Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “Egads, no!” A small shudder wracked his frame. There would be a wife. The disastrous ledgers and crumbling estates, of course, made that inevitable and yet the idea of tying his worthless self to an innocent young woman knotted his belly.

  His sister swung her legs over the chair. She shot a bare foot out and connected cleanly with his shins.

  He grunted. “Blood—what in blazes was that for?”

  “Well, if you are in the market for a wife—”

  Christian choked again. “What do you know about any market for a wife?” God, with her single-minded attention to his marital affairs, she was worse than their mother.

  “Do not change the subject,” she continued over him with a frown. “If you are in the market for a wife, then it hardly behooves you to be so very dramatic in your displeasure at the prospect. In fact, I daresay you shouldn’t even marry a poor young woman under those circumstances.” She paused and gave him a meaningful look. “I certainly know I would not.”

  Alas, she’d not have to because he’d make that sacrifice for her. “When did you grow up?” he asked, giving his head a bemused shake.

  “I’m not a girl,” she said matter-of-factly. “I only want you to wed because you are hopelessly in love.”

  He paused as her words unwittingly dragged forth a long buried memory.

  “…I will love you until the end of time, my love…”

  Lynette pouted. “Oui. But I thought I was more than ‘your love’.”

  He caught her lush frame to him. “Ah, yes, you are the goddess of my heart…”

  Lucinda waved a hand before his face, snapping him to the moment. “Hullo, Christian. Do attend me. We are discussing you being in love.”

  His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace at those remembrances of his younger, naïve self, and his hopefully optimistic sister’s innocence. God, that he’d ever been so bloody green.

  “Why did you do that?” Suspicion laced Lucinda’s inquiry.

  Bloody hell, she didn’t miss a blasted thing. “Why did I do what?”

  She jabbed a finger at his mouth. “You frowned as though you sucked on a tart lemon.”

  “Aren’t all lemons tart?” he countered in a bid to halt her relentless questioning.

  “Christian.” The entreaty in that one word filled Lucinda’s eyes. “Surely you know you must wed and it must be to a woman whom you care for.”

  Ah God. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. At her innocent, too-truthful words, panic settled like a stone in his belly. For there would have to be a wife. Either wed, secure their wealth and Lucinda’s future at the expense of some other woman’s sacrifice or lose everything. Christian firmed his jaw. He had no choice. But he’d not enter into a union carrying some weak-willed thoughts of love for the woman he’d wed. Lady Prudence Tidemore flashed to mind once more and he immediately thrust the lady’s visage back. The Earl of Sinclair’s sister was too young, too innocent, and everything his roguish self had avoided these past eight years. For all the damage wrought by Lynette, she’d at least left him this valuable lesson.

  “You’ve gone all quiet,” his sister said softly.

  He adopted an unaffected tone. “I am not discussing matters of the heart with you.”

  “That is fine,” his sister conceded. “We shall speak of the ball, instead. Did you dance all evening?”

  “I danced…” A number of sets with several young women who fit his criteria for the role of marchioness. They were those title-grasping ladies whom the papers reported would never settle for anything less than a marquess. Which made him the perfect candidate for any one of them—after all, was there a more perfect match for a fortune hunter than a title hunter? Disgust tightened the muscles of his stomach with this, his latest fall from honor.

  Only one lady, however, danced to the forefront of his mind. One who with her wide, hopeful eyes and whispery sighs assuredly did not fit with his criteria.

  His sister waved a hand. “Hullo, Christian. Do pay attention. What did you dance this evening? A waltz? A quadrille? A reel?”

  “I danced a number of sets.”

  Lucinda drummed her fingertips on the arm of the cracked leather chair. “How many sets?”

  “Seven,” he lied. Christian didn’t have a single idea. He only recalled the one.

  She continued with her rapid fire questions. “What did you drink?”

  “Champagne.”

  “Was it splendid?”

  He inclined his head. “Indeed.”

  His sister narrowed her eyes. “How many glasses did you consume?”

