by Erica Ridley
It was time to find someone to spend it on. She flipped through the pages. Earls, marquesses, dukes . . . What was her pleasure?
She had, of course, studied the matter thoroughly. A title was important insofar as planning for the futures of any offspring. Young people who were called Lady This and Lord That quite simply had more advantages than those who were not. Which meant barons and viscounts need not apply.
Nor would it do to be bored. While the gold in her husband’s pockets was immaterial, a large household was paramount. While her spouse was off doing lordly things, she would pit her wits toward restructuring their household as efficiently as possible. Once it fairly ran itself, she would set about providing heirs, who would doubtlessly offer a lifetime’s worth of situations to be managed. Just think of all the strange new problems she’d be likely to face! Absolutely brilliant.
“That’s not a catalog.” Her brother set aside his empty glass and plate to peer across the maplewood table. “Why the devil are you reading Debrett’s Peerage?”
“It most certainly is a catalog, and the most expedient one at my disposal. I’ve decided to take a husband. His name must be within these pages.”
“You can’t husband-hunt in a book!”
“Perhaps you cannot. I intend to make a sensible match. How do you feel about the Duke of Lambley? Relations of his are diplomats somewhere in China. I can’t think of anything more practical than a marital alliance with ties to the Silk Road.”
“Lambley?” Ravenwood exploded. “I forbid you from even considering an unrepentant rake such as—What am I saying? Do not suck me into your stratagems, Machiavelli. I will not be involved.”
“Machiavelli was a narrow-minded egoist, and I’ll thank you not to compare us a second time. I should be shocked to discover ‘self-centered’ among the words that best describe me.”
“Don’t fly into one of your starts, I was just quizzing you. If you were at all self-centered, it wouldn’t have taken you thirty years to come up with the idea of getting married.”
“Twenty-nine, puppy!”
“Nonetheless, while I recognize that I cannot fathom by what means you realize your various plans, I cannot think that one’s life love is to be found within the pages of a book.”
She snorted. “You might be susceptible to poetry and long walks in the garden. Falling in love is for people who don’t know how to plan. But if you insist I apply my efforts toward men I already know, I shall choose from among your friends. The Earl of Carlisle might do. I hear his estate is an absolute nightmare.”
“You stay away from the dukes of war!” he thundered. “I would not have any one of them toss their handkerchief at my sister.”
Dukes of war, indeed. Trust Ravenwood to coin such a flowery phrase—and use it so disparagingly. “I thought they were your closest friends?”
His eyes shuttered. “They were.”
“Ease your mind. I’m not a debutante whose head is turned by a pretty face and smart regimentals. I’m looking for someone less . . . elemental.” She held up the Peerage. “I obviously won’t know which of these fine gentlemen is to be my future husband for at least another week, but you cannot deny it is an excellent resource for trimming the names down to a manageable list.”
“And then what? Gad about knocking on doors?”
“Of course not! First impressions are key. Which means an elaborate gown, an intricate hairstyle, and dim ballroom lighting.”
Ravenwoord leaned back in his chair. “Are you saying you’ll contrive to get all these paragons of eligible bachelorhood under one roof?”
“That unparalleled efficiency has already been done for me. In twelve days, everyone in this book will be at the Sheffields’ seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball.” She set down the Peerage in order to flip through the tallest stack of correspondence. She frowned when she could not easily find what she sought. “The invitation must be in here somewhere . . . Viscount Sheffield always sends them out by the first of December, and today is the twelfth.”
“Well, you’re half right. Today is the twelfth. But there’s not going to be a seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball this year.”
“What do you mean, ‘this year’? This is the only year he can have a seventy-fifth annual ball. Next year would be the seventy-sixth, which won’t count a button if he skips years willy-nilly in-between.”
Ravenwood shook his head. “Not willy-nilly. Canceling wasn’t his choice.”
“Oh, stuff. He’s only the viscount, and the sole master of his affairs. Does the holiday conflict with his pleasuring this year? I’ve heard he’s quite a rattle for hunting parties or Gentleman Jackson’s. Don’t tell me he’d rather spend the evening at some gaming hell than continue tradition.”
“I can’t rightly say where he’d rather be, but the man loves parties. A stroke of lightning took the matter right out of his hands. You can claim his family’s holiday party as a London institution all you wish, but the orchestra stage is nothing more than ashes and the whole of the interior stinks of smoke.”
“When did this occur?” she demanded. “I didn’t hear a word.”
“A fortnight ago. He kept it out of the papers. Between the weather and the holidays, renovation won’t be completed until spring.”
She sniffed. “I’m sure I could have had it ready by Christmas, had I been consulted when the incident first occurred.”
Her brother laughed. “You mean if you had any say whatsoever in Viscount Sheffield’s business? In any case, it’s too late now. You said it yourself—even you couldn’t restore the venue in time for Christmas.”
She arched a brow. “Who said the soirée needs to take place in the same old ballroom? All we need is a new venue.”
“We?” Ravenwood reared back, horrified.
“Not you, dear brother. Viscount Sheffield and I.”
“Does the poor flat even know who you are?” Ravenwood burst out.
