The Earl's Inconvenient Wife

by Julia Justiss

  She shook her head. ‘That man doesn’t exist! In turn, I will try harder to get to know some of the young ladies. If I’m surrounded by a protective crowd of companions, you will be able to curtail the time you are forced to spend with marriage-minded females.’ She grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll discover among them a lady who will change your mind about waiting to marry!’

  Despite that teasing comment, Temper discovered as she finished her tea, she wasn’t any more enthusiastic about the idea of Giff discovering a woman he’d like to marry than she was about the necessity of dragging him into her Season.

  Shaking off that unsettling realisation, she said, ‘I suppose I’m allowed to escort myself home now?’

  Chuckling, he put down his own cup. ‘No, better let me drive you. I wouldn’t want to incur the Countess’s displeasure before we’ve even got started.’

  They walked out, pausing in the hall as they waited for the curricle to be brought around. ‘I will insist to the Countess that we only attend evening entertainments, so that it doesn’t cut into your duties with Parliament,’ Temper promised.

  ‘I doubt you’ll be able to deflect her from accepting exactly the invitations she pleases, whenever they take place. I’ll warn Christopher he may have to take notes for me.’

  ‘Besides,’ he added as he escorted her down the steps, ‘what worries me more than missing Parliamentary sessions is the unmerciful ribbing I’m going to get from Gregory, once he discovers I managed to trap myself into escorting you for the Season!’

  Chapter Six

  A week later, Gifford Newell rode in the carriage with Lady Sayleford, Mrs Moorsby and Miss Lattimar to the first grand social event of the Season. Shifting uncomfortably on the backward-facing seat, which in the narrow confines of the carriage put him far too close to Temper, he tried to focus on the loquacious Mrs Moorsby.

  ‘You mustn’t be nervous about attending your first formal event, Miss Lattimar,’ the chaperon was saying. ‘I knew you were a Beauty, but the way those creations bring out the gold of your hair and emphasise the blue purity of your eyes? Frankly, I’ll be amazed if any man can resist you!’

  ‘She’ll certainly create a stir,’ Lady Sayleford predicted, giving Temper an approving glance.

  ‘All of you ladies look dazzling tonight,’ Giff observed, partly because it was true and mostly to try to distract himself from just how alluring Temper was.

  It had been hard enough to control the wave of desire he’d felt, standing twenty feet away in the hall at Vraux House as she descended the stairway. He’d observed her in day dresses that showed off her narrow waist and voluptuous bosom, but that evening gown! The lacy confection not only bared her shoulders, the neckline swooped so low in front he could see the rising swells of her breasts...

  His tongue had stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, making it impossible for him to return her greeting, while his mind was in turmoil, the body protesting the sacrilege of the evening cape the butler was draping over that glorious form, his brain applauding the masking of a vision that made his heart skip a beat and everything masculine in him leap to the alert.

  He’d managed to mumble a few, probably nonsensical, words to her as he followed her out to the carriage, but he couldn’t remember a syllable, too unsettled by the thrilling and dreadful knowledge that they would soon be crammed together on that narrow backward-facing seat.

  He’d perched as far away from her as he could get. But that still left him sitting so close that she need move her slippered foot only an inch to touch his. Close enough that at any moment, the jouncing of carriage could bounce her hand from the seat on to his wrist...or worse, his thigh. Sat there with her jasmine perfume filling his senses, struggling to rein in an attraction even the knowledge that Lady Sayleford and Mrs Moorsby were both looking on couldn’t extinguish.

  Feeling sweat trickle down his brow, he looked over to see his godmother watching him, an ironic smile playing at her lips.

  The wretch! That smile told him she knew exactly the agonies he was experiencing—and didn’t regret inflicting them on him one little bit.

  He wasn’t sure whether she’d arranged this to remind him of the costs of involving her in Temper’s Season, to test his mettle, or as a silent demonstration of the difficulties he’d brought upon himself by having always spent his time with females for whom there was no need to mask his physical response.

