Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed

by Jo Beverley

  “You can’t expect me to leave you two alone here at this hour!” she exclaimed, her color high.

  “Goodness! So suddenly particular. You can’t seriously believe that I intend Jane any harm, and if you handle the servants there will be no scandal.”

  “I would prefer,” she said with icy determination, “that you call in the morning.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you prefer,” he replied without heat and took a pinch of snuff.

  “Jane,” the lady said sternly. “You will go to your room immediately.”

  Jane, whose eyes were bright with enjoyment of the scene and excited anticipation of what might be to come, lowered her lids demurely. “I do not think I ought, Lady Harroving.”

  Defeated on all fronts, the lady of the house swept out without a word. Lord Wraybourne turned to his betrothed with a smile that made her catch her breath and held out his hand.

  “There’s no guarantee she will arrange matters so that the servants will be unaware of this little tryst,” he said. “We might cause a scandal.”

  She had placed her hand in his trustingly but now she drew back. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Now why would you think that?” he asked, recapturing her and leading her to a sofa.

  Jane’s heart was thundering, and she felt as if she could scarcely breathe. Yet, it seemed important to attempt a casual manner.

  “Because everyone is always telling me I’m going to create a scandal.”

  “How very bothersome of them.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed as she sat down, studying him through her lowered lashes. Had he only brought her here to give her a scold? She could not bear it. “And if they weren’t forever telling me not to do things, I would doubtless go on a lot better.”

  His lips twitched a little as he sat beside her. “I had no idea Maria could be so strict.”

  “Oh, not her. In fact I think her wits are lacking.” Jane looked at him. “I’m sorry if you do not like it, but she is rather stupid. She seems to have no idea of the difference between her position and my own.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked, moving closer and making it difficult for her to marshal her thoughts.

  Part of her mind was on the conversation but a large part was considering what she should do in order to capture his affection from the woman in Clarke Street.

  “She expects me to wear gowns more suitable for her than for me,” she babbled, eyes fixed on his wonderful face. “In fact, they are not really suitable for any lady. And she tried to . . . Oh!” she gasped and words escaped her as he dropped a number of kisses on her fingers. How could she possibly think?

  “My goodness, am I disturbing you again?” he asked with smiling eyes.

  “Very much,” she breathed, his face inches from her own.

  Was he going to kiss her? Please, he must kiss her. Was it perhaps like a handshake? Did the lady have to make the first move? Only half-consciously, she swayed closer. But he did not take her lips immediately. He merely brushed them lightly with his own.

  “I wonder I can still have such an effect now that you know so many handsome men.”

  The aroma of his skin and the warmth of his breath seemed to melt her like wine. Why did he not kiss her? She was beyond repartee and gazed at him mutely. He lowered his lips and kissed her fully.

  Her mouth opened to his, and her body pressed nearer. She felt wonderfully as if she had found home on a bleak and icy day. Her fingers tangled in his crisp curls, and their rough texture was exquisite. Her touch wandered downward to the smooth skin of his nape. The sensation sent tremors through her, causing her to clutch him to her. When he drew back she resisted, but he gently put her away.

  “Though I hate to admit it,” he said huskily, “Maria had the right of it. We are playing with fire.”

  “I like it,” she replied, gazing at him, her hands still resting on his arms. “Now I am cold.”

  He rose and crossed the room. She followed him with her eyes, newly aware of his body in motion: his long, well muscled legs, the taper from his shoulders to his hips, the clean line of his jaw. He fetched her Norwich shawl from a chair and draped it round her shoulders. His fingers moved for a moment at the back of her neck, causing shivers down her spine, then were gone.

  He walked to the door and turned. “Randal told me of your unpleasant experiences. I believe I will be able to put a stop to them, but it would be wiser to avoid being unaccompanied, particularly if you leave the house.”

  “You think he might follow me?” asked Jane with a squeak of fright in her voice.

  “It is a remote possibility only. Did anything about the voice suggest the speaker to you?”

