Heartbreak and Honor

by Collette Cameron

  Not unless you can find an acceptable wife in the larder. Gently bred, well-mannered, above reproach, and from good stock.

  The butler pushed his new spectacles to the bridge of his nose and puttered to the door. The apparatuses might well be more of a hazard than the old man’s poor eyesight.

  A playful glint sparked in Genny’s eyes. “Mother and I shall put our heads together and produce more candidates. I shall send them along—”

  “No, no”—God, no—“send a note round, and I shall come to Chattsworth Park.” Lucan scrubbed his hand through his hair while counting the neatly penned names. He glanced up for a moment again. “If the roads are passable, I intend to visit often. I would be remiss in not checking on Mama.”

  He finished counting.

  Eighty-nine? And they have more?

  Glaring at the list, he slumped in his chair.

  Holy, bloody hell.

  “I can send you updates about her health,” Ginny offered, teacup poised at her lips. “So you don’t lose a single moment in your pursuit.”

  “Stubble it, Gen.” Eighty-nine? He would need months, not weeks to do the list justice.

  Montgomery released a devilish chuckle.

  A dish of marmalade in one hand, Tibbs shuffled into the breakfast room, holding his eyeglasses in place with his other. He had reluctantly accepted the eyewear but steadfastly refused false teeth. Claimed they looked peculiar. Had the man viewed himself in a looking glass of late?

  “The coach is ready, and your bags are aboard, young sir.”

  “Thank you, Tibbs. Please tell the driver I shall be out momentarily.” After folding the list, Lucan tucked it inside his coat and stood.

  Genny leaned over and placed her hand on his arm, her earlier bantering demeanor absent. “You were generous to promise to marry, but I worry you’re sacrificing your happiness for Mama’s.”

  “If it extends her life, it’s worth it, I think.” He bent and gave her a brief hug then tweaked her nose. She hated her nose’s slight hump.

  “Stop that.” She swatted at his hand before growing serious once more, concern darkening her eyes to pewter. “Marriage is forever, Lucan. With the right person, it can bring untold joy, but with the wrong one . . .”

  Even when you think you’ve found the ideal person, they might betray you.

  Mother had worshiped Father. To what end? His sire’s duplicity left a cynical chink in Lucan’s heart and a lingering stench more putrid than fish—green and rotting, in the August sun—permanently in his nostrils as well. If Montgomery ever stepped out on his sister, Lucan would kill him.

  “You’ll have to trust me to make a brilliant match, then, won’t you?” He didn’t hold hope of that, truth to tell, but Genny needn’t know that.

  “She’s right, you know, Harcourt.” Pausing in cutting a bite of ham, Montgomery raised his knife. “Leg shackle yourself to the wrong woman, and you’ll endure heartache and misery for the rest of your life. I’d advise you to take your time. I did, and look how I’ve been blessed.”

  The heated look he leveled Genny could have melted butter.

  She flushed and busied herself spreading marmalade on her muffin.

  Would Lucan ever look at a woman like that?

  “Well, only the Little Season is in session, so although the list seems daunting,” Genny pointed at his coat with her knife tip, “likely you’ll find a more manageable portion of ladies present.”

  Montgomery stood and extended his hand. “We shall stay until Winifred fully recovers, so don’t worry yourself in that regard. We’ll make sure Jeremy is well-cared for as well.”

  “Thank you. That relieves my mind greatly.” Lucan shook Montgomery’s hand then kissed the cheek Genny angled upward. “I bade Mother and Jeremy farewell last night. I didn’t want to wake them this morning. I did speak to James and Arthur earlier, however.”

  Using the corner of her serviette, Genny dabbed her mouth and nodded. The curls framing her face bounced with the motion. “Jeremy’s new assistants have adapted to their duties well. I pray, with them about, he ceases making unsolicited sojourns to Aldecot.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Since hiring extra hands to monitor the estate, there’d been no more mysterious mishaps. Lucan gave a short bow then turned toward the door. “Wish me luck. I’m off to London to find a duchess before Christmastide.”

