A Necessary Husband

by Debra Mullins

  "But, Your Grace—"

  "Forfeit, Mrs. Devering." He stepped forward and held her trapped with his cool, dark gaze. "Without me, you will never be able to fund your own season, and your reputation will be ruined once word of your financial difficulties gets out. Which it must, at some juncture. You will never be able to make the match you so desperately require. We need each other, madam."

  "But—"

  "Good day, Mrs. Devering."

  The words were a dismissal. Rising, she left the study, remembering how less than an hour ago she had been hoping to rid herself of Garrett Lynch.

  Now she was totally bound to the man. Turn Garrett Lynch into an English gentleman? Impossible! He would resist every step of the way. Yet if Garrett succeeded in convincing Meg to leave with him before the end of the season, he would take Lucinda's future with him.

  She had no choice. She had to make him comply with the duke's wishes—by whatever means possible.

  Chapter 3

  Garrett descended from his room shortly after two o'clock. He had been waiting all day to speak to Meg, but first she'd been sleeping, and then she was dressing.

  He was not used to being idle.

  Pursuing Mrs. Devering would have been an amusing pastime, but the lady had not reappeared after her dramatic exit from the breakfast room. No matter. Their paths would cross again, and he would have another opportunity to charm the lovely widow into his bed.

  He had been over a year at sea, and he didn't dally with innocents or other men's wives. But a widow...He grinned wickedly.

  Since Mrs. Devering had gone to ground, he sought other means of passing the time. He had already been down to the stables to take a look at Raynewood's admittedly excellent horseflesh, then he had perused some titles in the library. He had walked the grounds. Twice. He had viewed the gardens. Finally he had attended to some correspondence that had been neglected while he chased all over the world after his errant sibling. Letters in his hand, he stopped one of the maids as she passed through the foyer.

  "Excuse me, miss. Do you know if my sister has come downstairs yet?"

  The young girl bobbed a quick curtsy. "Not yet, Your Lordship. She's dressing."

  "Still? She's been dressing for the past hour!" He scowled. How long did it take the girl to put on a dress and brush her hair?

  As if that did not make him impatient enough, the servants insisted on addressing him by the blasted title, no matter how many times he had tried to convince them otherwise. He had finally given up.

  Catching the nervous look in the maid's eyes, he deliberately softened his expression. "What's your name?"

  "Alice, Your Lordship."

  "Alice, would you please let my sister know that I need to speak to her? I'll be in the gardens."

  "That won't be necessary, Alice. I'm right here."

  Garrett looked up and saw Meg coming down the stairs. Once again, he was struck by how much she had changed. She wore a fashionable dress of pale pink, and her dark hair was carefully arranged in cascading curls. And she walked down the stairs. Slowly. Elegantly. He remembered, on the rare occasions he had come home, how she used to run down the stairs of their house in Boston to throw herself breathlessly into his arms.

  Were the English stifling every bit of spirit she possessed? Where was the feisty girl he loved so much? The sooner he got her home, the better.

  "I've been waiting for you," Garrett said as Meg reached them. "You never used to stay in bed until noon or take over an hour to get dressed."

  "I never used to stay up late at a soirée thrown in my honor, either," Meg replied coolly. "Do you need to post those letters?"

  Soirée? Frowning, he looked down at the letters in his hand. "Actually, I wanted to send them over to Tim O'Brien so they could go out with the Trinity."

  "We'll have a footman take them." Before he could respond, Meg plucked the letters from his hand and turned to the maid. "Alice, would you please have Stephens send one of the footmen to deliver these to my brother's ship?"

  "Certainly." Dipping a curtsy, Alice took the letters and hurried off.

  Garrett peered at his sister skeptically. She seemed so poised. Where was the little minx who had once tried to stow away on one of his ships? Where was the laughing, vivacious young woman he had left in Boston over a year ago?

  "What did you want to talk to me about?" Meg asked politely.

  She spoke to him as if he were some vague acquaintance and not the brother who had practically raised her! He didn't like this one bit. She reminded him of some unfeeling Englishwoman, afraid to put a hair out of place. How was he supposed to talk this cool stranger into coming home to Boston with him?