  “Flutes,” he corrected. “And it is none of your affair.” None of her intrusive questions were. Christian sighed. He’d always hopelessly indulged her.

  “Were you smitten by any young woman?”

  He snorted. “I am not a man smitten by anyone or anything.” He’d not be that man again.

  His sister swung her legs over the arm of the chair, dangling them over the side. “I daresay I do not know how you can possibly be the rogue the papers purport you to be when you are so hopelessly unromantic in all matters.”

  “Stop reading the blasted papers,” he commanded. God knows what else his sister had read about her worthless brother within those scandal sheets. He looked over to the well-stocked sideboard. The only well-stocked anything left by the previous marquess and he craved a drink. For his sister in her innocence was unerringly on the mark. There was nothing romantic of his life. He was a man who lived with the sins of his past and now, ironically, as he’d inherited the late marquess’ mistakes, someone else’s sins, too. Only it was strictly Christian’s follies that haunted his dreams. Several creditors away from paucity with nothing to offer anyone but a damned title, there was nothing, nor would there ever be anything, romantic in such a person as he.

  “I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” his sister said quietly with an uncharacteristic seriousness.

  Involuntarily, the right corner of his mouth ticked up in a half-grin. “You’ve not offended me, poppet.” She’d merely spoken the truth and served to remind him of the direness of their circumstances. “Now,” he took her firmly but gently by the arm and guided her to her feet. “You are going to bed.”

  She made a sound of protest. “But—?”

  “Unless you care for me to share with Mother your inexplicable ability to have your governess avoid lessons in French, I suggest you seek out your chambers.”

  Lucinda widened her eyes. “You know that? How do you know that?”

  Christian waggled his brow. “I know everything,” he said as they reached the door. Except how to get himself out of debt and save his family and staff in a way that did not result in him bartering his freedom and taking some woman’s dowry.

  “Humph.” She glared at him. “It is wholly dishonorable for you to threaten to share my secrets with Mama.”

  No, dishonorable would be erroneously receiving the credit for actions at Waterloo, when, in fact, it was your best friend who’d fought off three French soldiers on horseback, while also single-handedly protecting Christian’s worthless life—and with nothing more than the edge of a bayonet, no less.

  Shame knifed through him, but he proved too much a coward to disabuse her of her foolish and wholly inaccurate notion. He inclined his head. “Good night, Luce.”

  “Oh, very well. Good night, Christian.”

  Christian stood staring after her as she disappeared down the hall and around the corner. With a sigh, he shut the door and this time remembered to turn the lock. His sister and her fanciful musings and bothersome questions aside, he returned to the stacks of ledgers enumerating the creditors owed.

  He sank into the folds of his father’s seat; the one piece Christian had brought with him from his previous life as baronet, to the new exalted, but bankrupt, position of marquess. Everything, from the unentailed property to the silver, had been sold off to cover the struggling crops and tenants. Christian picked up his glasses then popped them open. H
e placed them on the bridge of his nose, hoping they would help bring some clarity to the rather grim prospect.

  Except, his sister’s unwelcomed prodding had roused the reminders of what had brought them to London for the Season so very early—his need for a wife with plentiful coffers. In the scheme of uncommendable things he’d done in his life, this was hardly the greatest sin. As though to press down that particular point, his shoulder throbbed with the familiar pain from where that musket ball had torn through his person, cleanly exiting out the other side. So many men had lost more and suffered far worse. Others had given all, never to return. And yet, the weak, useless, and worse, dishonorable, Marquess of St. Cyr should live—now that was the great irony.

