“You are welcome to try.”
“Do not challenge me on this, Christopher,” his father warned as he dropped the plant into its awaiting hole with uncharacteristic roughness. “Your mother is expecting you to select your bride this season, and you will not disappoint her.”
“You are asking too much.”
“No, my fault is in not asking more of you. It has made you arrogant and disrespectful. Well, this afternoon it ends.”
Vane opened his mouth, prepared to tell his elderly father that he could go to the devil with his demands.
“I am dying, Christopher.”
The quiet confession forced Vane to swallow his bitter oath. “Dying is inevitable for us all.”
“I am an eighty-year-old man and not remotely senile. I do not need a condescending lecture from my son.”
“Is this merely speculation or have you been examined by a physician?”
“I haven’t told your mother, but I suspect she has guessed by the frequency of Dr. Ramsey’s visits.”
“You’re lying,” Vane said flatly.
“Am I?” The marquess’s raspy chuckle filled the air. It soon disintegrated into a mild coughing fit. “Well, time will prove one of us right. In the meantime, perhaps you will appreciate a more direct threat. Your mother has gone to great efforts to find you a bride. You will accept the lady she has handpicked for you.”
Never. Vane swallowed, attempting to free the muscles in his throat from their sudden paralysis. “And if I refuse?”
His father staggered onto his feet. “I will beggar you. Not one penny until I’m dead and the Netherley title is within your grasp. And don’t expect your mother to take pity on you. She will respect my wishes, and my man of affairs will make certain of it.”
“According to you, my impoverished state will be blessedly short.”
“Do you provoke me, Christopher?”
Vane had no doubt that his father was telling the truth. The real question he needed to ask himself was—What do I intend to do about it?
“Am I to have no opinion when it comes to picking a bride?”
The marquess snorted. “Until now, you have had nothing useful to offer on the subject. However, I will leave the final decision to your mother.”
“You are condemning me to marry a lady I will never love.” In his current mood, he despised the very notion of this mysterious lady.
“You do not have to love her. Just do your duty and bed your lady. When she gives you an heir, you will learn to look upon her with a kind eye.”
Choking on his suppressed rage, Vane tossed aside the shovel and walked away from his father with Isabel’s fateful words echoing in his mind.
Only a man who has never wanted for anything could stand by his convictions.
Chapter Seventeen
“It seems unsporting to throttle an eighty-year-old man even when he deserves it.”
Seated in a parcel-gilt mahogany chair covered in the crimson caffoy that could be found in many old drawing rooms, Vane watched as Saint’s valet prepared His Lordship for their evening. After his enlightening discussion with Lord Netherley, he had driven to Nox in the hope of running into one of his friends. The club’s steward, Berus, had told him upon his arrival that the private rooms were empty and were currently being cleaned by the staff. Distracted by an unexpected delivery at the back, Vane was too restless to wait idly for one of his friends to arrive.
“My father is stronger than he looks. The years he had dedicated to his gardens have made him as tough as most jobbers.” A wily bastard, too, Vane silently added. His father and mother had more in common than he had thought. “I cannot allow him to get away with this.”
Saint turned, lifting his arms so the valet could slip a light blue silk taffeta waistcoat embroidered with silver silk thread into place. Over the past eight months, he had allowed his usually short dark chestnut hair to grow out until it covered his ears. The soft waves reminded Vane of the Greek statues they had admired together in the museum. If a man could be called beautiful, Saint was worthy of the description, even if he did possess a devilish temper when provoked.
“Between you and Dare,” Saint said, his white teeth flashing as he smiled and turned again to appease his valet, “I count myself fortunate that my sire had the decency to expire in his mistress’s bed when I was too young to be any use to him or my mother.”
For his friend, it was an old wound that had never quite healed so Vane remained silent.