  Jane thought and then shook her head. “It is only an assumption that it was a man. A woman would never say such things, but it was someone who knew of my affairs to some extent.”

  “I think you can be sure it was a man so do not go apart with any gentleman, however safe he might seem to be.”

  Jane elevated her chin slightly. This cool discussion across the width of the room was rasping on her sensitized nerves, and she was remembering his less-than-perfect behavior.

  “I have never done so, except with you, Lord Wraybourne.”

  A smile stirred his lips. “And see where it led us,” he murmured, then continued in his normal manner. “Don’t forget that we have an engagement for tomorrow evening, my dear. See if Sophie will come too. A little culture would do her good.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  “Then,” he confessed, “I have one more journey to make. I should be away no more than a week.”

  “I have only two more weeks in Town,” she protested. Two minutes out of his company was too much.

  “We have the rest of our lives ahead of us,” he said gently. Then, after a slight pause he added, “Those golden flowers in your hair are beautiful, but I did not give them to you. Will you tell me who did?”

  Was he presuming to be jealous? Jane stiffened her resolve. “I will tell you that if you will tell me about your travels,” she said stiffly. “You cannot say you are visiting estates because Sir Marius mentioned once that you were in Canterbury and you have no property near there.”

  Lord Wraybourne’s manner turned suddenly distant. “I would not dream of lying to you. I am conducting some business for my uncle.”

  She knew she had been vulgar in her accusation, but she would not apologize, especially when he had obviously prevaricated in his reply.

  “Then why so secret, My Lord?”

  “How could I guess you would be interested, Jane?” he said more mildly and then smiled. “Let us not argue, Tiger Eyes. I will tell you every bit of my wanderings when I return, if you wish.”

  A desire to believe him and fling herself into his arms warred with the need to show him that she could not be manipulated by a kiss and a smile.

  “Then that is when I will tell you who gave me these delightful flowers,” she said haughtily. “Now go away!”

  Lord Wraybourne obliged but did not seem to be cast down by his dismissal, for he whistled cheerfully as he walked off down the street. Jane lingered for a moment to review the encounter.

  She did not think she deceived herself. He did care for her. Could a man care for two women? Or had she perhaps been hasty in her judgement? If the incident in Clarke Street had been innocent—though how that could be was hard to imagine—and if he really was involved in business for his uncle, whom Jane knew to be an important government man, then, perhaps, she had been a ninny and risked disgusting him over nothing.

  Jane did not like feeling so confused. She wiped away tears and retired to her virginal bed to suffer very unvir ginal dreams.

  Lord Wraybourne, meanwhile, felt strangely restless and, consequently, looked in at White’s. There he found Sir Marius taking respite from Faro with a glass of brandy and was greeted with a grin.

  “I hear you’ve been making yourself conspicuous by dancing attendance on your
betrothed.”

  “The talk’s started already. Excellent.”

  “I always thought you disliked being the subject of gossip.”

  Lord Wraybourne poured himself some cognac. “Let us say that I prefer the gossip to be of my choosing.”

  His friend laughed. “You’ve certainly handled this in masterly style. Tomorrow, the worst hatchet-wielder won’t dare suggest that you want to cry off.”

  Lord Wraybourne nodded. “I have to thank you for alerting me to the rumors about Town. I should have realized how it would be.”

  “Has Miss Sandiford let you off without a scold? How unlike a woman.”

  Lord Wraybourne smiled fondly into his cognac. “I wouldn’t quite say that, but she’s welcome to her pound of flesh. Especially as I have one more trip to make.”

  Sir Marius snorted. “I don’t know which of you is more to the loose. She should realize that she’ll be getting the best husband around, and you should stop running at your uncle’s bidding.”

  “I run at my own bidding. This man has to be stopped. Did Randal tell you about Jane’s experiences?” Lord Wraybourne’s face tightened and his blue eyes were no longer lazy but threatened retribution. “It must be the same man. He’s too much the coward, of course, to attack a lady but that he would dare speak to her that way is intolerable. He will be stopped.”