  For there was no doubt, had Temper been a Cyprian, he’d have already pulled her close and sampled her lips...in heated anticipation of sampling much more.

  When Mrs Moorsby leaned forward, continuing to chat to Temper as she straightened an errant ribbon in her charge’s coiffure, Lady Sayleford murmured, ‘You should be glad of the current style. Those wide skirts and ridiculous full sleeves give you almost eighteen inches of separation. The straight Empire gowns of former days would have clung right to her figure.’

  The vivid image of Temper sliding up against him, clad only in a sliver of silk, burned itself into his brain before he could prevent it. Feeling another wave of heat wash through him, Giff grimaced.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ Lady Sayleford said as Temper’s chaperon finished her task, ‘are you ready for your first foray into the ton?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose. Not...frightened, precisely, Lady Sayleford, though I do thank you for your concern. More like...resigned.’

  ‘You should make up your mind to enjoy these events, not merely endure them,’ Lady Sayleford advised. ‘There’s instruction and amusement to be had in every experience—no matter how initially difficult.’ After a significant glance at Giff, she continued, ‘Anticipate the unusual and intriguing, and you will find it.’

  ‘Intriguing people, even among the ton?’ Temper said sceptically.

  ‘I’m a member of the ton, aren’t I?’ Lady Sayleford replied.

  Temper laughed, her sober expression warming into a smile so full of merriment, Giff thought it must lift the spirits of anyone who witnessed it. ‘You have me there. I shall just have to look for other intriguing and unusual members of the ton.’

  The carriage began to slow to a halt, indicating they had reached the Portman Square home of Lady Spencer-Woods, for which Giff uttered a silent prayer of thanks. Little as he was looking forward to what he expected to be a boring event, Giff was heartily glad to hop out of the carriage and let the footman hand the ladies down after him.

  Though viewing Temper again minus the concealing evening cloak was unlikely to relieve the state of arousal he’d suffered since collecting her, at least he could maintain some distance while he worked on the ‘training himself to resist her’ wisely suggested by his godmother.

  The servants in the hall, busy collecting outer garments and directing guests up to the ballroom, paid them little notice. But as soon as they reached the landing on which guests waited for the butler to announce them, Giff noted the widening of eyes, sharp inhales of breath and inclining of heads to murmur to companions that signalled Miss Lattimar had been recognised.

  She noticed it, too, her chin going up and a martial gleam appearing in her eyes. ‘Apparently not everyone received the word that I’m to be accepted,’ she murmured to Lady Sayleford.

  ‘Those of lesser importance might not know it—yet,’ his godmother replied. ‘But everyone who matters does. The rest will discover it soon enough.’

  ‘Or incur your wrath?’ Temper suggested, a mischievous grin chasing away the militant look.

  ‘Precisely. Newell, if you would?’

  Giff offered his arm. Taking it, Lady Sayleford nodded regally to the handful of waiting groups as she bypassed them and proceeded to the head of the line, where the butler snapped to attention.

  ‘Good evening, your ladyship! Who should I announce is in your party?’

  ‘Mr Newell, Member of Parliament for Great Grimsby, Mrs Moorsby and my protégée, Miss Lattimar.’


  As the butler announced their names, they walked into the ballroom towards the hostess, who stood at the head of a short receiving line. Looking over her shoulder to Temper, Lady Sayleford said, ‘It’s as important for the upper servants to become aware of your position as it is for ton hostesses.’

  ‘How well I know it,’ Temper replied ruefully. ‘I’ve observed Overton keeping callers waiting for ever, if he doesn’t think their consequence merits an immediate audience with Gregory.’

  The Countess nodded. ‘No one is more punctilious—or better informed—about a person’s status than those who rule downstairs. Now, shall we greet our hostess?’

  Lady Spencer-Woods met them with a wide, knowing smile. ‘Lady Sayleford, so good to see you!’ she said as the ladies exchanged curtsies. ‘Mrs Moorsby, Mr Newell—and Miss Lattimar! How absolutely stunning you look!’

