By Love Undone

by Suzanne Enoch

  “She what?” Rafe asked, leaning over the stall door.

  “She hit him,” Quin repeated, hanging up Aristotle’s bridle. “Laid him out flat.”

  “That’s extraordinary.”

  “It’s a deuced lot of trouble.” The marquis glanced up at his younger brother and shook his head. “She’s a deuced lot of trouble.”

  “Then you probably shouldn’t have kissed her.” Rafe grinned. “Not that I blame you. She’s a diamond of the first water.”

  “Which doesn’t help me any.”

  “From what you’ve said, she seems to know what she wants, Quin. Are you so certain Langley’s not the best place for her?”

  He’d asked himself the same question over and over. And he kept coming up with the same answer. Or at least, the answer he was willing to voice aloud. “She was wronged. If she wants to go back, that’s fine. But she should have a choice about it. I won’t have some loudmouthed jackanapes driving her off.”

  “Fair enough, but if she goes about hitting every rake who insults her, she won’t last long here, anyway.”

  The beginning of an idea tickled at Quin’s mind. He needed to think it through a little further, though, before he dared bring it up with Maddie. “How was Africa?”

  “Full of angry Dutch settlers.” Rafe shrugged. “And hot as Hades.” He backed up as his brother exited the stall. “Is she the reason you’re not at Whiting? I laid in wait for two hours there this morning, until I finally accosted your groom and he said you were here.”

  “I’m trying to be the buffer between Maddie and Father. Does he know you’re back yet?”

  “No.” Rafael paused, letting Quin leave the stable ahead of him. “Warefield, you haven’t set a date for you and Eloise yet, have you? Because although it’s not really my place to say, have you considered another reason you might have Maddie staying h—”

  “You’re right,” Quin said sharply. “It really isn’t your place to say. And no, I haven’t spoken to Eloise about our marriage yet.”

  “That’s a fine welcome home, brother,” Rafe said, unruffled. “I imagine I’ll receive more of the same from Father.”

  “He wants you to resign your commission,” Quin informed him, grateful they’d returned to a safer topic. “The idea of your being accepted into the Coldstream Guards was that you’d be stationed in London—not in Africa.”

  “That was Prinny’s idea. I think he got tired of my being more carefully protected than he was.”

  “Nonsense,” Quin countered. “You volunteered. You as much as said you wanted to go to Africa.”

  “His Grace didn’t want me in Belgium, either. I got a nice, shiny medal for that.”

  “You nearly got yourself killed.” Quin gestured at his brother’s face. “And His Grace doesn’t want you risking your hide.”

  “What would I do here?”

  “I don’t know,” Quin answered, slowing as Maddie reappeared from behind the line of rosebushes. His heartbeat quickened at the sight of her, as it had every time since he’d first set eyes on her. “Something less dangerous.”

  “Yes, I can see myself in the priesthood,” Rafe returned. “Miss Willits, surely you’ve not been assigned the task of gardening in return for your room and board at Bancroft House?”

  “I like to garden,” she said defensively.

  “You are a rose among toadstools,” he said grandly, lifting the bucket from her arm.

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  “Ignore him,” Quin instructed her, frowning. “He’s a terrible flirt.”

  “It’s nice to be flirted with,” she returned coyly, batting her eyes at him, which made him feel uncomfortable. “It doesn’t happen to me very often anymore.”

  Rafael chuckled. “Then you must be constantly surrounded by idiots. I’m certain by the end of the Season you’ll be wishing everyone would leave off so you can garden.”

  “I actually have an idea about that,” Quin returned.

  Her expression went from surprise to dismay to distrust so quickly he couldn’t be certain he’d actually seen all of them. “About gardening, or about being left alone?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Rafe raised his hands. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll go give the lion something else to roar at.” With a jaunty salute he tossed the bucket to a stable hand and strolled toward the house.

  Maddie turned to face Quin and folded her arms over her chest. “Well?”

