Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  How many of the guests now occupying these hallowed walls coveted the lavish adornments? And yet, the ornate, gold sconces lining the halls and the mahogany furniture artfully placed throughout the abode made Gemma’s hands moist. And not in the greedy, grasping way of the ladies who now darted their gazes about did, but with the panicky, nausea-inducing dread that came from being an out-of-place oddity amidst this elaborate household.

  She wrinkled her nose. Why did Lord Westfield have to be a future duke? Why couldn’t he be a baron, or knight, or even a successful merchant? All of those would do a good deal more preferable than falling in love with the gentleman whose future title commanded awe, power, and respect just by being uttered.

  “You are not usually this quiet,” Emery observed.

  “I gathered Mama had enough to say for the whole of the family.”

  A sharp laugh escaped Emery and she welcomed that calming, familiar chuckle as it echoed off the hallway walls. The sound of it made the Duke of Somerset’s estate more of a home and less of a… tomb. Yes, it would have been far preferable if Lord Westfield had proven a lesser lord and not a gentleman on the cusp of inheriting a near kingdom.

  A short while later, Gemma was shown to her room, while her family continued on to their respective chambers. With blessed silence her only company, she tossed her copy of Le Règne Animal onto a nearby table, and then layered her back against the paneled door. She closed her eyes.

  She’d thought overly long about finding the gumption to confess her feelings to Lord Westfield and, yet, now that she was here, she’d really not considered how one went about finding a gentleman amidst a crowded house party—or rather, finding a gentleman alone.

  Knock Knock Knock

  A gasp burst from Gemma’s lips and she jumped. Pressing a hand to her chest, she pulled the door open, and her only friend in the world, Lady Beatrice Dennington spilled inside.

  “Oh, thank goodness, you’ve arrived.” The perfectly golden-haired young lady flung her arms about Gemma. She staggered back a step, before returning the embrace.

  In an instant, she took in the tight drawn lines at the corner of Beatrice’s mouth and the glimmer of sadness in her cerulean blue eyes. A pang struck Gemma over her own selfishness. She captured Beatrice’s hands and gave a slight squeeze. “How are you?” she asked softly. The same way the ton saw in Gemma an unattractive bluestocking, undeserving of notice, was not unlike the way in which they viewed the flawlessly perfect, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. They failed to see the young woman Beatrice truly was, hoping for love, and even now suffering a broken heart over her father’s slow death.

  Beatrice’s lips formed a brittle, forced smile. “Fine,” she said. “I am fine. Truly,” she added. The muscles of her throat moved and then she returned Gemma’s squeeze. “Enough with that. Let us focus on this horrid event my father has organized.” Yes, it was far safer to speak on those proper affairs, than in death, dying, and inevitable loss. “It’s been dreadfully dull without you. Countless guests simpering over Robert and gentlemen feigning an interest in me.” She mumbled that last part, high color filling her cheeks. “As though they seek anything more than a ducal connection and the wealth attached to my name.”

  Gemma snorted. “It could be a good deal worse. You could have no gentlemen showing any interest whatsoever in you.”

  “I would prefer that,” Beatrice said matter-of-factly. Taking Gemma by the hand, she guided her purposefully toward the bed. “Better than to be courted and then passed over again and again and again and again.” Which Society well knew to be the case for Beatrice, who’d been courted by no fewer than three gentlemen who’d all gone on to wed another. Gemma would never figure out just what it was a gentleman wanted in a lady when he’d pass over one such as Beatrice. “I’ve no intention of making a match with someone desiring my dowry.” Beatrice shoved her into a sit.

  Gemma bounced on the soft mattress wrinkling the smooth, satin coverlet.

  “Enough of me.” A determined glint lit Beatrice’s eyes that would have terrified a battle-hardened soldier. “We are discussing you.”

  Gemma blinked. “We are?”

  “We are,” Beatrice confirmed with an emphatic nod. “That is, your marital prospects.”

  “I don’t have any prospects.” She merely had a hope and a prayer for the most sought-after, lord in the realm. A hope and a prayer, indeed.

