The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Mia Marlowe

  Frederica had picked the worst possible time to disappear.

  “If we split up, we will be able to cover more ground,” he said.

  “Agreed.” Caroline stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see if her friend was on the dance floor. When her search was fruitless, she settled back down into her flat-soled slippers. “Horatia and I will go to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “But I’ve looked there already,” Horatia whispered frantically.

  “We’ll look again, just in case you missed Freddie the first time. If any of us find her, we should bring her back to the drawing room immediately.” She shot a meaningful glance at Lawrence. “No matter what we discover, there must be no…unpleasantness.”

  He nodded, her message received. Very well. No thrashing of Rowley on the premises. But if Oliver was trying to ruin yet another young lady, Lawrence meant to call him to account, even if it had to be in a different time and place.

  After Caroline and Horatia started up the long staircase to the first story, Lawrence made his way to the card room. He hadn’t expected to find Frederica playing piquet, but anything was possible.

  He did, however, see his uncle and caught the old man’s eye for a few uncomfortable moments. Lord Ware glared at him from across the room. Lawrence recognized the expression, and it took him back almost two decades.

  Lawrence had reached the spot where Ralph fell first, but Lord Ware had been hard on his heels. His uncle had been frantic, wailing hysterically as he’d knelt beside his son’s twisted body, trying hopelessly to straighten his lifeless limbs. When Lord Ware had looked up at Lawrence, the anger and loathing in his eyes had been so palpable, he’d buckled under his uncle’s malevolent gaze. Now, no matter how many years had passed, the earl still blamed him for Ralph’s accident. The crushing accusation sizzled once more between them, but this time Lawrence didn’t look away.

  He’d accepted the guilt when he was younger because if his uncle decreed something, it must be so. Time and distance had allowed Lawrence to rethink the events of that terrible day. Now he knew his cousin’s death hadn’t been his fault.

  But Lord Ware’s view of the past obviously hadn’t changed. Lawrence was responsible for robbing him of his heir.

  However, Lawrence didn’t have time to settle matters with his uncle at present. He had to find Rowley and Miss Tilbury before someone else did.

  Rowley was perfectly capable of ruining Caroline’s friend. He used women as if they were nothing. One night and it was blithely on to the next. But Lawrence was even more concerned that Rowley would put Frederica into a compromising position for another selfish purpose. The young viscount was habitually light in the pockets, but word in White’s was that now Rowley was deep in Dun territory. He might even have to petition the Crown to allow him to sell off part of his estate to pay back his creditors. That was a downward spiral from which few noble houses ever recovered.

  However, Miss Frederica Tilbury’s hand came with a princely dowry. Better men than Rowley had married a fortune with feet. Some honored their wealthy wives by using the infusion of cash to settle their debts and reestablish their estates on a firm foundation.

  But it was very tempting to spend someone else’s money on frivolity and riotous living.

  Lawrence had no illusions about which path Rowley would follow. Miss Tilbury’s dowry would be squandered and she’d be left with a philandering husband and severely reduced means. Lawrence couldn’t allow that to happen to Caroline’s friend.

  After he’d scoured all the rooms on the ground floor without success, he used the servants’ staircase at the back of the house to ascend to the upper stories. Only ladies ventured up the main stairs to the retiring room above. The back staircase was likely the way Rowley had lured Miss Tilbury to a remote part of the town house.

  When he stepped through the plain door separating the servants’ stairwell from the public part of the home, he was greeted by feminine chatter coming from the far end of the long hallway. The retiring room was no doubt in a parlor with windows facing the street in front of the town house. But there were a number of closed doors between him and that female enclave. If Caroline and Horatia were looking there, he would likely meet them in the middle as he searched the other rooms.

  And if they didn’t find Frederica on this floor, there were still two more stories above them.

  Mostly bedrooms there, Lawrence thought grimly.

  The first door he came to was locked.

  Likely Lord Frampton’s study.

