Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  Good gad, man, he berated himself. You’re beginning to sound like some deuced poet!

  Yet if he were to turn to poetry, surely a woman like this one would be all that was needed to inspire him.

  She was strolling alongside the river with a petite female companion and a little girl. Looped about her gloved wrist was the braided lead of a small white dog, who was darting about in a most unpredictable manner and barking at every unsuspecting passerby. The woman laughed merrily at the dog’s antics. Not a ladylike simper or giggle, but a full, deep, rich, laugh.

  Alex could not help but smile at the infectious sound of it.

  “Why, Freddie! I do believe Wayland is ogling La Beaumont.”

  Alex’s two companions, his old Etonian friends Mr. Freddie Marlow and Hildebrand Rutherford, Viscount Garrick, pulled up their horses on either side of Alex’s, and followed his gaze to its object.

  “I say, I do believe you are right, Hildebrand! What excellent taste you show, Wayland. Mrs. Beaumont is extraordinary. Though, I must say I rather prefer her friend, Lady Elizabeth Hollingsworth, myself. I always had a weakness for pocket Venuses!”

  Alex scarcely glanced at his friends. The dog and the little girl were walking down to the edge of the river, and the two women followed. A breeze threatened to carry away that fanciful hat, and she clutched at it with one gloved hand.

  “The woman with the red hair is a Mrs. Beaumont?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, the artist. Surely you have heard of her?” said Freddie.

  Alex feared he knew little about art. Or artists. “Is she married?”

  “A widow!” Hildebrand said with a certain glee. “Three times over. That is even better, eh? Good sport, what?”

  Alex turned a glare onto him, and Hildebrand stifled his chortles behind a gloved hand.

  “As I said, she is an artist,” offered Freddie. “A deuced successful one, from what I hear, though I’m a complete bacon-brain about painting and music and such.”

  “She’s come from her home in Italy to stay for the Season with Lady Elizabeth,” said Hildebrand, now recovered from his giggling fit. “It’s quite the fashion to be in love with one or the other of them. Though Lady Elizabeth is married, more is the pity.”

  A thrice-married artist. Alex almost laughed at the thought of the looks on his family’s faces if he brought such a woman home to the Grange! Not, of course, that Mother and Em were such high sticklers as all that. They just maintained certain standards, despite their straitened circumstances.

  But then, Alex had always had a great weakness for red hair.

  He looked from one of his friends to the other speculatively. “I take it, then, that one of you has been introduced to the lady?”

  “I haven’t,” Freddie said, his wide brown eyes looking positively downcast at this fact. “Hildebrand has.”

  “At Lady Russell’s card party a fortnight ago,” Hildebrand preened. “Should you like me to do the honors, Wayland?”

  Alex gave him a long look, and Hildebrand coughed uncomfortably. “Er, yes,” he said. “Just so. Most happy to perform the introductions, I’m sure.”

  They had only just turned their horses in the direction of the ladies, when disaster struck.

  The small white dog, who had been regularly menacing any and all unwary pedestrians, now broke free from the lead the little girl held, and bounded away down the riverbank after an errant duck. In a swift white blur, it became airborne, and landed with a great splash in the murky river. Only its pale head was visible as it drifted off, carried inexorably away by the current.

  “Lady Kate!” Mrs. Beaumont cried. She lifted her skirts indecently high above her ankles, revealing green kid half boots and an inch of white stocking, and dashed off after her dog. Her hat fell from her head to dangle down her back by its ribbons.

  The little girl followed, shouting, “Be careful, Georgie! You’ll fall in the river!”

  The petite woman, Lady Elizabeth, ran after the girl, crying out, “Help! Help!” to no one in particular.

  Mrs. Beaumont nearly slid down in the mud at the edge of the river, tottering precariously on those half boots. “Lady Kate! Come back, darling!”

  Alex was already sliding from his saddle, and striding away across a busy thoroughfare and a wide greensward that separated him from the rather bizarre party of ladies.

  He had faced many a dire situation in Spain, when he had had to think and act quickly, decisively, and calmly. To be sure, he had never seen a situation quite like this one in Spain, but he knew at a glance what had to be done to save the dog.

