The Marquess and the Maiden (Lords of Vice)

by Robyn DeHart

  Agnes coughed again.

  “Consider how it is not much different than what you did last week with Mr. Miller,” Harriet said. “You discovered he had been stealing from his employer, and you showed him how what he was doing was wrong.”

  Iris nodded. “Yes, and I reminded him that it would be easy enough to turn him in to the magistrate. But we certainly can’t do that to a gentleman simply because he cheats at cards or imbibes too much liquor.”

  Agnes held up her hand. “You both make excellent points. And I do think Harriet might be onto something. We, of course, would need to run this by the others, but we could potentially do some good. Often people don’t realize how damaging their behavior is. Once we shine the light upon it, we might clean up some of the debauchery.”

  Harriet had to admit she hadn’t expected Agnes to support her idea. Normally her friend was quite hesitant to go along with any of Harriet’s plans. Iris seemed as surprised by Agnes as she was.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Iris asked, looking at Agnes as if she’d suddenly grown a second head. “When have you ever thought Harriet had a good idea?” She turned and smiled at Harriet. “No offense, dear.”

  “None taken,” Harriet said.

  “As I said, I believe her idea has merit,” Agnes said, “not that we can all succeed, but it is worth a conversation. Worth an attempt to bring about some good. That is what we are about, is it not?”

  “Well, yes, of course, but—”

  “It is settled,” Harriet said, interrupting Iris. “I shall bring it up to Lady Somersby and see what she thinks.”

  “I can’t imagine this is what she had in mind when she created the Ladies of Virtue,” Iris said.

  “Perhaps not, but it is accomplishing similar goals,” Agnes said.

  She instantly knew what she needed to suggest to bring Iris around to the idea. The poor girl had been worried sick about her younger brother and his obsession with a certain string of articles that were sending him down a path Iris was certain led to destruction.

  “Yes, dear, and consider Lord Ashby and that gossip rag he edits,” Harriet said. “You were saying earlier today that you believe him to be irresponsible with the advice he publishes.”

  Iris gave a tight nod. “I’m merely concerned with Jasper and his behavior. Those ‘How to be a Gentleman’ articles being published in that paper are ridiculous. He is looking to anyone for guidance. He has no men to look up to, and he’s latched onto those suggestions, and it is making his life all the worse for it,” Iris said.

  “Precisely why speaking to Lord Ashby about his prideful nature in publishing such advice would be warranted,” Harriet said, knowing her encouragement at this point was heavy-handed.

  But Iris slowly nodded, and Harriet could tell that she’d likely convinced her friend of the merits of her plan. Lord Davenport needed to be knocked down a notch. Now Harriet would have a perfectly acceptable reason to address Lord Davenport and his spending habits.

  Harriet braced herself for the inevitable when Belinda and her friends walked over. Agnes and Iris and Harriet had been standing together discussing Iris and her upcoming dance with the Earl of Ashby when the unwanted guests passed by. Belinda Hoyt pretended to be kind, but she had a special kind of cruelty she reserved for Harriet. It was baffling, as Harriet had never done anything to the woman.

  “You look positively gorgeous, Agnes,” Belinda said. “And your dress, Iris, simply stunning.” Then she turned her eyes to Harriet. Her brow furrowed in feigned compassion. “I do hope your poor mother is not losing too many funds buying the extra fabric required to make your gowns.” She looked down her thin nose at Harriet. She stood at least a head taller.

  Harriet was short. She knew that. Everyone knew that. And it made her curves appear more generous than they were. She suspected she and Agnes likely weighed the same, but the height difference was cruel. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her body, covering herself. She would not give Belinda that pleasure.

  “Her mother has plenty of funds,” Iris snapped. Her lovely green eyes narrowed harshly at the tall, pretty blonde.

  “Perhaps.” The girl closed her eyes and tilted her head. “But you know, Harriet, if you happen to land yourself a husband, he might not be so generous. You could help your future husband out and skip luncheon a few times a week; that ought to help.” She offered Harriet a sticky-sweet smile.