  When he came to the next door, he didn’t even have to open it to know it was his host’s smoking room. The sweet scent of pipe tobacco wafted into the hallway from under the door.

  Along with the sound of a stifled cry.

  Lawrence shoved the door open. Lit by a couple of wall sconces flanking the small fireplace, the room was paneled with rich mahogany. Its furniture was heavy and masculine. Leather wing chairs flanked a table inlaid with ivory. A chess game in progress was set up atop it. From the stuffed boar’s head over the fireplace to the heavy damask curtains at the windows, the space was the picture of masculine civility.

  But in the corner, near one of the two tall windows, Rowley had Miss Tilbury pinned to the wall with his body. He was kissing her passionately and, just as passionately, she was pounding his shoulders with her small gloved fists.

  “Let her go.” Lawrence didn’t say it loudly, but his voice was so silky with menace, Rowley released her at once and turned to face him. Frederica seized her chance and skittered away from him.

  “Oh, what you must think of me, Mr. Sinclair.” Freddie hurried to him. Rowley had pulled the pins from her lovely blond hair, and even to Lawrence’s untrained eye, her carefully styled coiffure was now a jumbled mess. “This is not at all what I wanted…I mean…I didn’t intend to let him…please, you must believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “You see, Lord Rowley told me there was a secret passage in this house, and rumors of a treasure from long ago, and…well, who can resist a hunt for a hidden treasure?”

  “Who indeed?” he said, not taking his gaze from Rowley.

  “You won’t tell anyone you found us like this?” she said, tears trembling on her lashes.

  When he shook his head, he feared Freddie might collapse in relief. At that moment, Caroline and Horatia appeared in the open doorway. Freddie fled into their arms, where she collapsed in earnest.

  “Take her someplace quiet where you can fix her hair before the two of you go down for supper,” Caroline said quietly to Horatia. “Not the retiring room.”

  “No indeed. Far too many wagging tongues in there. I’ll make sure no one sees her before I’ve put everything to rights. Come, dear.” Putting her arm around Frederica, Horatia led her from the room.

  Caroline didn’t leave with the other two women, but instead closed the door behind them. “Explain yourself, Oliver.”

  “What can I say, Caro? I am besotted with Miss Tilbury.”

  “I love Frederica like a sister,” she said, “but I find myself doubting that.”

  Lawrence was glad Caroline was doing the talking. He was having enough trouble trying to keep from throttling the man.

  “If you cared about Freddie,” Caroline went on, “you wouldn’t have put her into such a compromising position. Her reputation would be in tatters if anyone other than we had discovered the two of you alone here.”

  “Well, hello, Kettle. This is Pot,” Rowley said with a smarmy smile. “Weren’t you and Sinclair similarly alone in Lady Frampton’s moonlit garden earlier? I saw him follow you out there.”

  “It’s not at all the same thing,” she said, color rising in her cheeks. “I was clearly upset by the ill-considered things I said about Lady Ackworth. After I removed myself from the ballroom, he simply followed me out to the garden to console me with a cup of punch.”

/>   Rowley scoffed. “If you say so.”

  “You’re in no position to dispute the lady’s word, Rowley,” Lawrence said, his fingers balling into fists as he took a step toward the viscount.

  Caroline raised a warning hand and he stopped advancing. “Mr. Sinclair and I were within easy view of anyone who cared to stroll amid the blooms. That’s very different from being hidden away behind the closed door of Lord Frampton’s smoking room.”

  Rowley splayed his hands before him in entreaty. “Caro, it’s not like you to think the worst of someone. You know me.”

  Her rigid posture said she wasn’t so sure she did.

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t hurt Miss Tilbury for worlds,” Rowley protested. “And if by chance we had been discovered by someone other than you and Sinclair, why, I’d have done the honorable thing and married the girl in a thrice. As I said, I’m besotted with her.”

  “Besotted with her dowry you mean,” Lawrence said.