  Placing his booted feet atop his London townhouse desk, Lucan tilted his chair back. He perused the list of possible future Duchesses of Harcourt and permitted his upper lip to twist in derision. The eligible ladies populated London faster than rabbits or mice.

  True to her word, Genny sent missives, almost daily, reporting Mother’s health, Jeremy’s activities, the antics of her daughters, and other tittle tattle she imagined he might find amusing. She also revealed that Renishaw had departed Aldecot Vale, but Genny didn’t know where he’d got to.

  The fires of Hades, with luck.

  For various reasons, Lucan had already crossed twenty names from the bride list, including two who eloped, one who broke into hysterics and then fainted when she’d been introduced, a widow who’d eyed him like a famished tiger, and another who outweighed him by a good five stone and growled when he suggested they might stroll about the veranda.

  Truly terrifying, that one.

  The four giggling misses scarcely out of the schoolroom wouldn’t do. Three more ladies boasted new betrothals, another had decided all males were toads, and while he strove to act the gentleman and make every women feel attractive, Miss Blankenship’s thick mustache and eyebrows would benefit from a dose of feminine attention. Perhaps she claimed kinship to the Blackhalls.

  In any event, he needed to decide which assemblies to put in an appearance at this evening and which young women he’d direct his attention to. He blew out a long breath and studied the list.

  Why, in God’s blessed name, had he promised Mother he’d find a wife by Christmas? The task might prove beyond him, and now his honor demanded he keep his word, which meant he might have to settle for a less than ideal candidate.

  According to Genny, Mother had already begun preparations for a house party during the holiday, devil it. She should be relaxing and concentrating on getting well, not poring over menus, selecting greeneries, making a guest list, and whatever else went into putting together a lavish Christmas affair.

  He considered tightening the purse strings but knew damn well, in the end, she’d find another way to get what she wanted. That trait he’d inherited from her.

  Busy pursuing possible brides, Lucan had neglected to retain a mistress. No point now. He’d have to dismiss her in a few weeks. He would be faithful to his wife, which made it even more imperative bedding her wouldn’t be objectionable.

  A violet-eyed, gold-flecked gaze popped to mind.

  Oh, the gypsy lass stirred his blood; fine, set it to boiling with want, but one didn’t take a gypsy traveller to wife, expressly not a hot-tempered, untamed one. The shock would stop Mother’s heart cold, send Genny into an apoplexy, and turn the ton on its rear.

  He’d rather enjoy the latter.

  Lucan sighed again and eyed the stack of beribboned parchments atop his desk. Word had circulated on the Marriage Mart thicker and faster than bees to spring blossoms that he sought a wife, and although the official Season hadn’t started, invitations and callers inundated him daily.

  He focused on the next five women listed.

  Elizabeth Beeton-second daughter of the Dowager Viscountess Beeton. Large dowry, well-educated, a long meg.

  Juliette Maddox-The Marquis of Craythorne’s youngest sister. Musically talented, decent dowry, speaks three languages, lisps.

  Ursula Amberly-sister to the Duchess of Dunnaby. Bluestocking, bequeathed Rushford Hall, dabbles in writing poetry, one th
ousand pounds guaranteed annually.

  The Honorable Alexandra Atterberry, heiress. (??? Newly arrived in England.)

  Margaret Reddington-Vicar Reddington’s only child. Intelligent, lovely singing voice, pittance of a dowry, fond of confections.

  Genny’s polite way of saying the chit boasted chubby cheeks and undoubtedly, chubbier thighs.

  The ladies’ credentials didn’t mean a fig to Lucan. Besides, he didn’t know a single one. They must all be debutantes, which meant they would be young and silly. And giggly. God, how he’d come to cringe upon hearing high-pitched female tittering.

  Alexandra Atterberry’s name drew his gaze once again. Likely a widow as she bore a title.

  He gave a sideways smile.

  No list of glowing attributes for her? Maybe she didn’t have any, other than being female of a marriageable age. Or perhaps, this Atterberry woman was one of the ladies Genny and Mother hadn’t met, thus the question marks. No doubt Mother believed heiress a sufficient qualification.

