by Mary Blayney
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Mrs. Lambert would have been gratified to know that Morgan Braedon read the bit of gossip with as much annoyance as she had. She would have been less pleased by the soft-spoken but thorough expression of disgust that caused Morgan’s valet to raise his eyebrows. Roberts stepped closer, bending as if to pick up a discarded neckcloth.
He was a loyal servant, but endlessly curious. Morgan was certain that Roberts knew as many of the latest on-dits as he did. Now he watched from the corner of his eye as Roberts looked over his shoulder and tried to see exactly what had caused the display of words Morgan reserved for only the greatest vexation.
“Here, Roberts, you may read it without damaging your spine.” Morgan thrust the paper under his valet’s nose and held it out to him until the manservant took it. “You will have no trouble deciding which lines have ruined my morning.”
He watched Roberts carefully set aside the crushed lengths of fabric before he ran his eyes down the columns of small type. Middle-aged eyes squinted at the print and then he pursed his lips. He said nothing.
“Roberts, I hired a valet who could read so that you could do something besides tie a cravat. Now you can tell me how to set this problem to rights.”
Roberts folded the paper and placed it near the door. “The services I perform, milord, have nothing to do with dancing or beautiful young ladies.”
Morgan leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, calling on whatever god inspired stupid bachelors and inveterate gamblers. He turned to look at his valet. “I could call on ‘Miss L’ today and extend my personal apologies for making her the subject of gossip.”
“It would seem to me, milord, that calling on, ahem, Miss L, would only draw more attention to her. Of course if that is your intention...”
He let his voice trail off and the phrase became a question. Morgan gave him a mischievous grin. “Curious, are you, Roberts?”
He bowed. “Only to the extent that it will enable me to serve you better, milord.”
“No plans, matrimonial or otherwise, Roberts. I had an enchanting dance with a lovely lady and returned to the card room. The play was challenging and rewarding and I never gave the ballroom another thought.”
“As you say, milord.” Roberts nodded and began gathering shaving items.
The man was an insufferable snob. Morgan picked up two of the discarded neckcloths before Roberts could reach them, just to irritate him. Roberts had dressed and shaved him since he’d come to Town. He had seen him ill, drunk, and close to ruin. Despite that familiarity, his valet maintained a formality that was as admirable as it was irritating.
Morgan held out the discarded neckcloths and Roberts took them with obvious reproof and moved toward the door. “Is there anything else, milord?”
Advice, damn you, I want advice. Truth to tell, he would rather have Roberts’s advice than ask almost any of his friends. There was thirty years difference in their ages and Roberts had, after all, spent his life observing society.
The man was right. If Morgan called on Miss Lambert it would only add fuel to the idea that he was courting her. No, the solution was to make an appearance at Almack’s, preferably on a night when Miss Lambert was otherwise engaged. If he danced with every eligible chit in the room then surely that would put the gossip to rest.
Almack’s. He groaned. He had managed to avoid the weekly assembly so far. Now it would be a penance more than worthy of his thoughtlessness.
He thought he had found the perfect solution to James’s command that he find a wife. He could dance his way through a dozen balls and convey the essence of courtship with none of the heart. He could pretend to find a wife. It had worked beautifully until his overconfidence had undone him.
It was such a good plan. There must be a way to revive it. Once he had sufficient funds he could establish his own Town residence and see to it that the property in Wales had the subsidy it needed until the harvest. In a year or two the land would produce enough to support a wife and family. It would be a time of his choosing and not because of a command from an arrogant brother willing to step into the shoes of their autocratic father.
Those few lines of gossip taught him a valuable lesson: Pretending to find a wife would be more of a challenge than a real courtship. Unless he exercised unusual discretion, he could stumble over his pretense and find himself engaged. Last night had been a simple error on his part: He’d let the cards distract him. And that mistake had become today’s on-dit, interpreted in such a way as to embarrass everyone involved.
“Everyone” included his grandmother. For all practical purposes she had been the one to introduce them. Miss Lambert had caught her eye and, without a ducal granddaughter, cousin, or niece making a debut this year, it was entirely possible his grandmama would make Miss Lambert her protégée. Heaven help them both if that happened.
He groaned again. What he really must do was pay a call on his grandmother and convince her that Miss Lambert was not a candidate for the coveted position of Braedon wife.
Of course that meant that the delectable Miss Lambert could not be considered for any other part in his life. He acknowledged some disappointment. She was lovely, lively, and had not seemed at all averse to a flirtation. Just as well it was not to be, he rationalized. Girls in their first Season were not in his usual style. They were too easily hurt and rarely understood the finer points of dalliance. But Christiana Lambert had been a rare one. He’d been tempted to make an exception with her. The feeling that wedged itself right under his heart must be hunger, Morgan decided. He’d delayed breakfast too long.
Roberts cleared his throat and Morgan realized that the man was still waiting to be dismissed. He waved a hand at his valet and the man moved to leave, then turned back. “I believe your brother arrived last night and will be waiting below. Perhaps he can advise you.”
As unwanted as the news was, Morgan hid his surprise. “James is here?”
“No, milord. I am speaking of your younger brother, Lord Rhys.”