Her smile turned calculating. “He’s about to.”
“It’s impossible!” Her brother gestured wildly. “It’s not just a question of venue. It’s finding a great number of staff to work the holiday, an exorbitant amount of food, an army of chefs to prepare it, an orchestra for dancing, any number of other entertainments, all at the last minute, then sending out handwritten invitations to everyone in that cursed book of yours informing them of the new details and praying they haven’t made alternate plans. . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amelia. It would take more than a miracle. There’s only twelve days left.”
She pushed to her feet. “Then there’s no time to lose.”
Chapter Two
Benedict St. John, Viscount Sheffield, had a complicated relationship with his pocket watch.
He wasn’t married to it, of course. Besides being a silly notion, he still held the same view on marriage as he had for the past five-and-thirty years: Not yet. He simply had no time for a wife.
No, the problem—or the joy, depending on one’s vantage point—of his relationship with his pocket watch was that eight o’clock occurred twice a day. Benedict cleaved to that magic number, for it demarcated two very different aspects of his life.
From eight in the morning to eight in the evening, he was focused, take-no-prisoners Lord Sheffield, with nary a second’s thought spared on women or horseflesh or merrymaking. At precisely eight in the evening, however, the sands shifted.
Woe betide the fool who brought business matters to Benedict’s ears during the precious hours when he distanced himself from the relentless weight of his duties as lord! For as assiduously as he focused his entire being on taxes and tenants and politics and land during his working hours, he threw himself just as wholly and as recklessly into mind-numbing entertainments during his evening hours.
It was the only way he could be breakfasted and at his desk by eight of the clock every single morning. He just had to throw every fiber of his being into his affairs until the clock tolled eight, whereupon he could finally throw eve
ry fiber of his being into his . . . well, also his affairs. The more pleasurable kind. Which he oughtn’t be thinking about at the moment, because there was almost half an hour of office time left. If he kept his mind sharp, he could balance one more table of accounts before heading to the theater, where he intended to select a new mistress for a private season of off-stage performances.
Accounts. Right. Focusing, he dipped his pen into the standish and began totaling the first row of sums. He made it through the first few pages before his butler appeared in the doorway.
Benedict frowned. No one called upon him during working hours without prior arrangement. “Yes, Coombs?”
“I’m afraid there’s a Lady Amelia Pembroke here to see you, my lord. She was most insistent.”
“I trust you informed her that I was not receiving, and refused to let her in?”
“Of course.” Coombs hesitated before continuing, “She said she would simply wait until you are receiving.”
Benedict put down his pen. “Wait where, pray?”
“Upon the front step, my lord. I’m afraid the lady brought . . . the lady brought . . . a book. She cannot be budged.”
Benedict tilted his head, impressed. Rather than attempt to barge her way in, she’d come prepared to wait him out—on the front stair, where every eye in every townhouse in the whole crescent was likely watching her. Intrigued despite himself, he tugged at his fob and checked the time on his watch.
A quarter ’til eight. Damn.
“Did the lady mention whether she was calling for business or for pleasure?”
“Both, my lord.”
He coughed. “Both?”
“She would not elaborate. She said . . . she said explaining the intricacies of her design to a butler would be a waste of both our valuable time, and that each of us would operate far more efficiently minding the tasks in which we’re experienced. Then she pulled out a book and a pair of spectacles and sat down on the front step to read.”
Benedict mentally canceled his plans for the theater. He loved actresses, found them endlessly diverting in fact, but was forced to admit he’d never once been intrigued by one. They were beautiful, simple creatures, which was precisely what he liked about them. After a long day of arguing in the House of Lords or negotiating business contracts or managing tenant properties, he liked to disconnect his brain and let the rest of his body reign for a few hours.
At least, he’d always thought he liked that. He was beginning to suspect he liked being intrigued even more. He consulted the hour again.
Still a quarter to eight.
A sudden thought occurred to him. “Do you mean to say we’ve got a lady with her derrière freezing to ice atop our slush-covered concrete?”
Coombs shook his head. “Not at all, my lord. She brought several rugs and a warming brick, and had her coachman clear off the steps before she settled in. He’s got eyes on her, even if he can’t talk her back into the carriage.”
Benedict drummed his fingers atop his leg. She hadn’t just been prepared in case she had to wait—she’d known it would happen! She’d planned for the lost time, for the denied entry, for the slush upon the stoop, for the inclement weather . . .
He shoved his watch back into his pocket.
Business and pleasure, the chit had said. He certainly hoped so. “By all means, Coombs. Show the intrepid lady in.”
He returned to his sums until footsteps sounded out in the corridor. Eight o’clock. Perfect timing. He sheathed his pen.
Let the games begin.
He pushed to his feet the moment the lady appeared in his doorway.
Her hair was a rich brown and her eyes a clear green, but despite the fine cut of her gown or the becoming flush upon her cheekbones, those were not the aspects of her appearance he found the most incredible.
She was dry.
There wasn’t a spot of snow on her pristine slippers. No hint of dampness to her velvet-and-ermine pelisse. No sign of the book or the warming brick or the infamous rugs. She had not only planned to be kept out, she had also planned to be let in!
