But he couldn’t.
He simply could not. He had sworn on the grave of the man he’d called father to deliver Bromton Castle to an heir of Langley blood, however soul-draining the cost of succession.
Tonight, Katherine’s fate had been sealed with one extraordinary kiss.
He’d seen her weakness, and he would not hesitate to use it. Wife. She wanted—no, longed—to be a wife.
He’d lure her back into his arms and unpin her protections. Then, for the sake of a blood-worthy heir, he’d bereave her of everything she valued, from her home to her pride, and shackle her to the monument of greed and power he called home with an imposter husband.
She had been right. A raw, aching condemnation shredded his heart. She would hate him in the end.
He was a bastard, after all.
Chapter Four
Anger lines of determination framed Bromton’s lips as he peeled off the wax. He forced himself to his feet and strode through the corridor. With each step, his body cooled. He had a purpose at Southford, a mission. And the sooner he completed his mission, the easier it would be to assess and address the carnage.
He reached the top of the stairs and hesitated, peering in the direction of the family wing.
No, tonight was not the time to forge ahead, not if he planned to win. He swiveled back toward his rooms.
“Don’t move.” A young lady in a high-waisted, fashionable gown barred his path. Though she was unfamiliar, her expression was not. He’d seen the same mutiny affixed to the features of the older Stanley siblings.
“The elusive Lady Julia.” He paused. “If I may presume.”
“No, you may not presume,” she replied.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked.
“My sister came upstairs muttering and sniffling.” Julia’s squint turned malevolent. “Katherine is never ill. She does not mutter.” She backed him up against the wall. “And she never, ever sniffles.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “she met a mishap?”
“I am conversing with her mishap,” Julia replied.
Footsteps sounded in the shadows of the family quarters. Before Bromton had time to think, a latch snapped and he stumbled backward into darkness. Julia ducked inside the hidden chamber and clicked the panel closed.
He shut and then reopened his eyes…nothing but complete darkness. He dared not reach out, lest he unintentionally compromise the young lady.
“Lady Julia,” he said warningly, “I do not think—”
“Shh,” Julia hissed. “The paneling is foolscap-thin.”
The footsteps grew louder—whoever roamed the corridors had a definite destination. In a short while, a door opened then immediately closed with a slam. Julia exhaled.
“Open the panel,” he ordered under his breath.
“Not until you reveal your intentions.”
“My intentions?”
“You kissed Katherine!”
He groaned. This served him right for mauling his intended, did it not?
“Billiards,” he said, while carefully running his fingers along the wall in search of the latch, “is remarkably popular at Southford.”
“Oh, do stay still,” Julia whispered. “You cannot fit past me, and you will not leave until I say so.”
“I see your respect for my consequence matches that of your siblings.” He bumped up against her arm and then jerked back.
“Give me one reason,” Julia replied, “I owe you respect.”
He could not honestly argue his station, could he? “I will address your concerns, but elsewhere. Outrage, I understand—honor, even. But, my dear young friend, you have whisked an unmarried gentleman into a dark, confined place. The risk chills. Open the door before someone finds us and jumps to a very wrong, very disastrous conclusion.”
“Pardon?” He heard a sharp intake of breath. “Ew!”
“My sentiments exactly.” He stuck his thumb beneath his cravat and loosened the fabric. “Now, will you open the panel?”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“My intentions are not your—” He stopped.
The phantom presence of a tearful Clarissa holding back her enraged brother Rayne stunned him into silence. Clarissa, insisting she had been the one to decline marriage and simultaneously pleading with Rayne to withdraw his issued challenge. Bromton would have found himself on the receiving end of a loaded dueling pistol had it not been for Clarissa. Because Clarissa loved her brother, she’d insisted he and Rayne mend their rift. Because Rayne loved Clarissa, Rayne had…at least in public.
Siblings defended one another.
And if Markham had seen what Julia had seen, like Rayne, he would plan an appointment at dawn.
“My intentions,” he repeated more softly, “are honorable.”
Another gasp. “Have you told Markham?”
“Yes.”
“Marriage?”
Guilt flared at the sound of her happy squeal.
“If,” he amended, “I can persuade the lady to agree.”
“Where is your estate?” she asked.
Pardon? “Northumberland.”
Julia harrumphed. “That might as well be Scotland. I will not help you, then.”
“Help me?” he sputtered.
“Northumberland is too far from London.” Julia sighed in exasperation. “You are of no use.”
Good God, if Katherine was a hellion, Julia was a positive firebrand. To survive her debut, she’d need two—or twenty—chaperones, each with a very sharp eye. Even then, Markham and Katherine would have to use every powerful connection they possessed.
A slow smile spread his lips.
Every powerful connection…like a marquess who could claim royal godparents. For the first time since his pursuit, he felt he could bring Lady Katherine something she would value.
If he could ensure Julia’s success, perhaps, in the end, Katherine’s unavoidable loathing would mellow to mere dislike. Dislike he expected of any spouse. Dismissive tolerance between marquess and marchionesses had been so prevalent in the history of Bromton House and Castle, antipathy had likely seeped into the mortar.