  "Well?" she asked, lifting her brows in that condescending manner that seemed to run in the family.

  "Let's go out to the garden," he replied. "I'd like some privacy."

  "As you wish." Head held high, Meg led the way.

  Garrett felt a small sense of accomplishment as they arrived in the garden, once he realized that he could have gotten there without Meg's guidance. It seemed his navigational skills were still intact.

  Meg led the way down the path to a stone bench surrounded by young cherry trees bursting with pale pink blossoms. She turned and faced him, her expression still unreadable.

  "What did you want to speak to me about, Garrett?" she asked. "My dance master arrives in less than an hour."

  "You already know how to dance," he pointed out.

  "Hardly." With a haughty toss of her head, she drawled, "I know the colonial dances. Today Monsieur Collineau is going to teach me the waltz."

  "Colonial? Have you forgotten that you are a so-called colonial?"

  "Not here, I'm not. Here I am Miss Margaret Stanton-Lynch, granddaughter of the Duke of Raynewood."

  "Stanton-Lynch? What the hell is that all about?"

  "Garrett, really! Your language!" She gave a sniff of disapproval that made him want to throttle her. "Our father's name was Stanton, after all. He only changed it to annoy Grandfather."

  "It was always good enough for you before," Garrett ground out. "Meggie, what are you doing? Why don't you quit all this foolishness and come home where you belong?"

  He finally caught a glimpse of the old Meg as her blue eyes sparked with temper. "Home to Boston, you mean? What is there for me now? Mother is gone, and you'll go sailing off again as soon as we arrive."

  "Meg—"

  "At least Grandfather won't abandon me."

  "You don't know that!" Garrett roared. "He abandoned our father, didn't he? He's only playing at this because he needs us. He needs me. I'm his precious heir!"

  "Grandfather loves me!" she shouted back. "This is not about you, Garrett William Lynch!"

  Garrett's heart lightened. Here was the Meggie he knew.

  "Don't fool yourself, Meg. Once his older son died, the old man had no one left to take on his precious title. That's all he's ever cared about. That's why he disowned our father."

  "That was over thirty years ago," she snapped. "People change."

  "Not that old coot. If I ever saw anyone set in his ways, it's him."

  "There's no talking to you," Meg declared, throwing her hands in the air. "As long as I can remember, you've given the orders, and I was supposed to obey them. Did you ever once consider that I might want some say in my future?"

  "You were just a child."

  "Garrett, I'm twenty-two years old. I haven't been a child for a long time," she said quietly.

  Had she screamed the statement at him, he might have been able to ignore it. But her sad solemnity made him pause. Had he been too overbearing recently? Meg was eight years younger than he was, and he was used to taking

  care of her. But she wasn't a little girl anymore.

  "You're right."

  She had actually parted her lips to argue before she realized what he'd said. Closing her mouth, she looked at him curiously.

  "You're right," he said again. "It's just that I've been in charge
of the family for so long, I never noticed when you grew up."

  "You weren't home enough," she said, but the words had no heat.

  "I was trying to support a family, Meg. I know you can't understand that, but it was important to me to give you the best I could."

  "No, I do understand it." She began to stroll as she spoke, reaching up to gently touch one soft, pink cherry blossom. "But what you don't understand is that I don't remember our father, Garrett. I was only three years old when he died at sea. You're the closest thing to a father I have ever had. And I needed you."

  "I've always been here for you."

  "No, you haven't." Plucking the bloom from the tree, she met his gaze. Her eyes were sad. "I didn't need the money you sent as much as I needed you, Garrett."

  He sighed. "We've been over this, Meg. I can't change the past."

  "Neither of us can. But things are different now. Mother is gone and now we've found Grandfather. You don't need to work so hard. You've done well, Garrett, but it's time to make changes."

  "I don't want anything to do with that old man," Garrett grumbled. "He can keep his stiffrumped English ways and his precious fortune and his blasted title."

  Meg let out a sigh of exasperation. "Has it occurred to you, Garrett Lynch, that maybe Grandfather is sorry for what he did?"