  “The art of the insult,” he pronounced with satisfaction.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The insult. You let Lumley insult you, and you let him get away with it.”

  “I hit him,” she argued, flushing.

  “That doesn’t count. You can’t keep going about doing that, you may run across someone who will hit you back. Not to mention how uncivilized it is. You have to fight them the same way they fight you: with words.”

  “What am I supposed to say when some…man calls me a whore and asks me to be his mistress?”

  “That’s exactly what we need to figure out.”

  “You’re completely insane,” she stated, and turned her back.

  Quin grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”

  With a heave of her shoulders, she faced him again. “What?”

  “You need to have a reply for anything—any insult anyone might choose to fling at you.”

  “And how am I going to do that, pray tell?”

  “We are going to practice. We’ll call it…anti-rake training.” He tried not to laugh at her suspicious expression. “We’ll make it into a contest.”

  “Anti—you are insane.”

  Actually, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. “No, I’m not. It’s brilliant. Once we’ve come up with an appropriate reply for every inappropriate comment, you’ll be invincible—and uninsultable.”

  “That’s not even a word. Leave me alone, Warefield.”

  Despite her words, he heard the reluctant humor in her tone. “Why should I be the only man in London to do so?” he asked.

  Her fist caught him in the shoulder as he dodged. “Stop it!”

  Quin grabbed her hand and pulled her up against him. “No hitting allowed,” he warned her. “Wound me with your wit, chit.”

  She pulled free. “And what good will that do?”

  “As you know, word travels swiftly here in London. Once the rakes and disreputables learn that they are the ones who end up looking like fools if they bother you, they’ll stop insulting you. And they’ll begin respecting you. Or at least fearing you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain of this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right. But I still think it’s ridiculous.”

  It might turn out to be, but at least it gave her something to think about besides how hurt she’d been last night. Quin smiled after her as she headed back inside. If he’d learned one thing about Maddie, it was that she loved a good fight. And hopefully he’d just given her one.

  “What a stupid idea,” Maddie muttered.

  She sat in the drawing room with the duchess, waiting for the Bancroft men to finish their after-dinner discussion and join them. The conversation continued to grow in volume, which would seem to signal either that it was nearly over, or that bloodshed was about to ensue.

  “What’s a stupid idea, my dear?” Her Grace lowered her book and eyed Maddie over the top of it.

  Maddie flushed. “Nothing, Your Grace. I’m sorry; I was talking to myself.”

  “Not a proper habit for a young lady to have.”

  “I don’t think I have any proper habits at all,” Maddie agreed.

  The duchess closed her book. “How was Malcolm when you left him? I should have asked sooner.”

  Maddie didn’t quite know how to take Lady Highbarrow’s unexpected solicitude, but it seemed the duchess was beginning to tolerate her a little. “He could move his left arm quite well, and he claimed his legs were beginning to tin
gle. In his last letter, he said he’d actually taken three steps before he fell on Bill Tomkins.”

  “Who is Bill Tomkins?”

  “Mr. Bancroft’s footman.”

  The duchess nodded. “Do you write him? Malcolm, I mean.”

  Maddie set aside her embroidery, grateful to have someone to talk to. “Yes. Three times a week.”

  “And what do you tell him?”

  “About the weather, how well everything is going, and how much fun I’m having being back in London.”

  Faint curiosity touched the duchess’s dark green eyes, and she moved over to sit on the couch beside Maddie. “So you lie to him.”

  “Not exactly,” Maddie said hesitantly. “He wanted this for me, though, and I don’t wish him to worry.”

  “Wish who to worry?” Quin said from the doorway.

  “Your uncle,” Her Grace answered, before Maddie could. “Where’s Lewis?”

  Rafael dropped onto the couch beside his mother. “He said he was going up to his office to write a letter to King George, asking him to have me dismissed from the army before some filthy African native eats me.”

  The duchess lifted an eyebrow. “Lovely thought, dear.”