“You are overlooking something,” he said.
“Am I?” Julia asked with a mocking air.
“As my marchioness, Lady Katherine could sponsor your Season.”
Deafening silence.
“You’d like that,” he ventured, “wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, I would,” she whispered harshly. “Only, I am not sure I believe you. Katherine said marriage could not make the rumors about her disappear.”
“She might not be granted an Almack’s voucher, but the patronesses have been known to be capricious.” And he’d done significant favors for one of them currently ruling the roost. “Almack’s notwithstanding, did I mention my London home is the second largest in Grosvenor Square?”
“Pfft,” was her succinct reply.
“You may ask Markham if you don’t believe me—he’s been a frequent guest.”
“Markham,” Julia said with a prideful air, “has a house in London, too.”
“Ah, but Bromton House is home to the Season’s most enviable crush.” Or at least it had been before his mother had abandoned her role. “Am I winning your favor?”
“You insult me, my lord.”
“And yet, had my estate been closer to London, you would have offered me your unqualified assistance.”
She scoffed. “I would have considered offering my assistance. I do not know the first thing about you.”
“I’ve told you my intentions toward your sister are honorable. I’ve told you I have an estate in Northumberland and a house in Town.” He sighed. “And I just told you I’d be willing to hold a ball in your favor. What else could you possibly wish to know?”
“Your answer to the most important question,” she replied without hesitation. “Would you make my sister a good husband?”
He blinked into the darkness.
He�
�d been drilled in traits required of a proper lord—pride, responsibility, authoritative action. He doubted those characteristics applied to Julia’s idea of a “good” husband. In truth, he hadn’t any idea what a “good” husband was. But his time to answer was running out.
“I would,” he replied, “endow your sister with wealth and property.”
“Never mind wealth and property. Would you be kind?”
Kind? He frowned. Kind? What peer concerned themselves with being kind?
Odd little family, these Stanleys. Daring to the edge of impertinence. Yet were they not driven by honor, in their own, distinctive way?
Someone should look out for them. Clearly, they were in need.
“I would,” he vowed, “give her every consideration.”
“Does ‘every consideration’ include welcoming her adored younger sister for long visits?”
Ah. He relaxed. Back to mercenary. Good. “What kind of man would separate two such devoted sisters? You may live with us, if you wish. After our wedding trip, of course.”
Another excited little gasp. “Do you promise?”
“On my honor,” he replied.
“On that condition,” she replied, “I will grant you my help.”
“In that case,” he asked wryly, “may we leave this—?”
“Priest hole.” Julia popped the latch and the panel swung open. “But of course.”
He ducked back into the dimly lit corridor, tugged on his waistcoat, and then shook out his limbs.
“Lady Julia.” He used his sternest voice. “Pulling gentlemen into dark places is rather frowned upon…not to mention perilous.”
Julia glanced to the ceiling. “A drastic measure I’ll be sure to use sparingly.”
“Sparingly?” He cocked an intimidating brow. “You will not use it at all.”
Julia’s grin was genuine. “You sound just like Markham, though perhaps more dangerous.” She pulled back her shoulders. “You needn’t worry. I know how to behave when I must. Besides, I have plans.”
“Plans?” he asked.
“Yes, plans. Plans which are”—she cast him a look—“at present, none of your affair. You are not my brother, Lord Bromton.” Her grin widened. “Not yet.”
She disappeared before he could respond.
His heart thumped in an inexplicable fashion. Of course, he needed all the help he could obtain… But what, exactly, was he getting into?
…
After a few cathartic tears, Katherine’s upset ceded to anger—fury she intended to aim at the architect of her current frustration. She stalked to her brother’s rooms, flung open his bedchamber door, and entered without knocking.
“Percival William Henry Stan— Good gracious, Markham!” She covered her face—but not before getting a noxious eye-full of her brother’s bare arse.
“That ought to teach you,” Markham said, chuckling. “A man deserves privatie.”
Ugh. Percival? A man? How could he be when just a few scant years before he’d been a boy running amok in short pants? Percy was a brother—a younger brother—but as a man, he simply didn’t count.
Yet he’d become a man, whether she liked it or not, hadn’t he? A man who held her future in his palm. Which was dreadfully unfair.
“Are you covered?” she asked.
“I’ve put on a banyan,” he replied. “Not that your modesty deserves respect, hell-bent on charging into bedchambers willy-nilly as you are.”
She dropped her hand. Markham leaned against the wall, arms folded. A boyish smirk twisted his lips. That omnipresent smirk. That’s what made her forget his consequence.
“I beg your pardon, your pompousness,” she said with an eye-roll for punctuation. “My gasp wasn’t modesty, but pure mortification.”
He laughed a throaty, mannish sort of laugh and dropped his arms. She scrutinized his banyan—fine fabric in a subdued color—a color that complemented his skin and auburn hair. Oh, dear. Markham had become a man, no mistaking. And a stylish one, too. At some point, he’d traded foppish flair for substance.
Bromton’s influence?
“Stop scowling,” he said. “Your provocation won’t work.”
She raised a brow. “It’s been working all day.”
