by Brooklyn Ann
The chaperone sighed as if she were relieved. Was she attached to Lydia as well? “That was wise of you. It gives the opportunity for better offers to come along without rejecting him out of hand. Viscount Bevin is of decent fortune and good character. However, I, for one, would like to see Lydia a countess…or perhaps even a duchess.”
Vincent suppressed a growl and fought to press on with his responsibility. “It has occurred to me that I know little about anyone in Society, much less anything pertaining to her potential suitors. Could you perhaps edify me on the prospects?”
“Of course, my lord.” Miss Hobson sat primly before his desk. “The biggest catches this Season are the Earl of Makepeace, the Marquess of Threshbury, Viscount Sheffield, and, of course, yourself.”
“I am not a candidate.” Vincent forced the words out.
Miss Hobson chuckled. “You’ll have a difficult job convincing the ton otherwise.”
“Please, do not remind me.” Vincent sighed despondently in remembrance of the merciless pestering he’d endured from simpering girls and their avaricious mothers. “Tell me more about Makepeace.”
Miss Hobson continued to smile. “He is forty-five, his income is twenty thousand per annum, and he sits a horse well.”
“He is too old,” Vincent declared. “What of Threshbury?”
The chaperone blinked. “Well, his title is certainly the highest, his income is twenty-three thousand, and he is only thirty-two.”
Vincent frowned, though the information should please him. “He sounds like a paragon. Pray tell, does he have any faults?”
“Well, he does possess two mistresses. Such is common among gentlemen. Perhaps he will pension one off after he weds.” Miss Hobson lost her cheery tone and avoided his gaze.
“I won’t have Lydia wed to a lecher,” he snapped. “What do you know of the viscount?”
Miss Hobson lifted her chin and replied with a hint of defiance. “He is twenty-three and fond of art. All accounts say he is a proper gentleman, and his income is more than acceptable at fifteen thousand. He and Miss Price seemed to get on well at her ball and at Almack’s.”
“He is too young,” Vincent retorted. The conversation seemed to be like a snare, closing around him tighter with every word. “I am going to White’s for a pint. This damn house reeks of flowers.”
An odd smile crossed Miss Hobson’s lips. Vincent paid little attention.
***
Fists clenched in his pockets, Vincent entered White’s gentlemen’s club and spotted Ian at a table in the far corner, playing cards with Rafael Villar.
Holding back a reluctant sigh, he headed in their direction and paused, hearing his name whispered by a group of men gathered around the betting book. Ian shook his head and beckoned him over. Vincent continued on, wondering why he was a topic to be wagered upon.
The moment the men saw him approach, they scattered with sheepish grins.
“You don’t want to see it.” Ian strode forward. “It will only vex you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Ignoring him, Vincent read the latest wagers in White’s betting book. “Bloody hell.”
“I told you so,” Ian remarked.
Vincent continued to turn back the pages, appalled at the scrutiny he and Lydia were receiving. The first few were about her presentation. Wagers that she’d trip over the train of her court gown, drop her headdress, et cetera. The next few wagers after her debut were more optimistic. Who would steal a kiss from her, who would get two dances…and finally, who would wed her. There were more bets listed than the offers he’d actually received, which meant even more were forthcoming. He should be pleased.
His stomach wouldn’t stop churning.
There were the wagers about him as well. Which Society matron he would bed, which debutante he would court, what sort of evidence of his rumored madness he would display. And, of course, there was a wager that he would wed Miss Georgiana Price.
Vincent sighed, remembering how the silly chit had practically stalked him through Almack’s assembly rooms as Lady Morley stared over her fan. Even a half-wit would realize she was forcing the poor girl on him. He had no idea what the dowager hoped to accomplish with this strategy.
“It appears you have become quite the catch,” Ian noted drily.
“One would think rumors of my madness would be enough to dissuade them.”
The duke chuckled. “Not with your title and wealth.”
