by Allison Lane
“Aha!” he exclaimed suddenly. “This must be it.” A seal cracked.
But her eyes stared at the name that had leaped out when she turned the page. “My God!” Her heart crashed to the floor. “You’re betrothed to Alice Pauling!” She glared. Steven had mentioned Miss Pauling. An heiress.
“No, I’m not.” But his face was red.
“It says so right here. Lord Pauling of Paulus Grange, Surrey, announces the betrothal of his daughter, the honorable Alice Elaine Pauling, to the honorable Mr. Rafael Edward Thomas of Hillcrest Manor, Surrey. Nuptials are scheduled for June the seventh.”
“I – am – not – betrothed.” It sounded as if he were talking through gritted teeth.
“Are you accusing the editor of the Morning Post of fabricating the story?” She tapped the paper. “Who is she?”
“A neighbor, but that doesn’t—”
She slammed down the paper. “How dare you wed me when you are promised to another?”
“It’s not like that, Helen. Sit down.” He sighed.
Since he looked exasperated rather than dangerous, she complied. But her heart pounded harder than ever, worsening her headache. The day had already served up too many shocks, and it was barely eight.
“Thank you.” Rafe laid aside his letter. “I started to tell you about this at breakfast.”
She frowned, recalling that he’d interrupted when she’d tried to warn him about Steven.
“I’ve refused this match repeatedly for ten years,” he continued. “Our fathers are the ones pushing it. Hillcrest submitted the announcement without my knowledge or consent.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth. I told you about yesterday’s summons. When I arrived, he announced that he’d made the arrangements despite my continued refusals.”
“No father would treat his son so shabbily.”
“Hah! He’s hated me since the day I was born.”
“I don’t believe it.” She raised her chin, which usually prompted men to take her seriously.
“Believe it.” He glared. “He hated my mother, too. The price of his affection has always been repudiation of Mother. He’s added other conditions over the years – like abandoning London. He believes it is a godless place brimming with degenerates. Since I choose to live here…” He shrugged.
“But that doesn’t explain this.” She tapped the paper. “Does he hate Miss Pauling, too?”
“Of course not, but her feelings don’t concern him. He wants her dowry. Paulus Grange is a prosperous estate that would more than double Hillcrest’s holdings. He’s coveted it since childhood. Pauling is ill and easily swayed. Since Hillcrest abhors scandal, he expects me to avoid raising one. He refuses to accept that scandal doesn’t bother me. We had a flaming row when I repudiated the match yet again.”
Flaming row. Her heart sank. That was why he’d proposed. She’d appeared when he was in the throes of rebellion, something he would soon regret. So she could not rely on him.
Rafe ran his fingers through his hair. “I was heading for my solicitor’s office to see if he could quash the announcement when I met you. Hillcrest will never listen. I’m tired of battles. Marriage ended the war once and for all.”
“Why me?”
“You are intelligent and competent, will never turn weepy or demanding, possess beauty and breeding, and I love your hair.”
His words seemed glib. How could anyone determine intelligence on five minutes’ acquaintance – while drunk? How could he claim she’d be undemanding when she’d made demands from the first – take me to Berkeley Square … take me to Formsby’s Bank. She’d all but begged him to save her from Steven. And while she hadn’t shed tears, she’d been very close.
His eyes were the color of slate today, swirling with emotion she couldn’t read. His apparent sincerity meant nothing. Alex had always sounded sincere, even the day he’d poured out his love and devotion between searing kisses and passionate caresses, swearing she was the most beautiful, most fascinating, most exciting miss in the realm. Two days later, he’d abandoned her without a word.
She could believe Rafe’s fury. He harbored a stubborn streak. If Hillcrest had truly sent the notice without warning, Rafe would see red. But that didn’t mean that he opposed the match, only that he wanted to make his own decisions. If Hillcrest hadn’t been so heavy-handed, Rafe might have wed Alice long since. They’d known each other for years and might be deeply in love – like Clara’s husband and his impoverished neighbor.
