Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  Sid flung himself back in the chair, scowling. The veneer of charm that he wore like a cloak slipped for a moment, revealing the sulky, spoiled boy beneath it. "At least you have an estate," he said resentfully. "And a title! I haven’t anything of my own."

  George’s lips compressed into a thin line. His young friend was incapable of appreciating the gifts he possessed that George did not. George had had a father, and a grandfather before him, whose idea of estate management was to wring every last groat out of the land, mortgaging everything that was entailed and gambling away whatever was not. The result was that George Carstairs was the proud owner of an ancient title, a crumbling house, and a mountain of debt. He was the last of his line, and utterly alone in the world. His only sibling, a much-loved sister, had died in childbirth four years ago. Sidney Cheyne was a younger son and would never have a title, since he seemed unlikely to earn one on his own. But he had a prudent and prosperous father, a large family who cared enough about him to fret and scold and threaten him whenever they saw him, and personal gifts that might someday dupe a nice girl into marrying him. He would certainly never be destitute. Or lonely.

  George rose abruptly. "I’m for bed. You may stretch out on that sofa if it’s long enough for you, or sit by the fire and brood over your wrongs, or leave. It’s all one to me. Breakfast won’t be served until noon, but you’re welcome to share it."

  "I’m obliged to you," muttered Sid. He did not look grateful. He had obviously counted on that invitation to his friend’s Sussex estate.

  George gave a short laugh and withdrew to his bedchamber. No valet awaited him; he had had to dispense with such luxuries long ago. He loathed the menial work of polishing boots and pressing linen, but he had become quite adept at it. The expensive wardrobe was not a luxury, it was a necessity. So he spent whatever money he had on his clothing and accoutrements, and cared for his gear himself. No one must guess the depth of Lord Rival’s poverty.

  He stood wearily before the pier glass and tugged at his cravat. What the devil had possessed him, preaching temperance to the likes of Sidney Cheyne? He must be going soft. And if a man goes to the trouble of dispensing advice, he ought not to give away only half the secret. Gambling with a clear head was important, but the company in which one gambled was even more so.

  Well, he was less proud of that particular key to his recent success.

  He tossed his cravat aside, a rather ugly expression twisting his features. No, he wasn’t proud of that at all, but needs must when the devil drives. A man must have funds. And women were such easy pigeons to pluck. No one taught them, as young men were taught, to beware of sharpsters like himself. Most of them did not even play especially well. And if a man was handsome enough, all he had to do was bow and smile and whisper a few words of flattery, and the silly creatures fell into his hands like ripe peaches.

  Leticia Dalrymple, for instance. He owed the pair of gleaming Hessians in the corner of the room, two coats by Weston, and four bottles of excellent brandy to Tish’s folly. Not to mention six months’ rent. If her husband ever deduced how much money she had lost to her friend George, friend George might find himself meeting Robert Dalrymple at dawn some fine morning with a pistol in his hand. But George really didn’t think it would come to that. He trod very carefully where young wives were concerned. Young husbands were notoriously hotheaded.

  He would have to tread even more carefully now, at least for a while. Mrs. Dalrymple had acquired a watchdog. Temporarily, he hoped. The Honorable Robert Dalrymple was a fool who never accompanied his wife anywhere. But that Miss Littlefield was no fool, and she apparently meant to accompany Tish everywhere.

  Unless he was much mistaken, it was Miss Littlefield who had dragged Tish’s brother into the game. That, too, might prove tricky. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed young Mr. Gilliland as no threat at all. A callow youth was no match for a man of the world. But brothers—ah, brothers of any stripe were often more of a hindrance than husbands.

  He frowned as he hung up his jacket. What game was Miss Littlefield playing? He generally found young and inexperienced girls completely uninteresting, but she evinced flashes of intelligence and oddly contradictory behavior that intrigued him. Perhaps she was a bit older than she appeared. She looked a veritable child, and transparent as glass. She was frequently as tongue-tied and stammering as the tiresome little schoolgirl she looked to be. But she would occasionally blurt out some caustic, and apparently heartfelt, remark that surprised a laugh out of him.