Vincent snorted and stalked back to their gaming table. Rafe looked up and continued to shuffle the cards with his one good hand. The action should have appeared freakish, but he handled the cards with such deft skill that it was like watching a work of art in motion.
As Ian took the cards, he fixed his piercing silver gaze on Vincent. “I understand that your ward has received more than one offer for her hand.”
“Yes.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Then why have you not accepted one?”
Vincent suppressed the urge to tell the Spaniard to stay the hell out of his affairs. Yet Rafe would be taking Ian’s position as interim Lord of London in less than a year, and had every right to be apprised of Vincent’s situation with Lydia. “I want to ensure it is the right one.”
Rafe’s scowl deepened. “The longer she remains under your roof, the more dangerous it becomes for us all.”
Vincent sipped his brandy and forced a bland tone. “I am well aware of that.”
“I do not think you are.” Rafe leaned forward and growled, “If she is not wed by the time I become Lord of this city, I will ban you from London and report you to the Elders.”
Ian slammed down his cards. “That is enough, Rafe. I did not invite the Lord of Cornwall here to be browbeaten. I wanted only to verify the rumors of the offers for his ward’s hand. The Season has barely begun. Vincent has plenty of time and good reason for making use of it.”
Rafe continued to scowl at Vincent while he nodded. “That does not mean I approve of this dangerous charade.”
Ian raised a brow. “You did not approve of my marriage to Angelica either.”
Rafael made an impatient sound and lit a cigar. “If you don’t get the girl married off soon, you’ll have more to worry about than pithy human gossip.”
The smoke in the club was suffocating. The walls seem to press in on him. Vincent rose from the table, not giving a damn if he seemed rude. “I need to look in on my people.” Though the explanation sounded like an excuse, he was vindicated in that it was true. He wanted to make sure the Siddons sisters were staying away from Sir Thomas Lawrence.
Before they could respond, Vincent left the club, walking as quickly as possible without attracting notice from mortals. The moment he was out of view, he picked up speed. The London streets became a blur. To passing humans, he was a gust of wind.
He reveled in his preternatural speed, and a measure of tension eased from his muscles. Moving like lightning was one aspect of his existence that he truly enjoyed.
If only he could outrun his incessant desire for Lydia. And the gut-rending inevitability of her next marriage proposal. As much as he despised Rafe’s insistence on haste, the Spaniard was right. A choice had to be made.
Eighteen
God, I miss him so much! Lydia’s heart clenched in despair. Vincent had not come home until after she went to bed the previous night. And this evening he had gone off for his walk before she’d cleaned up from her painting lesson, not even bothering to have supper.
Now, Viscount Sheffield was upstairs meeting with Vincent in his study, and there could be little doubt as to the purpose of his visit. Lydia fought the urge to cling to Angelica’s hand as the minutes ticked by on the mantel clock.
“That’s the fifth gentleman so far,” Miss Hobson commented, her embroidery needle flying through the fabric with a vengeance, displaying her excitement. “Tr
uly, it is becoming cruel of the earl to leave them dangling so.”
Angelica darted an intent, unreadable look at the chaperone and opened her mouth to reply. Approaching footsteps halted her. All three women turned their heads to the door.
“You have received five offers now,” Vincent announced the moment he entered the blue salon. “Soon, you will have to settle upon one.”
Lydia’s heart felt as if it were being torn to pieces. How can you be so cold about this? Why can’t you see that I love you?
Furious with the pain he caused her, she forced a cheery tone. “Viscount Sheffield is very kind. Perhaps I shall do more to encourage his suit.”
Before she could gauge Vincent’s reaction, Aubert appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Miss Georgiana Price is here…without a chaperone. She, ah, seems to be quite distraught.”
Vincent heaved a sigh. “Show her in.”
Miss Hobson raised a brow and whispered behind her fan, “This is Lady Morley’s doing, I’d wager on it.”