  Beatrice cast a look over at the closed door and then quickly claimed the spot beside Gemma. “And I’ve no doubt, Robert sees how truly special you are,” her loyal friend went on.

  “Yes, but he must see me…amidst all the other ladies in attendance.” In short, a wilted weed among vibrant, fragrant, summer blooms. With a drawn out sigh, Gemma flopped backward on the bed. She stared at the broad, floral canopy overhead. What sorry days, indeed, when one relied on the aid of one’s friend to bring a gentleman up to scratch.

  The mattress dipped as Beatrice lay beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “The man you’ve set your sights on is unlike the others. He sees past the preening and the fawning.”

  Yes, Beatrice should know. After all, the gentleman in question was, in fact, her brother.

  Her friend turned her head and gave a conspiratorial smile. “Furthermore, you have something the other ladies in attendance do not.”

  “Oh, and what is that?” Gemma looked expectantly back at her.

  “Why, you have me to help.” Beatrice popped up. “Robert is now fishing at the lake and should return near dusk, prior to the dinner party.” Beatrice stared pointedly at her. “Ahem.”

  Gemma pushed herself into a sitting position alongside her friend. Why was Beatrice looking at her in that way? She shook her head once.

  “I said ahem,” Beatrice made another clearing sound with her throat. “Robert.” She nudged her in the side. “He will be fishing at the lake at the edge of Papa’s property.”

  Fishing at dusk. A soft sigh slipped past her lips. Of course the marquess would be clever enough to see the benefit in casting his line at that hour. Though in truth…Gemma chewed at her lower lip. “It is a nearly perfect idea,” she conceded.

  Her friend’s smile dipped. “Nearly perfect?”

  Oh, indeed. “Yes, well, during the day is an atrocious time because a fish has unlimited visibility. Ideally, dusk and just after dusk would be preferable given the angle of the ultraviolet light through the angles of—”

  “Gemma.” Taking her by the shoulders, Beatrice looked her in the eye. “I am not discussing Robert’s cleverness in the sport of fishing.”

  She tipped her head. “You aren’t?” Then what had been the whole point of mentioning his early evening excursion?

  “No. I wasn’t.” Beatrice closed her eyes and her lips moved as though in prayer. She opened her eyes. “I am telling you he’ll be at the lake.” The other lady gave her a pointed look. “Fishing.” When Gemma still said nothing, her friend tossed her hands up. “Alone. He will be alone.”

  As her friend’s meaning became at last clear, Gemma widened her eyes. A strangled laugh escaped her. “Surely you do not expect—?”

  The mischievous glimmer that lit the flawless Lady Beatrice’s eyes would have shocked the ton. “I do expect it. Why, you know Robert is a rogue, so he needs a bit of a push and you are the one to give him that push.” She waggled her blonde eyebrows. “With a bit of assistance from your dearest friend.”

  Her dearest and only friend. Regardless, she’d come to appreciate there was more good in having a loving, loyal friend like Beatrice than a ballroom full of false figures who didn’t know or care about her interests.

  Gemma returned her attention to the canopy overhead. If her mother could hear her scheming, she would scuttle her off to London. After all, with her penchant for finding trouble, such plans could only end one way…

  Now she must hope that one way involved marriage to Robert, the Marquess of Westfield.

  Chapter 2

  A summer party thrown t
ogether with the sole intention of matchmaking the respective guests in attendance was one Mr. Richard Jonas would typically avoid at all costs.

  At three and thirty years, with the recently acquired reputation of rogue, and a desire to live for his own pleasures, the last thing he had any interest in was marriage. With the prospect of his own family gathering in the Kent countryside, he’d picked the far lesser of the two evils and accepted the invite of his childhood friend, Lord Westfield, and future Duke of Somerset.

  Richard withdrew a flask from his pocket and took a swill of brandy, surveying the country lake. The dark blue sky dusted in crimson and orange ushered in night and cast a glow upon the smooth water.

  Then, avoiding his family and the prospect of marriage hadn’t always been the case for Richard. Once, he’d desired marriage and… more, with a certain young woman.

