by Erica Ridley
Her stomach twisted at the image of Lord Carlisle’s arms about some horrid princess. Blast. She was beyond infatuated. She hated to think of him building a life with someone else. But what was the alternative? Offer to split her small dowry with him if he’d just settle for her instead?
“How much money do you need? For your earldom, I mean.” This time, she didn’t blush at the impertinent question. She needed to know the answer.
“Ten thousand would be a start,” he said wearily. “With that, I could settle debts and ensure all my tenants would survive the winter. Another ten or twenty thousand to make needed repairs and provide for future emergencies. I’d still live in an empty manor with few servants and two ancient horses, but at least I wouldn’t feel like I had a noose tightened about my neck.”
So much money, just to get started. She swallowed hard. Offering him half of her meager thousand would be ensuring his tenants wouldn’t make it through the winter.
Oh, if only she were wealthy! She could save her mother and Lord Carlisle. Who cared if they lived in an empty manor with few servants and two ancient horses? She neither wanted nor needed riches. She was used to managing a small household with no staff and limited resources. He was possibly the only gentleman of the ton for whom she’d actually make a decent bride.
Except for the small matter of her needing to sail to America to save her mother and him needing thirty thousand pounds to rescue his earldom.
She snuck another glance at him from beneath her lashes. He deserved a better life. If that meant that he was destined to marry an heiress, then she should do whatever she could to ensure he met his goal. She might have no connections or sphere of influence, but if she found herself among wealthy young ladies looking to land a title, she could truthfully put him forth as one of the most caring, worthy people of her acquaintance. Perhaps in some small way, she could help him secure a bride.
Even if it ripped her heart in two.
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Chapter 9
Oliver slipped into his father’s office. No. Oliver’s office. Lord knew he worked hard enough for it. More than his father ever did. He let his backside thud into the thick leather chair, then crossed his arms atop the desk and lay down his pounding head for just…one…second.
The last time he’d been this exhausted, he’d spent a week marching on a few hours’ sleep per night. Surviving as earl was shaping up to be an even more grueling battle. On even less sleep.
He’d spent the past week in the country with his tenants. Out in their fields. Inside their barns. Up on their roofs. He was lucky that gloves were en vogue, or he’d never be able to hide the scabs and calluses.
And of course he had to hide them. He needed the good regard of the crème de la crème of the Upper Ten Thousand. Who else would have both the means and the vicious delight necessary to snap up all of his cherished possessions at ridiculous sums? He’d sold his grays for more than he’d paid for them, just so a loose-tongued dandy could have bragging rights at the next horse race.
Oliver sighed wearily. Most of the rooms in his childhood home were now empty. He’d managed to sell everything of value, except for the daily minimum required for survival…and the family paintings still hanging in the Hall of Portraits. The cursed Black Prince, whom Oliver both loved and hated just as much as he’d loved and hated his father. The Prince was the son his father had wished he’d had, the only face he’d gazed upon.
Fittingly, the Black Prince was still the only thing of value in the entire estate. Oliver had sold everything else.
The servants were scandalized by the stately manor now boasting only a handful of semi-furnished rooms, but they didn’t dare voice their concerns. Not when their wages were up-to-scratch for once.
He lifted his head from his crossed arms and tugged an empty journal free from the shelves behind him. Today was the day he began anew. A fresh start.
First thing this morning, he’d ridden all over London, settling past due accounts. He wouldn’t have new clothes or fancy cheroots for years—if ever—but at least he’d climbed out of the hole and onto solid ground.
Afterward, he’d skipped lunch to go straight to the bank. Mr. Brown opened a new account in Oliver’s name, depositing one third of the small remaining funds therein, and investing the other two thirds in some sort of complicated interest scheme that Oliver wouldn’t be able to touch for six months, but was guaranteed not to lose value at least.
Last, he’d stopped by Miss Fairfax’s house. He’d waited until the money was out of reach because he didn’t want to be tempted into using all of it to save one person, when he still had dozens of servants and a hundred tenants counting on him for their continued well-being.