Which boded ill for the future. She did not want a man who preferred another. In truth, she wanted a husband who loved her, though she could hardly cavil on that score. She had wed Rafe solely to escape Steven and Dudley, so there was no question of love on her part, either. Yet a loveless marriage was a far cry from one to a man who loved another.
But there was no point in continuing this discussion. Rafe would deny an attachment regardless of his feelings, justifying the lie as necessary to protect her delicate sensibilities. So she must take every word with a grain of salt.
“What does the solicitor say?”
“Sir Steven was right. I’m your guardian. But Alquist never mentioned you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no idea. How well did you know him?”
“I met him once or twice as a child. We lived in London in those days, but callers rarely came to the nursery. He visited Audley a few times, but I was away at school.” Or not allowed to mingle with house-party guests. “He did not attend Papa’s funeral. And if he sent condolences, I did not see them.” The situation seemed surreal. What fate had thrust her into her guardian’s arms?
“He sent condolences. He would never neglect a duty, even if he didn’t care, but it was not like him to leave me responsibilities without warning. Granted, he was in good health and expected to live many years, but he was a stickler for planning ahead.” He sighed. “We can ponder his motives later. Are you ready to face the dressmaker?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He bit his lip. “Hillcrest’s announcement is bound to cause trouble, but we can minimize the scandal by addressing it after our marriage announcement appears tomorrow. I hope to wrest an apology from the editors for today’s mistake, which will make washing the family laundry in public unnecessary.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Thank you. So you will remain Miss St. James for today?”
She nodded. Keeping the scandal to a minimum might also keep her tarnished reputation from coming out. Something else she must warn him about…
Later. So many things must wait until later.
Steven’s voice echoed. Notorious fortune hunter.
If they were to build any sort of partnership, Rafe must learn to know her first as an individual, not as an heiress. It was the only way to protect herself. Only an honest commitment to each other would keep her safe. Unless he cared, other emotions could rule – like greed. So she must do everything possible to win his heart, while praying she could trust him.
* * * *
As Rafe escorted Helen downstairs, he cursed his stupidity in forgetting that Paul would collect today’s paper along with breakfast. He should have hidden it until he’d made his confession. He’d known the damned thing would cause trouble.
But instead of explaining over breakfast, he’d turned coward, dawdling as he searched for words that would make his idiocy sound reasonable. Now it was worse.
He’d made a muck of marriage already. Despite his long-stated desire for an intelligent wife, he’d treated her like a widgeon.
He’d been wrong. She might be a country miss, but her eyes had gleamed the moment she’d spied the papers. She’d turned first to politics and international news, skimming the society page last. In that respect, she was much like Alquist.
Fate had chosen his wife well.
Unfortunately, his ham-fisted handling had eroded her trust. It would take time and skill to restore it. And more
courage than he’d shown to date. Helen would not accept platitudes. He could only pray that he could rectify matters before she decided to take charge. She’d shown a lamentable streak of independence – fleeing Christchurch, insisting on going out despite her injuries, confronting Sir Steven head-on. It could lead to serious clashes if not checked. However alone she’d been since her parents’ deaths, she now had a husband to look after her. It was time she recognized that.
Chapter Four
Helen paced Mademoiselle Jeanette’s elegantly appointed fitting room while an assistant lengthened a mourning gown. Rafe had stayed in the carriage so their names would not be linked before tomorrow’s announcement – or so he claimed. But the real reason was probably cowardice. He must have known his name would be on every tongue. He was more notorious than even Steven had implied.
It was the height of the Season, so the shop was crowded. She’d waited half an hour for an assistant to serve her – Miss St. James, newly arrived from Somerset, commanded no concessions from a prominent London establishment. Not that she minded, for the wait allowed her to bring her provincial gawking under control. She had never seen so refined a shop, with lush carpets, Sheraton chairs, and a dozen tables piled with pattern cards, dressmakers’ dolls, fabrics, and trims. Servants raced in and out of the main salon, fetching fabrics and serving tea.
