The Choice of a Cavalier (The Heirs of the Aristocracy Book 3)

by Linda Rae Sande

  He had become that vain. That arrogant. An ass of truly monumental proportions. And George had every intention of informing his wife of the situation when he returned to Bostwick House. After giving birth to two sons and two daughters, Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones was quite capable of bestowing a scolding that might actually get through to her brother. George knew this because Elizabeth knew all of Christopher’s names and, like her mother, used them as a prelude to a thorough scolding or a dressing down.

  Once he had his greatcoat pulled on and then his gloves, Christopher bowed before the two women. “I apologize, my lady,” he said before noticing his foil was still on the ground. He bent to retrieve it and then couldn’t help but notice how the young lady with the striking blue eyes and beautiful red lips and probable bleeding gash of a wound stepped back as if to be sure the blade couldn’t once again connect with her person.

  “I meant no harm, of course,” he murmured. “Are you...?” He struggled for a moment before he added, “bleeding?” He let out the breath he had held in his attempt to say the word out loud.

  Juliet couldn’t suppress the sound of disbelief she uttered, but now that he had mentioned the possibility of a wound, she couldn’t help but angle her body so that Beeker could take a look.

  “Your coat is fine, my lady. There might be a bit of a mark there—”

  “I’ll pay to have it replaced,” Christopher said quickly. “Just... have the modiste send the bill to me at Carlington House.” He nearly grimaced at hearing the words, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the bill of sale before he had a chance to pay it.

  David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, hated paying bills, which was one of the reasons Christopher had begun seeing to the day-to-day operations of the marquessate. But that didn’t change Morganfield’s practice of paying with coins or cheques whenever he could.

  “Sir, we have not been introduced,” Juliet said just before she quickly glanced around, fearing they were being noticed by those who had to walk around them. Despite the wintery weather, there were a number of people making their way up and down St. James Street.

  “Ah. I am Christopher, Earl of Haddon,” he said as he bowed again. He moved to take her gloved hand, but she had pulled it into the folds of her coat.

  “I feel awful about what’s happened—”

  “As you should,” Beeker piped up, one of her plump fists moving to rest on an ample hip. “You hurt my mistress with that... that blade of yours. Whatever are you doing swingin’ that about—?”

  “Beeker!” Emily said under her breath. “That’s quite enough,” she scolded. Usually the lady’s maid knew enough to keep quiet when they were in the presence of aristocrats, but the earl’s behavior had been rather odd. And rude.

  “You are right, of course,” Christopher stated. “I should think an eye for an eye is appropriate in this case.”

  Juliet blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “Slap me, my lady.”

  Juliet blinked again and then gave a sideways glance in Beeker’s direction. She wasn’t about to give her a full glance, because she knew the lady’s maid would just encourage her to do the man’s bidding. “I will do no such thing,” she stated. “I am a lady.”

  “I deserve it. A gentleman is never supposed to lose sight of his weapon, let alone allow it to hit another’s person. Especially a young lady’s. Please, slap me.” He straightened and angled his head as if he was preparing for the assault.

  “If I slap you, I should think it will hurt my hand more than it will hurt your face,” she replied, quickly adding, “My lord,” when she remembered that the man was an earl.

  Then she recalled his introduction. Remembered what Lord Bostwick had said.

  This was Haddon. The Earl of Haddon. The one rumored to be an arrogant ass. The one who, the older he got, the more full of himself he seemed to be. The one who was apparently considering another form of suitable punishment even as she considered simply walking away.

  “So, punch me. Anywhere you’d like,” he countered, holding his face in the other direction as if he were giving her a clear shot.

  Juliet pulled her shoulders back and regarded the earl with a look of disbelief. Sighing, she balled up a fist, but rather than taking a swing at his face, she did what her father had taught her to do should a horse misbehave.

  She punched him in the gut.

  Unprepared for such an assault, Christopher gripped both hands to his belly, made a sound of astonishment that might have also been a curse, and doubled over in pain.

  “Damnation,” Juliet whispered as she shook out her gloved hand.

  “Did you just say damnation?” Christopher managed to reply as he unbent his body.

  “Are you wearing a wooden corset?” she countered as she cradled the injured hand in her other palm.

  Christopher shook his head. “Of course not. That was just... me you hit. A rather effective hit, by the way. I shouldn’t wish to anger you further.”

  Juliet’s eyes widened a fraction. Most men the earl’s age were soft in the belly. A bit round, too, as if they were with child. But his middle was solid. Hard. He obviously exercised a great deal. Probably fenced, given the foil that dangled from one hand and the fact that they were standing just beyond the entrance to Angelo’s Fencing Academy.

  “A word of advice if I might?” Juliet asked as she regarded the earl in a different light.

  “Very well,” he replied. He looked as if he was about to lean down and kiss her, his attention entirely on her lips. “And please know that I am very sorry for what happened.”

  Ignoring his last comment for the time being, Juliet said, “Do watch where you point your weapon.” She hooked her arm with her maid’s, dipped a curtsy, and made her way around the earl. “Good day, Lord Bostwick,” she called out, realizing he had only stepped off to the side of the pavement, probably for his own protection. “So good to see you again. Do give my regards to Miss Christina,” she added, referring to his daughter.