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “But it’s true. And here’s another truth.” Lawrence didn’t let Caroline stop him this time. He crossed the room until he stood nose-to-nose with Rowley. “You are suddenly looking very pale, my friend. I fear you’ve become quite ill. In fact, you need to take your leave of this house immediately.”

  Rowley took half a step back, but still shot Lawrence a challenging glare. “Nonsense, Sinclair. I feel fine.”

  “A man’s health can take a sudden turn when he least expects it. Go now while you can.” Lawrence didn’t move a muscle until Rowley dropped his gaze. “And after you quit this assembly, you should make plans to remove from London. A long rustication at your country estate is in order—say, until the current Season is finished at least. The rest would do you a world of good.”

  “But I have no need to hide away.”

  “You’re not listening, old friend.” He’d promised Caroline there’d be no mayhem, but he hadn’t promised not to intimidate Rowley into submission. After all, Oliver knew better than most the kind of violence Lawrence was capable of. “Ignoring a sudden illness can be dangerous. I’d hate to see you catch your death.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” Rowley said, glancing at Caroline for support and finding none. “Caro, you can’t let him do this to me.”

  “I rather think I can.”

  Lawrence had never loved her more. She not only trusted him to keep the situation and himself under control, she didn’t sound the least bit afraid of him either.

  “So let us speak plainly,” Lawrence said. “Here are the terms for your recuperation from sudden illness. You will never seek out Miss Tilbury again. Is that understood?”

  Rowley nodded, not meeting his eyes.

  “And if I find you are trying to entrap another young lady into a mésalliance, I will visit you when you least expect it. Your affliction will be sudden and devastating.”

  “Then I’m doomed to bachelorhood on your say-so,” Rowley complained.

  “No. You’re doomed to playing fair. If you wish to honestly court a young woman by approaching her family with your intent, and they approve, I will not intervene,” Lawrence said. “But I shall not allow you to ruin another lady or take advantage of one.”

  “Another?” Caroline said, aghast. Lawrence was so focused on Rowley, he’d forgotten for a moment she was even in the room.

  “Pay him no mind,” Rowley said to reassure her. “My friend is upset over nothing.”

  “I’m not your friend.” Lawrence itched to wipe that glib smile from Rowley’s lips, but he settled for snatching Rowley up by his lapels and slamming him against the wall. He held him there, his toes barely touching the floor. “Gadding about the Continent, leaving a trail of by-blows in your wake, is not nothing. The daughter of the Conte di Vitelli was not nothing. And when she walked into the sea with stones in her pockets because you’d abandoned her and the child she carried, it was not nothing.”

  Caroline gasped softly behind him. He knew he shouldn’t speak of such things with a lady present, but Rowley always seemed to find a way to hide behind a woman’s skirts.

  Not this time.

  Rowley’s gaze darted to Caroline nervously. “Sinclair, a bit of discretion, if you please.”

  “How ironic. The King of Indiscretion can still plead for it,” Lawrence said as he lowered Rowley till he could stand on his own. Then he stepped back and motioned toward the door. “Now, make your excuses to our hosts and leave before I haul you down the stairs and throw you out.”

  Part of him wished Rowley would continue to protest so he’d have an excuse to do it. However, the viscount made a huffing sound and started to stamp from the room.

  “One more thing,” Lawrence said before he reached the threshold. Rowley stopped but didn’t look back at him. “If I hear a whiff of scandal about Miss Tilbury, I shall know whom to blame. And whom to punish.”

  Rowley flinched slightly, then opened the door and stalked into the dim corridor.

  Relieved, Lawrence drew a deep breath. He finally let his fists uncurl. The urge to pummel Rowley had been strong, but he’d mastered it. He was getting better at controlling himself instead of settling things with his fists.

  “Well,” Caroline said, crossing the room to him. “Strange as it may seem, this sorry situation has made me feel better.”

  “In heaven’s name, why?”