Lydia’s gut knotted in panic. Was Georgiana making another move on Vincent? Would he be receptive? After all, many gentlemen seemed to prefer a damsel in distress. For the first time in her life, Lydia cursed her strength and self-sufficiency. Perhaps if she had been a little more delicate, then Vincent would have wanted her.
“My lord,” Georgiana declared in a breathy sigh as she entered the room in a flurry of golden curls and frothy pink lace. “I am afraid I have become lost!”
“Yet you managed to find your way here,” Angelica remarked drily.
Georgiana threw the duchess a panicked glance before dashing to a visibly baffled Vincent, reaching out a trembling hand to cling to his arm. “My lord, if you could please—” Her voice broke off in a piercing cry as she stumbled against him. “Oh! My ankle!”
Vincent caught her before she could fall.
Lydia choked at the sight of him holding her cousin. She’d thought Georgiana was sweet and frail, without a mercenary bone in her body. But Lydia could do nothing to protest. She had no claim on him, and he wanted her to marry someone else.
Angelica rose from her seat, ebony eyes smoldering.
“That is quite enough of your theatrics, Miss Georgiana.” She turned to Vincent. “Assist her to the sofa. Miss Hobson, fetch some ice from the icehouse for the young lady’s injury. His lordship will show you the way.”
Vincent and Angelica stared at each other as if having a silent argument. At last, Vincent nodded and bade Miss Hobson to follow him.
The moment they left the room, Angelica stalked over to the shaking Georgiana. “This display was badly contrived, Georgiana.”
“Y-your Grace,” Georgiana panted, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You may dispense with the playacting,” the duchess said sternly. “You cannot tell me that you had not heard of the events leading up to my marriage to the Duke of Burnrath only last year. For one thing, you could have displayed a measure of originality in your ploy. For another, the scheme would have been ineffective anyway, as this house is suitably chaperoned.”
Georgiana gasped and flushed guiltily. “Your Grace, I was not—”
Angelica silenced her with a firm grasp on her shoulders. For a moment, Lydia feared the duchess would shake her cousin. Then, Angelica favored her with a cool smile. “Yes, Georgiana, I am well aware that the plot was contrived by Lady Morley.”
The girl blinked vapidly. “How do you know?”
The duchess leaned forward. “The logic is obvious. The old bat hates Lydia and wants to see her ruined. I assume she believes that if Lord Deveril married you, he’d be under her thumb like you and the rest of your spineless family. If that happened, do you think Lydia’s Season would continue?”
Georgiana shook her head, biting her lip.
Angelica’s gaze suddenly turned slumberous and hypnotic. “You do not wish to wed Lord Deveril at all, do you?”
Not breaking her wide, fearful stare at the duchess, Georgiana shook her head briskly. “Not at all, Your Grace.”
“You will cease your pursuit of Lord Deveril immediately, no matter how hard your grandmother presses you.” Her gentle voice maintained a steely thread of command.
Lydia shivered. The small duchess seemed to possess an alien power, perfectly capable of bending others to her will.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Georgiana replied in a numb voice.
Angelica smiled suddenly, and the veil of threat dissipated. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Vincent and Miss Hobson returned with a dressing for Georgiana’s ankle. Angelica set it on the sideboard. “We will not need this. Miss Georgiana is unhurt. It seems Lady Morley put her up to this nonsense as part of a feeble campaign to wring an offer of marriage from you.”
Miss Hobson gasped, and Vincent stiffened, eyes wide in outrage.
“I am terribly sorry, my lord,” Georgiana murmured weakly.
Vincent stalked closer. “Miss Georgiana, you may inform your grandmother that I am not in the market for a bride at all, not now, and not ever.”
Lydia’s heart bloomed with relief at his adamant declaration, even as she silently vowed to persuade him to change his mind as it applied to her.
“Well, what are we to do with her now?” Vincent asked, running an agitated hand through his hair.