  A log tipped in the hearth and exploded in a spray of popping embers, calling his attention to the waning fire. His stomach churned with nausea. The blaze transported him back to the crack of a pistol, the horrified cry, lost amidst battlefield shouts, and then the burning of flesh. He pressed his eyes tight, but it was futile. When the memory crept in, it dug in with a tentacle-like hold and did not let him go. Nor should it. This time Toulouse merged with Waterloo and he was thrust into the heart of that famed battle, with the only thing between him and death at the hand of three French soldiers was Maxwell’s skill with a bayonet. A whimper climbed up his throat and he dug his fingers into his temples. In the scheme of marriage, which was a certain necessity, the last person he wanted to bind himself to was a hopeful miss who saw good in him. Not when his failings were so very great. With his return from war, a young man of twenty, the ton had been enamored of those returning Waterloo soldiers. In his silence, he’d only perpetuated the myth that he had been a hero that day in Belgium.

  But he knew the truth. Just as did the men, fellow soldiers and brothers-in-arms, who’d stood beside him, knew the truth about just what kind of hero he’d been—a weak, pathetic coward. The manner of soldier who’d needed the protection of his friends in order to survive….and worse, a man who’d unwittingly shared their battlefield secrets with a woman who’d professed her love. That folly had cost his friend, the now Duke of Blackthorne, nearly everything and many other men, absolutely everything.

  Self-loathing unfurled within him, tightening his chest so that it was hard to draw breath. With a broken sob, Christian buried his head into his hands.

  What woman would ever want such a gentleman as that for her husband?

  Chapter 6

  Lesson Six

  Occasionally, a gentleman will cause you to woolgather…

  It is the blue of your eyes.

  Walking beside her youngest sister with their maid trailing some distance back, a silly smile played on Prudence’s lips. “It is your eyes,” she silently mouthed. She recalled the marquess’ piercing stare upon her person as he’d then turned and left Lady Drake’s ballroom floor. He—

  A loud bark cut into her wondrous musings. She frowned down at the anything but quiet dog. Her sister shifted the leash of her mongrel dog, gifted her two years ago by Lady Drake.

  “Do hush,” Poppy chided.

  To demonstrate how well-behaved he in fact was, Sir Faithful II, perhaps the worst-named dog within the kingdom behind Sir Faithful the first, who’d sired him, tugged the hem of Prudence’s cloak within his teeth and shook. Her frown deepened. The dog didn’t seem to have a spot of intelligence, for he released her garment and darted in front of Poppy’s legs.

  Her sister quietly cursed and stumbled over the black, coarse-haired animal. The sketchpad under her arm shifted and fell from her arms. Poppy paused a moment to retrieve her own small book and then quickly caught up to Prudence.

  As the gravel crunched beneath the heels of her serviceable boots, Prudence redirected her gaze to the surface of the river.

  “You keep stumbling into me,” Poppy chided at her side, giving Prudence a nudge.

  Except, following Lord and Lady Drake’s ball last evening, she could not feel any pain.

  “Ouch, you did it again,” Poppy lamented. She stuck a sharp elbow into Prudence’s side.

  Prudence grunted. Apparently, she’d been wrong. She’d quite felt that. “Do stop nudging me.”

  “But you are walking in an odd back and forth angle as though you aren’t paying attention to where we are going. And we really should not be traveling upon the riding path.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Are we on the riding path?” She’d not realized it. Prudence glanced about at the empty landscape of Hyde Park. Well, it appeared they had gone and wandered off the well-traveled, but now blessedly empty, walking paths. “No, we really should not be,” she conceded. She’d been so very lost in the thoughts of him; a man she knew barely at all, yet who still possessed her every thought.

  But he’d spoken of her eyes and danced with her when no one else had. She wrinkled her nose. Well, that was anyone that was not her brother, Sin, or his closest friend, the Marquess of Drake. Why, the only familial male obligation left was Patrina’s husband. Though she was sure Weston would get around to it when he and Patrina at last arrived for the Season. If they ever arrived for the Season.

  She and Poppy walked at a brisk clip, with little puffs of cool, winter air stirring from the heat of their breaths. She shifted the sketchpad under her arm, pulling it closer. That familiar urge to sketch the particular someone danced around her thoughts. The someone who had asked to dance when no one else had…and a man who was assuredly not family.

  “You are doing it again,” Poppy snapped.