  “You have him?”

  “I am so close I can smell him, but the trails cross. Once I talked to the victims scraps of information began to come together, but they lead as well to one man as the other. I have my preference, but proof is needed. I cannot give up now or the next victim will be on my conscience, and I cannot stand by while Jane is distressed. I suspect he knows I’m on his trail because the attacks have stopped, but now I am concerned that he might be impelled by spite to move against Sophie or Jane. If I could find the driver of the carriage, that would clinch things.”

  Their talk stopped as they were surrounded by friends and acquaintances. Lord Wraybourne had to suffer a number of warm jokes about his coming nuptials but was at least satisfied that the world believed it to be a love match. When they were alone again he turned to Sir Marius.

  “I understand I have to thank you and Randal for watching over Jane.”

  “Devil a bit,” was the cheerful reply. “I think she’s able to look after herself. She’s trying her wings and not behaving perfectly, but there’s sound enough bottom for her to keep straight. I think you’re lucky to get a filly with spirit out of that stable. I have come to find her quite a tolerable example of womanhood. For one thing she can talk sensibly when she has a mind to.”

  “What of Carruthers?” asked Lord Wraybourne.

  “She wouldn’t choose him over you,” scoffed Sir Marius.

  Lord Wraybourne could think of a number of cases in which just such peculiar choices had been made.

  “Women can be most unpredictable.”

  “Damnably so. I tried to tell you but you fell into parson’s mousetrap anyway.”

  “It’s time you did the same, my friend. I don’t suppose I could interest you in Sophie,” he teased. “She needs a strong hand.”

  For a moment he wondered if Sir Marius could be Sophie’s target. What a thought. But Sir Marius nearly choked on his brandy.

  “I’d sooner marry a viper!” he spluttered. “Nothing against Sophie, but she’s not exactly restful.”

  “You’ve no need to tell me that. If she loves, however, she will settle down.”

  “Like a dormant volcano,” was the disbelieving reply. “In fact, Randal and I will be well suited when you take up the petticoat escort for yourself, though poor Randal will be still shackled by his sisters. He’s having a dull time of it this year. Anyone would think he was reforming. I met Verderan the other day. He said Randal had turned down an invitation to a special little party at his place, and rumor says he has some genuine Eastern houris in keeping these days.”

  “The less Randal has to do with him, the better. Anyway, I have one more journey to make, to see a victim who is presently in Essex, unfortunately awaiting the birth of a child. Two of the victims are pregnant, you know.”

  “If you could wait a few years,” said Sir Marius with a grin, “you’d probably find one of the brats was the image of the father.”

  Lord Wraybourne shook his head at this levity.

  Sir Marius nudged him. “More brandy, David?”

  Lord Wraybourne sighed. “No, Marius. I’m for my bed. I’ve travelled a hundred miles today and danced half the night.”

  “You’re looking a bit worn down, you know.”

  “I’m not surprised. I probably hold the record for most miles covered. I should enter it in the book here. I’m looking forward to sleeping in the same bed for more than one night.”

  “If you don’t watch it, that’ll be your marriage bed. Don’t look for a repairing lease there,” chortled his friend.

  Lord Wraybourne threw up his hands in despair and headed for his home.

  11

  THE NEXT MORNING found the house in Marlborough Square in ferment. Jane refused to discuss her midnight visit with Sophie and oscillated between ill humor and dreaminess. Lady Harroving kept to her bed, but her husband was so unwise as to visit her to consult about their coming masquerade ball. He beat a hasty retreat, a breath ahead of a hurled cup of chocolate.

  Maria Harroving could not stand to be crossed. She no longer cared whether her friend should marry her cousin or not, she was merely determined to destroy. The truth was that, having made a brilliant match to a man she disliked and despised, she was made wretched by the sight of others more fortunate. She could, perhaps, have come to tolerate Jane if she had been subservient, but Jane had been raised in a hard school. She did not openly oppose Lady Harroving’s will, but somehow she never bowed to it. Her habit of studying a person with those solemn tawny eyes was enough to drive one mad.