  Richard grimaced and took another swill. Said woman who happened to now be his sister-in-law, Lady Eloise, now blissfully and quite lovingly wedded to his younger brother. Yes, when presented with the possibility of seeing his very happily wed, now-expecting sister-in-law and his brother, he chose to face the ladies bent on matchmaking. Not that he had a care where those young women were concerned. After all, a viscount’s younger brother stood little chance of inheriting and offered little by way of a title or match for a grasping lady.

  Only one woman he’d known had never been grasping. A gentle summer breeze stirred ripples upon the otherwise placid lake and he swirled the contents of his flask. Nay, Eloise hadn’t cared a jot for titles or wealth, as was demonstrated by her unwavering love of his title-less brother, Lucien. Lucien, who’d languished in a hospital for years, offered no title, had lost an arm to infection from a war wound, and served as a butler to some powerful lord. And none of that had mattered to Eloise. He put the stopper back on his flask. Just as Richard had never truly mattered to her. Not in the ways he’d most wanted to matter.

  Unbidden, his gaze went to the fishing reel, as buried memories slipped to the surface of the only girl he’d ever known who’d baited a hook. His lips twitched with wry mirth. A young girl who’d baited the hook of his then squeamish self and who’d never laughed about that weakness. Even when his own brothers had mocked and jeered as only brothers could.

  Tucking his drink inside his front pocket, Richard retrieved his pole and carried it to the edge of the shore.

  “Do you intend to remain out here through dinner?” Amusement lingered in the question from his companion.

  Richard glanced back to where Lord Westfield knelt gathering his fishing equipment and then returned his stare to the lake. “Indeed.” He cast his line.

  Behind him, Westfield’s mutterings reached his ears. “Some of us are not afforded that same luxury.”

  No, there were certain expectations and responsibilities that went with his birthright.

  Where most begrudged the other man for his possession of an eventual dukedom, Richard had never wanted, craved, or envied the other man the responsibilities and headaches which came with his title. Sought after by every marriage-minded miss in the realm, Westfield was not afforded the same peace that came from being a spare to the heir.

  In a bid to be helpful, Richard said, “It is just a week.” They both knew how endless a week would be when a duke threw together a guest list of possible matches for his two unwed children.

  Westfield snorted. “The highlight of each night will be when this is over and I’m free to escape from the machinations of those present.” Yes, all who knew of or about the marquess were aware of the time he spent at his clubs. Matchmaking summer parties and tedious respectable events were not the manner of pleasures he’d ever enjoyed. “You are certain you don’t care to join me?” his friend asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  Richard shot another look over his shoulder. The other man stood with his pole tucked on his shoulder. He shook his head. “I’ll join you for drinks and not much more than that.” The official events organized for the ducal party commenced on the morn, at which point Richard would do his due diligence as a guest and take part in the painful inanities.

  “Brandies, then,” Westfield conceded. “You’re—”

  “I’m certain,” he interrupted dryly not bothering to turn around.

  Muttering under his breath, Westfield’s feet crushed the brush and gravel as he made his way to his Friesian, one of the finest mounts Richard had bred in the course of his career.

  Moments later, the other man galloped off and Richard was left with his own thoughts. Of course, he’d have to join the festivities. He’d come here, after all, with the express intention of avoiding his own family’s summer party.

  His line pulled and Richard gave his pole a swift and strong jerk backward and up. He pumped and lifted the rod from the water while drawing in the line. The fish at the other end tugged and Richard engaged in a gentle dance, luring the creature forward as it twisted and spiraled at the end of the hook.

  Richard carefully withdrew the metal from the trout’s mouth and the slippery creature slid from his fingers. It turned and gyrated upon the earth, seeking escape. He eyed it a moment. How very much alike he was to that creature. Taking pity on it, he bent and rescued the trout. Carrying it to the edge of the shore, he set it in the lake, allowing the fish its freedom. Richard stared after the trout until it disappeared. The world of Polite Society was one Richard had never belonged to. The ton had limited interest or uses for a second-born son, just as Richard himself had little desire to be fully immersed in that world, beyond the business connections he might form as a horse breeder.

