The Debutante Is Mine

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Impossible. That house is not four doors down from my mother’s residence.”

  The incredulity and unleashed outrage in his tone caused Lilah’s shoulders to stiffen. Ever loyal, she stood beside her cousin in a show of support. Not that the marquess would notice. As of yet, he had not once glanced in her direction.

  Juliet squeezed her hand as she continued this heated exchange. “I have already been to see your mother, and she couldn’t be more delighted about the news.”

  “She never mentioned—”

  “Thayne!” A shout interrupted the exchange. “Are you accompanying me or not?”

  Lilah’s attention shifted to the commanding tone. As a coach and four ambled out of the way, she first noticed the chestnut Destrier. It towered over the bays and trotters on the street. Such a colossal horse was never seen in town. Hunting grounds, perhaps, but certainly not the teeming London streets. Was the rider prepared for battle? She nearly laughed at the thought. Then, tilting up her head, she wanted to see the man who would dare.

  Yet when she did, something unexpected happened. She met his gaze. And, more important, he met hers.

  Even in the shadow beneath the brim of his gray top hat, Lilah distinctly noted the uncanny brightness of his irises. His aquiline nose sloped down to a broad mouth that slowly arced upward at one corner. More smirk than smile. She tried to blink but couldn’t. Breathing proved equally difficult.

  Then, he inclined his head, touching two fingers to that brim. The gesture was meant as an acknowledgement, she was sure. She’d seen gentlemen salute similarly to other young women but never to her. And that was when she realized her error.

  Likely, from this distance, she was confusing the direction—or target, rather—of his gaze. Clearly, he was yet another man caught by her cousin’s beauty. She could not fault him for it. Even so, knowing it made her feel foolish for that single instant she’d thought otherwise.

  Uncomfortable prickles of heat burned her cheeks. She couldn’t be certain, however, if it was from embarrassment or a keen sense of longing. All she knew was that a man such as he would never tip his hat to her, let alone call on her.

  With that final thought, their carriage pulled up, blocking her view. The marquess and her cousin’s exchange concluded abruptly too, which was likely for the best. And now, it was time to return to Hanover Street and face the empty parlor.

  At least there was a measure of comfort in knowing what to expect.

  Jack Marlowe surveyed the flower market at Covent Garden with an appreciative eye. Not for the flowers but for the enterprise itself. He admired this horde of ragtag sellers, waving bundled blossoms in his face, shouting alliterative phrases to gain his attention. “Penny posies, ’ere. Spare a penny for pretty posies!”

  Removing his hat to feel the cold morning mist on his face, Jack inhaled a potent combination of scents—the earthy, brackish stench of the gutters, the lingering odor of smoke and soot, and, rising above it all, the cloying perfume of flowers spilling from baskets in bright shades of pink, yellow, violet, red, and blue.

  “Breathe it in, Thayne,” Jack said to his friend, walking beside him. “This market is the epitome of determination. The very heart and soul of survival.” He understood it well. He could even see a younger version of himself in a few of the faces of the errand boys and young hawkers scurrying about. Then, taking it all in, Jack raked a careless hand through his blond mane before donning his hat.

  Beneath the black brim of a different hat, Max Harwick, the recently named Marquess of Thayne—poor wretch—furrowed his dark eyebrows. He’d been in a foul temper since encountering Lady Granworth and her blushing companion near Hyde Park a short while ago. “I see utter chaos.”

  “Precisely. A living, breathing entity born from hunger, cold, and perspiration. There is nothing more powerful.” Jack still felt that invigorating chaos in his veins—that need for more. Even now, after he’d amassed a fortune through years of his own hard labor, he still craved it.

  Thayne issued a grunt of acknowledgment as he scrutinized the market. Then he chuckled. “There might be one thing more powerful than chaos.”

  He gestured with a nod in the direction of the opera house, where a young buck dropped to his knees in front of a young woman in a feathered turban.

  “Idiocy?” Jack watched the scene with a measure of loathing when the gentleman’s signet ring fell onto the ground. Likely, the ill-fitting bauble was new to his finger from a recent death in the family. And as a holder of the title, his first order of business, clearly, was to procure a mistress. What rot.

