“Papa—” she began.
“Your mother has informed you of future matters, I believe?” said Bertram Donovan, a smile on his ruddy-cheeked face as he settled his plump form into a chair.
Louisa blinked. The bloody turncoat traitor was actually looking at his wife with admiration. “Yes.”
“It is a most excellent plan,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Makes good business sense not to pay out until the marriage is done and dusted. While it’s a shame you already have a reputation for eccentricity and, ah, unkindness towards your betters, the country’s biggest and best fish are still there for the taking.”
“They are indeed,” said her mother. “Your friend Caroline might have snatched up Westleigh, but you’ll outrank her if you land the Marquess of Standish or the Marquess of Ardmore, although the latter is unfortunately Scottish. I’d much prefer if you married Southby, though. Imagine it, Louisa. A duchess! You would sit at the very top of the tree.”
Wincing, Louisa concentrated fiercely on stirring her soup. Standish, Ardmore, and Southby were young, handsome, wealthy and the most eligible bachelors in the realm, but all three were good friends with George. And though she had danced and conversed with them on several occasions while attending parties with Caro, none had ever made her yearn for more. Or kissed her senseless. Or teased her remorselessly. Or asked about her experiments. Or riled her temper to boiling point…
“Southby. Now there’s a true, old-fashioned aristocrat,” mused her father. “’Tis a pity there are so few ducal possibilities on offer in England.”
Margaret sat up straighter. “In regards to that, Mr. Donovan, I have the most extraordinary news. Mannering has returned from the colonies!”
“What? The lost duke? The heir everyone thought was dead?”
“Him indeed. Details are rather sketchy right now, but Mannering is definitely unmarried. And if he lived in the colonies, he’ll be far more modern and accepting of a merchant family joining with his. Plus, he’ll be open to business and capital venture partnerships. If Louisa landed him, we could expand further into the Americas while gaining the social recognition we’ve always deserved!”
Louisa cleared her throat, and both her parents looked at her with raised eyebrows, as if they couldn’t understand what she might possibly have to protest about.
“Mother,” she spluttered. “Papa. You don’t even know the man’s character or actual age. What his politics are, or if he gets rip-roaring drunk, beats women and kicks puppies every night. You don’t even know what he looks like! Yet you’re willing to marry me off to a potentially awful specimen for something as trite as social recognition?”
“Excuse me?” Margaret replied icily. “Your father has made sacrifices all his life to make his fortune, to be in a position where we are welcome at the best tables and his grandsons are lords. Now your only thought is to throw it back in his face?”
“Of course not. But you know how I feel about marriage. If I were going to attempt it, it would be to someone who loved and respected me for who I am and what I like to study. Not some foul aristocrat who wants to repair his moldering family seat and upgrade to a more expensive mistress!”
Margaret sniffed. “You’ve had ample opportunity to find that man, daughter, but have steadfastly refused to do so. So this is how it will be. You will no longer be a bluestocking spinster with a penchant for explosives. You will learn to be a proper lady, married by the end of this coming Season. And that is the end of it.”
Louisa turned to her father, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Papa...”
“It’s been decided, Louisa,” he muttered.
Angry tears threatened to spill down her cheeks and she swallowed several times to try to compose herself. “Please—”
“Not one more word,” snapped her mother. “And when the comportment tutor, or should I say social savior, arrives, you will obey them without question or Belinda will be without employment. Do you understand? Straight back to being the spinster aunt in that overcrowded house of genteel poverty she came from. After that, if you still don’t comply, I will be forced to undertake...other measures. But they will be measures you will not like, my girl, that I promise. Now, hurry up and finish your supper. You won’t want to miss a moment of Standish’s ball; it is the last event you’ll be attending for some time.”
Pain flashed through Louisa’s body like a lightning strike. Bowing her head so they couldn’t see exactly how badly she was hurting, Louisa took a deep breath and forced herself to take a few mouthfuls of soup. There was a solution to this problem, only discoverable if she behaved unlike herself and kept a cool head. Heaven knew who they would get as a comportment tutor, but she couldn’t imagine anyone beyond a stickler witch like her former headmistress Miss Ashley, some aristocrat’s fusspot matron sister, or a stiff-necked dance master who rapped knuckles for errors.
But somehow she would get the better of whoever it was. Louisa Eleanor Donovan was an intelligent, practical twenty-five year old woman, for heaven’s sake, not some idiot, wet behind the ears chit straight from the schoolroom.
It was just a matter of coming up with a plan that would not—could not—fail.
Chapter Three
“George, thank Christ you are here. If I have to hear one more word from Stephen on why marriage and impending fatherhood are actually quite wonderful, I will hurl myself from one of William’s third-floor balconies, and it will be all your twin’s fault.”
“Ha,” said George, reaching out to shake the hand of Thomas Reid MacLeod, Marquess of Ardmore, as he entered the main Hastings House ballroom. “I accept no responsibility whatsoever for my sister’s actions, as you well know. But I do understand the emotion. When around the happy couple, I find myself in a constant state of nausea.”