  Considering how she’d adored Father and believed in love matches, her marked attention to procuring a high-born spouse surprised him. But then, Mother seldom flaunted propriety and appearances. To do so, invited the gossipmongers’ unwanted attentions, and she’d spent a lifetime avoiding the wagchins’ censure.

  Houston entered the study bearing the post, amongst which peeked several additional invitations. “Where shall I put these, Your Grace? With the others?”

  Lucan nodded and stifled a groan. At least ten more wax-sealed, wife-enticing invites. Too bad the clock hadn’t struck noon, so he might indulge in a finger’s worth of brandy. Might it be acceptable if he poured a draught directly in his tepid coffee?

  “Houston, which do you suggest I attend this evening?” Lucan waved at the stack. The majordomo’s preference might prove diverting.

  Houston lifted the invitations and, lips pursed in concentration, after thumbing through them, displayed three.

  “Well, Your Grace, the Eggleston’s musicale is sure to be attended by several young ladies of quality, as is the soirée at the Wrottsley’s.” He raised one ruby-toned paper adorned with a black ribbon and a monogrammed R. “However, the Rutledge’s annual autumn gala is a Little Season high point. I recommend you put in an appearance at the musicale and then finish the evening at the ball.”

  “Musicale and ball it is.” Lucan enjoyed musicales as much as getting tossed from his horse.

  Naked.

  In Hyde Park.

  In the dead of winter.

  No, he preferred being thrown on his arse, but if he recalled correctly, the Egglestons had four marriageable daughters. Not one of whom sang a note on key. Fighting cats held more talent and harmonized better too. Still, he couldn’t afford to ignore a quartet of potential prospects.

  The doorknocker echoed. “Are you at home, Your Grace?”

  “Not to females, by God, unless it’s my grandaunt.” Lowering his feet, Lucan dropped the infernal list on his desk. “I’ve had quite enough of being ogled like a fancy pastry or a new parasol.”

  “Most discomfiting, I’m sure.” Houston’s lips slanted minutely, his version of full-on guffaw as he left to answer the door.

  Lucan rifled through the new post in search of a correspondence from Chattsworth. Finding a letter in his mother’s tidy script, he settled back into the chair once more.

  “Your Grace, Viscount Warrick and the Marquis of Bretheridge have called.” Houston stepped aside as Lucan’s friends showed themselves in, still wearing their coats, hats, and gloves. Houston pointedly frowned at their attire before sniffing his disapproval and shutting the door.

  Lucan hid a grin at his butler’s pompous formality.

  “Harcourt.” Warrick strode to the desk, Bretheridge in his wake. “We’ve just come from White’s. Renishaw has placed a bet on the books.”

  “What concern is that of mine?” Lucan stood and folded the letter. He cocked a brow at the fierce expressions lining his friends’ faces. “The Renishaws have always been despots, wastrels, and gamblers.”

  “Yes, well, the jackanapes has gone beyond the bounds.” Bretheridge tossed his hat and gloves atop the desk. “He’s bet your ‘idiot brother’—his words, not mine—will be jailed for trespass by Yuletide.”

  Chapter 11

  Alexa attempted to not gape at the woman staring back at her in the floor length looking glass. No vestige of the Highland Gypsy remained except when she spoke and her light brogue gave her away.

  She would attend her first ball tonight, performing rigid, structured steps vastly different from the free-spirited, creative movements she’d danced since childhood. The notion bathed her in a twofold surge of excitement and dread.

  Katrina, exquisite in a gown of ivory lace and Pomona green silk edged in silver braid, grinned at Alexa’s reflection.

  “You look magnificent, Alexa. Your hair is the most remarkable color, practically midnight black, but when the light hits it so, it shimmers bronze. I’m glad Mama allowed us bolder colors rather than insipid white or cream for our gowns.”

  “As am I.” Alexa eyed her vibrant gown, the same shade as newly bloomed heather. She yearned for the Highlands . . . missed the musical Scottish brogues. Nevertheless, circumstances put her past beyond her reach, and she must forge a new future.