But today’s conversation rarely touched on fashion. Rafe’s scandals echoed from all sides.
“Is Miss Pauling mad?” demanded an elegant blonde of her friend as she fingered a piece of Caledonian silk that matched her blue eyes. “Everyone knows Mr. Thomas is in debt and will likely lose her dowry at the tables before the ink dries on their marriage lines. He takes after his grandfather, though his notoriety extends far beyond gaming. Remember Lady Chatsworth?”
“Chasing her naked through Berkeley Square.” Her friend giggled. “My governess nearly fainted when she discovered I knew the tale. I wish I’d been there to see it.”
“Watch your tongue, Martha,” snapped an older woman. “If anyone hears such talk, they will think you fast.”
“But how will we know whom to avoid if we don’t discuss such things?” asked the blonde, widening her eyes in faux innocence. “You must admit Mr. Thomas has caused no end of scandal. Like what he did to Lady Melthorpe.”
“Come, Mama. You laugh at that tale yourself – cavorting together in the Serpentine under a full moon.” Again Martha giggled. “How adventurous!”
“Until Lord Melthorpe arrived.” Icicles dripped from her voice. “Forget Mr. Thomas. The man is incorrigible. Do you wish to put Lord Blakeley off? He is your best chance for an offer, so concentrate on pattern cards. You need a gown for Lady Debenham’s ball. As for you, Lady Elizabeth” —she glared at the blonde— “if you must speculate on why Miss Pauling accepted Mr. Thomas, at least be honest. He has charm to spare and could talk the devil into mending his ways if he put his mind to it.”
Lady Elizabeth fell silent, but the discussion raged elsewhere.
“I always knew he would court an heiress,” said a dowager as she frowned over a piece of Mechlin lace. “Runs in the family. Hillcrest wed money, too. Thomases have always sought the fastest ways to expand their coffers.”
“Even an heiress would think twice about allying herself with Thomas,” snapped her companion. “He must have seduced her. A fortnight away from town would leave him desperate. You know what he’s like.”
“True. Few have his appetites. Or his temper. Imagine dueling over a courtesan! And without seconds! Disgraceful! But he’s never defiled an innocent or even seriously flirted with one, which is why I keep him on my guest list. Unlike some rakes, he has scruples. Something to think about, Mildred,” she added cattily. “And you can’t claim she doesn’t know him. They are neighbors.”
Helen tried to shut out the voices, but it was difficult. They buzzed from all sides.
“—that outlandish wager last month. It was bad enough to goad Lord Creevey into making preposterous claims, but forcing him to prove them was dishonorable. Creevey was too foxed to think clearly.”
“Good heavens, Margaret! You didn’t think it outlandish at the time. You cheered along with the rest of us. Creevey thinks his nose is more sensitive than anyone’s. I laughed myself silly when he lost.”
“But a thousand guineas—”
Helen gasped. A thousand guineas could finance an opulent Season or support a tenant for years. If Rafe was accustomed to wagering such amounts, it was no wonder he was in debt.
“It’s all of a piece,” snapped Lady Horseley from another table. “He loves shocking us. Remember that masquerade last year? He showed up nearly naked! Bare chest. Bare legs…”
Helen’s nerves tingled at the memory of Rafe sprawled naked in bed. Even the thought of sleeping nude was outrageous. The actuality…
Her face heated.
His reputation was far worse than hers – and well deserved. Unlike the lurid speculation that she had endured, society could cite chapter and verse of Rafe’s misdeeds. Not that it made confessing any easier. The world weighed ladies and gentlemen on different scales.
Her heart sank. It would be hard enough to endure his courtesans and scandals – she had no illusions about her temper when insulted; it went with her red hair. But gaming boded ill for the future. Rafe couldn’t touch Audley itself, but if he lost its income, he would press her to dip into her trust. Charm made him dangerous. As did pride. What would he do when she refused to cover his losses? Even the most even-tempered man could turn vicious when thwarted. And she suspected that Rafe’s temper was far from even.