  ‘Almost the image of my mother,’ Temper replied sweetly. ‘Although I could never hope to be as stunning as she is.’

  Their hostess gaped at her, obviously at a loss how to reply, and Giff bit back a grin. Trust Temper to go straight to the attack.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be quite stunning enough,’ Lady Sayleford said drily. ‘But come along, my dear, we mustn’t keep the others in line waiting.’

  Lady Sayleford led them into the ballroom, its floor so crowded with laughing, chattering groups that progress would have been slow even if the Countess had not paused every few feet to greet an acquaintance and introduce her niece, Giff and her new protégée. Though some—those ‘who mattered’, he supposed—returned the Countess’s greeting without surprise, there were many who, upon her making the introductions, stood momentarily speechless.

  The density of the crowd, the brevity of the introductions and the noise made it impossible for Miss Lattimar to do more than add a nod of greeting. His sense of anticipation growing, Giff wondered how the volatile Temper would weather the evident shock and disbelief her appearance had struck in many.

  When they reached the chairs set up along the wall on the far side of the ballroom—Lady Sayleford helpfully giving him some welcome distance by inserting Mrs Moorsby between him and Temper—he was finally able to relax and simply look forward to what she would say or do next.

  She didn’t disappoint. ‘Fortunately, the throng was thick enough that no one was in danger of falling over from the shock of seeing me here.’

  ‘Those who were surprised will recover quickly enough. We’ll let the rest come to us,’ Lady Sayleford said as she took her seat.

  ‘Do you think anyone will?’ Temper asked.

  ‘Certainly,’ his godmother replied. ‘I timed our progress to be just long enough that word of our arrival should have percolated through most of the guests. My friends—and the curious—will certainly come by to look you over—’

  ‘Your friends will be wondering what in the world you are doing,’ Temper muttered.

  ‘While the gentleman,’ his godmother continued, ‘once they catch a glimpse of you, will flock to make your acquaintance. Gifford’s presence standing by will ensure no true blackguards dare present themselves.’

  Almost at once, the influx began. Older gentlemen and ladies whose names he recognised as being particular friends of his godmother came first, their appraising expressions alive with expectation and curiosity as they looked Temper over—an inspection to which she managed to appear impervious. Following them were a select few matrons with marriageable daughters in tow and the society arbiters whom Lady Sayleford had invited to tea.

  ‘What fun I shall have tonight, watching all the gentlemen buzz around Miss Lattimar,’ Mrs Dobbs-Henry, last of the four, declared as she greeted them. ‘Thank you, Lady Sayleford, for throwing down the gauntlet.’

  ‘I may need a lance and shield to fend off the outraged matrons, once they recover from their shock,’ Temper said wryly.

  ‘They’ll have to batter their way through the army of admirers first,’ the lady responded. ‘When the floor clears for dancing and they spy you here, you will be besieged!’ Blowing a kiss to Lady Sayleford, she walked off.

  As Mrs Dobbs-Henry predicted, once the crowd at the centre of the ballroom thinned, a stir ran around the room, gentlemen’s heads coming up and turning in their direction. An ever-increasing stream began to approach them, making their bows to Lady Sayleford and begging her to introduce them to her charming protégée.

  All were known to Giff, though some only by reputation. Several older peers he recognised from Parliament, one gentleman he vaguely remembered being a widower and a clutch of former university classmates he knew to be ladies’ men who had at one time paid obligatory court to Temper’s mother. As they bowed, he noted varying degrees of amazement at her beauty, universal admiration, curiosity—and the feral heat of males within scenting distance of a highly desirable female.

  Much as he sympathised with the latter—suffering from the pull of that attraction himself—he also felt an unanticipated degree of hostility. Glad now that Lady Sayleford had detailed him to protect Temper, he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from warning them off—or inviting them outside, where he could punch that leering look off their faces. He might not be able to growl ‘mine!’, but he could certainly send them off with a ferocious ‘not yours!’

