For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  But she was under his care, and there was no question he could put an enormous amount of pressure on her to do his bidding. There was nothing to stop him from choosing a suitor for her and attempting to manipulate her into a marriage she didn’t want.

  She’d turn twenty-one in a matter of weeks. Once she did, her uncle would lose any control he had over her and her fortune. Whatever it was he intended to do with her, he had very little time left to do it.

  But surely her uncle wouldn’t go so far as to force a marriage? Lucy shivered, remembering Lord Godfrey’s hot breath on her neck tonight, the press of his arm against the back of her chair. For a gentleman who’d never received the least encouragement from her, he seemed awfully certain of himself.

  Her first thought was to appeal to the Chancery Court for a change in trustee, but she discarded it at once. There was little point. On what grounds could she object to her uncle’s guardianship? That she suspected he wished to marry her to an earl and see her become a countess? The court wouldn’t consider Lord Godfrey’s age a factor—plenty of young ladies in England married men much older than themselves.

  “Godfrey gets an heiress as his bride, and in return he forgives my uncle’s debt.”

  Lucy marveled at her own calmness. Her heart was threatening to burst from her chest, but no one would have guessed it by her steady tone.

  “I can’t know for sure that’s what your uncle intends, but when I saw him this evening, and Lord Godfrey in your party, it was the first thing I thought of.”

  Lucy couldn’t deny it made sense, or that it sounded very much like something her uncle might do. He wasn’t a particularly clever man, but he had an instinctual talent for securing his own interests.

  Then there’d been Uncle Jarvis’s curious behavior tonight. He always displayed an eager obsequiousness to persons of rank, but she’d never seen him as furious as he’d been tonight when she refused to dance with Lord Godfrey.

  So furious she’d been afraid he’d grab her and drag her to the dance floor himself.

  Ciaran ran a rough hand through his hair. “I don’t care for the way Godfrey treated you, either. As if you’re some prize piece of horseflesh he’s purchasing.”

  Horseflesh? Lucy shivered. Dear God, what a chillingly descriptive metaphor.

  It was out of the question, of course. Her uncle might rage and threaten as much as he liked, but nothing would ever induce her to marry Lord Godfrey. After so many years confined to Bellamy Court, she hadn’t gained her freedom at last only to see it snatched away from her.

  “My uncle can’t make me marry him.”

  “No, but he can make things unpleasant for you if you don’t do as he tells you.”

  For her, and for Aunt Jarvis and Eloisa.

  She could simply leave London and return to Devon. But what would become of her cousin and aunt if she left them at Uncle Jarvis’s mercy? No, she couldn’t abandon them. They were the only family she had left. It would break her heart to turn her back on them that way.

  It was less than four weeks until she turned twenty-one. Surely there was something she could do to hold Lord Godfrey and Uncle Jarvis at bay until then? It would be better still if she could find a way to chase Lord Godfrey off for good. But what? How could she get him to cry off? Feign madness, as she’d feigned a swoon just now? Given the rumors about her father, half of London already believed her mad.

  It might work, but Lucy recoiled at the idea. Pretending to madness felt like a betrayal of her father, and if London believed her mad, it would ruin whatever slim chance Eloisa had to make a decent marriage and escape Uncle Jarvis’s clutches.

  No, madness wouldn’t do. A compromised reputation, then? God knew the ton was fastidious about a lady’s behavior. She could compromise herself simply by walking down St. James’s Street, for pity’s sake. It was easily done, but then that wouldn’t do Eloisa’s cause much good, either. Her cousin would be tainted by association.

  Marriage to another gentleman? That would certainly do the trick, and yet Lucy flinched away from that idea, as well. She’d made up her mind a long time ago not to marry. A marriage to Lord Godfrey would be the worst possible outcome, of course, but marriage to anyone else, no matter how lovely would be nearly as bad.

  Unless it was someone she loved, but…Lucy glanced at Ciaran, then looked quickly away. There was no sense dwelling on what would never be.

  But then it wouldn’t take an actual marriage, would it?