He didn’t mention Ravenwood. Largely because he couldn’t find the confounded duke. He hadn’t retuned any of Oliver’s calls at his estate. And Oliver could hardly add, “Important—Miss Fairfax is pregnant!” at the bottom of his calling cards.
Although there was no hope of Sarah giving up the baby, Ravenwood ought to be able to do something to ease the way. If Oliver could unearth him. If the duke was never at home, Oliver’s only hope was society events. He would attend every last one until the invitations dried up, and if he hadn’t found the stodgy bounder by then, he’d pitch a tent on Ravenwood’s doorstep and wait him out.
Wouldn’t be the first time Oliver slept on the ground. He’d learned all about sleeping in the great out-of-doors while serving in the army. An achievement unlikely to impress the fops or the ladies, but the five hundred quid in his brand new account wouldn’t last forever, and a wise man ought to have a fallback plan in case his house fell down around him.
Not that My servants and I can always share a lean-to next to the Thames was much of a fallback plan.
He rubbed his face. No wallowing allowed. There was work to do. He entered the opening details of his new banking account on the first page of the journal, then pushed it to the corner of his desk to dry.
Day One, complete.
Almost.
Fatigued as he was, there was still the Grenville rout yet to attend. All Oliver wished to do was fall into bed for about thirty hours, but too many people were counting on him. Whether they knew it or not. He still had to find Ravenwood and beg him to lend aid to Miss Fairfax. And of course Miss Halton was expecting Oliver to make good on his promise to frank her letters home to her mother.
Miss Halton. A sudden smile dispelled much of Oliver’s exhaustion. Even without a pretext, he’d still be looking forward to seeing her. He loved her quick wit, her fierce loyalty to her mother, the way she made him work for her smiles and laughter.
The thing he’d miss most about society events wouldn’t be the extravagant post-theatre meals or the raucous hunting weekends or the sunset promenades on St. James Square. No, what he’d miss most would be those precious stolen moments with Miss Halton.
It wasn’t that time stood still when he had her in his arms. It was that nothing else mattered. When her clear green eyes laughed up at him from beneath those arched black brows, the rest of the world simply fell away, and all that he knew was her. The sweet jasmine of her hair. The plumpness of her lower lip. The warm curve of her hip beneath his palm, and the endless desire to pull her closer, to press her to him so that her breasts crushed against his waistcoat as his hungry mouth finally claimed hers. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste her, to make her his own…
Madness! He shoved to his feet, furious over his lapse into fancy. She would never be his. He needed an heiress, not Miss Halton. There was no use dreaming about something that could not happen.
Money was running out. A month from now, he’d be lucky to have enough food to keep from starving to death one of these harsh winter nights. Was that the sort of future he wished for Miss Halton? He would rather die himself than cause anyone else to suffer for his father’s folly.
The best thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to keep her at arm’s length. Frank her letters. Be her friend. St
and aside in the shadows as some other man, some dashing, richer, better man swept her off her feet and into a chapel.
His stomach twisted. It took all his will to keep his trembling fists flush at his sides. If he punched a hole in the wall, he could ill afford to repair it. His jaw tightened. Even that small avenue of release was now closed to him.
With a sigh, he quit the office and made his way to his bedchamber to ring for a bath. He glared at the bell pull. Soon enough, he’d be hauling buckets of hot water up the stairs himself. Perhaps this very week. Now that he had his head around the Carlisle state of affairs (miserable) there was nothing left but to spend the next several days writing letters of recommendation for his entire staff. They deserved better, and the least he could do was make sure they received it.
In the meantime, however, his aching muscles deeply enjoyed relaxing in hot water he hadn’t had to slog up the stairs himself.
He let his valet make as much fuss over the matching of his waistcoat and cravat as the man wished—after all, even if Oliver could somehow afford to keep a valet in his employ, the man’s enthusiasm for his task would diminish once he realized his master meant to let his wardrobe fall to rot.