  Katrina laughed and grabbed Alexa’s hands. “Lavender is your color. It emphasizes your eyes, and Mama’s amethysts are the perfect finishing touch. They match your slippers’ beading splendidly.”

  Alexa lifted her hem, exposing the embroidered shoes enclosing her feet.

  Too pretty to wear.

  She owed a great deal of her newly acquired wardrobe to a young woman who’d failed to return for the garments she’d ordered.

  Delighted upon discovering Alexa and the absent woman wore practically the same size, the merchants offered the ready-made garments for a pittance when they learned she intended to purchase an entire new wardrobe, from undergarments to pelisses, muffs, bonnets, and shoes.

  Always prudent with funds, Alexa politely ignored her aunt’s protests that she should purchase someone else’s leavings, and took the entire lot. However, not without a tug of remorse at whatever ill-fortune prevented the other woman from returning for her garments.

  The lady’s taste had been superb, if a trifle reticent. Alexa preferred bolder colors, but for the price, she would make do.

  Katrina’s brow knitted as she clasped an emerald and pearl drop earring to her ear.

  “You should have been permitted to wear the Atterberry jewels. I don’t believe for a moment, Minerva’s balderdash about them being locked in a safe at Wedderford Abbey.” She crinkled her adorable nose. “No one without a turnip for a brain would. I’ll bet Minerva or Shona wear gems tonight. You wait and see.”

  “Don’t fash yourself, dearest. We shall have time to sort everything out while we’re here.” Alexa half-pivoted to glance at Katrina. “Uncle Hugo has scheduled an appointment with the solicitor, and we’ll know precisely where everyone stands after that.”

  “Yes, well, thank goodness Papa discovered the scheming crow petitioned to have the abeyant peerage terminated in Shona’s favor, and did so within days of receiving notice you were alive.”

  That unpleasant revelation yesterday unnerved Alexa. Her prospects, the hope of helping the travellers and postponing marriage, might require reevaluating if she didn’t receive the title.

  Though, unlike Shona’s, Uncle Hugo assured Alexa her parentage remained uncontested. She didn’t consider for a moment he’d let that particular remain hidden; Shona’s pedigree was no trifling matter. A bastard couldn’t be permitted to inherit, or so Uncle insisted.

  “It’s understandable, Katrina. I’ve disrupted their entire way of life. I imagine they are quite
desperate.” And angry. At least Harrison was. The man fairly simmered, bubbling with ire, each time they met.

  Alexa couldn’t quite reconcile the kind, biddable woman Minerva portrayed herself at Wedderford Abbey with the conniving, deceitful wretch who’d pretended to rejoice in Alexa’s return, the whole while knowing she’d petitioned to have her stepdaughter disinherited.

  What else did she hide?

  The entire family seemed a bit off-putting, truth to tell. Harrison had, in fact, had the effrontery to suggest he view Alexa’s bottom, to which Uncle Hugo had emphatically told him to go bugger himself.

  Clearly, Harrison had an agenda; to disprove her identity and claim to the title.

  Enough.

  Tonight she’d foray into High Society’s evening activities for the first time, and she’d not muck it up. Facing the mirror once more, she rearranged a curl framing her face. Never had she felt half so lovely, yet the thought that gentlemen might find her appealing didn’t settle well in her middle. She hadn’t sought a man’s attentions since Rígán’s, and he’d been a youth of nineteen when he’d disappeared.

  Her chest constricted—more for the loss of her best friend than heartbreak. She’d been terribly fond of Rígán and expected they would marry, yet theirs hadn’t been a heated romance, but rather a comfortable camaraderie.

  Her right glove crept toward her elbow, and she tugged it back into place. How did ladies do anything with their hands constantly in gloves?

  So impractical.

  What if she needed to use a chamber pot tonight? Best ask Katrina about that difficulty before they left for the ball.

  Aunt and Uncle hadn’t mentioned if the Duke of Harcourt would attend the gala. Alexa’s pulse gave a queer skip. Imagine their surprise if they discovered precisely how she and the duke had become acquainted.

  Yes, his grace risked his life to rescue me, my brother, and my sister from certain violation or death.