  Lucy’s eyes widened as her mind seized on an idea. A courtship would be enough, surely? A courtship that lasted just until her twenty-first birthday, followed by a quick jilting once her fortune was out of reach of her grasping uncle.

  A feigned courtship. Wasn’t it just possible it would work as well as the feigned swoon had?

  “Lucy? Are you all right? You have the strangest look on your face.”

  Lucy jerked her gaze to Ciaran. “I, ah…”

  The Wallflower’s Gallant. A gentleman with a decidedly heroic turn, who, against all odds, just happened to be here in London when she needed him most.

  A gentleman who just happened to be her dearest friend.

  Lucy met his gaze, her teeth scoring her lower lip. “I’m very well, but I have something to ask you, Ciaran. You see, it’s just…that is, I’d consider it a great favor if you’d agree to…I need you to help me with…”

  Her voice faded, and she lapsed into an embarrassed silence. As it turned out, it was far more difficult to ask your dearest friend to pretend to court you and then jilt you than she’d thought it would be. Truly, how did one ask such a thing? Especially when one was in love with that friend and he hadn’t the least idea of returning the sentiment.

  “Lucy?” Ciaran leaned toward her. A beam of light from the townhouse fell across his face and she could see his eyes were dark with concern. “What can I do?”

  Well, now you ask…

  Lucy drew in a deep breath, but while her mind was still working on a delicate way to phrase it her mouth took the liberty of blurting it out. “I need you to pretend to court me this season. Another suitor will discourage Lord Godfrey from pressing his suit. Once I’ve turned twenty-one and am no longer under my uncle’s protection, you’ll jilt me.”

  His smiled vanished. “Lucy…”

  Lucy flinched. His voice was gentle. Far too gentle. The sort of gentleness one used when they were about to refuse their best friend a favor.

  Granted, it was quite a big favor.

  In the next moment, that was what he did. “I’m not staying in London, Lucy. I’m leaving for Scotland in the next few days.”

  “Scotland?” Lucy’s stomach lurched. “You…you’re leaving?”

  Of course. He’d told her all about Scotland, about how he’d been longing to go back and see if he could salvage any part of the life he’d left behind. She’d encouraged him to go. She’d scolded him, called him a wastrel, and told him to find something useful to do.

  He’d done just as she bid him.

  “Will you stay away long?” Lucy had to force the next words past the lump in her throat. “You’ll come back to England again, won’t you?”

  “England?” He blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I-I don’t know, Lucy. I won’t know until I see what awaits me in Scotland.”

  “I see. I…yes, of course.” She tried to say something more, to reassure him it was all right—that she’d be all right—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she tightened her grip on his hands, her eyes closing when his warm fingers wrapped around hers.

  Lucy’s throat ached. She’d never been one to hide before, but as the sting of tears pressed behind her eyes she leaned back, away from the beam of light from the townhouse.

  Just then, she was grateful for the darkness.

  Chapter Eleven

  To most Londoners, Thomas Wilso
n’s Dancing Academy was a respectable establishment. A place where ladies and gentlemen without the means to hire private dancing masters could learn to shuffle about the dance floor gracefully enough not to attract scorn at the next ball of the season.

  To Lucy, it was the ninth circle of hell.

  “No, no, Lady Lucinda! You jetté forward onto the left foot, return to third position, and add an assemblé behind!” The dancing master, Monsieur Guilland, patted at his flushed forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I beg you, mademoiselle. Pay attention!”

  Lucy had been paying attention. She’d paid such close attention her head was spinning and her eyes burning from the strain of trying to follow Monsieur Guilland’s gesticulations. Her efforts hadn’t made the least bit of difference. Her feet ached, and Monsieur Guilland looked as limp as his ruined handkerchief.

  She lowered her right foot to the floor with a defeated sigh. She was tempted to throw her fan in Monsieur Guilland’s outraged face, but to be fair, this was also likely his idea of the ninth circle of hell, and Lucy the most tormenting of the demons surrounding him.

