, this was his home. Not some kind of way station for homely heiresses!
Once at his desk, he began to relax. Reading over Mr. Christie’s contract of sale made him chuckle. It was even more brilliant than he’d hoped. The phrasing was so impenetrable, and the word choice so elaborate, that Oliver himself could barely make sense of it.
Sunbury would be his by day’s end. All he needed was her signature.
Lord Oliver took a moment to open his sole piece of correspondence. It appeared to be a request for payment, though he did not recognize the address, the handwriting, or the nature of the purchases.
Two ball gowns? Two reticules? Two pairs of slippers? Exotic bird feathers? Two shawls?
Two hundred and forty-seven pounds?
Oliver choked. His coughing fit was so severe that he had to let it run its course before he could call for Regis.
The butler arrived at the first squeak of alarm. “Are you quite well, my lord?”
“Fetch that witch to me right now!”
Regis raised his chin. “Which witch would that be, my lord?”
Oliver poured himself an emergency brandy, grateful for the balm it provided to his distressed throat. “The Beckham woman! I insist she come down here at once!”
“Yes, my lord.”
While Regis was gone, Oliver poured himself another, mulling over the absurd waste of money. The woman had no concept of finance. Two hundred and forty-seven pounds! For scraps of silk and assorted froufrous and gewgaws? That could pay the annual salaries of sixteen footmen! He could purchase enough coal to heat Camberton House over the course of three winters!
The nerve of that woman . . . sending him the bill . . . expecting him to pay for their frivolous feathers and—
“Darling Ollie! Has something happened?” Mrs. Beckham appeared in the study doorway, her expression a study in vapid alarm. “Regis said it was urgent.”
“Mrs. Beckham, won’t you please sit down?” Oliver gestured to one of the room’s settees. Now that his temper had begun to cool, he realized he might be able to use this fiasco to his advantage. From his desk he obtained the dress shop bill, the contract of sale, and quill and ink. He found a seat opposite Mrs. Beckham, then laid the items on the coffee table between them. “It appears there has been an unfortunate error.”
“An error? Has someone been injured?” Mrs. Beckham’s mouth loosened in horror.
“Yes. No. What I mean to say is that I’ve been injured, mistakenly billed for the services of a rather expensive London dressmaker.”
She blinked in complete innocence, as if the words meant nothing to her.
“Two hundred and forty-seven pounds due for the evening dresses you and your daughter wore to last night’s debacle of a ball.”
Mrs. Beckham’s eyes widened, and she brought a dainty hand to her mouth, then her décolletage. “Oh dear. I am ever so sorry this has happened. As you well know, ladies do not carry money on their person. I merely asked that the bills be sent here to Camberton House. I did not intend for you to be required to pay them.”
“I see.”
“Do forgive me, dearest Ollie. Since Mr. Beckham’s loss I find managing accounts distressing.”
“My dear lady.” Oliver leaned forward and produced his most endearing smile. “I do not wish for you to feel distress of any kind. I shall make payment on your behalf.”
“Oh, Ollie! You will?”
“Of course, madam. All I ask in return is for you sign this document.” He slipped it across the table between them.
“I fear I don’t know what this is, Ollie.”
“Oh, it’s nothing of much import, just a short promissory statement. Please read over it if you wish.”
He watched Mrs. Beckham peer at the words, her frown deepening by the second. She pressed her fingertips to a temple. “I . . . I don’t understand! It says something about Sunbury. Is this some kind of legal document?”
He shook his head reassuringly. “’Tis simply a manifestation on your p
art, an expression of intent.”
“Intent to do what?” She glanced up at him, her eyes glazed over from the burden of Mr. Christie’s obtuse prose.
Most excellent.
“Oh, it’s simply a little promise. Intent to consider selling Sunbury to me at some point in the future, for an amount we can determine later. It’s really a straightforward little thing.”
She tipped her chin. “It is fourteen pages of indecipherable babble.”
Oliver was tempted to slam his fist down upon the table. Nothing was ever simple with this woman. She was nothing short of Satan’s handmaiden!
He dipped the quill in the inkpot and handed it to her. He tapped his finger impatiently on the bottom of the last page. “All you need do is sign right here—”
The silly hen dropped her face into her hands and began to cry.
Bloody hell.
Her shoulders lurched with each sob. She went on like that for several long moments, nearly howling now and again. Oliver had no choice but to offer her his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, snatching the linen from his hand. It took a long moment for her to tamp down her emotions, but eventually she raised her face. Her cheeks were flushed, but she had wiped away any trace of tears.
“I feel a headache coming on. I shall review this later, after I have a bit of lie-down in my chamber.” She rose from the settee, the unsigned document gripped in her fingers. “And I do thank you ever so much for taking care of the dressmaker’s charges. Good day, Lord Oliver.”
He jumped from his seat in alarm. “You can’t take the document! Bring it back this instant!” He darted out into the hall but found Regis standing directly in his way.
“Move, you idiot!” He darted to his left.
“Forgive me, my lord.” Regis darted to his right.
“Buffoon! Out of my way!” He lunged to his left.
“Ever so sorry.” Regis lunged to his right.
By the time Oliver shoved his suddenly useless butler aside, Mrs. Beckham had disappeared at the top of the stairs.
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