  Harriet felt her own smile disappear.

  “Any man in this room would be honored to marry Harriet,” Iris said before Harriet could respond. “She is intelligent and kind, and beautiful and generous, which is more than anyone could say about you, Belinda.”

  The girl flinched, then released a forced chuckle. “I don’t believe I see any of these would-be suitors clamoring over here for her attention.”

  And there wouldn’t be. Harriet knew that. Ball after ball, soiree after soiree, it was always the same. She danced often enough. People genuinely liked her. She was everyone’s little sister. At least that is what her own brother had told her once. But she was never anyone’s first choice.

  And then Lord Ashby appeared to collect Iris for their waltz, but instead he faced Harriet.

  “Lady Harriet, I do believe this is our waltz.”

  Harriet stared up into his handsome face, confused.

  “Yes, Harriet, that’s right,” Iris said, “Lord Ashby claimed this waltz.”

  Harriet nodded absently, but allowed Lord Ashby to lead her out onto the crowded dance floor. A pity dance.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Harriet said quietly.

  “Dance with a beautiful woman? I believe that is precisely why I attend these ridiculous functions,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “Thank you.” There was no need to say more. She knew why he had done it. Iris might not appreciate it yet, but it appeared she had found a good man in Lord Ashby. Yet this was further proof that no one ever asked her to dance because they wanted to be close to her as a woman.

  “My pleasure.” He turned her around the dance floor. “So how is it that you know Miss Bennington?”

  She smiled genuinely. “We are in a social organization together, the Ladies of Virtue.”

  “Ah yes, the do-gooders who donate funds and time to London charities for children, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Precisely. I was not aware our reputation had reached so far.” She was quiet a moment, then added, “Iris is a dear friend. The very best.”

  They danced quietly for a while, Lord Ashby expertly spinning her around the dance floor. She became increasingly aware of someone watching her. She couldn’t very well turn her head to investigate, so she had to merely take her glances as they came with the movements of the waltz. There he was. Lord Davenport. Tall, dashing despite his ungroomed beard and too-long hair, piercing eyes locked on her.

  Heat blazed into her hairline, warming her neck and her cheeks and very likely staining every exposed bit of her fair skin. What was he even doing here?

  “You have an admirer,” Lord Ashby said.

  She looked up into his eyes and shook her head, swallowing. “No, it is only that we know each other from childhood. Our mothers are friends. He has only recently returned to Society. I am familiar, ’tis all.” They had once been encouraged to marry, but he hadn’t wanted her. He was no admirer of hers, that she knew for certain.

  Lord Ashby nodded, but she sensed that he didn’t believe anything she had said.

  “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to give me Miss Bennington’s address?”

  She smiled. “Of course.” It was quite evident he was quickly becoming Iris’s admirer.

  …

  Oliver stood against the wall in the ballroom and released a slow breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Lady Harriet might be right and his fat purse wasn’t enough to garner the attention of any would-be brides. So far, his reentrance into Society alone hadn’t been enough to create interest, though he’d be the first t
o admit he hadn’t been working terribly hard at bride hunting.

  He’d met more women and been reintroduced to even more in the last few days than he’d met when he’d been eighteen and eager for a wife. No one had caught his attention. No one had plagued his thoughts.

  No one save Harriet.

  Not only that, but it seemed that he made most of the women so damned nervous, they could scarcely look him in the face. Harriet had always met his gaze boldly. He watched her now, standing amidst her friends not too far from him. Her pink gown brought out the natural creaminess of her skin, and every time she smiled it felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  It had been a couple of weeks since they’d actually spoken, but he always found her. The moment he stepped into a room, it was as if a beacon shone directly upon her. If he caught her gaze, she’d frown, then quickly look away. He had to admit that her obvious dislike of him was amusing. He wasn’t certain why, but he liked her ire.

