She started for the door, but Elin had one last question, something she’d always wondered knowing how close her parents were. “Does Father know what happened between Ben and me?”
Her mother stopped at the door, one hand ready to turn the handle. “Men are not as wise about these matters as we women are. He would have called Benedict out. It would not do for a grown man to duel a seventeen-year-old boy.”
She opened the door. “This is your night. Do not fear your destiny. Let this evening be one filled with the joy of an open heart. And when you walk into Menheim”—she referred to the Baynton’s London home—“look toward the sitting room because someday soon, your portrait, the portrait of a young duchess, will grace the mantel there. The pictures of your children will line the walls around you. And Baynton will value you above all others.” On those words, she left the room with perfumed grace.
Elin confronted herself in the looking glass. Since that fateful night, she’d lived a circumspect life. “My son will be a duke,” she whispered, testing the words that filled her parents with confidence, and yet, she felt nothing.
However, when all was said and done, the least she could do was to please her parents, to make them happy. Baynton was a good man. She didn’t know him well because he was so incredibly important, he was busy all the time, but she liked his mother. She respected Marcella and prayed she was half as dignified and good of heart as the Dowager.
A knock sounded on the door, and Sarah entered the room to help Elin dress.
FEW WOMEN WERE as energetic as Marcella, The Dowager Duchess of Baynton. She was ten years Jennifer Morris’s senior, but she appeared young enough to be her contemporary.
The Dowager’s jewels of choice for the evening were her blood red garnets. They circled her throat, her wrists, and her fingers and stood out against silvery gray of her dress. In her white-blond hair, she wore a bandeau in garnet red. She appeared queenly and gracious, as was her welcome for her dearest friends in the upstairs sitting room reserved for family. They were not alone. The room was crowded with Baynton’s relatives, some of whom Elin knew, but many she did not. The sound of the musicians tuning their instruments drifted up the stairs from the ballroom.
“Jenny, you are radiant,” Her Grace said in greeting. “And, dear Fyclan, how handsome.”
Elin’s father did look good. He might not have been as tall as his wife, but there was a presence about him that made others take notice. Elin had gained the exotic shape of her brown eyes as well as her dark hair from him . His hair, once been as black as a raven’s wing, was now silver.
Surprisingly, the years had been unkind to him. He used a walking cane now and not just for effect. Elin and her mother both worried after him. He was a man who worked far too hard.
However, tonight was one for celebration. Fyclan offered the duchess the kiss of friendship. “You are stunning as well, Your Grace.”
Marcella laughed, an expression that quickly took a dangerous turn toward tears. She pressed a gloved hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Fyclan, it is nothing you said. My husband had so anticipated this evening and to a wedding between our two families. You know how highly he thought of you?”
“I do, and I miss his friendship daily.”
“Yes,” the Dowager agreed and sent a sad smile in Elin’s direction. “And here I haven’t even told you how lovely you are, my Elin. You look like a young Helen of Troy,” she declared. “The pale peach of that dress sets your skin off to perfection. Your mother and I knew it would when we saw it, and I so admire the bands of gold holding your curls.”
Elin blushed with the compliment. But before she could respond, the duchess said quietly, “You and Gavin should have been married years ago. I feel so much regret over what happened.”
Jenny rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “My dear, it isn’t your fault that your husband took ill. The marriage could wait until he was better.”
“But he never became better.” Again the duchess’s eyes misted over the loss of her beloved husband. Elin and Gavin were to have been betrothed four years earlier, but the duke’s illness and subsequent death, not to mention the challenges Gavin faced in assuming the duties of the title, had set back plans for a wedding.
“I’m sorry,” Marcella apologized, taking a kerchief a footman offered and dabbing her cheeks, “for being a watering pot. I must stop this, or I will not make it through the night.”
“We all understand how difficult it is,” Elin’s mother assured her.
“But John would have expected better of me.” Marcella gathered herself with a sigh. “Here, I have not offered you anything in the way of refreshment—” she started but was interrupted by the appearance of her son in the doorway.
All the attention in the room went to him.
Gavin Whitridge, the Duke of Baynton, bounded into the room with his mother’s energy. He was over six feet tall and had a smile that melted hearts. Dressed in his evening finest, he cut a figure that every dandy on the morrow would attempt to emulate and fail because the Duke of Baynton was truly that unique. That remarkable. That masculine.