The auburn-haired Scot, who despite George’s best advice still dressed as though he camped under a bridge, shook his head. “I’ve decided I’m not even considering marriage until I’m at least fifty. Perhaps by then I’ll have sowed all possible wild oats.”
George snorted. “Doubtful. What is also doubtful is your ability to hold off the husband-hunters for another twenty-odd years. Face facts, my friend. Even with the so-called trade stain, you are a marquess. You own a fair amount of Scotland. You make most of the ton look like paupers. Some determined and steel-nerved lady will catch you, and next thing, you’ll be fat, silver-whiskered, and prone to pipe and slippers like all the other housecats.”
“Bastard,” said Thomas irritably. “Utterly uncalled for, painting a nightmare like that. You will force me to drink all of our host’s most adequate brandy.”
“Save me at least a bottle, I have five duty dances to go,” said a cultured voice to his left, and George turned to grin at William Hastings, Marquess of Standish. The dark-haired, immaculately dressed lord was far quieter and more reserved than George and Ardmore, but had a brilliantly dry sense of humor, and was excellent company when he managed to tear himself away from his duties with a rather shadowy branch of the War Office.
“The perils of good hosting,” said George sympathetically. “Are any of them even within a decade of your age?”
William sighed. “No. One is a foreign ambassador’s wife, one is a grande dame who intercepted me as I was leaving my library, and I think the rest are friends of Aunt Jane.”
“How is our favorite dowager?” said Thomas. “Excited at the prospect of becoming a grandmother?”
His friend smiled, the same fond smile that they all used when speaking of the bubbly and kind-hearted Jane Forsyth, dowager Countess of Westleigh, who had mothered each of them to some degree. But William knew her better than most. When his parents were tragically killed in a carriage accident while he attended Eton, Jane had fostered him alongside her own sons until he reached his majority.
“I believe champing at the bit is the expression. Stephen and Caroline might have to get in line to hold their own child.”
“Of course they must
wait their turn,” said George loftily. “Everyone knows grandparents and godparents rank higher. As a responsible uncle and godfather, I solemnly promise to ensure the baby learns every mischief and every expression of complete innocence in the book.”
Thomas laughed. “I actually pity the Westleighs. Isn’t Louisa Donovan the godmother? No doubt she’ll be on hand to teach the wee one about explosions, in which case the child will either stage a coup and take over the country, or spend every other week in Newgate.”
“She is. But Miss Donovan will no doubt be far too busy evading potential spouses or juggling palm-sized rubies to worry about a baby.”
“Ha. Give over, she’s all right…oh shit,” Thomas muttered. “Speaking of evading potential spouses, I believe we’ve been spotted by a mob of unmarrieds. The Colonel owes me several favors—he can discharge his debt by lending me his sword arm for protection. You two are on your own.”
“What was that, Ardmore?” called George after him. “You wish more young ladies wanted to discuss the weather and bonnet trims with you?”
William cleared his throat. “For God’s sake, the man has three younger sisters. Don’t you think he suffers enough?”
“Hush your mouth. They are grand girls, who demonstrated intelligence and a close attention to detail when I taught them how to pick locks.”
“Then remind me why you keep refusing to come and utilize your special skills at the War Office?”
Because I see enough darkness and misery and remorseless crime at home.
“Because it would seriously interfere with my seduction and soiree schedule,” George replied, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket sleeve. “But I did have one, er, special skill question for you.”
William tilted his head, his smile still in place, but his cool blue gaze was abruptly both sharp and wary. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Christ. It was hard to decide which was more disconcerting, his stepfather’s overt aggression or his friend’s refined menace.
“If a person wanted to dig around in someone else’s past…discover things kept well hidden, how would they begin such a task?”
“I suppose it would depend on what exactly they were looking for.”
George rubbed a hand against his chin, just for something to do. Bloody hell, this was awkward. “Nothing illegal. Family. You know, like…distant relatives.”
“I see,” said William, his expression easing back to mild. “A private investigator can’t help?”
“That option has been exhausted.”
“Really? Interesting. Then what makes you think there is actually something, or should I say someone, to find?”
“I know there is,” snapped George, his tone so fierce that William blinked in surprise. Shit. That wasn’t the way to gain assistance. “I mean…I believe legal obstructions from persons in lofty positions may be hindering efforts. Like a contract with very severe breach penalties, for example.”
“Hmmm. Forgive me, this is going to sound elitist in the extreme, but why would a family of simple means go to that trouble and expense…ah.”
“Exactly.”
William nodded slowly. “I could make some discreet enquiries. From about twenty-odd years ago, yes? Deaths in prominent families that left a widow with two young children?”
George’s cheeks heated at how transparent he’d been, but he met his friend’s gaze square on. “You don’t think it beyond foolish?”
“To be honest, I’ve never understood how your dear, sweet mother ended up with that vile snake. It certainly wasn’t a love match, and from the odd comment you’ve made, the marriage happened soon after your real father’s death?”
“I didn’t know before, but it was just over a week. A bloody week!”
“How is that even possible? Surely the mourning period—”
“Money must have smoothed the way,” said George. “And a lot of it.”
“Now I’m even more intrigued. Consider me hired. But quid pro quo, George. I expect a significant favor in return.”