  Perhaps he should heed her advice. It wasn’t as if he had much, beyond his money, to offer a woman. He couldn’t dance with them, he wasn’t exceptionally congenial, and every step he took with his cane seemed to rattle any woman he was near. At the soiree he attended last night, some poor debutante actually screamed when he stepped up behind her.

  Harriet wasn’t afraid of him, though. Perhaps that’s why his thoughts had been so preoccupied with her as of late.

  Oliver did his best to keep his eyes off Harriet and the tall man gracefully leading her across the ballroom floor. That stab of jealousy he felt was only for the dancing ability, not the dancing partner. He tapped his cane on the ground, silently cursing himself.

  Harriet looked beautiful. Oliver couldn’t deny that. They made a striking couple, her petite curves against the man’s tall, athletic build. The pale pink gown dipped into her cleavage, and the color brought out the creaminess of her skin. The bodice hugged her torso, then flared at her rounded hips, only hinting at what was certainly a full bottom he could easily grab onto.

  “You’re scowling, my dear,” his mother said as she sidled up next to him.

  He glanced at her and offered a brief smile.

  “Not everyone dances,” she said. “It is not a requirement to find a bride. However, not glowering at everyone is.”

  “I’m not glowering.” He nodded toward Harriet and her partner. “Who is that?”

  “That is Lord Ashby. He also owns The Daily Scandal.”

  They both watched the couple finish their dance, and then Ashby led Harriet back to her friends. Her eyes caught his across the room, and he nodded in acknowledgment. She gave a forced smile, then looked away. Something was amiss with her this evening. But they were not precisely friends, so he couldn’t very well cross the room and ask what was on her mind. He dismissed it.

  “She could be of assistance to you,” his mother said.

  “Who?”

  “Harriet. She knows everyone.” His mother nodded to the crowd around Harriet. “Look how people are drawn to her.”

  Harriet’s smile was nearly blinding as she laughed at something one of her friends said. Another man came to stand in front of her and wrote his name on her dance card.

  “She could likely find you the perfect bride,” his mother said.

  He had considered heeding her advice. “You want her to be my matchmaker?” He squelched the thrum of his heart at the thought of spending more time with her.

  His mother lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “She is well connected. Everyone likes her.”

  “I can find my own damn bride,” he said.

  “Ticktock, my dear. Remember, you have until my birthday or else I shall pick for you.”

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad.” He glanced out at the ballroom. People milled about getting refreshments, talking, dancing. “Who would you pick?”

  His mother followed his gaze out to the room and scanned. Then she smiled. “Do you see that girl over there?” She pointed with her fan. “The one at the refreshment table?”

  “The one in the gown that looks as if it were carved from butter?” The dress appeared as if it could move about the room on its own accord, it was so heavy and ornate. The girl in the dress was as nondescript as her gown was overdone. “No.”

  “Very well,” his mother said with a chuckle. “Show me one lady who has caught your attention.”

  His eyes immediately fell onto Harriet again. She was hard to miss. Her smile lit up the entire ballroom so much he suspected they might not need so many candles. Her golden hair piled atop her head in a nest of curls. He wondered how long it was when it was down. Would it drape over her creamy shoulders? Cover her perfectly round breasts if she pulled it in front?

  He jerked his eyes away from her; she was too bloody distracting. Not only that, but she knew far too much about him. He might have been the one to pass on a union between them, but she had seen his state of desperation. And he, in turn, had seen the pity in her eyes.

  “No one.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away, his cane making a clip-clop noise as he went.

  Chapter Three

  It had been only two days since he’d seen her last, but Oliver spotted Harriet immediately upon entering the ballroom. Though she was much tinier than her friends, standing nearly a head below each of them, she was hard to miss.

  The lavender gown she wore hung off her shoulders, exposing the delicate pale skin. The bodice then dipped into a plunging V that left little to his imagination or any other man’s in the room. Her cinched waist served only to draw attention to the swell of her hips and abundant cleavage.