He was known for his deep blue eyes, broad shoulders, square jaw, and the most perfect straight nose ever to grace a man’s face. His thick hair was as black as night.
He was so completely an astonishing specimen of male beauty, Elin always felt a bit intimidated.
The crush of relatives moved forward, anxious to claim his attention, but then fell back when they realized he was searching for someone. His keen gaze fell on Elin.
He moved directly toward her. His gaze slid over her with appreciation, and he smiled. He liked her. He was pleased, and she was surprised at how his open admiration helped to settle her frayed nerves.
Gavin was nine years older than her and had thrown himself tirelessly into the duties of being a duke. Before his father’s death, he’d been expected to deal with the minor responsibilities that had still kept him very busy. There had been times when he’d escorted her family to events, but the two of them had few opportunities to just talk or to relax around each other. There were expectations, just as there was now.
“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice low. He held out his hand.
Elin found it hard to meet the intensity in his eyes. She offered him her gloved hand, but instead of bowing over it or even pressing a kiss to her fingers, he took her hand fully in his own. “Come.” He started to cut through his relatives, pulling her toward the door
“Baynton,” his mother said, “where do you believe you are going? We need to start the receiving line. And you haven’t said a word of welcome to anyone else.”
He laughed, the sound strong and sure. “Welcome,” he announced with a wave as he continued guiding Elin to the door. “Go downstairs without us, Mother. We shall be there momentarily. I promise”
On those words, he hurried Elin across the hall to a wood paneled library. The room was cozy and apparently also served as his office. The sounds of musicians beginning to play could not be heard here.
Baynton closed the door.
Self-conscious Elin walked toward the desk. The walls were lined with overstuffed bookshelves. No wonder sound couldn’t penetrate his sanctuary. There was a gilded clock on the mantel and a crystal-and-gilt inkpot and pen on the desk.
“Elin, face me.”
She did as he requested.
Solemnly they studied each other. The anxiousness churning inside her began to slow.
He moved first, walking toward her, stopping when there was barely a foot between them. She had to tilt her head back to look at him. Seeing her do so, he sat on the edge of a leather upholstered the chair, the sort men favored, to bring himself down more to her height.
“Are you ready for this, Elin?”
The question startled her. Did he have doubts? “I believe so, Your Grace—”
>
“Gavin. Call me Gavin.” There was a beat of silence, filled only by the ticking of the mantel clock. Then, he said, “We are to be man and wife. I’ve waited for this time. I’ve longed for it.”
She wanted to tell him that she’d waited for this moment as well, but shyness caught the words in her throat. Yes, shyness and also a bit of hope. What he was doing was good. Caring. She could love a caring man. She could love him.
And he wanted her.
Besides admiration there was an eagerness about him. An adorableness. She’d never seen this side of him or had ever imagined that he wanted to marry her. She had assumed his was nothing more than an obligation, an honorable one, but an obligation dictated by his father all the same.
Just as she’d been dictated to by her parents . . . however, now, her feelings shifted.
Elin kept such thoughts close. It was too soon for declarations of any sort.
Ben came to her mind . . . Ben and what she’d once believed was between them.
Gavin was not Ben, but let him be the vulnerable one, then she would know she was safe.
He didn’t seem to be put off by her reserve. Instead, he gifted her with another of those smiles, this one making her almost sway with dizziness over how blinding it was. He pulled a velvet pouch from the inside of his black evening dress jacket.
“My father gave this necklace to my mother.” He opened the pouch and poured into his hands a string of creamy pearls. “He said it had once belonged to Mary Stuart. His intent was that it be worn by the brides of Baynton. Would you honor me and my family by accepting this gift and wearing it this evening?” He stood, setting the pouch on the chair and holding the necklace out to place it around her throat. “May I?”
Now Elin truly was speechless. She had never seen anything lovelier than these pearls. How could she have had doubts about this man? This marriage?
And she felt ashamed that she’d wasted her virginity, the only thing that had been truly hers to give to her husband, on the wrong man. Tears filled her eyes.
Even though she blinked them back, Gavin noticed immediately. “What have I done? Have I made you unhappy? You don’t have to wear the necklace—” He acted as if he would throw it back in the pouch.
Elin stayed his hand, catching him at the wrist. Her actions brought her closer to him. Her skirts brushed his legs. She could feel his body heat. His shaving soap was spicy, masculine. She liked it.