  His friendship, in and of itself, with the future Duke of Somerset was all the more remarkable for it. One gentleman, so wholly born to belong in that world, and the other, embracing any chance to be free of it.

  One of the most successful horse breeders in England with a small parcel of land left him by his father, Richard despised rubbing elbows with the peerage of which he was only loosely a member. His infrequent attendance at ton events was for no other reason than building his business. It had never been about making a match, but rather about adding clients to his already impressive list.

  Richard gathered his belongings and then strode over to his packs. He clicked his tongue twice and his mount trotted over. He reluctantly swung his leg over Warrior’s broad back and then urged him on to the duke’s estate. Yes, at any other moment, in any other time, he would readily say the Duke of Somerset’s summer matchmaking party was the last place he cared to be.

  That was until Eloise had broken his heart. Now he cared to be wherever that young woman was not. Even with the peerage.

  Leaning over his mount’s withers, he gave him room to stretch his legs and the obedient creature flew. As he put distance between him and the lake, he guided Warrior onward toward the opulent residence. Richard reveled in the clean summer air slapping at his face, embraced the feel of it as it whipped his hair. This was the world he truly belonged to; on the fringe of Society, in the countryside without anyone in his—

  A small figure in soft yellow skirts stood transfixed ten paces away, gawking and gaping like that just restored trout from moments ago.

  Richard let fly a black curse and quickly pulled on the reins and the young woman stumbled back, tripping over her skirts in her haste to back away. With a loud whinny, Warrior pawed and scratched at the air, before settling onto the earth in a flurry of gravel and dust. Heart pounding, Richard leapt from his mount. What in blazes was the lady doing so far from the estate? And more, what would possess her to step into a galloping horse’s path? Seething fury leant his steps an agitated movement. “Are you hurt, miss?” he bit out, stalking forward.

  Coming to a quick stop, Richard towered over the young lady still in repose and he held a hand out. The quality of her satin skirts revealed her to be a guest and he gritted his teeth in annoyance at another empty-brained miss wandering the grounds in search of the ducal heir. What else accounted for her presence here even now with
dinner being served in a short while? An altogether different rage gripped him. Years earlier, Westfield had his heart shattered by a grasping woman, the details of that time he no longer spoke of. Now there was an entire household of ladies circling the man like vultures about their prey.

  This particular vulture stared unblinkingly up at him. A limp, brown tress hung over her eye.

  “I asked you whether you were hurt, miss,” he said between tight lips, and in the absence of an immediate reply, gripped her by her arms and settled her on her feet.

  She possessed dull, brown hair, equally dull, brown eyes, and a remarkably pale visage, which he’d wager his entire line of horses, was not a product of her near fall, and more his not treating her as a cherished, treasured miss.

  Her mouth fell open, and then emotion sparkled within those brown depths, making her eyes…well, not so very uninteresting. “I beg your pardon,” she snapped.

  “As you should for stepping out into a man’s riding path at dusk.”

  The irises of her eyes disappeared under the narrowing of her stare. “I was most decidedly not apologizing.”

  “Of course you weren’t.” He infused a drollness into his tone that brought the lady’s eyebrows shooting up.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “What in blazes is that supposed to mean?”

  As had been his experience with other ladies of quality. They’d vied for a place in his bed, a pleasure he’d forgone for his devotion to Eloise and the hope of more with that particular and uniquely different lady. But never did they apologize and always did they expect the world was their due. Having learned long ago that it was a decidedly dangerous path to travel down in terms of arguing with a woman about the merits of an apology, he inclined his head. “Forgive me, I was unprepared to see a young lady in the middle of the riding path at this late hour.” Unchaperoned. He let that word go unsaid between them.

  She peered intently at him as though seeking the veracity of his claim and then some of the tension left her small shoulders. “Forgive me,” she returned, shocking him with that apology. “You are, indeed, correct. I wandered too far from the party and I was seeking someone out. A friend,” she said on a rush when he narrowed his eyes. “A proper friend. Nothing scandalous, at all.” The high-pitched timbre of her voice hinted at an altogether different tale. This mousy miss would hardly be the first lady who’d tried to orchestrate Westfield into a compromising position.