  Her treatment of him was hardly appropriate for a duenna, and even less appropriate for a respectable young man’s fiancee. Last night she had veered wildly and obviously back and forth between angry dislike and unwilling attraction, with spurts of gushing admiration thrown in for good measure. What struck him as peculiar was that both the dislike and the attraction seemed genuine, and the gushing admiration utterly false. It was almost as if she were attempting to ignore both her dislike of him and her attraction to him, and—with dreadful ineptitude—set up a flirt. But why?

  He gave a mental shrug and climbed into bed. Tish Dalrymple was his prey, not Chloe Littlefield. Miss Littlefield represented only a hurdle he must leap in his pursuit of the charming and oh-so-gullible Tish. Flirting with Miss Littlefield might lull her, or it might not. If it did, her gaucherie would add a welcome element of the unexpected into the game. If it did not, he could always protest that he only meant to be friendly. Either way, the next week or two were shaping up to be more amusing than he had anticipated.

  When he arose six hours later, he was not surprised to find Sid Cheyne still present and snoring on his couch. The smell of food was the only thing that finally served to wake him, at which point Sid joined his host for a mutually bleary-eyed and silent breakfast.

  Sid finally pushed his tankard away with a sigh of contentment.

  "Feeling more the thing?" inquired George solicitously.

  He grinned. "Aye. Amazing what a difference a few slices of ham can make to a fellow’s temper. Strange, isn’t it? Pigs are the meanest beasts in creation, but ham is jolly stuff."

  "I daresay that’s why they speak of ham as being ‘cured.’"

  "Yes, it’s cured me, at any rate! Thank you, George. Very good of you to let me stay and all that. Sorry if I seemed a bit peppery earlier—"

  George held up a graceful hand. "No, no, do not apologize! Finding oneself at point non-plus is naturally disconcerting. You are speaking to a man who has been there himself on more than one occasion. Matters always seem less bleak in the morning—although one is hard pressed to say why, since one’s situation has changed not a whit."

  "No. But I daresay something will turn up. I’ll have another go at persuading the landlady to let me in. Dash it all, I can’t be expected to pay her if she won’t let me change my clothes! I can’t touch anyone for a loan looking like this!" He ruefully indicated his rumpled garments.

  "Fatal," agreed George. "You have the look of a man who would instantly abscond with any monies entrusted to him."

  Sid laughed unwillingly. "The trouble is, I haven’t enough friends. And the friends I do have are as badly dipped as I am! I don’t count female friends, of course. One can’t ask women for money—more’s the pity! I know any number of rich women who’d be only too glad to help if I dared let ’em know I needed it."

  "You will have to offer for Miss Sowerberry."

  "Good God, I hope not! I’m such a charming fellow, you know, that she might accept me."

  "Well, if it does come to that, don’t put a period to your existence. There are worse fates than marriage to a respectable female. Or so I’m told." He took a thoughtful sip of coffee. "I can’t think of one, of course."

  "No! I don’t notice you offering marriage to any of the beauties who have thrown themselves at your feet! If you have managed to escape the net all these years, I imagine I shall find a way."

  A faint, ironic smile flitted across George’s shadowed features. "Heiresses don’t come
along as often as one could wish. And the ones that do come along are inevitably surrounded by a pack of guard dogs."

  Sid chuckled. "Aye! It was dashed difficult to get near the Sowerberry. Had to turn the aunt up sweet, and the mother as well. And after I finally muscled my way into the inner circle, I found half a dozen other gentlemen there before me. Thought at first she must be a matrimonial prize of the first water! But it was all a hum, of course."

  George lifted an eyebrow. "No such thing. She is an only child, and I have it on the best authority that her father is worth —"

  "Oh, I don’t mean the fortune! I daresay that’s on the up-and-up. But she’s dull as dishwater. No conversation at all, and nothing to look at. It does sicken a man, to watch everyone scrape and fawn and make cakes of themselves over her as if she were a beauty. Which she ain’t! And then to find oneself doing the same—well, it’s a humbling experience, I can tell you! I’ll say this for you, George: you’re an honest fellow. You never pay court to ugly women."

  "Certainly not. Where’s the sport in that?"