“The necklace is beautiful, Gavin. I’m just touched by your generosity. You honor me. You honor my family.” And the latter meant more to her than the former.
“You are to be my wife. I mean to honor you,” he said. His gallant words went directly to her heart even as his gaze shifted from her eyes down to her mouth.
She found her lips suddenly dry, too dry for a kiss, and she moistened them . . . an invitation.
He smiled. This time, his smile was not blinding, but admiring. When he looked at her like this, she really did feel lovely. “We are going to do very well together, Elin,” he promised. “I’m going to kiss you.”
“I know.” Her voice had gone low and husky.
“Good,” he replied. He drew a breath and leaned toward her. Their closed lips met, brushed against each other, held sweetly for a second, then he drew back. Elin wanted to follow. Her breasts skimmed the material of his jacket, as her hand reached for his lapel for support. That was not enough of a kiss. More, she wanted more. That tiny kiss did nothing save stir long-forgotten fires inside her . . . fires she had once discovered with Ben—
The door to the library flew open and crashed against the wall.
The duke and Elin both jumped in surprise. Gavin placed himself between Elin and the door, the pearls still in his hands.
“Your Grace,” Sawyer, the Menheim butler was babbling from the hallway, “I am sorry you are bothered. I tried to stop him. He refused to listen to me.”
“Stop me?” the uninvited guest repeated. “From seeing my own beloved brother?” There was no love in that hard tone.
Brother? It couldn’t be. Elin bent to see around Baynton.
It was him.
Benedict Whitridge, Lord Ben as he was known around Menheim, or Major Whitridge in his other life, stood in the doorway, his uniform disheveled by travel and his manner one of such anger, he appeared ready to launch himself at his brother.
But those were only surface changes.
Elin found herself shocked by the deeper changes. He was taller than his brother now and his shoulders as broad except that he had retained the lean physique and long muscular thighs of the horseman he’d once been. There were lines at the corners of his eyes as if he’d spent hours squinting into the sun or laughing. The smooth skin of his boyhood had given way to a day’s growth of beard along the line of his hard jaw.
And his brows were thicker, more animated. Elin had always enjoyed Ben’s brows because they said louder than words exactly what was going on in his mind. Right now, they punctuated the vivid intelligence in eyes that were a lighter hue from the duke’s.
Of the two brothers, Gavin was definitely the more classically handsome. Still, each was the sort of man whose presence could fill a room.
However, while Baynton was known for his sterling character, Elin remembered how Ben had charmed her with his character, his humor, his witticisms over comings and goings of those around them. He’d made her laugh.
Until the day he didn’t.
Until the day he’d broken her young, trusting heart.
Gavin tucked the pearls into his pocket. “It is all right, Sawyer. Please see to my guests. And as for you, brother, we will discuss anything you wish later. Right now, I am expected downstairs.” He spoke with the cool dismissal of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
In answer, Ben slammed the door shut. “Your guests will wait, brother. We talk now.”
About the Author
CATHY MAXWELL spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats. Fans can contact Cathy at www.cathymaxwell.com or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Cathy Maxwell
Marrying the Duke
THE MATCH OF THE CENTURY
A LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE (A Novella)
The Brides of Wishmore
THE GROOM SAYS YES
THE BRIDE SAYS MAYBE
THE BRIDE SAYS NO
The Chattan Curse
THE DEVIL’S HEART
THE SCOTTISH WITCH
LYON’S BRIDE
THE SEDUCTION OF SCANDAL
HIS CHRISTMAS PLEASURE
THE MARRIAGE RING
THE EARL CLAIMS HIS WIFE
A SEDUCTION AT CHRISTMAS
IN THE HIGHLANDER’S BED
BEDDING THE HEIRESS
IN THE BED OF A DUKE
THE PRICE OF INDISCRETION
TEMPTATION OF A PROPER GOVERNESS
THE SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH LADY
ADVENTURES OF A SCOTTISH HEIRESS
THE LADY IS TEMPTED
THE WEDDING WAGER
THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT
A SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE
MARRIED IN HASTE
BECAUSE OF YOU
WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE
FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN
YOU AND NO OTHER
TREASURED VOWS
ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations,
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Match of the Century copyright © 2015 by Catherine Maxwell, Inc.
A LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE. Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Maxwell, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062407719
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062407726
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