  “If you don’t learn the proper foot positions you’ll confuse your partner. You risk the entire set falling into confusion!” Monsieur Guilland waved a tragic hand at Lucy’s partners in the set, who were all standing about in various states of bewilderment. “Is that what you want, Lady Lucinda?”

  Lucy didn’t much care whether she ever danced the quadrille again, but she only nodded meekly. “No, Monsieur.” She darted a glance at Eloisa, who gave her a sympathetic smile. “I apologize for my clumsiness. I’ll do better next time,” she promised the other ladies and gentlemen in the set, her cheeks heating with embarrassment.

  It wasn’t that she objected to dancing, or even to dancing lessons. She’d spent many pleasant hours whirling about the ballroom at Bellamy Park with her father, or, if he was having one of his bad days, their butler Popple, who was quite spry, despite his advanced years.

  Indeed, she would have said she already knew how to dance a quadrille before she even set foot in Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy. Somehow, though, the quadrille she’d learned at home bore little resemblance to Monsieur Guilland’s tedious mincing. Every time she began to enjoy herself, Monsieur Guilland fell into a paroxysm of despair. Lucy couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t dancing meant to be pleasurable?

  Monsieur Guilland indulged in a heavy sigh. “I beg you will, Lady Lucinda, but perhaps we’d all benefit from a brief rest first. Ladies, gentlemen!” He clapped his hands for attention, then fluttered his handkerchief toward the row of chairs lining the wall, much in the manner of a man waving a flag of surrender. “My dear Lady Lucinda, do try and pay attention when we resume, won’t you?”

  “I don’t intend to ever go through such misery again,” Lucy declared as she and Eloisa made their way to the side of the room.

  “You have to. You can’t refuse every gentleman who asks you to dance the quadrille,” Eloisa said. “Father won’t like it.”

  Lucy shrugged. “No, I don’t suppose he will, but neither will he like my making a cake of myself in front of all of London, either.”

  Eloisa sank down in the chair next to her with a sigh. “You’re not at all clumsy, Lucy. I daresay you’re just more, ah, unpredictable a dancer than Monsieur Guilland’s usual pupils.”

  Lucy shot her cousin a grateful look. “I suppose. I’m sorry my uncle forced you to take these horrid lessons with me, Eloisa. You don’t need them. Your quadrille is lovely.”

  Eloisa let out a short laugh. “My father doesn’t think so. He says I dance as if I have hooves instead of feet.”

  “Why, that’s the most absurd thing I ever heard!” Lucy exclaimed, anger sparking in her chest. They’d all be better off if Uncle Jarvis was a touch less free with his opinions.

  She’d been willing enough to give her uncle the benefit of the doubt at first. She’d overlooked his boorish manners, his propensity for drink, his insatiable appetite for cards and dice. She’d pretended not to notice his preoccupation with the contents of her bodice, and had borne his frequent tempers without a word of complaint.

  But after three weeks in Brighton and another two in London, her patience with him had snapped. She’d suspected he was a villain from the moment she met him, and her first impression was correct.

  Uncle Jarvis was about as pleasant as a poisonous snake.

  He couldn’t lay eyes on his daughter without berating her. As far as he was concerned, Eloisa wasn’t pretty enough, charming enough, or accomplished enough to attract an eligible match. He railed at fate for cursing him with such a disappointing daughter. He predicted with much bitterness Eloisa would end a spinster, and he’d be obliged to clothe and feed her until he was laid in his grave.

  He was scarcely more generous with his wife. Lucy could hardly blame her aunt for hiding behind a veneer of ill health. She might have done the same if she had such a husband.

  Uncle Jarvis was, in short, the most appalling guardian a lady could possibly be burdened with.

  But then she’d be out from under his thumb soon enough. Her twenty-first birthday would be here soon enough and then she might do as she pleased. Until then she had no other choice but to tolerate her uncle’s slippery attempts to assert control over her.

  Or more accurately, over her sixty thousand pounds. There was nothing Uncle Jarvis loved more than money.

  “It’s not true, Eloisa. Your dancing is wonderful. You mustn’t listen to your father when he says things like that.” Lucy gave Eloisa’s hand a quick squeeze, and Eloisa squeezed back.