  Sid opened his eyes at his friend. "One doesn’t do it for sport. It’s the money, man, the money."

  George made a grimace of distaste. "It hasn’t come to that yet, thank God. I pity the poor sods who sell themselves into marriage for the sake of a soft life. It sounds a disgusting option, to me. As long as I am able to scrape two shillings together, I prefer my rather precarious existence on the fringes of society."

  "Fringes!" Sid snorted. "You’re found in the best ballrooms in town. But I must agree with you, old man, that there is much to be said for bachelorhood, even with creditors beating down the door. Go where you please—do what you please—embroil yourself in all sorts of dangerous mischief—"

  "Yes, the constant sense of impending doom is part of the appeal! Nevertheless, I suppose the day will come when I shall have to marry. I’m the last of my line, you know."

  Sid grinned, and leaned across the table to punch his friend playfully in the arm. "Better start looking now, George! The only thing you can offer a female is your beaux yeux."

  George was startled. "I am not yet in my dotage."

  "No, but if you wait until you are, you’ll find the pickings slim." Sid pushed himself back from the table and stretched his limbs, not noticing the arrested expression on his host’s face. "Well, I’m off," he said, with cheerful abruptness. "Thanks for the breakfast. I’ll see you at Manton’s later, I daresay."George nodded absently, and bade his young friend farewell. He then walked to the window and frowned, unseeing, at the street.

  He would turn thirty-four this year. He had inherited the title at the age of twenty-two. Which meant—Good God, he had been living here in London for twelve years. Where had the time gone?

  No wonder he felt bored and restless lately. A dozen years was a long time to spend adrift. And that’s exactly what he was: adrift. Anchorless. Passively allowing the wind to blow him wherever it would.

  His unfettered life had been exciting, at first. It had grown gradually less exciting, but that was probably inevitable. One grew accustomed to a life of idleness and intrigue, and adept at dodging the dangers of angry husbands and angrier creditors. So life naturally held fewer and fewer challenges.

  Until lately, the main source of his income had proved wildly unreliable, but interesting. Now that he had hit on a system that paid off more often than not, gaming was a bore. Dalliance with married women, together with its attendant mix of dangers and satisfactions, he still found entertaining. But he had become so awfully good at attracting women, that was slowly turning into a bore as well. When he tried to recollect the various flirts he had enjoyed, all the faces seemed to blur together. None stood out. They were just a succession of pretty smiles and cold hearts.

  But it was his heart that had grown cold.

  He tried to think of someone or something he really cared for, and came up blank. His sister’s face floated briefly in his memory, but he thrust the image away, shaken. Poor Susan. Married at eighteen, dead at twenty. The world was a harsh and hostile place.

  For the first time, he wondered how long he could continue his way of life. Another five years, perhaps. Ten, at the outside. Perhaps there would always be women who found him attractive, and he could continue fleecing them indefinitely. But surely, as Sid’s bad joke had pointed out, the list of possibilities would shorten as time went on. How long would he retain the ability to be choosy about his victims?

  This was a disquieting thought, to say the least. Sid had complimented his "honesty" in eschewing ugly women, and he had stupidly prided himself on making conquests of the prettiest women in the ton—well, Good God, how long would that last? What an unthinking imbecile he was! What a hypocrite, to jeer at the men who were pursuing Miss Sowerberry! He would find himself among such supplicants one day. It would be that, or starve.

  Besides—and this was the truly surprising thing—the notion of succeeding at the game indefinitely was unappealing. Even distasteful. He did not want to continue this way of life forever. Or for another ten years. Even five years more struck him as a profoundly dreary prospect.

  Well? What, then?

  George began pacing the room restlessly. What, indeed. He had no profession, no calling to give his life meaning. He was unsuited to be anything other than what he was. A pity one could not work and remain a gentleman! Why was that? A line he had read somewhere echoed faintly in his mind: idleness is the appendix to nobility. The only occupations open to him were philanthropy, which required funds, or managing his estate, which required funds. He hadn’t any. If he had, he would return to Sussex and try to put some heart back in the land. Now, there was a prospect to warm the coldest heart.