On his way to the front door, Oliver detoured by the office to return the now-dry journal back to its proper place on the shelves. He caught sight of the last two fingers of his father’s port in the otherwise empty cupboard where the old earl had once kept the rest of his liquors.
Oliver poured what was left into one of the few remaining wineglasses, and swirled the burgundy liquid beneath his nose. He couldn’t afford to buy more, and he wouldn’t do so even if he could. This was the last of his father’s wine. The last trace of his father anywhere. The spartan office, the empty house, the entire desolate manor estate… It now belonged to Oliver, and Oliver alone.
He could drink to that.
Syrupy and tart, the thick wine danced across his tongue and slid down his throat. He smiled over the rim of the glass. Never had year-old, over-decanted port tasted so sweet. One more swallow and it, too, was nothing more than a memory.
By the time Oliver’s aging horse lumbered up to the Grenville estate, the crush was in full swing. The butler called Oliver’s name out toward the ballroom, but Oliver doubted anyone registered a word. He could barely hear the butler himself, even from two paces away.
This rout was madness. The Grenvilles must be over the moon.
Oliver checked for Ravenwood in all the usual male haunts, to no avail. Nor was the duke at the buffet, or sipping wine, or twirling a young lady about the dance floor. Oliver pressed his lips together. Whatever that sobersides was up to, it had better be good.
“—just can’t understand it,” came a familiar voice from somewhere just behind him. “That braying Yankee accent!”
God’s teeth. Phineas Mapleton. The helpful bigot who’d so fortuitously pointed Oliver toward “Miss Macaroni” a fortnight ago. His veins popped as he clenched and unclenched his fists and tried to slow his racing heart. The best thing to do with a windbag like that was to ignore him, but the blackguard could only be talking about Miss Halton. Oliver’s Miss Halton. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the lady, and he’d be damned if he’d let Mapleton’s spiteful words harm Miss Halton’s chances of attracting an eligible suitor. Even if it couldn’t be Oliver.
“—I mean, why bother signing her dance card? It’s so public. And an utter waste of time, since the only thing any of us want to do with the chit is tup her. You can’t hear her accent when you’ve got your Thomas in her mouth. Mine wants to—”
Oliver sailed through the crowd, parting three rows of revelers. His fist crashed directly into Mapleton’s teeth.
Music screeched. Dancers stumbled into each other. Impossibly, predictably, the entire pretentious circus came to an utter, gleeful halt.
“Did you strike him?” asked one genius.
“Over Miss Halton?” exclaimed another.
Mapleton spat blood, but smirked up at Oliver. “That light-skirt must have the devil’s magic in her cunny for you to—”
A pair of calm but firm hands pulled Oliver away before his fist decided Mapleton ought to lose a few more teeth.
“Stand down, Carlisle,” came a low voice at his ear. “What the devil are you about, man? Think of how this looks!”
Ravenwood. The two of them could level Mapleton and all his cronies.
Oliver grabbed the duke’s arm. “That rotten knave said the only way to avoid Miss Halton’s accent was to—”
“I heard him,” Ravenwood continued quietly, “but the orchestra was too loud for his voice to carry.”
Oliver broke out into a cold sweat as he realized what the duke was trying to tell him.
Very few people had caught Mapleton’s original remarks. Most of the party had seen Oliver attack him from out of nowhere. And in the ensuing silence, every last one of them had heard Mapleton refer to her as a whore, and proclaim Oliver’s carnal relationship with her as the reason behind his outburst. Nausea bubbled in his stomach as his fingers dug into his palms. His spine slumped.
Just once, he’d like one of his bloody rescues to work out right. In attempting to save Miss Halton’s reputation… He’d ruined it.
“Lord Carlisle?”