  “His Grace was appalled as well. Until Quin begets a male heir, I am the spare, after all. Wouldn’t do for me to end up in some Zulu’s belly.”

  Maddie wrinkled her nose, torn between alarm and amusement. “Ooh. Do stop that.”

  Rafe grinned. “Apologies.”

  Quin ignored the joking, looking at Maddie until she lowered her eyes and pretended to be distracted by Rafe and the duchess. He always looked at her that way: as though he was trying to see inside her. It didn’t exactly make her uneasy, but it unsettled her—because she liked it.

  “What are your plans, then, Madeleine?” the duchess asked.

  Quin looked as startled as Maddie at the first genuine expression of interest Lady Highbarrow had shown. “I’m not certain, Your Grace. I think I’ve imposed on your kindness for too long.”

  The marquis frowned at her, but Her Grace smiled. “As I recall, the imposition was not entirely your idea.”

  “Nearly an abduction, from what I’ve heard,” Rafael seconded.

  “Even so, without a sponsor I have no reason to remain in London.” Maddie glanced at Quin, and then away again.

  “You have a sponsor,” he said, bringing his brother a glass of port. “I spoke with Eloise yesterday. She was thrilled to offer her assistance. We were to meet her today for luncheon, but she sent a note begging off until tomorrow.”

  “Eloise?” Rafe broke in, raising both eyebrows.

  “Yes, Eloise. Aren’t you tired after your long journey?”

  “From Bristol? Not really.” Rafael looked at his brother, then stood, offering the duchess his arm. “Catch me up on the gossip, my dear,” he said, as she rose. “I hate to laugh at the wrong people.”

  They exited the room, though the duchess pointedly left the door open. Quin looked after them for a moment, then took a sip of his port and turned to face her. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You let Rafe get away without a comment on his blatant snobbery, while I can’t look at Lord Barton’s fourth footman without you expecting me to know his name and whether he has children.”

  “I’m not that bad,” she protested, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to her to be angry at Rafael.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I am not.” She stood. “And I’m going to bed. Good night.”

  He was silent for a moment, looking toward the window. “‘Bed’?” he finally repeated. “I thought the night would just be beginning for you.”

  Maddie looked at him sideways, her heart skittering again. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that I thought you would be receiving most of your callers late in the evening.” Obviously reading her puzzled look, he took a step closer. “Your gentlemen callers, that is,” he added.

  Abruptly she understood. “Stop it, Quin. I’ve thought about this, and it’s a stupid idea.”

  “I don’t think you really have a choice.” He reached up and touched her cheek. “I hope I may be your first caller of the evening.”

  Maddie shivered at his touch, then slapped his hand away. “I mean it, Quin. Leave me alone.”

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her up against him. “I warned you before about hitting me,” he growled. “Insult me instead.”

  She took a quick breath, angry and exhilarated at the same time. “I wouldn’t have taken you for such a Jack-a-dandy, my lord. Apparently I was mistaken in thinking you had scruples.”

  Quin pursed his lips. “It’s a start, I suppose. But you’ll have to do better.”

  He was right; if insult was the only weapon she was allowed to use to defend herself, she would have to come up with something stronger. “I shall attempt to regroup, my lord,” she said. “But I am tired tonight.”

  Quin studied her expression, then sketched a bow. “As you wish. But Maddie, we’re not through here. I’m not about to give up.”

  As she headed upstairs to her bedchamber, Maddie wondered if Quin had been referring to her predicament, or to her—and she didn’t know which to hope for.

  The Season might have begun badly for Maddie Willits, but it had been even worse for Charles Dunfrey.

  Mr. Wheating from the Bank of England had called at Dunfrey House twice, the second time not even bothering to be polite. Dunfrey had the satisfaction of putting the banker out on his backside, but he knew it was a futile gesture of defiance. Unless his luck at the table or in commerce improved, and soon, the bank would own every piece of his property that wasn’t entailed.