Saint did not have much faith in families. Often he viewed them as a damn inconvenience. In general, the Marquess of Sainthill was not Vane’s first choice when it came to sharing his private woes about his family. At times like this, he usually sought out Dare’s opinion. His friend was acquainted firsthand with the frustrations of dealing with a father who never quite appreciated his son’s worth. He also sympathized with Vane’s unspoken resentment toward William.
Dare’s older brother, Charles, the former Lord Pashley, was no one’s idea of a hero. Abusive and unfaithful to his wife and family, and possessing a temperament that bordered on madness, Charles had been Dare’s boyhood tormentor and rival. No one had been particularly shocked by the man’s violent end.
“Have you spoken to your mother about the argument you had with your father?”
“I did not trust my temper.” Vane brushed back the strands of hair that were making his forehead itch as a soft growl of frustration escaped his lips. “I doubt she knew of my father’s plans to confront me. Nevertheless, she will not defy him. If I fail to live up to my obligations, my father will cut me off until I bow to his demands.”
Saint tilted his chin up. The valet appeared to be oblivious to their conversation as he concentrated on tying his friend’s cravat. “It seems you have two choices: either marry a silly chit who meets your parents’ approval, provided you can stomach bedding her. Or—”
Vane could sense Saint’s smile. “Or what?”
Saint murmured something to the servant, and the man quietly withdrew. His friend took a minute to admire himself in the mirror before he replied. “Well, you could always buy an army commission and pray for a merciful bullet to put an end to your misery.”
Despite his dark mood, Vane discovered that he could still laugh, which probably was his friend’s intention all along. “You are a rotten friend, Sainthill. Leave me to my suffering!”
Saint braced his arms on Vane’s chair and grinned. “Then you will need brandy. Bottles and bottles. And women. Greedy strumpets and fashionable Impures of the ton.”
“No.” Vane shoved the marquess aside as he came out of his chair. “No females. They’re at the heart of my troubles.”
Yours as well, my friend, he thought, but he did not bother pointing out the obvious. He had enough problems. He did not need to ruin the evening by provoking a fight he had no desire to win.
Saint clapped his hand on Vane’s shoulder. “With the help of your fellow Lords of Vice, you will drown in a potent river of debauchery.”
It sounded like a damn fine evening for two unmarried gents!
* * *
“Do you see that gentleman in the gray waistcoat?”
Isabel discreetly searched the crowded room for the latest male who had captured her sister’s attention. Thus far, Delia had spent the evening flirting with several admirers rather than listening to the talented soprano Lady Kerfoot had invited to perform for her guests.
“Do you see him?” her sister whispered, using her fan to hide her rude behavior.
Isabel craned her neck. Ah, yes. Gray waistcoat. The gentleman was seated seven chairs to their right. He had straight blond hair and a friendly countenance. The man noticed her curiosity and winked at her. Isabel hastily glanced away. In her opinion, the gentleman was too friendly.
“I see him,” Isabel murmured.
“Do you think you can secure an introduction from Lady Kerfoot?” Delia offered a coy smile to the blond stranger. “He has lovely eyes.”
<
br /> You cannot see his eyes from this distance! Isabel wanted to yell, but she held her tongue. Her gaze returned to the gentleman. The poor sot was mouthing I love you to Delia, and she was preening under his lovesick regard. What the young gentleman didn’t realize was that he had competition. Having men reduced to fisticuffs on her behalf would be the highlight of the evening for her sibling.
“I will appeal to Lady Netherley for an introduction,” Isabel whispered to Delia. The elderly marchioness had arrived late to the recital and was seated behind them. However, she was certain the lady would seek her out to inquire about the progress Isabel had made in securing Delia’s interest in Lord Vanewright.
How could she report that she was failing?
Delia only seemed mildly curious about the earl, and Vane … Isabel’s gaze dropped to her clasped hands on her lap. Lady Netherley would not be pleased if she learned that her son preferred Isabel’s company to Delia’s.
Oh, the entire plan was hopeless!