  He stripped off his coat and boots, pushed them into the arms of the beauteous Mrs. Beaumont, and jumped in after the dog.

  Georgina watched in astonishment as the man—a man she had never seen before in her life!—dove into the murky waters after the escaping Lady Kate.

  It had all happened so very quickly that she felt all in a daze. One moment she had been strolling along with Elizabeth and little Isabella, laughing and enjoying the day. Lady Kate had been frisking about, as usual; she was quite the most curious and excitable dog Georgina had ever seen. Then, all at once, Lady Kate had twisted out of her lead, scampered down to the river, and splashed right in!

  And the man, whose coat and boots Georgina now held, had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and gone in after Lady Kate. Like some sun-bronzed guardian angel.

  Georgina bit her lip in anxiety as she watched the man seize Lady Kate about her torso and pull her along toward the bank. The dog struggled mightily in his grasp, howling and frightened that her adventure had ended so badly, but the man hung grimly on. Finally, they both stood before Georgina, dripping with great quantities of dirty water but safely on terra firma.

  “I believe, madam,” the man said, his voice brandy-rich, rough with laughter, “that this belongs to you.”

  Georgina laughed, hiccuped really, with embarrassment and consternation and a dawning realization of the utter absurdity of their situation. “Yes, indeed, it does! Thank you so much, sir. You have gone quite above and beyond the call of gallantry! I do not believe I can thank you enough.”

  “He is a hero, Georgie,” little Isabella Everdean piped up. She gazed up at their rescuer with adoring chocolate-brown eyes.

  Georgina very much feared she was doing the same. Gaping at him like the veriest moonstruck half-wit! It was just that he was so very beautiful, even dripping with mud and odd plant life, his light brown, curling hair plastered to his head. Her artist’s eye skimmed over his high cheekbones and firm jaw, lightly shadowed with afternoon whiskers. His nose was straight as a knife blade; his lips firm but strangely sensual. And his eyes, alight with laughter, were a clear, sweet, heavenly blue.

  And they were looking directly into hers as she gaped at him.

  She looked down, startled. Which was not at all like her! She was never startled by any man; she had met too many, had married three, and been propositioned by a numberless horde. She had thought herself rather blasé about men.

  This one, though, had her blushing. She could feel the heat creeping up her throat into her cheeks, no doubt clashing horribly with her hair.

  Elizabeth was looking at her rather peculiarly, so Georgina knew that her odd behavior was not going unnoticed.

  She forced her gaze back up to meet his, and she smiled. “How very rag-mannered you must think us, not even introducing ourselves after your heroic actions! I am Mrs. Georgina Beaumont.”

  He bowed, rather awkwardly with his arms full of wriggling terrier. “Alexander Kenton, at your service.”

  “And this is Lady Elizabeth Hollingsworth and Lady Isabella Everdean, her niece,” Georgina continued.

  “Lady Elizabeth, Lady Isabella.” He bowed again in their direction. “How do you do.”

  Isabella giggled.

  “Bella,” Elizabeth chided. “Say how do you do.”

  “How d’ye do,” said Isabella.

  “It was so good of you to resc
ue Lady Kate,” Elizabeth said. “I have told Georgina that she needs a stronger lead.”

  “You may be assured she will now have one!” Georgina snorted.

  “May I carry Lady Kate now?” beseeched Isabella, going up on tiptoe to pat the muddy dog.

  “You will get your frock all dirty!” cried Elizabeth.

  “Why don’t we wrap her in my coat?” Alexander suggested. “Then perhaps I could escort you to your carriage, and make certain she is safely stowed aboard?”

  “Oh!” Only then did Georgina notice the interested crowd they had gathered. Many a quizzing glass was turned in her direction, and two gentlemen in particular, a Viscount Garrick she had already met and a man she had not, had edged their horses in closer to their little scene.

  Ah, well. Georgina shrugged philosophically; she was quite used to people gawking at her escapades.

  “You have gotten yourself into a scrape, Wayland!” said Viscount Garrick.

  Alexander frowned at him, and shifted Lady Kate in his arms.