  Garrett laughed harshly. "Him? Hardly."

  "You are so stubborn! Why can't you stop being so angry at him and see that he regrets what he did?"

  "Because of what he did, our parents are dead," Garrett ground out. "Da would never have had to go to sea if he'd been here in England, living the life he was raised for. And Ma got so sick after I was born that they almost didn't have any more children. If the duke had accepted her as our father's wife, she would have had better medical care. She was never really strong again after you were born, and that's probably what killed her."

  "And I feel guilty every day because of that," Meg said, her voice catching on the words.

  "It's not your fault, Meggie." Hurting for her, Garrett searched for words of comfort. "You know how much she wanted children. If you want to blame someone, blame that selfish old bastard for denying her a life she should have had, a life where she might not have gotten so sick. Where neither of them would have died."

  "And don't you think we're entitled to that life?" Meg's voice was thick with unshed tears. "Don't you think he owes us? Even if you can't believe that he's sorry, Garrett, can't you find some way to accept what he's offering?"

  "I'm sorry, Meg, but I don't want anything from him. And I don't want you near him, either. I can't stand to see you hurt."

  "You're the one who's hurting me, Garrett!" She threw the flower at him. "For once, I want something for myself. Did you know Grandfather is going to present me at court? That he's going to take me to London and buy me beautiful clothes and introduce me to earls and princes and grand ladies? I want that! I've never wanted anything so much in my life."

  "Damn it, Meggie, why? I've tried to give you everything. What can I do to make it better?"

  "You can let me do this, Garrett." She gave him a steady look full of so much maturity that he was shocked. "I know you, and you probably thought you would take a couple of days to talk me into going home with you. And then once you got me home to Boston, I bet you'd never allow me near England again."

  "I . . ." Garrett shut his mouth. She had him there.

  She narrowed her eyes at his guilty expression. "I bet you even sent Tim off to handle business while you bided your time to talk some sense into me. Well, I have news for you, Garrett. Iam not leaving England until I get what I want."

  Garrett rubbed a hand over his face. "What do you want?" he asked wearily.

  "I want to go to London. I want to be presented at court. And I want you to be there with me."

  "Me, in London?" He snorted. "With those primping idiots and those empty-headed women? Are you crazy?"

  "Yes, you in London," Meg said with a steel in her voice that he had to admire. "We'll get you some clothes, and you can come with me to all the parties."

  "Clothes again?" he grumbled. "What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

  "It's not correct dress for an English peer. Which you are, whether you like it or not." She put her hands on her hips. "I want to spend some time with you, Garrett, and I want a taste of what Grandfather is offering. Then I'll discuss going home with you."

  Garrett remained silent for a long moment. She really wasn't asking so much. And once she saw what fools the English nobles could be, she'd be eager to return to sensible Boston society. Once she was back in Boston, maybe he would see about being home more often and throwing a party or two for her. Young girls liked that sort of thing.

  "All right," he said finally. "I'll come to London, but I can't stay there forever. I still have a business to run."

  "Oh, Garrett, thank you!" She ran and threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly, relishing this glimpse of the old Meggie.

  "Just don't marry some damned Englishman," he murmured into her hair.

  She just hugged him more tightly. For now, that was enough.

  * * *

  The dance master's name was Monsieur Collineau, and he looked, Garrett thought, like a stork dressed in expensive clothing. The tall, thin fellow had a beak of a nose and spindly legs, and his shirt points rose so high that Garrett was amazed he didn't put an eye out every time he turned his head.

  And if "Monsieur Collineau" had been born anywhere near France, Garrett would eat Tim O'Brien's hat.

  No one had spotted Garrett yet. He stood in the door of the music room and watched as Lady Agatha played the pianoforte for Meg, who danced with Lucinda. The lovely widow had changed her gown to one of soft brown, which molded her slender figure and emphasized the whiteness of her skin. Her tawny curls bounced as she waltzed with Meg, yet a small frown creased the delicate skin between her brows.

  "No, no, no!" Monsieur Collineau cried, clapping his hands together. Lady Agatha stopped playing. "This is wrong, all wrong."