  “I confess I don’t remember the quadrille being so irksome as this. Has it always been so, or is it just Monsieur Guilland’s teaching that has me in such fits?” Lucy swung her foot back and forth, her heel striking the leg of her chair. “I tell you, Eloisa, I won’t dance the quadrille at all this season if it’s going to be such a blasted—”

  “Hush, Lucy!” Eloisa hissed, tilting her head toward Lady Felicia, who was making her way over to their side of the room.

  “Blessed nuisance,” Lucy finished. “Good afternoon, Lady Felicia.”

  Lady Felicia took the chair next to Eloisa’s. “Good afternoon. How do you do?”

  Lucy grimaced. “I own I was far better before I tried to dance the quadrille. I beg your pardon for upsetting the dance. Monsieur Guilland has quite despaired of me.”

  All three young ladies glanced across the room at Monsieur Guilland, who was mopping his brow, waving his handkerchief about, and muttering furiously to himself.

  “Oh, dear.” Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the wild giggle that tickled her throat. “I fear I’ve broken him.”

  Lady Felicia stared at her in surprise for a moment before dissolving into an answering giggle. “No, it’s not so bad as that.”

  “Bad enough. But I can’t think of any reason why you should be cursed with Monsieur Guilland’s instruction, Lady Felicia,” Lucy observed. “Your dancing is as graceful as my cousin’s is.”

  Lady Felicia sighed. “Sebastian insisted I come. I believe he thought it would heighten my enthusiasm for the season. I didn’t want to come to London at all, you see.”

  “Why would you want to come? Why would any young lady?” Lucy made a disgusted noise. “I’ve wanted to see London for an age, but I never imagined a season would be so dreary. It’s a wonder to me how any young lady makes her way through it without becoming a nervous wreck.”

  “A wreck, or a mockery,” Lady Felicia said bitterly. “I feel quite sorry for Sebastian, having to drag me through a second season.”

  Lucy and Eloisa glanced at each other.

  “But your brother seemed perfectly happy to act as your chaperone at Lady Ivey’s ball last night. He’s an ideal escort.” Eloisa propped her chin on her palm with a dejected air. She and Lucy, who had to make do with Eloisa’s father, weren�
��t quite so fortunate.

  Lady Felicia looked from Lucy to Eloisa, a flush rising in her cheeks. “I’m lucky to have him. He’s very good to me, yet I daresay I’ll disappoint him again this year, just as I did the last.”

  Eloisa and Lucy glanced at each other again, then back at Lady Felicia.

  “Why should that be the case?” Lucy asked. “You’re lovely, and the daughter of an earl. You have every advantage. Why shouldn’t you make a triumphant match this season?”

  Unless, of course, she had no money. Lucy glanced anxiously at her cousin. Eloisa didn’t have a penny to her name, and worse, she had a ridiculous, mean-spirited father. She had nothing but her pretty face to recommend her, and London was overflowing with young ladies with pretty faces and empty purses.

  If beauty and manners were all that was required for an eligible match, she’d rest easy about her cousin’s prospects this season, but there could be no denying Eloisa had only a meager chance at making a decent match.

  Lady Felicia looked a bit taken aback at Lucy’s blunt assessment. “I only wish it were that simple, Lady Lucinda.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Unfortunately, my idea of a triumph is to become betrothed to the man I love, and I’m no closer to it now than I was last season.”

  Eloisa’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? Are you in love with someone?”

  Lady Felicia caught her lower lip between her teeth, her gaze darting back and forth between Lucy and Eloisa. “Oh, dear. This is terribly humiliating, but I suppose it’ll become obvious soon enough.”

  Lucy and Eloisa huddled closer.

  “I thought perhaps…that is, I had hoped Lord Markham might make me an offer last season. I’ve known Edmund my whole life, and I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember.”

  “You…he…you mean…” Lucy gaped at her, trying to gather her wits. She hadn’t expected such a blunt confession of love from Lady Felicia.