  “You did not have to come,” Prudence pointed out.

  That immediately silenced her youngest sister. Her brother had always accused her of being a hopeless romantic. He’d said it with the same staggering frequency of his hiring of new governesses for Prudence and her wayward sisters.

  She stopped in the middle of the path then slapped her sketchpad against Poppy’s chest and her sister grunted. Prudence drew in a deep breath of the cool air savoring the purifying scent of the winter’s clean smell.

  “What are—?”

  “This is the perfect place,” she said.

  “It is?” Poppy looked about skeptically.

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes.”

  Her youngest sister glanced down at her feet and then back at Prudence. “Here, on the riding path?”

  Prudence wrinkled her nose. Again they’d meandered onto the riding path? “Well, not here, but here,” she said stomping the earth with her foot to indicate the specialness of this precise location.

  Her sister threw her hands up and she cursed as the books tumbled to the ground once again. Sir Faithful yelped when a leather pad landed on his paw. “But you are on the riding path.”

  “We are in Hyde Park,” she said with a long sigh of annoyance. “Where is your sense of romanticism?”

  Poppy’s groan swallowed the remainder of that last word and she slapped her hands over her eyes. “Oh, blast. Not this again.”

  Prudence bristled. She really didn’t care to rise to her sister’s baiting and yet—“Not what again.”

  Her sister hurriedly bent and rescued her books. “Hyde Park. Talks of Christmas. The rock.” As in the boulder where her sister had been wed. She narrowed her eyes. “The woolgathering.” That last charge was spoken as though Prudence had committed a crime against the Crown. She grunted as her sister stuck her finger into her chest. “You have gone all romantic. It is rather much.”

  Their maid reached their side and when presented with another Tidemore altercation chose the wisest course. She promptly collected the whining dog’s leash, turned on her heel, and marched in the opposite direction, affording them their privacy.

  Prudence waited until the other woman was a safe distance away and then dipped her voice to a hushed whisper. “I am not all romantic. I am merely hopeful. Can I not be hopeful for a grand love like Sin and Juliet or Patrina and Weston?” Even if that entailed taking control of her life, and not just waiting for excitement to come to her, as it had her siblings.
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  Her sister frowned and had the look worn by her mother when she was about to utter the whole no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages bit. To end that bothersome mantra, she took her sister by the shoulders. “If I had wanted the logical, reasonable sister, I would have forced Penelope awake and dragged her here instead.”

  “I am logical and reasonable,” Poppy grumbled.

  She retrieved her book from Poppy’s filled hands and gave a winning smile. “Now, if you will excuse me,” she said against her ear. “I need my time to find my creative inspiration. I encourage you to do the same.” Prudence nudged her between the shoulder blades.

  “Oomph.” Poppy frowned back at her.

  “Off you go.” She gave a slight wave and then spun on her heel.

  “I am only walking off because I saw a majestic bird begging to be sketched,” her sister called after her.

  Ah, Poppy and her love of sketching any and every animal. Prudence held a hand up in acknowledgement but otherwise did not break her stride. Hugging the familiar sketchpad close to her chest, she moved along at a slow pace taking in the still, Hyde Park grounds. With the trees now bare of their green leaves and the thick, grey, winter sky blanketed in white clouds, there was a special beauty to this place.

  It was the place where her sister had found love and given Prudence hope that the rash and ruinous act carried out by her sister would not seal Prudence and Poppy and Penelope’s fate as unloved, gossiped-about ladies. Well, the talked about part had proven true…but there was still the hope for love.

  Despite her brother’s bemoaning, which she suspected was intended as some manner of insult, she’d always been rather proud of that whimsical belief in love. When other ladies were dreaming of proper matches and distinguished titles and abundant wealth, she’d held on to the dream of…well, more—marriage to a man who did not want her to conform to the mold expected of societal ladies, and who loved her for who she was, dreaded dancing and rotten sketches, and all. That hopeless romantic in her attended once dull soirees and balls with a breathless anticipation of again seeing him.