As Isabel had predicted, Lady Netherley approached her and Delia minutes after their hostess announced that there were refreshments in the adjoining chamber. Since the marchioness could not discuss her plans openly, she acquiesced to Delia’s shy request to become better acquainted with Lady Kerfoot, not realizing her sister’s true intentions.
Annoyed with the entire evening, Isabel did not attempt to interfere. Perhaps it was unkind of her, but she hoped the blond gentleman was a greedy fortune hunter. It was exactly the sort of gentleman her manipulative younger sister deserved.
Isabel started when Lady Netherley clasped her hand. “How are you this evening, Isabel. You seem distracted. Is something amiss?”
“No, not at all,” she lied, softening her deceit with a smile. “I do not wish for you to think me unsophisticated, but three hours of music was tiring.”
The marchioness’s eyes lit up with amusement. “My backside is aching as well. Look about, I doubt you will find a single guest sitting the rest of the evening.”
Isabel searched the room, realizing the older woman was correct. She laughed, and some of the tension of the evening faded. “Good. I feared I was the only one.”
With her gaze occasionally straying to Delia, Isabel followed Lady Netherley to one of the open windows.
The marchioness did not mince words. “We have little time to discuss this, so tell me quickly. How fares our plan? Have you seen Christopher?”
In this, Isabel could answer her truthfully. “Yes, my lady. Lord Vanewright has become a frequent visitor to our humble drawing room.”
“Good … good,” Lady Netherley nodded, her blue-green eyes gleaming with approval. “And what of Delia? Has she fallen in love with my son?”
“Uh—I…” Isabel gave a vague helpless shrug. How could she tell such a blatant lie when her sister was across the room flirting with the blond gentleman who had caught her eye? “It is too soon to tell, my lady. However, Delia has never uttered an unkind word about Lord Vanewright.”
“And what about you?”
Startled by the question, she stammered, “I—I beg your pardon?”
“Has Christopher been treating you kindly?” Lady Netherley asked, her eyes sharpening on Isabel’s face.
“Naturally. Lord Vanewright has been the perfect gentleman.”
The marchioness almost seemed disappointed by her companion’s response. Before Isabel could press, the odd expression had vanished and the older woman was beaming at her.
“You are a generous soul, Isabel.” The marchioness took her by the arm and patted her hand. “We need to find you a respectable man who will appreciate your sweet, compassionate nature. Someone who can relieve you of the burden you carry on your young shoulders.”
Isabel hoped she did not look as appalled as she felt. “You are too kind, madam.”
“Do not fret, Isabel,” she said with genuine affection threading her soft voice. “You must think with your limited prospects that such a man does not exist. You must learn to trust me. I have an instinct for these delicate matters of the heart.”
Unable to think of anything polite to say, Isabel simply nodded.
* * *
Vane sidestepped the two fighting men who had thrown themselves into his path and staggered toward the table where Saint, Frost, and Hunter were awaiting his return from the much-needed task of relieving himself.
Dare, Sin, and Reign had joined them at Nox where their evening had begun. They had remained downstairs in the common rooms, where they had spent hours playing cards, drinking, and debating politics and the latest news in the papers until Frost and Saint had almost come to blows over their differences of opinion. Later, Dare and the others had departed with some reluctance. His friends had made promises to their wives. One of the ladies of the ton—Vane could not recall which one—was holding a music recital, and while Dare, Sin, and Reign had cleverly avoided the boring affair, the gents were obligated to join their wives for a late supper elsewhere.
He idly wondered if Isabel and Delia had attended the gathering.
The brandy Vane had been happily pouring down his gullet for hours had done its job. Instead of a tavern, Saint had brought them to the residence of Lord Ravens, a gentleman who had gained a certain reputation for his intimate gatherings.
Vane did not particularly care for the man. If there was truth to the rumors, the earl had a predilection for hurting his lovers, something Vane abhorred even if the consent was mutual. Some years ago, there had been an idle discussion of offering Ravens membership at Nox, but nothing had come of it.