  But Jack expected nothing more from the aristocracy.

  Scrambling to pick up the ring, the sap slipped it back on his finger before thrusting an audacious bouquet into the woman’s arms. Yet she seemed not to notice. Her attention was fixed elsewhere. In fact, she appeared to be looking in his direction.

  Jack held her gaze in return. He couldn’t help himself. He enjoyed women, and they—by all accounts—enjoyed him as well. He made sure of it.

  “Either idiocy or lust,” Thayne amended with a scoff.

  Suddenly, appearing out of the throng, a shaggy-haired errand boy rushed up, stopping just short of stomping on the toe of Jack’s well-worn Hessians.

  “Mr. Marlowe, sir?” the boy said, his thick Cockney accent nipping off the ends of each word. He stood no taller than a walking stick, his face lively and eager, though perhaps in need of a good scrubbing. He’d earn more coin with a clean face—a lesson Jack had learned.

  “What can I do for you, my good fellow?” Jack asked, automatically reaching into his waistcoat pocket for a coin.

  Surprisingly, the boy refused it with a shake of his head before lifting a yellow boutonniere into view. “Compliments o’ Miz Raintree.” He pointed to the woman on the opera house stairs. And, in turn, she offered a smile. A somewhat familiar smile.

  “An acquaintance of yours, Marlowe?” Thayne asked.

  Jack started putting the pieces together. An opera house likely meant an opera girl, and he’d entertained quite a number of them this past Christmas. He seemed to recall wanting to prove the common phrase of the more, the merrier. “Likely.”

  Jack looked down to the boy, who was still holding the flower. He knew that if he offered the coin again, the boy would be too proud to take it. So he thought of a better option. “Would you deliver this boutonniere for a half a crown?”

  The boy’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sir!”

  “Very good.” Jack handed him the coin and watched with pleasure as the lad bit down on it like a true entrepreneur. “Now, deliver this to the besotted fool in front of Miss Raintree, where it will be appreciated.”

  Grinning, the boy stowed the coin and rushed back to the opera house. He’d just earned half a crown for running forty paces. All in all, an excellent day’s wage. After the exchange transpired, the kneeling gentleman leapt to his feet and embraced the opera miss. She, however, cast a wan smile in Jack’s direction.

  “I think she expected you to renew your acquaintance,” Thayne remarked with sly amusement.

  “Then, Miss”—her name was on the tip of his tongue, but he’d already forgotten it—“she wasn’t paying attention when I gave her my speech.”

  Jack turned his attention to the flowers, wondering which blooms were the most suitable for paying a morning call. He’d never done this before, either buying flowers for a young woman or paying a call. However, a favor was a favor.

  “Speech?”

  “Yes, the one where a man explains that he’s not looking for a wife or even a mistress, while stating that whatever they have together will be satisfying but of a brief duration.” After paying for a handful of pink posies, Jack noted his friend’s bewildered expression. “I believe in honesty from the very beginning. Don’t you have a similar speech?”

  Thayne chose not to answer. Though Jack assumed he did have one because it was too early for Thayne’s new title to have turned him into a completely di
shonorable cad.

  Casting that thought aside, Jack looked down at the bouquet in his hand and found it on the small side. Then again, his hands were on the large side. When he was a boy, his mother had often called his hands and feet lion’s paws and told him that if he finished his broth, he might grow into them. Although he doubted that the meager broth they’d supped on had helped, eventually he had grown. Even so, his mother still bade him to eat his fill whenever he visited her.

  For good measure, Jack purchased two more clusters of posies and paid another woman for a blue ribbon to tie them all together.

  “If you are not a romantic, then why are you buying flowers?” Thayne exhaled, seemingly impatient to end this errand as he glanced over to where their horses were tied.

  “Because I promised Vale I would.” Jack always kept his promises. Like honesty, this was part of his code of honor. The part that made him a better man than his father. “Our friend arrived at my country estate on Christmas Eve to ask about the validity of his Marriage Formula.”