“Tailoring advice? You could brighten your wardrobe a little. Branch out from blacks and grays and creams into something as bold as taupe.”
William rolled his eyes. “I am more than content with my clothing choices, thank you. I was going to gift you one of my duty dances. But now you can bloody well have all five. Plus Miss Donovan.”
“Excuse me?”
“The poor woman needs some respite from fortune hunters. The latest to attach himself to her side is that damned Kildaire. I was asked to include him on the invitation list for diplomatic reasons, but he barely greeted me, and went straight over to her.”
“You strike a very hard bargain, Standish. And yet your tone never changes.”
“Why thank you,” said William, bowing. “Now let us go and make some ladies smile.”
He grimaced, but George followed his friend back into the ballroom proper. Truth be told, for the chance to discover his true identity, he would dance and converse with anyone.
Even Louisa Donovan.
~ * ~
Louisa wanted to scream.
Her last night of freedom before this comportment tutor nonsense began. She was at Lord Standish’s beautiful and sprawling Hastings House. There was champagne and dancing and laughter…and she couldn’t even enjoy herself.
Not with bloody Lord Kildaire clinging to her side like a barnacle. The man made her skin crawl, but he was charm personified to every other female in the room, so any complaint would be met at best with an incredulous look, and at worst with contempt and scorn. Even more aggravating, other eligible men who were quite agreeable had taken note of the marquess’s proprietary air and had actually started giving her a wide berth, clearly thinking a betrothal announcement was imminent.
“Champagne, my dear?” the marquess said silkily, his smile bland but his eyes those horrid empty pits. Ack. Even looking at him was intolerable.
“No,” Louisa bit out. “And I am not your dear.”
“Soon enough you will be,” he whispered, directly into her ear. “Stop fighting this. It is inevitable, and such rebellion will only force me to take harsher measures to physically correct you once we are wed. I fail to see what your objection could be. It is an excellent bargain; you’ll be raised from vulgar cit’s daughter to marchioness. For my part, I am going to enjoy your father’s money very much, and putting a babe in your belly every year will be no hardship either. A large family is the true measure of a man’s virility, strength and power, after all.”
Her stomach roiling violently, Louisa made to flee. An uncompromising grip on her wrist stopped her.
“Let me go,” she hissed.
“Oh dear. I’ve shocked you talking about a wife’s marital duty, and I’ve barely started. Do you know, it’s such a pity a maidenhead can only be taken once. That first breach when you force yourself inside, hearing her scream in pain, there is nothing like it—”
“Am I interrupting something?” George’s voice was like the sound of angels, and Louisa nearly burst into tears.
“Mr. Edwards! There you are!”
“Indeed, here I am. Hard to miss at this size.”
“And you’ve come to claim your dance,” she babbled, all pride gone as she sent him a pleading look, desperate to get away from the monster beside her.
His gaze narrowed. “You must have the sight, Miss Donovan. Mind if I steal the lady away, Kildaire?”
“We were just about to have supper,” said the marquess coldly.
“I am not in the least bit hungry,” said Louisa, the words almost unintelligible, she said them so fast.
But George nodded. “That settles it, then. Kildaire, I’m afraid you’ll need to release Miss Donovan’s wrist. However it is done in Ireland, waltzing as a trio just hasn’t caught on in England as yet.”
Holding her breath, Louisa darted a look at the marquess. The man was glaring at George with undisguised hatred, and for a horrible moment she thought he
would refuse to let her go. But eventually his fingers slid away from her wrist, and she just managed to suppress the urge to wipe her hand on her gown.
“Shall we, Mr. Edwards?” she said, knowing she must have a frighteningly manic smile on her face, but at this point she couldn’t concentrate on anything but putting distance between herself and the Bedlamite who had it in his head that she would marry him.
Neither spoke as they made their way to the dance floor, but as soon they moved into the first waltz steps, George frowned. “What the hell was all that about?”
She peered back at him, but there was no mockery or disdain on his perfectly handsome face. Just deep concern. As if the Bruce ball and the last ten months of warfare had never happened, and they were still friends.
“Nothing,” she said lightly, utterly unwilling to spoil their waltz with a prickly exchange about her money and his thoughts on marriage. George was a marvelous dancer, strong and sure and so graceful, and when he twirled her around the room, she almost forgot her much vaunted two left feet.
“Horseshit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t start that claptrap. You aren’t shocked, and I know for a fact your gunpowder experiments haven’t affected your hearing,” said George irritably, expertly guiding her around an older couple who were demonstrating more enthusiasm than skill. “What did Kildaire say to you? And why was he gripping you like a damned cuff?”
Louisa sighed. “His lordship is a suitor. My parents are in transports, because he meets every one of their requirements.”
“He is a senior peer? What else?”
“Nothing else,” she said softly. “Character, age, interests, politics and financial situation are quite by the by.”
“Has Kildaire…offered for you, then? He seemed rather possessive.”
“Not as yet, but he believes I am playing at rebellion and should just surrender to the inevitable. Amongst other things. Ha. Here I thought 1815 was rapidly approaching, but it seems we still live in the Dark Ages.”
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 4