  George tipped his hat and gave her a wink before turning his attention to the earl. He inhaled and slowly let out the breath, a white cloud surrounding his face as he did so. “Well, if I’d known a punch in the gut would have your head decreasing in size, I might have tried that last year.”

  Christopher jerked back at hearing the harsh words. “What are you saying?”

  George glanced down the street, watching the backs of the departing women. “You’re going to treat me to a drink at White’s, and then I’m going to tell you what you need to hear.”

  About to argue, Christopher heard the seriousness in his brother-in-law’s voice and saw the flash of anger in his eyes. Perhaps it would be best to hear the man out. “Agreed,” he said.

  The two turned in the direction of Jermyn Street and covered the short distance to the men’s club in quick fashion.

  Chapter 9

  A Verbal Lashing at White’s

  Meanwhile, at White’s men’s club, 37–38 St. James Street

  “Brandy,” George said when asked what he wanted to drink. He hoped the liquor would help warm him as well as provide the courage he required to tell his wife’s brother what he needed to hear.

  “One for me as well,” Christopher said as he settled into a wingback chair. Nestled into a corner of one of the smaller salons, it was near the fireplace and adjacent to the chair George had taken. He couldn’t help but notice that they were the only ones in the room, although they had passed several occupied salons on their way to this one.

  “Thank you for your assistance in front of Angelo’s,” Christopher said when the footman had hurried off to the tap.

  “Have you taken to falling prostrate in front of beautiful young ladies now? Is this what French men do when they wish to stop a woman in her tracks?”

  Christopher blinked at hearing the rebuke in George’s voice. “I didn’t fall deliberately,” he argued. “I...” He paused and took a quick look around the otherwise empty room. “I fainted.”
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  It was George’s turn to blink. “Fainted?” he repeated. “Oh, so now you’re fainting at the sight of beautiful young ladies? How is that working for you?”

  Holding up a staying hand, Christopher said, “No. It’s not like that. I thought... I thought my foil had drawn blood, and I...” He wavered a bit before he took a quick breath and straightened in his chair. “The thought of blood just...” He grimaced before lifting a fist to his mouth.

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t the second-born,” George commented, finally understanding the earl’s squeamishness.

  “I could lead men into battle,” Christopher claimed. “After that, I’d spend the rest of the time on my bum or passed out. I simply cannot abide the sight of blood.”

  “How is it I’ve known you this long and never knew this about you?” George countered.

  “I never saw you bleed.”

  They had met at his sister’s wedding, and although they had engaged in a number of spirited fencing matches, their persons hadn’t suffered damage. George was about to do some now, though, although Christopher’s wounds wouldn’t require a surgeon or bandages.

  “You, sir, have become an ass,” George stated. He was about to say more, but the footman appeared with their drinks, and he was forced to wait until the servant had taken his leave.

  Meanwhile, Christopher’s brows had furrowed as if in confusion. “Is this some sort of—?”

  “I am not joking,” George said. “I am, however, forced to confront you on the matter of your behavior of late.”

  “Behavior?”

  “I am your brother. No one else is going to tell you that you have become a pompous ass—”

  “Oh, so now I’m not just an ass, I’m a pompous—?”

  “Shut up. I am speaking,” George stated firmly. “Upon the occasion of your fortieth birthday, your head grew too large for your body.”

  “My head?” Christopher’s hands lifted to the sides of his head, as if he was testing the comment.

  “You’ve grown vain. You’re demanding. You have begun to act as if the entire world revolves around you, which it does not.”

  “I was at that lecture. The world revolves around the sun,” Christopher said with some excitement.

  “It’s like I’m talking to an idiot,” George said as his hands went to his own head in frustration.

  “I am not an idiot,” Christopher countered.

  George settled back into his chair and took a sip of the brandy, hoping the fortified wine would give him some courage. “Are you even aware of how despicable you’ve become in the past year or so?”

  Christopher’s eyes darted to one side. “Despicable?”

  Clearing his throat, George said, “You’ve become terribly full of yourself. You’ve become a braggart. You’re no longer a pleasant fellow to be around.”

  “Since my fortieth birthday?”

  “Yes. And perhaps even the year before that.”

  “Why the hell has it taken you so long to—?”

  “I had hoped your father might mention it to you,” George said quickly before he allowed an exaggerated sigh. “And if not him, then your mother, who I know is capable of reducing you to a blubbering idiot.”

  Christopher seemed to think on this last point a moment. “My father’s only comment of late has been with respect to my lack of a wife,” he replied, his voice quiet. “Seems I’m not allowed to behave as Torrington did for all those years and marry at six-and-forty as he did.”

  “He was lucky. And he knew who he wanted as his wife,” George argued. “Do you even have anyone in mind?”

  The image of bright blue eyes came to Christopher in a flash, as did the memory of her red lips. The thrust of her fist into his belly had him wincing, but even the memory of that hadn’t diminished his fascination with her. “Who was that young lady I nearly impaled with my foil?”