Oliver’s fingers went cold. A dangerous tingling sensation prickled across his chest. He turned ever so slowly, forcing his frown to melt away. The sight of Miss Halton’s stricken expression slashed into his heart. He’d wished to defend her. Instead, all he’d ensured was that Mapleton’s remarks would be repeated over breakfast the next morning, and every day after. Her invitations would soon be to all the wrong sorts of parties. And her suitors…Well. No one respectable would court a woman he believed to be Oliver’s seconds.
“Miss Halton.” Oliver took a tentative step forward. “I only wanted…” He cleared his throat. “That is, he…” Shite. His stomach sank. “I’m so sorry.”
He reached out, but she jerked away from him, her glittering eyes as much hurt as angry. Then she swung her face toward his and sniffed hard.
“Drunk.” Her lip curled in disgust.
What on earth? The port. It had only been one glass, but to Miss Halton even a faint scent of wine must be too much, because she was already shaking, already tearing away, already gone.
Oliver didn’t pursue her. The scandal would be legendary enough without him making a bigger arse of himself on top of it all. Hell, this might be the last time they saw each other. He didn’t call out to her, but nor could he look away from her retreating form.
There was something in her hands, something she was stuffing back into a reticule…The letters. He was meant to post her letters, and hadn’t had a chance to pick them up. Now he never would. His shoulders sank.
He hadn’t just let her down. He had failed her completely.
Chapter 10
A week later, Grace was back in the sea of spinsters. Now that the beau monde suspected her of being easy with her favors, the invitations had actually doubled. They just weren’t to the sorts of places where one might find a marriageable suitor. She straightened her spine. This was the last of the upper-class soirées. She had to find a husband here. Tonight. Or she would never see her mother again.
She finally understood how desperation might drive weaker wills to strong drink. But all wasn’t lost. Not yet. There were still a few hours left before dawn. She downed the last of her punch in one gulp. She had many, many faults, but giving up without a fight was not one of them. It was simply not an option. Even if the butler of tonight’s crush almost hadn’t let Grace and her maid through the door.
Where the dickens did that girl get off to, anyway? Grace peered through the crowd. Not that it signified. Her reputation was already suspect. She tore her gaze from the blank dance card hanging limply from her wrist and focused her eyes on the ballroom entrance in the hopes of espying a potential suitor. Any suitor.
But there were none. Grace lowered her eyes to her
empty glass. No one rushed to refill her cup. No one noticed her at all.
At this point, she’d be grateful for one of the dirty old roués, as long as he didn’t need her money and was willing to let her return to America for her mother. The rest of her list of requirements had gone out the proverbial window.
In a flurry, Miss Jane Downing rushed into the ballroom from an adjoining corridor, her eyes alight and her face flushed. Grace frowned. She couldn’t recall Miss Downing ever moving at speeds greater than glacial, much less having color in her cheeks.
Beautiful and clever, Miss Downing was the one solid friendship Grace had managed to make since her arrival, and she was deeply sorry she wouldn’t be able to keep it. Miss Downing was respectable. Grace was not. No matter what the girls might wish, society’s rules were clear. And Grace would never ruin anyone she cared about by association.
To her surprise, Miss Downing practically wriggled when she caught Grace’s eye. She made an inelegant beeline straight for the vacant seat at Grace’s side. She threw herself onto the hard wooden chair as if it were a cool lake at the end of a hot race. Her slow, cunning smile was nothing short of victorious.
Grace narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”
Miss Downing all but clapped her hands in glee. “You’ll never guess! I was in the library, thumbing through the latest Radcliffe—forgive me, but I must know how a book ends before I know whether I can bear to read it from the beginning—when Lord Carlisle grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘Jane—’”
“What?!” Grace’s heart banged against her ribs. She had tried so hard not to even think about him these past few days, but just the sound of his name twisted her into knots all over again.
“Oh dear, you’re not one of those the-end-of-the-book-is-sacrosanct snobs, are you? My brother Isaac about has fits every time he catches me reading the ending first, but I honestly cannot imagine—”