  “I no longer feel as if my ill-timed words were the worst scandal of the night,” she said lightly. “Of course, no one will ever hear about Rowley and that poor Italian lady, so only my misdeeds are public knowledge, but at least I know I’m not the vilest person present.”

  “You could never be vile.”

  “Ah, but I can be tempted to it. A word in the right ear—Lady Ackworth comes to mind—and no wellborn family will let Oliver within twenty leagues of their daughters.” She leaned in and placed both her palms on his chest. “Promise me, Lawrence. Before you do Rowley physical harm, let me turn Lady Ackworth loose on him.”

  “That would be worse, you think?”

  “Of course,” she said with a laugh. “Bruises fade, but gossip lasts forever.”

  Lawrence laughed with her. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make everything seem lighter.” He put his hands on her waist and—Thank you, God!—she didn’t pull away. “No matter how dire the circumstance, you convince me that things are far better than they are.”

  “Do I? I don’t mean to make light of Freddie’s narrow escape, of course.” She ran her fingertips along his lapel. “But escape she did, so there’s no need to wallow in the drama of it, is there?”

  Her nearness made him ache. Every bit of him strained toward her, but he held himself back. The soft pinkness of her mouth was torture. The slight indentation in the middle of her top lip called to him, begging him to nip and suckle it.

  “Have you considered,” he said, his voice ragged, “that you are in need of an escape of your own, my lady?”

  She smiled up at him. Trustingly. Invitingly. “Does that mean you intend to put me into a compromising situation?”

  He was as bad as Rowley. He didn’t deserve Caroline, just as surely as Rowley didn’t deserve someone as sweet and well-dowered as Freddie. Anyone looking from the outside would declare the two pairings similarly ill-advised. Both men were reaching for the moon. The ladies involved were definitely stooping to meet them.

  He’d ordered Rowley to play fair, to declare himself, but he hadn’t approached Lord Chatham about courting his daughter. He was a hypocrite of the first water. As much a bounder as Rowley.

  The only difference was, Lawrence loved Caroline.

  The heat of her sweet body so near his made him toss all thoughts of fair play out the window. “This is your last chance to flee.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”


  With that, Caroline melted into his arms.

  Her mouth was all sweet wetness and soft yielding. He struggled not to plunder it. Even more than when he’d resisted the urge to thrash Rowley senseless, he fought not to let himself go now. But it wasn’t easy with the length of her sweet body pressed up against his.

  He wanted more than anything to have this woman, to feel her beneath him, beside him, and on top of him. To be so tangled up with her, they were one, feeling the same desire, thinking the same thoughts, needing the same release. The wanting was so keen, a knife’s edge from pain.

  But he didn’t dare. She was an innocent. Ladies always were, he’d been told. She had no idea this trembling fire was just the start of something much darker and brighter. Something both holy and profane.

  Something he ached to share with her.

  She tugged on his lapels and her lips parted. He didn’t need to be invited twice. His tongue dove into her mouth. It was the best moment of his life.

  God help me, I must marry this woman or die.

  Chapter 20

  Life would be much easier if there were no such thing as duty. No drumroll that calls a man to take the field in defense of king, country, and brothers-in-arms. No pressing need to honor one’s commitments. No sense of oughtness that drives a man to give up what he loves most.

  Easier? Yes, perhaps, but were I to live that life, I’d not be able to look myself in the eye.

  —Lawrence Sinclair, who knew full well what he should do but must drag his soul toward it kicking and screaming.

  He was kissing Lady Caroline. His goddess. His love.

  The kiss went on and on. It was a merging of breaths, a joining of souls. Lawrence’s whole world spiraled down to heat and raging need. Kissing Caroline was earth-shattering, but it would never be enough.

  There had to be more. His body demanded it. Judging from the way she pressed herself against him, hers did, too.

  But then the door burst open behind them and Lord Ware stormed into the smoking room. He and Caroline sprang apart from each other like a pair of cats who’d been doused with a bucket of water.