To his surprise, Lord Ravens had greeted Saint as a close friend, which was something else he needed to ponder further with a clearer head. At the moment, his brain was pleasantly numbed and the desire to throttle his sire had waned into disgust. Vane had not cursed his father’s name in hours, which he assumed was a good sign that he was drunk.
“Our merry group has grown in my absence,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “G’evening, ladies.” He managed to bow without falling.
“Vane, did you get lost in this maze of a house?” Hunter asked. During Vane’s absence, he had collected a pretty redhead who was petting His Grace’s straight dark hair as if he were her favorite stallion.
“Thought you walked all the way home to piss,” Frost said, his tongue thick from drink. A brunette with green eyes was seated on the rug, positioned between his friend’s long, outstretched legs. He felt the curious stroke of her heavy-lidded gaze, but it was apparent that she had picked Frost for the evening.
“Where’s Saint?” Vane asked, slurring his words as he finally noticed that the marquess was missing.
Frost shrugged. “He mentioned that he had a small task to perform. I hope she isn’t too disappointed.”
Hunter and the two women burst into laughter at Frost’s jest. Clearly his friends believed Saint had slipped away to fuck one of the many females their host had provided for his guests. They were probably right. Not that Vane cared one way or the other.
“Come join us,” Hunter invited. “Do you have a preference in hair color or shape or will any female suffice?”
Vane swayed on his feet as his mind conjured the sort of female he desired, a brown-eyed beauty with a tall, slender build and long hair that ranged from golden to light brown. “I won’t find her here,” he said, surprise lacing his voice.
After his argument with his father, he had no business sniffing after any lady, and that included Miss Isabel Thorne.
“Vane, you underestimate Lord Ravens,” Frost said, raising two fingers to signal a servant. “I am certain he can provide you with—”
“He has nothing I want.” Vane shook his head as if he hoped the action would clear his muddled brain. “Enjoyed our evening as always. I will see you tomorrow. Tell Saint that I have gone home.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was long past midnight, and yet Isabel had been too restless to retire for the night. On the drive home from Lady Kerfoot’s, Delia had p
roclaimed herself half in love with two of her new admirers. All four gentlemen had vowed to call on the Thorne sisters, much to her sister’s elation. In high spirits, she invited Isabel to claim any of her castoffs.
Isabel shut the book she had been reading and rubbed her weary eyes. She should have never brought Delia to London. Everything about their stay was fraught with risk: Delia’s flirtations, Lady Netherley’s demands, her common sense whenever Vane was near, and the unforeseen disasters lurking just beyond her careful planning. This evening, Isabel had overheard Lord Botly and his wife as they discussed their recent visit to the theater with their hostess.
Isabel doubted the man who denied their very existence would welcome his granddaughters with open arms.
Without any time to explain, Isabel had grabbed her sister by the hand; they lingered in the garden until the Botlys had departed. They had averted one disaster, but how long would their luck hold? Sitting alone in the study, Isabel had read her book and sipped the medicinal cordial Mrs. Allen kept hidden in the kitchen. She’d prayed it would calm her frayed nerves.
Vane was correct. She was not cut out for subterfuge.
A muffled shriek escaped her lips as something struck the window with a crack. Isabel tossed the book aside and dashed for the door. Fear had spurred her to action, but she had no specific plan except to run upstairs. Her bare feet skidded to an abrupt halt when she heard the noise a second time. A third. Frowning, she realized someone was throwing something at the window.
Isabel had the good sense to retrieve the iron poker from the hearth before she approached the window. She flinched and jumped back a step as another small object, most likely a pebble, struck the glass pane. Warily, she drew back the curtain.
Vane stood below the window.
Relief flooded her limbs. Still clutching the iron poker, she unlatched the window and opened it. “Are you drunk? You gave me such a fright! I have a good mind to bash your skull in with this poker.”
His handsome face crinkled into an irresistible grin. “You will have to let me into the house if you want to dent my skull.”
Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 11