A reprieve only, he thought. Eventually James would arrive. There was at least one good thing about having Rhys in residence, Morgan thought. He never read the gossip columns.
The breakfast room was bright, the curtains pulled open to encourage the rare burst of London sunshine. Rhys looked up from an empty plate. “Happy to see me?”
“Most days.” Morgan made the concession, but was more honest with himself. I need your honesty, your enthusiasm. Yes, I’m devilish glad you’re here.
Then he spied his brother’s empty plate. He could smell bacon and ham, but saw little more than dirty dishes on the sideboard. “Did you leave me any food at all, you pig?”
Rhys grinned at the welcome. Morgan reached for a muffin as his brother grabbed the last piece of toast and slathered it with strawberry preserve.
Before he could ask, Rhys announced his reason for the rare Town visit. “Morgan, I have an appointment with the Astronomer Royal.” Rhys made it sound as though he had an audience with the King.
Morgan nodded and bit back a grin as Rhys prattled on about comets. His brother had been fascinated with the night sky since childhood. It did not appear he was going to grow out of it.
Morgan stood up and tossed his napkin on the table. “Your meeting is tomorrow?”
When Rhys nodded, Morgan welcomed an inspiration. “I’m off to visit our grandmother. Come with me. With you along she is much less likely to try to convince me of the joys of the married state.”
Rhys shook his head without even a hint of regret.
“If you called with a day-old beard she might be less inclined to treat you like a lad.” Morgan leaned closer and took on an exaggerated air of supplication.
Rhys rubbed his beard. “No, she will guess I traveled by moonlight and rant at me while she calls for a razor. No, Morgan, I am going to wait. I will call on her when I am ready....”
“To be treated like her favorite?” Morgan suggested, as he straightened and turned for the door.
/>
Rhys threw a napkin at his brother and was reaching for a piece of muffin. Morgan escaped before their conversation descended into a food-throwing contest that would validate Grandmama’s assumption that her youngest grandson was more boy than man.
By the time he raised the knocker at the town house and was shown into her too-warm salon, Morgan knew the day was not going to move along on his terms. He had taken the long way round to her door and stopped at White’s to check the betting books. There was a new entry. His name was now firmly linked with Miss Lambert.
He’d been fully prepared for a tongue-lashing from his grandmother, but her words surprised him. “Really, Morgan, I stopped putting any credence in the gossip columns long ago.” She pulled her shawl closer around her and looked at him. “Move away from the fire, boy. You block the heat.”
He sat on a chair next to hers and let himself be soothed by the lavender and rose scent that had been his mother’s as well. Did she know about the betting book?
“One of the great pleasures of old age is watching others make the same mistakes I did. There is reassurance in the truth that stupidity is a function of all youth.”
So there would be a lecture after all.
“Still, my boy, I can not count your stupidity the most unfortunate thing. How long would it have taken you to pay me a call if this gossip had not compelled you to apologize?”
“Grandmama”—his voice was filled with reproach—“you know that you are the first person I call on when I am in Town. I know how you rely on me for all your news.” The last was said with his usual cynical smile for it was a joke and they both knew it. His grandmother had as wide a network of friends as the Queen did.
“So you say, but I did not know you were in Town until I saw you at Westbourne’s.” She rapped his knuckles with her fan. It was a gesture of affection.
“I only returned in the late afternoon from Braemoor. I had some business there.”
She leaned still closer, obviously distracted from her more immediate concerns. “Eh? Did you say business? I thought you were at Roland’s house party?”
He flicked dust from his sleeve. How did she know about Roland’s? Did she have a spy on her payroll? “Roland’s was a bore and I left early.”
“And went to Braemoor?”
He heard the surprise in her voice and almost wished they would return to the lecture she had begun.
“Yes, I stopped in Sussex. It was hardly out of the way.”
“And how did you find your father?”
“Much the same. He will allow only James to see him plus a couple of servants and, I suppose, the doctor. James tells me he is not improving.” He tried to keep emotion from his voice, amazed that the imminent death of a parent who had never approved of him could make him feel so melancholy.
“We can be thankful then that he is not reading the papers. You know how he loathes gossip.”
Back to the lecture again. “On my way to Town I stopped at Cashton to visit with Mariel and Charles.”
His grandmother raised her brows. “Eh? You say you visited your sister and her husband?”
“Yes, I did.” He knew that tidbit would distract her.
“Despite your father’s express orders not to acknowledge them?”
“Yes.” He bit back a smile and kept his face as solemn as he could. Surprising his grandmama was a rare event.
“Your mother’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to the Braedon family.”
Morgan nodded even though he could not see the connection to his sister’s situation. His mother had been the light in all their lives.
“When your father buried her, he must have put all his common sense in the ground with her. How he could have given Mariel the ultimatum he did.” She shook her head. “Yes, she looks the picture of my daughter, but she was also born with a full dose of Braedon rebellion, as her life has proved.”
He could swear there were tears in her eyes. Or was it a trick of the light?
After a bare moment of silence, she rapped his knuckles again. “Tell me how they go on! Mariel, Charles, and my great granddaughter. Are they comfortable?”