  For a moment he halted, picturing it vividly. He generally avoided thinking about his estate, but the memories were as fresh as yesterday. Bitter memories and futile dreams. Dreams of his childhood home, restored to what it must have been, three generations ago. Fertile fields. Healthy sheep. A bustling village, its prosperity reborn. A land of peace and plenty. And himself, home at last. Children at his knee. A wife at his side.

  Suddenly his crooked grin wryly twisted his features. Go ahead, old boy, he told himself. Focus on the woman’s face. Who is it? She’ll have to have the chinks, if you expect to make this hopeless dream a reality.

  He was not surprised when her face refused to come into focus. He had never met a single woman who inspired him with a desire to form a permanent connection. Did he really want to search for such a person now?

  Perhaps he did.

  This was a novel idea. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, mentally perusing the list of young women making their come-out this Season. A dismal lot! Miss Sowerberry and the other Homely Joans were out of the question for a connoisseur like himself. But all the pretty girls were too young. Too chattering. Too giggly.

  Good God, if they struck him so at thirty-four, what would they seem to him at forty? He had better, in fact, start looking about!

  George sank into the nearest chair, unnerved.

  But this was absurd. If he could think of no one he wished to marry, what of it? He had no desire to marry. None.

  Back came the memories, tormenting him with their sweetness, and their utter unattainability. He could almost smell the wind off the sea. Home.

  Damnation. If he could think of a rich girl who was halfway interesting, he might well pounce. It would be worth it. And he’d be so grateful to her, and so sick of enduring empty flirtation after empty flirtation, he might well learn to care for her.

  Pounce. The image rang a bell, faintly, in the back of his mind. He had invited some female to pounce on him, not so long ago. Who was it?

  Why, of course. Of course! Chloe Littlefield.

  Chapter 10

  The day was fresh and fair. It was difficult for Chloe to restrain herself until the "fashionable hour," but it arrived at last and Tish decreed that now they might hack sedately round Hyde Park. Chloe rolled her eyes at the silline
ss of letting the Beau Monde dictate the proper time for air and exercise, but soon discovered that air and exercise were completely beside the point. In fact, they were unobtainable. She was forced to abandon her hope of cantering briskly down Rotton Row, but could not regret it; Hyde Park during the fashionable hour was a sight worth seeing.

  The paths and lanes were choked with elegant carriages, strolling dandies, and gentlemen mounted on expensive horseflesh. It was not unlike watching a very beautiful parade, except that one became, oneself, part of the show. Chloe was agreeably surprised by how many faces she recognized. It was pleasant to greet acquaintances as they traversed the pretty pathways, bowing and smiling; it made Chloe feel that she was almost at home in London.

  There were fewer ladies than men on horseback, so Tish and Chloe were instantly conspicuous. Tish enjoyed this for its own sake, and was thrown into giddy high spirits—but as soon as Chloe realized the degree of attention they were attracting she felt a trifle shy. She was thankful that she was an experienced rider and that she had just purchased an extremely becoming, and shockingly expensive, riding habit. At least she knew she had nothing to blush for, so when a pair of dandies raised their quizzing glasses as the two girls rode past, she was able to keep her composure.

  "Why must they do that?" she asked Tish crossly. "It puts me out of countenance to be stared at so rudely."

  "It’s meant to, goose! Just ignore them."

  "I have half a mind to turn round and stare back at them."

  "Oh, no, you mustn’t do that! Heaven only knows what would happen. Men are such unaccountable creatures—but, Chloe, just look at the women in that barouche over there! Who can that harridan be? Did you ever see such eyebrows? The Beauty beside her is Lady Whitlatch. I have only met her once or twice, but of course one instantly recognizes her. They say her mother was one of Louis XVI’s mistresses, although I, for one, do not believe it. People are so spiteful, you know; let a woman be that beautiful and they will find dreadful things to say about her on the slimmest of pretexts! One can scarcely credit it, but she must be on the shady side of thirty by now—oh! Why, here comes Barney Furbush!" Tish interrupted her own chatter to wave her riding crop merrily. "Have you met him yet? No, of course you have not, for he never goes to parties. Not the parties we are invited to, at any rate! Mr. Furbush, how do you do?"