  Fortunately for his suddenly precarious hold over his temper, Lady Sayleford shooed each of the latter category away, telling them they might return later to claim a dance.

  Maybe by then he would have his reactions fully under control.

  The receiving line disbanded and the orchestra started tuning up. The guests took up places along the wall, waiting for the dancing to begin and leaving their party, for the moment, alone.

  Mrs Moorsby looked around wonderingly, her eyes wide. ‘I expected the ball would be impressive, but oh, my, how the reality exceeds my imagination! The sparkle of jewels reflecting the candlelight! The splendour of the ladies’ gowns and the men so handsome in their evening attire! Is it not magnificent, Miss Lattimar?’

  ‘Most impressive, even I must admit,’ Temper conceded. But her guarded eyes and wary stance told him that though her chaperon might be expecting nothing but unqualified enjoyment, she was armouring herself for challenge and unpleasantness.

  A wave of regret and anger shook him. By rights, Miss Temperance Lattimar, well-born daughter of a rich baron, should be gazing around her first ball with the same excitement and anticipation as her chaperon. He hated that air of coiled tension about her, hated even more knowing that she was right to be cautious.

  While she replied to another of her chaperon’s comments, Lady Sayleford murmured, ‘Well done, Newell. From the thundercloud expression you offered every man who greeted her, they will know their conduct must stay in bounds.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’ he replied, disconcerted to think his animosity had been evident.

  ‘Patently, to me. But just enough to others that I’m sure the gentlemen took the point.’

  ‘Protection is my job, isn’t it?’ he replied, reassured. One didn’t wish to look like a jealous guard dog—even if one was performing that function. But as he knew all too well, his godmother noticed a host of things ordinary people never observed.

  ‘Yes. But men willing to brave my presence to get an introduction aren’t the ones you need worry about. You must fend off the disreputable.’

  ‘Fend off the disreputable?’ Temper echoed, turning back to them. ‘Oh, no, it’s the reputable Newell must send away! I don’t want to spend time with any gentlemen who might have honourable intentions! Besides, I predict Newell is going to be too preoccupied by matrons with young ladies in tow to be able to concern himself with my admirers.’

  The low chuckle from Lady Sayleford alarmed him almost as much as Temper’s words. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ he protested.

  Temper grinned. ‘Half the eminently respectable
matrons at this affair may have nearly swooned at seeing me here, but you will note, a fair number were prepared to brave exposing their innocents to my wicked presence in order that Lady Sayleford might present you to their lambs.’

  For once, he felt a wave of heat that was not desire. ‘I’m sure you exaggerate.’

  ‘Indeed, I do not! Did you not notice how they stationed their persons between me and their sweet innocent girls, offering me a greeting notable for its chilliness, while the tones they used when addressing you were warmly encouraging?’

  While he frowned, trying to decide whether or not she was teasing, she laughed ruefully. ‘I must apologise in advance! I fear your presence here means you will find yourself targeted by matchmaking mamas, whether or not you are ready for courting. You may be more in need of protection than I am! Unless you decide it’s time to find that rich wife after all.’

  A rich wife...like Temper? The idea of having a wife like her was becoming...less distasteful.

  But there was, alas, only one Temper—and she was the little sister of his best friend. ‘I’d have to be a great deal more financially pressed to be ready to resort to that option,’ he retorted.

  ‘I believe the Season shall prove interesting—for both of you,’ Lady Sayleford interposed. ‘Now, with the dancing about to begin, I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Giff said, aghast.

  His godmother gave him a sweet smile in which he could discern no trace of either amusement or irony. ‘I turn Miss Lattimar over to you. Well, what are you waiting for? The first set is forming.’ She gave his arm a little push. ‘Lead her into it before some other gentleman asks her.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Mrs Moorsby seconded. ‘Quickly, now! Several are approaching.’

  Well, if his godmother commanded... Besides, leading her into the first dance would underscore to all the men present that he was watching over her—and give himself more time to adjust to the unpleasant notion of having them hover all around her.