  For Jane Sandiford to be elevated to a countess, outranking Lady Harroving herself; for Jane Sandiford to enjoy the riches of Stenby Castle and the Kyle fortune and to enjoy the pleasures of Lord Wraybourne in her bed—these were intolerable to Lady Harroving. She denied all callers until Mrs. Danvers was announced.

  “Not up yet, Maria?” queried that lady coolly, herself a picture of fashionable elegance.

  “I have a megrim.”

  “Alas. Who has crossed you now?”

  “You are unkind,” wailed Lady Harroving. “You at least should feel for me. David was making love to that horrible chit in the green saloon at two this morning.”

  Mrs. Danvers seemed merely amused. “How precipitate. Forgive me, but is not that precisely the kind of behavior a chaperone is supposed to prevent?”

  Lady Harroving raised a dainty handkerchief. The role of victim could be pleasant. “He ordered me out. Brutally. He used strong language!”

  “Which you of course are quite unused to,” said her unsympathetic friend. As the older lady was speechless, Mrs. Danvers continued, “I am surprised David should be so unconventional, but there is no harm done. The marriage is in a matter of weeks.”

  “Oh, I don’t suppose he got carried away,” Lady Harroving said, “but you saw how he was at the Faverstowes’. They probably went on billing and cooing, and now it will be all April and May.”

  “I’m sure their friends must be delighted,” said Mrs. Danvers lightly, admiring a tiny jade vase on the table beside her.

  “Are you mad?” shrieked her ladyship. “You of all people should share my feelings.”

  Mrs. Danvers regarded her friend with cool cat’s eyes. “In truth, I gave up on David weeks ago. I am not even sure we would have suited. He is not really exciting enough for me. He will probably want to spend most of his time at Stenby, you know. I never could abide Shropshire.” After a moment, during which Lady Harroving regarded her dumbfounded, Mrs. Danvers went on, “I accepted an offer last night from the Marquis of Dromree.”

  Lady Harroving regained her voice in a screech.
“Dromree! He’s old and ugly and Irish to boot!”

  “He’s not yet fifty, and he’s rich and amusing. He is also,” she said with a sensual smile, “a most inventive lover.”

  Lady Harroving’s eyes grew wide.

  “Tell me more.”

  Mrs. Danvers obliged, and this pleasant interlude did much to calm Lady Harroving’s rage, but when she finally rose and dressed she was still resolved to be observant for some way in which she might undermine her cousin’s marriage—or at least sabotage the growing understanding between him and his betrothed.

  Meanwhile, Sophie had abandoned her attempts to wheedle from Jane a description of the time spent in the green saloon. Sophie turned the topic to the coming masquerade ball.

  “I have been looking forward to attending Maria’s masque for years,” she said. “It is supposed to be deliciously daring. It is to be hoped David does not suddenly recollect that and decide we should not attend.”

  “He must surely know. The invitations are out.”

  “Do you think he bothers to read the cards he receives? I doubt it. And he is grown monstrous stuffy.”

  “But if it is a social fixture, he must know it is to take place and would have made his feelings clear,” Jane said with a frown. “And what of the whisperer? I have no wish to put myself in danger of another encounter with him.”

  “There is no danger of that. It will still be a public place. As for David, perhaps he thinks Maria will abstain this year. Men can be so stupid. David was all set last night to read me a lecture on decorum, but I distracted him with talk of the love of my life.”

  Before Jane could follow this tantalizing lead, Sophie turned mischievous eyes to her companion. “Maria hopes to ruin you at the masque, you know.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Do you not realize she has been urging you towards the precipice ever since you came to Town?” Sophie asked with genuine interest. “I was not sure whether you were thwarting her with incredible subtlety or through innocence.”