  And so he read the note sent over from Eloise Stokesley with great interest. It didn’t explain much, but the simple fact that the daughter of the Earl of Stafford had written him snared his attention. What the “subject of mutual interest” might be he had no idea, but he had every intention of finding out.

  He had been planning to call on Lord Walling, to try to convince the old fool to forgive at least part of the thousand quid gambling note he’d held for the past year. Instead, he donned a conservative gray jacket and waited impatiently for Lady Stokesley’s arrival.

  Twenty minutes later, the housekeeper showed Eloise Stokesley into his shabby drawing room. He stood and took her hand. “My lady, I must say, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

  She pulled her fingers free and sat on the end of his couch farthest from where he stood. “Hardly a pleasure for me, Mr. Dunfrey, I assure you.”

  He leaned one arm on the mantel and eyed his guest speculatively. “Ahh. How may I help you, then, my lady?”

  She removed her gloves and folded them neatly on her lap. “I shall be blunt with you, Mr. Dunfrey.”

  Dunfrey nodded. “Please.”

  “You at one time were betrothed to a Madeleine Willits.”

  He frowned, truly startled. “Yes, I was.”

  “Then you are partly to blame for this fiasco.”

  “For which fiasco, if I may be so bold?”

  “For leaving her to wander about, stealing other people’s men and their fortunes.”

  Dunfrey left the fireplace and sat beside Eloise. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but what in damnation are you talking about? Madeleine Willits is gone, or dead. And good riddance.”

  “An interesting way to speak of your intended.” Eloise fiddled with her gloves, then set them back down again. “She is neither gone nor dead. In fact, she is living at Bancroft House, with the permission of the Duke of Highbarrow.”

  Dunfrey stared at her, stunned dismay running coldly into his gut. “Highbarrow? Friendly, naive little Maddie climbed as high as that? By Lucifer, life is unfair.”

  She nodded. “The Marquis of Warefield himself is seeing her reintroduced into society.”

  Things suddenly began to make sense. “I thought Warefield was to marry you, my lady.”

  “He is. And he will.” She
sat back, curving her fine neck to regard him. “It has come to my attention that being a widower is disagreeable to you.”

  “In what way?”

  “To be more precise, you have run through your late wife’s money and are now heavily in debt.” She looked pointedly at the carpet, threadbare in at least a half dozen spots.

  Dunfrey’s back stiffened. “I don’t believe that’s any of your bloody business, Lady Stokesley.”

  “Mm. A sensitive subject?” she purred. “I assure you, Mr. Dunfrey; you may speak in complete confidence to me.”

  Dunfrey looked at her assessingly. Business might not be his forte, but he had a good eye for opportunity. And he sensed that something in this unexpected tête-´-tête would come out to his benefit. “I am perhaps a little short of ready blunt this spring,” he admitted. “But what does that have to do with Madeleine Willits and your Marquis of Warefield?”

  “Everything. Quinlan’s assisting her as a point of honor. He wants her to be able to marry well, as though she had never been ruined five years ago—or so he says. I’m even hosting the darling for luncheon this afternoon.” She sighed distastefully. “If you publicly forgive her for her misbehavior, you will make the eventuality of a good marriage possible for her.”

  “And?”

  “And I will pay you one thousand pounds for your efforts.”

  Slowly he smiled. “My, you do want Warefield badly. But isn’t he worth more than a thousand quid?”

  “Yes, but she isn’t.”

  Dunfrey sat back and crossed his arms. “She was.”

  Eloise’s perfect brow furrowed. “Beg pardon?”

  “Her father, Halverston, was ready to give me three thousand quid to take her off five years ago.”

  “Seems to me that he would have given you even more to marry her after she was ruined.”

  “My thought exactly. Until the damned chit fled into the night.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You did it on purpose.”

  Dunfrey shrugged. “Odd bird like her, why not squeeze her father for a little more blunt to compensate me for the embarrassment?”