  Lucinda sighed and brushed a stray curl back into place as the tall, thin dance master paced the floor of the music room.

  "You should be graceful," Monsieur declared, "not clomping about like a dairy maid through a muddy field! Let us try again."

  "This is not going to work," Meg said, folding her arms obstinately.

  "It must work, my lady," Monsieur Collineau said sternly. "You must learn to waltz if you are going to be a success this season! Come, Madame Devering, take your places again."

  Lucinda hesitated. "Monsieur, perhaps Miss Stanton-Lynch is correct. I am not used to playing the man's part in the waltz, and I am finding it difficult to remember where to put my feet."

  "Nonsense! You will begin again!" He signaled to Lady Agatha, then dropped his hand, an uncertain expression on his face. "Uh, my lady?"

  Lucinda glanced over at Lady Agatha, whose head bobbed forward on her chest even as a soft snore echoed through the music room. "Oh, dear, not again," Lucinda sighed.

  Again? Garrett thought. Their conversation in the breakfast room came back to him, and everything rapidly fell into place. No wonder the duke had arranged for Lucinda to help with Meg: Lady Agatha apparently had a tendency to drift off to sleep at any moment!

  Lucinda hurried forward and gently nudged Lady Agatha, who came awake with a loud, "Who's there?"

  "Monsieur would like to try the waltz again, my lady," Lucinda said respectfully, remaining close until the elderly woman gathered herself.

  "Well, why didn't he say so?" Lady Agatha demanded.

  Lucinda went back to her place with Meg. Lady Agatha launched into a robust waltz, and Monsieur Collineau quickly took up the count again. "Now then... one, two, three, and one, two, three—smile, Miss Stanton-Lynch—and one, two, three..."

  Garrett chuckled as Lucinda spun haltingly around the room with Meg. He knew the exact instant that Lucinda caught sight of him standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened, and she stu
mbled.

  "Ouch!" Meg stopped dancing to hobble on one foot. "Lucinda, you stepped on my toes."

  "I'm so sorry, Meg." Lucinda turned her back on Garrett and helped the limping girl to a nearby chair.

  "I say, who is this?" Monsieur Collineau demanded, catching sight of Garrett. The dance master regarded Garrett's simple attire through his quizzing glass. "Sir, this is a private lesson!"

  "I won't interrupt." With a bland smile, Garrett went over and seated himself in a chair beside the pianoforte, long legs sprawled before him. He nodded at Lady Agatha, then folded his hands over his stomach and prepared to watch the lesson.

  "See here!" the dance master burst out, puffing up with outrage.

  "I see no reason why my nephew cannot watch his sister's dancing lesson, do you, Mrs. Devering?" Lady Agatha asked, her words stopping the dance master's protests mid-breath.

  "Of course not, my lady," Lucinda replied, looking as if she longed to say the opposite. She gave Garrett a furious look, then turned back to Meg.

  The dance master paled. "Your...er, nephew, Lady Agatha?"

  "Yes, my great-nephew, the Marquess of Kelton. He is Miss Stanton-Lynch's brother. I trust you have no objections, Monsieur Collineau?"

  Garrett raised his brows in the most arrogant way he could.

  "Objections? Of course not!" The dance master cleared his throat. "Welcome, my lord. Please, stay as long as you like."

  Garrett bared his teeth in a grin. "Thanks, I believe I will."

  "Now, where were we?" Monsieur Collineau asked, looking back to Meg and Lucinda.

  "My foot hurts, and I'm tired," Meg complained.

  Monsieur hurried over to his student. As both the dance master and Lucinda fussed over Meg, Garrett noticed Lucinda kept her back to him the whole time. Of course, this meant that he had a very nice view of her lovely backside. Despite the layers of petticoats and whatnot that ladies wore beneath their clothes, he could clearly make out the womanly curves of her buttocks and thighs.

  What would she do if she caught him staring? He thought of the glare she had given him, and couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips. She was still mad at him. And when she turned all that passionate anger in his direction, it made him hotter than a summer day in Savannah. Watching her bend over like that gave him a few ideas that would scorch her petticoats, if she only knew.