His smirk deepened. “If you are referring to my performance in the billiards room, I assure you, I had method in that particular madness.”
“Percy.”
He shrugged. “I should think you’d thank me. You and Brom seemed desperate for a moment alone.”
“Oh, so now the marquess is Brom, is he?” She threw up her hands. “You are trying to provoke me, and it has worked. Why did you make that infernal invitation? Bringing the marquess to Southford was thoughtless, reckless, and…” She tightened her lips. “Just. Plain. Mean.”
“Mean?” Astonishment wrinkled his brow. “Bromton may be a touch imperious, but I hardly think he deserves your—”
“Allow me to remind you,” she interrupted, “Julia is not yet out. Having an unmarried man in the house under these circum—”
“Oh, please,” Markham interrupted right back. “Unruffle your feathers, you squawking hen. You’ve been the perfect chaperone for years, and Lord Bromton is honor personified. I’d never put you or Julia at risk.”
“Oh, really?” She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you brought home a friend.”
Markham’s smile disappeared. “No. I haven’t. But you seem to have forgotten that four years have passed.”
“Apparently”—she lifted her chin—“you have yet to mature.”
“My judgment has improved, as has my taste in friends.” He crouched down to look into her eyes. “Especially my taste in friends, don’t you agree?”
“No.” She widened her lids for emphasis.
Markham clucked his tongue. “You positively drool over the marquess.”
“I do not!” Dratted, inconvenient attraction.
“Drool,” he repeated, still crouching. “You’re smitten. What other cause would inspire such impressive theatrics? No meat. No eggs. No sleep. And then”—he mimicked her voice—“ah, the demimonde.”
“I,” she drew out the single syllable, “was trying to rid Southford of the colossal problem you brought into the house.”
“By colossal, do you mean Olympian?”
“By colossal,” she shoved a finger in his chest, “I mean leviathan and elephantine.”
“I see.” He rubbed his chin. “Colossal as in massive and magnifi—ugh.”
Her palm sunk into his chest. “You feather-brained,” shove, “ninny hammered,” shove, “lobcock!” shove. “Someone at Southford must adhere to duty.”
“You can be a real shrew.” Markham grabbed her shoulders and set her at arm’s length. “Do you understand that, Kate?”
“I can sometimes be a shrew.” She rose to her toes. “But you are always an ass.”
She stared him down, her nose nearly touching his. His eyes, dark hazel and furious, bore back into hers. Then, his eyes crinkled.
“I’ve a fine ass,” he said, “as you can now attest.”
An involuntary snort broke from her chest.
“You are monstrous,” she said with love. “And I hate you.”
She sunk back onto her feet, and he wrapped her in a light, brotherly embrace. She rested her forehead against his chest, surprised her head did not bump up against his chin. He’d certainly grown tall. She hadn’t taken note of that, either.
Probably because she’d been drooling over Bromton. Massive, magnificent Bromton.
“Just what,” she asked, “are you doing with a friend like the marquess?”
“A friend like the marquess opens doors.” Markham released her and chucked her under her chin. “Someone has to adhere to duty.” He threw her words back with a slanted grin.
“You befriended the marquess in the interest of advancement?” She folded her arms. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Why not?” He headed over to his bed, flopped on his back, and propped up his torso with his elbows. “Have you some specific objection?”
“Fix that.” She waved at his exposed legs.
“Offended by my knees? Such delicate sensibilities! That atrocious cap must be going to your head.” He pulled the bedcovering over his lower body. “Happy?”
“Thrilled,” she said sarcastically. “Now,” she sat on the edge of the bed, “tell me the truth about Lord Bromton. I warn you, I won’t tolerate another quip.”
“I believe we share a few common ancestors.”
“You believe?” she asked.
He scowled. “If you want a more specific pedigree, you’ll have to check The Correct Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”
Katherine rolled her eyes. “I suspect we share a few ancestors with a good portion of the ton.” She glanced sideways. “Besides, I don’t care a whit about his pedigree.”
He tsked. “Radical.”
“Markham!” she scolded. “Be serious. I know nothing about this man, and he told me he’d asked for your permission to marry me.”
“Already?” Markham let out a long-suffering sigh and rubbed his forehead. “Very well. Let’s see…what can I tell you? Everyone I know also knows Bromton, or of him, at least.”
“I didn’t.” She studied him. “Ohhhhh, I beg your pardon. By everyone, you mean men of your acquaintance.”
He ignored her point and continued, “At Eton, Bromton was held up as an example of what a young peer should be, and he’d left years before.”
“So, this paragon peer just happened to choose you to take under his wing?”
“That’s vulgar. We’re friends.” A partial smile ghosted Markham’s lips, as if he remembered something particularly amusing. “Then again, they do call me pup from time to time.”
“They call you pup?”
“Bromton and his friends—Lord Farring and Lord Rayne.”
“How lowering,” Katherine said.
Markham shrugged. “I don’t really mind. It’s not like they treat me any differently than they do one another.”
“Bromton can call you pup, but I cannot call you Percy.”
Something dark flashed in Markham’s eyes. “All in the tone, Kate, dear.”
Scandal in Spades Page 6