“Oh yes, they seem to be thriving, quite settled into the life of a country parish.” As comfortable as love and like minds could make one. “Being disinherited does not seem to have affected their happiness one jot.”
She sat back a moment, satisfied. “Just so.”
She said no more, but Morgan had heard the words often enough. There are definite benefits to a happy marriage. It was one of Grandmama’s favorite sayings. He was not convinced the benefits outweighed the sacrifices.
“Do Charles and Mariel see the Harbisons?”
“Yes, Mariel is teaching the girls the harp and pianoforte so she is at the manor quite regularly.”
“And it gives Mariel an opportunity to play herself.” She nodded her approval. “Good, for I know how much pleasure it gives her.” Glancing away from him, his grandmother made a show of examining the tea tray.
“One of the Harbison girls is ready for the Season, is she not, with the two others champing at the bit.” She said nothing more for a moment and then chuckled at some private joke. “The oldest. Is she pretty?”
“Elaine? Blond hair and very blue eyes. A kind of porcelain...” Morgan stood up and walked back to the fireplace. “Not matchmaking are you, Grandmama?”
“Eh? Matchmaking? Certainly not.” She paused a moment then added with a small smile, “Still, Morgan, Elaine Harbison would be someone to dance with besides Miss Lambert.” She laughed at her own joke and missed the scratch on the door.
When she did hear she called, “Enter.”
The butler shouted the names of her guests, “Mrs. Lambert and Miss Christiana Lambert.”
Four
Now here was a stroke of purely rotten luck. Best not go near the tables today. He glanced at his grandmother. Her lack of surprise was all the hint he needed. She’d known this was going to happen. He swore to himself with real annoyance. This was carrying meddling too far. It was hardly the first time that Morgan wished for a god that would bless him with the ability to disappear.
Mrs. Lambert sailed into the room and made an elegant curtsy to the duchess. Christiana followed, paused for the briefest of moments when she saw him, and then smiled. It was a conspirator’s smile, meant only for the two of them to share. In a thousand other circumstances, he would have found it easy to return, but in the present situation it would almost surely make things worse.
He bowed slightly and held back an answering smile. It was not easily done. He swore he could smell the floral scent she wore. It had lingered on his glove long after last night’s dance. And when faced with Miss Lambert’s laughing green eyes, it was almost impossible not to give in to the urge to share the joke with her. Oh, those eyes spoke to him as surely as her lips did.
The last thing you need right now is to appear even slightly interested. He kept his expression neutral.
Her smile changed. No, not her smile. It was her eyes that changed. The smile had been as firmly in her eyes as it had been on her lips, but with his reserved response it faded, replaced by confusion and a glimmer of embarrassment.
Mrs. Lambert called her daughter forward to make her curtsy and Morgan stepped back a little farther into the shadows. It would be the height of bad manners to make an escape. No matter, he was sorely tempted.
“Morgan, come be introduced!”
Morgan moved forward to obey the summons, wondering if he was the only one who understood the mischief she was brewing. Before he turned to the Lamberts, he took her hand and kissed it. “I live to entertain you, Grandmama.”
He’d spoken for her ears alone and she responded with her usual “Eh?” but he could tell by the twitch of her lips she understood him.
With a plea to the gods for inspiration he turned to Christiana Lambert’s mother.
Mrs. Lambert did not appear overly surprised at his identity. She accepted his bow wit
h a curtsy of her own and then turned to her daughter. “I have no need to introduce Christiana, do I?”
Her tone was a blend of arch and vexed. There were worse combinations, he decided. Christiana returned his bow with a curtsy as formal as required. Her smile was gone and the chill he had expected from her mother flowed from the daughter instead.
Disdain did not become her. Her lips were made for laughter. Her eyes could barely register the hauteur that made her lithe body tense. They both made to speak, but Mrs. Lambert spoke over their greetings. “What a rogue you are, my lord, to make my daughter the subject of such singular attention.”
Arch had given way to coy. He knew where this game was headed. She would voice her displeasure but displeasure only. There was no disapproval. Morgan suspected his suit would be welcome. He glanced at his grandmother, who was watching with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. No help from that quarter. Devil take it.
He took Mrs. Lambert’s hand. “My apologies to you and your daughter, ma’am.” He thought about telling her the truth. That he had been lost in the card game, but she might construe that as an insult to her daughter.
The larger truth, that he had no wish for a wife, was equally unacceptable. The game he was playing with James would be pointless if it became common knowledge. And he would wager his newest coat that discretion was not among Mrs. Lambert’s virtues.
She rescued him again. “La, my lord, if you find Christiana so appealing then you must call on us and meet my other daughter. Joanna is a year older and even Christiana would agree, by far the loveliest young woman to make her come-out this Season.”
Christiana stood behind her mother, almost directly in his line of vision. As her mother continued her ingratiating monologue, he could almost swear he saw sympathy in Miss Lambert’s eyes. Then she shrugged lightly and turned toward his grandmother, leaving him trapped in a one-sided conversation with her mama. Please, Grandmama, do not you try to help me smooth this over. Let this conversation with Mrs. Lambert be considered punishment enough.