  “The notion is ingenious,” Thayne remarked as they maneuvered their way out of the market. “The ton is still talking about it. Using a mathematical equation to find a bride would obliterate the need for the standard methods of courting. There’s no need to subject oneself to constant scrutiny by attending parties and balls . . . ”

  As his friend continued to list the horrors of what the aristocracy willingly endured, Jack thought back to the night when Vale had arrived. He’d looked like a man half-possessed. Jack had always thought his friend had a brilliant mind but one plagued with doubt.

  Then, suddenly, something had changed. Vale had become sure and confident, boldly stating that his formula worked. And before he’d left, he’d handed Jack a card with the name of a woman and her address, asking him to send her flowers.

  At first, Jack had thought that the woman was a paramour of Vale’s, but his friend extinguished that immediately by stating that she was respectable.

  Jack had wondered aloud why Vale was bothering with the flowers.

  “Because I promised her friend that I would do whatever I could for her,” Vale had said, keeping the full story to himself.

  “You have me intrigued.”

  “No, Marlowe, I absolutely forbid you to be intrigued.”

  Forbid him? Oh, but there was nothing more decadent than forbidden fruit. And Jack, because he never refused a friend, agreed to the favor. Granted, that had been on Christmas Eve, and now it was March—business matters had called him out of the country. Nevertheless, he’d kept the card with him to serve as a reminder each day since.

  Now that he was back in London, he was prepared to fulfill his oath. One reason was because it was the honorable thing to do, but the largest reason was because he was intrigued.

  Apparently, Vale thought that sending this young woman flowers would help her in some way. But what genuine need could be remedied with such a paltry gift?

  Jack had supposed that Vale could have been dangling this mystery in front of him for another purpose. Something that had to do with the Marriage Formula. However, Jack readily dismissed that idea. After all, Vale knew that he had no intention of marrying. He had an abundance of lovers and no desire to produce offspring; ergo, Jack had no need of a wife.

  Needing the answer inspired Jack not to simply send the flowers by courier but to deliver them himself.

  “I’d say Vale proved his equation well enough by using it to find his own bride. And he wasted no time in marrying her,” Thayne continued, drawing Jack’s attention.

  “Uncharacteristically impulsive of him, if you ask me.” The entire episode struck Jack as odd. Normally, the Duke of Vale was a stoic, rational man. Yet that night, his friend had been so clearly in love that even a cynic like Jack had seen it for what it was. Poor wretch.

  It wasn’t that Jack didn’t believe in love. In fact, he often quipped about falling in love. True love, however, was different. True love left carnage in its wake. And Jack wanted no part of that idiocy.

  Stopping near their mounts, Jack tied the flowers to his saddle. Then he paid the boy who’d been watching their horses before setting his foot into the stirrup.

  Thayne mounted beside him. “I think Vale’s hasty marriage displayed a sound belief in his work. I, for one, will use it when it is my turn at the gallows. No messy courting for me, thank you. I’d much rather have the assurance of compatibility on paper beforehand, instead of learning of the lack of it later.”

  Thayne clearly wasn’t in his right mind this morning. His encounter with Lady Granworth must have loosened a hinge or two. Therefore, Jack—friend that he was—couldn’t pass up this opportunity to mock him. “Now that you have a title to uphold, do you plan to marry and produce a legitimate heir?”

  Thayne gripped the reins and offered a solemn nod. “It is expected.”

  Having anticipated a jest in return, those words went sour in Jack’s ears. The rules by which the aristocracy lived infuriated him. His own mother had been left with nothing because of these rules. And because of love. “By all means, you nobles must do what is expected.”

  Thayne jerked his head so fast in Jack’s direction it looked as he’d been struck. “ ‘Noble,’ ha! You have more noble blood in your right foot than I do in my entire person. I inherited my title from a distant fourth cousin, whom I’d never met. You, on the other hand, are the Earl of Dovermere’s son.”

  Careful not to spur Bellum to a gallop, Jack gritted his teeth and felt his jaw twitch. “No, I’m his bastard. There is a difference.”