  Desire pummeled through him. He’d never been much of a dancer even before his accident, but looking at her and remembering how she’d looked dancing with that Ashby fellow, Oliver wished he could whisk her into a waltz.

  She was exposed, looking very much like a meticulously decorated cake that every man would want to devour. Without another thought he ambled his way to her.

  He inclined his head when he reached her. “Lady Harriet,” he said.

  “Lord Davenport.” She dipped into a curtsy which gave him an even better view of her magnificent breasts.

  He hissed out a breath and clenched down on his teeth. He could scarcely think when face to…ahem…face, with her breasts. Oh, to rip that bodice off her and delve into the creamy mounds. He shifted his stance in hopes of alleviating the uncomfortable swelling in his trousers.

  “You need to cover yourself,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She frowned as she looked up at him, all wide blue eyes and innocence. It should have reminded him that she was a sweet virgin and not someone he should be fantasizing about bending over the billiards table he knew waited a few rooms away.

  “Beg your pardon, my lord?”

  He intentionally glanced down at her cleavage, then back up at her face. “You have left little to my imagination. And every other rogue in the room.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “You shouldn’t say such things. It isn’t proper.”

  He scanned the ballroom. The crush of people was suffocating. Damnation, but he hated these things. Perhaps he should allow his mother to select a bride for him, then he could retire from social engagements altogether.

  Yet even with just a cursory glance around the room, no other woman grabbed his attention the way she did. And the few introductions he’d garnered the last couple of weeks had ultimately resulted in awkward conversations with girls who appeared so frightened of his mere presence he was nearly ready to give up this entire quest. But his mother deserved happiness and a life of her own. She would not accept one, though, if she thought he still needed her.

  “It also isn’t remotely true,” she continued. “My gown isn’t any more revealing than any of the others here tonight. And I certainly don’t see a line of rogues trying to take liberties with me.” She seemed to be surprised by her own words, because she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “It’s your curves,” he
said.

  “My lord, that is most inappropriate to say. You should not discuss such matters with me,” she said. “Not to mention, it is quite rude of you to point out my flaws as if I weren’t aware of them.”

  What the devil is she talking about? “Flaws?”

  “My ample curves,” she gritted out.

  “You see them as flaws?”

  “Of course I do. Everyone does. It is not fashionable to look this way.”

  “I care not a whit about what is or isn’t fashionable. You”—he gave himself permission to look his fill of her—“look good enough to eat.”

  “You must be starving.”

  He laughed, a genuine and hearty laugh that seemed to surprise both of them.

  “Is that what you came over to tell me?” she asked.

  “No. Actually, I had something I wanted to discuss with you, but you distracted me.” He shifted again, noting that his semi-hardness hadn’t dissipated in the least. “I’ve thought much about the advice you gave me the other evening.”

  Her light brows arched. “Indeed?” Then a frown. “Which advice?”

  Three young ladies walked past them, whispering. When he glanced up at them, they all looked down at the floor and scurried away. “About my bride hunting.”

  “Ah yes.” She nodded knowingly.

  “I should like for you to help me find a wife so that my mother will cease her constant pestering.” Granted she’d only recently started asking, and in truth, he was doing this for her more so than himself.

  “You wish me to play matchmaker?” Harriet asked.

  “Yes. No. Not exactly. I require assistance, as I’ve been out of Society for a few years and I’m not as familiar with the marriageable girls.”

  “I see. And you thought of me…because?”

  “You know everyone, and everyone seems to like you.”

  As if on cue, a group of guests walked by and nearly all of them wove or spoke to Harriet.

  “See?” he asked.

  “That is only because I am friendly.”

  He shook his head. “You also know me, how I am,” he said, recognizing that he was stumbling over his words. “Can you find me a woman strong enough to live with me? I don’t want some simpering miss who cries every time I enter a room.”