Was it too late to escape this travesty? They had not yet consummated the union.
But a moment’s thought banished the idea. Nonconsummation had not been grounds for annulment in at least a century. Maybe longer. So her only choice was to find a compromise they could both endure, which meant abandoning her girlish dreams of love and praying they could become friends before she had to disclose her worth.
Fate must be laughing up her sleeve, for despite every caution, she’d fallen prey to a fortune hunter. But at least he would be in the same fix as Steven. Neither of them could harm her while the trust remained in force. And her husband controlled its income only while she lived. As long as she didn’t trigger a temper fit, she would be safe enough. Unlike Clara.
* * * *
Rafe slumped inside his carriage. His head throbbed, his throat hurt, and a bruise was spreading where Steven’s shoulder had rammed his chest. So far, marriage was miserable.
He’d considered accompanying Helen, if only to silence the gossip she was sure to hear, but anyone seeing them together would assume she was Alice – or a new mistress – neither of which would help matters. Yet as his wait stretched longer and longer, he cursed his stupidity. Mademoiselle Jeannette was always overworked during the Season. Since Helen needed only one temporary mourning gown, they could have gone anywhere.
Waiting left him nothing to do but dwell on his mistakes. The carriage’s folding table was too small for patience – not that he had patience for the game or cards with which to play it. If Carley were here, they could have played chess. They’d enjoyed many a match while driving to house parties over the years.
But he hadn’t seen Carley since the night Alquist died.
His mind circled back to the dilemma he’d been avoiding. He feared that wedding Helen had been a grievous mistake. And like Shakespeare’s Caesar, he might grievously answer for it.
Helen was an enticing wench whose sensuality could raise the dead. Intelligence crackled behind her eyes. She refused to be a victim, instead fighting for what she wanted. Fleeing that church marked her as a lady of spirit, like his mother.
On the other hand, she was apparently accustomed to being in charge, not just of herself, but of those around her, which boded ill for establishing a harmonious union. Already she’d demanded answers and argued perfectly reasonable suggestions. While he enjoyed debate, fighting sap
ped so much energy that it left him limp for days. He despised arguments, having suffered too much criticism from Hillcrest. In the past, he’d endured by letting angry words slide past him, then doing whatever he wished.
But that wouldn’t work with Helen. He could ignore Hillcrest’s diatribes because he rarely saw the man. But he must share a house with Helen. Which meant he must either stand up to her or let her lead him around by the nose. Intolerable.
Rapping snapped his head around.
“Naughty boy,” purred Lady Willingham, pulling the carriage door open. “Why didn’t you tell me your plans?”
“Why should I share my private business with you?” He couldn’t manage his usual smile. If Helen returned now, the fat would be in the fire.
Lady Willingham laughed as if he were teasing. “But we are such good friends, my dearest Rafe. And you will need friends. The girl must have a mentor, of course, to introduce her to the right people. A country miss can’t understand London without help.”
He shuddered. Not only did he not want Helen to meet Lady Willingham, he had no interest in paying the price she would expect for such service. She pursued her liaisons so aggressively that only Lord Willingham’s fortune and social power kept people from cutting her. Rafe’s refusal to become her latest lover had increased her determination to bring him to heel.
“My aunt will present my wife at court,” he said, shifting his legs to block the door.
Fury flashed across her face, immediately banished. “I suppose she needs the distraction. As do you. Take advantage of your freedom while you have it, darling. You’ll have to waste your talents until you get her with child, so this is your last chance for pleasure. I’m free tonight.” Her hand brushed his thigh in blatant invitation.
He opened his mouth on a stinging set-down, but swallowed it as Helen emerged from Mademoiselle Jeanette’s. Lady Willingham would laugh off a set-down. Thus there was only one way to be rid of her, short of arguing for half an hour. “What time?”