  “Hardly. He’s acknowledged you openly.”

  And what a happy day that had been, Jack thought wryly.

  It wasn’t until he was ten years old that he’d first met Dovermere. That day, the man had gone pale and still the instant he’d clapped eyes on Jack. Other than the sudden pallor of his countenance, an uncanny likeness—one that even a boy could see—had shined through.

  “Then it is true,” Dovermere had said, his voice gravelly and somewhat haunted. He’d looked past Jack to Mother but did not say a word before turning on his heel and disappearing into his carriage.

  The day after, Jack had found himself in that same carriage on the way to Eton and, shortly thereafter, to a brutal initiation from a few of his fellow students.

  “The only reason he has acknowledged me is because he has eight legitimate daughters,” Jack said. “If he had a son—”

  “And he does. Yet you cannot put your prejudice for the aristocracy aside. Lately, I often wonder how long it will be until you treat me like the enemy as well.”

  If nothing else, Jack was loyal to his friends. Had he not kept Vale as a friend after he’d inherited a dukedom? Or Wolford, when he’d become an earl? Jack was willing to overlook Thayne’s unfortunate circumstance as well. “What has put you so high on your horse and turned you into such an arse, Thayne?”

  “Forgive me. I’ve been on edge these past few months. And now it appears that I must see my solicitor about purchasing a house.”

  “I’m sure your ill humor could have nothing to do with Lady Granworth’s return to London,” Jack said, goading his friend with a lift of his brows.

  “There.” Thayne’s tone sharpened to a razor’s edge. “We have both drawn blood. Now we are on even footing.”

  Jack exchanged a glance and a nod with Thayne. All was forgiven, until the next time temptation got the better of them. “Good. I shall leave you to your errand. I have a call to pay.”

  He looked at the name on the card once more before tucking it away. Soon, he would uncover the mystery surrounding Miss Lilah Appleton.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A short time after arriving at Aunt Zinnia’s townhouse on Hanover Street that morning, Lilah discovered that there was, in fact, something worse than having no gentlemen callers waiting in the parlor.

  And that was having a room full of gentlemen.

  And then witnessing their collective looks of disappointment wh
en she entered the room. Naturally, those expressions altered to pleasure once Juliet followed.

  Zinnia, Lady Cosgrove, rose gracefully from the jonquil-patterned upholstered armchair, which was the focal point of the violet parlor. She took great pride in her carriage and in keeping her figure well into her middle years. Her countenance and her precise coiffure conveyed elegance and composure. But her sharp bone structure and even the streaks of silver in her dark blonde hair conveyed an unmistakable edge of sternness underneath. Lifting a slender arm, she extended her palm in a wave toward Lilah and Juliet. “And here is my lovely niece and my cousin. Thankfully, they aren’t overly tardy.”

  The mantel clock was only now chiming eleven. To Aunt Zinnia, however, being on time meant being a quarter of an hour early.

  In the seconds that had transpired, neither Juliet nor Lilah made an excuse for their late arrival or mentioned the encounter with the Marquess of Thayne. Although every time Lilah closed her eyes on a blink, she could still see the man on the Destrier as if both were present in this very room.

  Of course, that would make for quite a crowded parlor, she mused, almost smiling at her own jest. Her thoughts often vacillated from levity to worry when she was uncomfortable. And right now, facing a room full of men made her quite nervous.

  The gentlemen all stood at once and bowed. It should have been thrilling. At last, it seemed possible that Lilah could escape the dire fate that awaited her. She might actually find a husband before the end of her third Season and not be forced to marry Winthrop.

  Yet as she rose from her curtsy, she worried about all the things that could go wrong. She could trip on her way to the settee, bumping her knee and collapsing against the low table, effectively scattering dishes, spilling the tea, and toppling the biscuits and tarts from the tiered tray. Aunt Zinnia would be mortified.

  Lilah blinked. Thankfully, she was still standing in the same spot. Collecting herself, she brushed the imaginary carnage from her skirts with one careful swipe. Her gaze drifted to the bouquets clasped firmly in the gentlemen’s grips.