Angelica rose to face him. “Do not worry, my lord. I will see Miss Georgiana home. Lydia may accompany me, since we were just on our way out to another literary circle.”
“Perhaps I should attend as well.” Miss Hobson’s eyes narrowed.
The duchess shook her head, and her eerie gaze turned on the chaperone. “Someone respectable should remain behind in case someone comes to inquire after Miss Georgiana.”
Vincent regarded Angelica sharply, as if there were some underlying tension between them. He sighed. “Very well, Your Grace. As it appears you have this situation under control, I shall depart.” He favored her with a stiff bow before turning to Lydia.
Taking her hand in his, he brushed his lips across her knuckles, capturing her with his stormy gaze. “Stay out of mischief, Lydia.”
She was about to argue, but she bit her tongue. “Yes, my lord.”
“Well, that was quite diverting, was it not?” Angelica remarked cheerfully once the three women were settled in the Burnrath coach.
A helpless laugh burst from Lydia’s lips, and Georgiana looked at both of them as if she’d never seen them before.
“Don’t worry, Georgiana,” Angelica soothed. “We bear you no ill will, do we, Lydia?”
Lydia faltered for a moment, seething at the memory of Georgiana in Vincent’s arms, and finally nodded.
“It is not that, I fear,” the delicate blonde whispered. “It is what my grandmother will do when she learns I’ve failed.”
“I wouldn’t worry.” Lydia couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “You are her favorite grandchild…her only grandchild, actually, since she refuses to acknowledge me. She will set you on a more suitable gentleman in no time.”
Georgiana blanched. “I am so very sorry, Lydia. I’d forgotten grandmother’s cruel treatment of you. It was inconsiderate of me to prattle on so about my petty worries.”
It was hard to remain angry with the girl. Lydia sighed and forced a smile. “I forgive you, Georgiana. Truly, I consider myself fortunate not to be under that woman’s tyrannical thumb.”
A small giggle escaped her cousin. “Oh, you cannot imagine.” She stopped suddenly, as the driver announced their arrival at Morley House.
Even in the moonlight, the neoclassical behemoth was a blinding white jewel set upon a bed of meticulously manicured lawn and artfully trimmed topiary. It seemed just as cold and unwelcoming as Lady Morley herself.
“Would you prefer to remain in the carriage, Lydia?” Angelica asked softly.
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Lydia straightened her spine, fighting off the feeling of betrayal at the sight of the home she’d been barred from. “No, I believe it is time the old witch faced her prodigal grandchild.”
“I agree,” Georgiana stated with astonishing severity. “It would do her good to see us together.”
Angelica grinned. “Brilliant! It is settled then.”
The three linked arms and walked up the drive. They exchanged glances on the doorstep before Lydia nodded and grasped the bronze knocker.
A tired-looking butler answered the door. “Her ladyship is not receiving callers today,” he informed them.
Angelica fixed him with an imperious stare, appearing every inch a duchess. “Please inform Lady Morley that the Duchess of Burnrath has returned Miss Georgiana.”
“And who is the other young lady?” the butler inquired.
“This is Lady Morley’s other granddaughter,” Angelica replied with a note of challenge.
His brows drew together. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I am under strict orders that Miss Price is not to be received. I will escort Miss Georgiana to Lady Morley. Good night.”
With an insultingly slight bow, the man escorted Georgiana inside and practically slammed the door in their faces.
Lydia turned to look back at the house. The turbaned dowager’s figure in the window was unmistakable, her eyes narrowed with unadulterated hatred.
“I swear,” Angelica hissed through clenched teeth as they headed back to the carriage, “that woman has to be the most horrid person to walk the earth.”
“I think she is a coward,” Lydia said when they returned to the coach. “She knows she treated my father unfairly, and she can’t face me because I’m a constant reminder of that fact.”
Angelica smiled sadly. “You’re probably correct and definitely wise beyond your years.”
“Little good it has done me.” Lydia could not conceal the bitterness from her voice.