  Elizabeth looked over at the two horsemen. “Are they with you, sir?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Alex murmured.

  “Well, then, you must all come to my house for tea! We will have you dry and warm in a trice, sir. I am certain my husband will have some garments you could borrow.”

  “That is very kind of you, Lady Elizabeth, but...” Alex began.

  Elizabeth lifted her hand, forestalling all protests. “No, I do insist! We want to thank you properly. Is that not so, Georgina?”

  Elizabeth smiled at Alexander, and, slowly, like sun coming from behind the clouds, he smiled back. “Quite so, Elizabeth.” Georgina said. “Quite so.”

  Chapter Three

  Georgina had been wrong about Alexander Kenton. He was not beautiful.

  He was otherworldly.

  Dry and clean, his hair was a light brown, tinged gold by the sun. Tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes, which were vividly blue against the bronze of his skin, every time he laughed. His shoulders were very broad beneath his borrowed coat, and his bearing was quite poised and straight and correct. He must have been in the army, like her first husband, Jack.

  Georgina thought he looked like a Caravaggio painting.

  He was also a duke.

  A frown pulled at her brow at the thought. That was a bit problematic. Peers, especially dukes, seemed the very worst of lechers, always cornering her in dim corridors or dark garden bowers, always thinking she would be full of gratitude for their ham-handed attentions. Her trusty sharp-tipped hair ornaments had quickly disabused them all of such notions.

  She would have so hated to use one on this particular duke!

  But thus far there seemed no danger of that. Alexander Kenton was a very charming duke. He had taken the entire Lady Kate situation with such good humor, as no other man of her acquaintance would have done. He even fed the dog, now dry and clean and not a bit sorry for all the trouble she had caused, bits of his tea cakes and sandwiches. He conversed with Isabella quite as if she were grown-up. He laughed and joked, and did not once try to flirt with Georgina in any but the lightest and most respectful way.

  His two friends, Viscount Garrick and Mr. Marlow, were a bit sillier. They told horrifyingly bad jokes, and obviously thought themselves quite the wits for it. Occasionally, one or the other would cast her provocative glances. Or rather, they would simply roll their eyes and wiggle their eyebrows in what they obviously fancied passed as provocative ways.

  But Alexander; ah, now, he could easily prove far too attractive for her own good.

  “... Is that not so, Georgina?”

  Georgina’s attention snapped back to Elizabeth, from whence it had wandered into the clouds. “I beg your pardon?”

  Elizabeth’s gray eyes were slate dark with concern. “Are you quite all right, dear? You look flushed. Did you catch a chill by the river?”

  “Indeed not! I am quite well. It should be Lord Wayland we are concerned about catching chills.”

  Alexander laughed. “Not I, Mrs. Beaumont! I am healthy as a horse.”

  “Perhaps I should give you both a dose of castor oil,” Elizabeth mused.

  “No!” Georgina and Alexander both shouted.

  Lady Kate barked riotously, quite as if she also had been offered a dose.

  “You must forgive Elizabeth,” Georgina said. “She feels it her bounden duty to nurse and cosset everyone who comes into her sphere.”

  “Indeed I do not!” Elizabeth protested.

  “You must remain healthy for this evening, Wayland,” Freddie Marlow said. “You would not want to miss Lady Beaton’s ball.”

  “We are also attending the Beaton ball!” said Elizabeth.

  “It is predicted to be a dreadful crush,” Freddie answered, obviously delighted at the prospect.

  “It always is. It is simply a great pity that my husband is in the country this week and will have to miss it!”

  Georgina glanced at Alexander over the rim of her teacup. “Perhaps we shall see you there, then, Lord Wayland. That is, if you have not caught a chill.”

  He grinned at her. His smile was very wide and white against his tanned skin. “I could wish the same for you, Mrs. Beaumont. But perhaps you would allow me to escort you and Lady Elizabeth to the ball? In the absence of your husband, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Yes, yes, yes! Georgina’s mind shouted. Aloud she said, “How very kind of you! Have we not imposed on you quite enough for one day?”

  “Nonsense! I have not had so much fun since I returned to England. Please, do allow me to escort you.”