“Who are you?” he found himself asking, his tone at complete odds with his usual charm and decorum.
She dipped a pretty curtsey. “Oh dear, I have you at sixes and sevens. I am Lady Amelia Pembroke, sister of Lawrence Pembroke, whom you perhaps better know as the Duke of Ravenwood.”
He peered behind her. “Where is your chaperone?”
“Elder sister,” she enunciated crisply. “At nine-and-twenty, I find myself being a chaperone rather than requiring one. If you suspect I have come to trap you to the altar, have no fear. Once our brief partnership has concluded, you will have no need to lay eyes on me anew. In fact, interacting in person need not happen beyond just this once. It would be far more efficient for us both if I were allowed to handle our business from here on out.”
He leaned back. “What, may I ask, is the nature of our business?”
She inclined her head. “Just so. It came to my attention earlier today that you had canceled the seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball. I would have called upon you immediately, but I’m afraid a prior engagement tied my hands until this very moment.”
He tried to make sense of her words. She was apologizing for not descending upon him more promptly for a meeting he’d never in his wildest dreams anticipated?
“I didn’t cancel it,” he found himself protesting. “The ballroom burned down. There’s nowhere to have a party.”
She beamed at him. “So you agree!”
He blinked. “I agree with what?”
“That the problem is the venue, not the soirée. It’s settled, then. You may return to your business. I shall handle all the arrangements. We’ll be ready to announce the new location by the end of the week.”
“We . . . What new location?”
“I haven’t decided yet, of course. I didn’t wish to undertake any investigations until having spoken with you. Not only would that have been presumptuous, it would have been a shocking waste of time if you and I weren’t in agreement that the party must not be canceled.”
He shook his head. “We’re in agreement?”
“Wonderful.” She clasped her hands together. “Now, lest you think I am in any way out to swindle you, let’s have done with the subject of money once and for all. Neither of us hurt for coin, so in the interest of expediency, I am prepared to finance this year’s soirée from my own pocket. You’re a very busy man, and I am certain you wouldn’t wish me to hound your doorstep at all hours of the day, begging for pin money for this florist or that sous chef.”
“No, of course I . . . Stop.” He held a finger close to her lips. “No—don’t open your pretty mouth until I’ve had a moment to think.”
She returned his gaze with the most placid of expressions. He wasn’t quizzed for a moment.
As he considered his extraordinary guest, it belatedly occurred to him that he’d forgotten to bow. Well, it was too late for that. The introductions, such as they were, had done. But it wasn’t too late to take hold of this quickly deteriorating situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.
He hoped.
Lady Amelia was apparently so determined that his family party take place, she was willing to organize it herself and finance the entire endeavor. Unfortunately for her, those were the two arguments least likely to sway his mind. Unlike most peers, Benedict had inherited his title not from his father, but from a distant uncle. He had not been raised with the expectation of inheriting so much as a shilling, much less groomed for the role of viscount. He hadn’t even been next in line. One day he’d been a happy-go-lucky poor relation, and the next he was attending a mass funeral after a devastating outbreak of scarlet fever.
Everything he knew about the viscountcy, he’d had to teach himself. Everything he now owned, every penny the estate was now worth, came from ten years of hard work. If there was one thing he was constitutionally unable to do, it was relinquish any control of his hard won self-s
ufficiency. And there was perhaps nothing more closely entrenched in the viscountcy itself as the annual Christmas Eve ball.
If there was a second thing he was constitutionally unable to do, it was allow some other parti to finance any aspect of his personal or business affairs. To allow outside help might suggest Benedict unable to perform his duties, but to incur a debt of any kind would prove it.
Plainly speaking, there was no chance in hell Lady Amelia would get her way.
On the other hand, it was after eight o’clock at night and Benedict saw no point in longwinded explanations or upsetting the lady. The best course of action was to act receptive until after she quit his townhouse, and then send an elegant note of apology on the morrow, indicating (in writing!) that after thinking it over, he had no wish to pursue the holiday party, nor was there any need for her further involvement. There. It was settled. He had only to humor her until then.
“That is a very interesting proposal,” he said aloud, careful to keep his smile engaging but his tone noncommittal. “If we were to pursue such a route, where would you relocate the festivities?”
Her response was brisk. “The most obvious choice is Ravenwood House, my brother’s Hyde Park estate. While most aristocratic families winter in townhouses just like this one, I don’t believe I’m exaggerating if I say that the ducal grounds boast the same square footage as this entire crescent. While nothing can replace what you’ve lost, the Ravenwood ballroom can certainly accommodate the correct number of guests in a comparable level of luxury and style.”
He was no longer surprised to hear she had a ready, well-reasoned answer. If anything, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself capable of scotching it.
“As generous as your offer is, I cannot accept it. I’m certain it is the sin of pride at play, but I could not in good conscience allow a Sheffield ball to take place under the Ravenwood roof. The guests would quite properly consider it the first annual Ravenwood ball, which, as it happens, is not a poor idea. Why don’t you pursue that instead?”