  George gave a start at the query. “You mean Miss Juliet? Juliet Comber?”

  “Comber?” Christopher repeated, his brows furrowing.

  “Alistair Comber’s daughter. I think you might have employed him to find the team for your phaeton,” George explained. “Expert horseman? Used to be at Tattersall’s for nearly every auction? He’s Aimsley’s son,” he added, referring to the Earl of Aimsley.

  Christopher’s eyes widened. “He’s the one who married Lady Julia,” he said with some excitement.

  “And Juliet is the oldest of their children.”

  “How old is she, do you suppose?” Christopher asked in a faraway voice.

  “Young enough to be your daughter,” George replied, bristling at the thought of Christopher with the young lady. Juliet was gently bred, but she was also her father’s daughter, blessed with keen skills in horsemanship and a way with the beasts that had them doing her bidding.

  Christopher didn’t deserve such a fine young lady.

  “I wish to gain an introduction.”

  George winced. “Your fainting spell must have been worse than I thought. Did you hit your head on the pavement?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I already introduced you to Miss Juliet. In front of Angelo’s.”

  Making a sound of disgust, Christopher said, “I was not at my best. In fact, I’m rather hoping the young lady has completely forgotten the incident.”

  George blinked. “I rather doubt she will ever forget that particular incident,” he replied. “Poor thing probably broke her wrist doing your bidding to harm you, and besides that, she has a marred redingote due to your negligence.”

  “I will pay to replace it,” Christopher stated.

  “She probably has a bruise to go with it, too.” Since he’d been walking away at the time, George hadn’t paid witness to the actual incident. He only learned what had happened when he turned around on the pavement, wondering what might have become of Christopher when the earl hadn’t come up alongside him. Despite his verbal rebuke in Angelo’s, George knew Christopher wouldn’t stay back and lick his wounds. He was too full of himself to believe he had done wrong on the piste.

  “Do you really think so?” Christopher asked, his face displaying the first true expression of sorrow George had ever seen on him. “I could offer to kiss it. Make it better,” he murmured.

  George dropped his head back on his shoulders and stared up at the ceiling’s plasterwork. “You really did hit your head when you fell to the pavement.”

  Christopher regarded his glass of brandy a moment before he lifted a hand to his wavy hair and gingerly pressed his fingers against his scalp. A grimace appeared when he touched a particularly tender spot on one side. “How did you know?” he asked in awe.

  Rolling his eyes, George said, “You’ve a concussion,” he replied. “Which explains some of why you’ve been behaving so strangely.”

  Strangely, but not badly. Ever since George had lifted him from the pavement, Christopher’s manner had been that of an apologetic simpleton. Not the least bit arrogant. He wasn’t his usual cocky, self-assured self.

  “I do sort of feel... off,” Christopher agreed. “Like there was something there that’s been banged out of my head.”

  George stiffened in his chair. “Do you... do you recall what we were doing before you fell?”

  His brows furrowing, Christopher took a moment before he said, “Walking?”

  “And before that?”

  “Fencing?” The word sounded more like a guess than a true memory of what they’d been doing at Angelo’s.

  George leaned forward in his chair. “Do you remember our match?”

  “I remember arranging it.” Christopher blinked a couple of times. “I remember telling the driver where to take me when I stepped into the town coach.” Another moment went by, and his eyes widened. “Good God, why are we here drinking when we haven’t yet performed our match?”

  Dipping his head, George considered how to reply. “We had quite a spirited match, in fact. You showed off your new skills. From whom did you take y
our latest lessons?”

  Christopher inhaled slowly as his eyes darted about. “I went to France. I spent a couple of weeks with Francois-Joseph Bertrand,” he recalled. “He’s quite adamant about turning fencing into a sport rather than leaving it as an art form.”

  “His way is definitely fast,” George remarked, “but I rather prefer to fence the way I learned it. Long phrases, few hits.”

  “Predictable,” Christopher murmured.

  “Perhaps.”

  When Christopher returned his attention to his brandy and didn’t say anything else, George did the same with his own. Another entire minute went by without a word before Christopher said, “So, are we going to Angelo’s now?”

  Blinking, George regarded his brother-in-law with concern. “As I said, we’ve already been. You gave a commanding display of Bertrand’s technique.”

  “I don’t remember doing that.”

  “But you remember Miss Juliet?”

  Christopher’s face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Oh, yes. Blue eyes,” he replied. “Gorgeous lips and the most beautiful voice. Why, I think I would do whatever she told me to.”

  George grimaced, until he noticed how Christopher suddenly sobered, and a hand went to his middle. “What is it?”

  “She has a wicked right fist. I think I love her.”

  Despite his brother’s serious expression, George burst out laughing. “Come, I think we’d best get you home while you still remember how to get there.”

  “But, what about our match?”

  George sighed and said, “Another day. Now, do you remember how you got to Angelo’s this afternoon?”

  “I walked.”

  “From Mayfair?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I...” His eyes darting about, Christopher once again appeared confused. “Rode in a coach, of course.”

  “A hackney?”

  Christopher’s faced screwed into a grimace. “Doubtful.”