  Georgina exchanged a look with Elizabeth, and nodded. “Then, we would be honored. And I promise you, we will leave Lady Kate at home!”

  Alexander laughed. “I thank you for that! I should so hate to have to fish Lady Kate out of Lady Beaton’s Italian fountain.”

  “Why, Wayland! You sly rogue,” Hildebrand exclaimed as they rode away from Lady Elizabeth’s house. “You have solved all your difficulties most neatly, all in one afternoon.”

  Alex frowned. He would never have told anyone of his family’s troubles, if he could help it; crying of misfortunes was not at all his style. But Hildebrand and Freddie had been his friends since they were boys, and when they had come upon him completely foxed one day after dealing with five of Damian’s creditors, he had told them everything.

  Yet Alex could not see that anything much had been solved by their afternoon. They had had a very nice tea with three very lovely ladies—one lovely, redheaded lady in particular. He had also ruined a quite fine coat by wrapping it about a muddy dog; a coat he could ill-afford to replace at present.

  He expressed this to his friends, and added, “How tea and a ruined coat can solve my troubles, I fear I could not say, Hildebrand. Perhaps you would enlighten me?”

  “You nodcock! Don’t try and cozen me. I saw how bent you were on charming Mrs. Beaumont.”

  Alex shrugged. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

  “And a very rich one! She has widow’s portions from three husbands, as well as a rather handsome income from her dabbling in painting.”

  “She is perhaps not entirely respectable—not with the highest sticklers, anyway,” Freddie chimed in. “Racketing all over the Continent by herself.”

  “All the better!” said Hildebrand. “She wouldn’t expect you to live in her pocket. You could do worse, Wayland.”

  Alex was so startled he pulled up his horse right in the middle of the road, causing quite a muddle of the traffic behind them. He stared at his friends, his jaw tight with displeasure. “Are you suggesting,” he said very quietly, “that I pursue Mrs. Beaumont for her money?”

  Hildebrand sputtered. “Why ... is that not what you were thinking of?”

  “It could not be Lady Elizabeth,” Freddie said. “ ‘told Nick’ Hollingsworth is an absolute jealous fiend when it comes to his beloved wife.”

  “I was not thinking of either of those ladies in s
uch a way,” Alex answered, still quiet.

  “Oh, well, I just thought... when you offered to escort them to the Beaton ball ... but I ...” Hildebrand broke off in a state of utter confusion.

  “Oh, look!” cried Freddie in relief. “Here is Wayland’s lodgings.”

  “Indeed it is!” Hildebrand replied, in equal relief. “Well, we shall leave you, then, Wayland. See you at the ball, what?”

  Then the two of them dashed off, leaving Alex alone in front of the narrow town house, where he rented the second floor while he was in London. Clifton House in Grosvenor Square had been lost long ago by Damian.

  He left his horse at the mews at the foot of the garden, and went up to his small sitting room to pour himself a brandy and settle in for a good brood.

  He, marry that lovely Mrs. Beaumont for her money? Distasteful in the extreme.

  Not that he had not thought at all of marrying for money. Really, in the eyes of many, it would be an eminently suitable solution. A wife of means could not only restore Fair Oak, buy a new proper London house, and finance Emily’s launch; she could also guide that launch and help Emily make a good match.

  The wife, of course, in turn, would get to be the Duchess of Wayland. Not a shabby return on investment, some would say. He had even noticed many women eyeing him speculatively at balls and routs.

  Alex had made and discarded many other, less feasible plans to recoup his family’s losses. Some, made in the midst of sleepless nights, had been positively bizarre. He had half made up his mind to look about this Season for someone suitable. Not a young miss, but perhaps someone older, a spinster or a widow. Someone kind and practical, who understood what was expected of her in the marriage and what she could expect in return. Someone he could be friends with; perhaps even admire.

  Someone like—Georgina Beaumont.

  Alex tossed back his brandy, and reached out to pour himself another.

  He truly had not thought of such a thing when he met her that afternoon. He had heard of her, of course; every lady of fashion clamored to have her portrait painted by Mrs. Beaumont. No doubt they paid handsomely for the privilege.