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

by Linda Rae Sande

  Parker held out a pair of cream-colored trousers. “You were saying that name when I woke you this afternoon.”

  His eyes darting to the side, Christopher turned to find the clock on the fireplace mantel displaying ten-before-two. “Is that the right time?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I slept past noon?” He took the trousers from Parker, but did so as if they might explode.

  “You did, sir. As you usually do.”

  Christopher turned a frightened gaze on his valet. “Since when?” He sat down on the edge of the bed, mostly to prevent himself from falling down.

  Parker regarded him with a perfectly arched brow. “Did you hit your head, sir?”

  A sound of disbelief erupted from his master, but the valet merely moved to the edge of the bed, knelt, and pulled stockings onto Christopher’s feet. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir. You’re... different today.”

  “How so?”

  “Like... you woke up and just realized half your life has passed you by.”

  Christopher struggled to keep a passive expression on his face, mostly to keep the lines from showing, but also because the valet’s words were true. “Something like that,” he murmured.

  Parker helped him into his trousers and asked, “Is this Juliet the one then?”

  Dipping his head at the reminder of Juliet Comber, Christopher wondered at the sense of peace that settled over him just then. At the calm that seemed to surround him like a warm blanket. He imagined taking her into his arms and kissing her senseless, stripping her bare and making love to her. Of waking up in the morning and finding her tucked against his body. Of her making love to him as the sun barely lit the sky.

  Juliet.

  “Juliet,” he murmured on a sigh.

  “Are you courting her, sir?”

  Christopher absently shook his head. “She punched me in the stomach yesterday.”

  Parker jerked back and regarded the earl with a frown that added at least ten years to his age. “That would be a no, then.” He suddenly grimaced. “Is that when you hit your head?”

  Lost in thought, Christopher absently lifted his hand to where a goose egg had formed on the side of his head. He winced at the pain, but a slight smile touched his lips. “No,” he whispered. “Before, I think it was.” Knowing he was about to live that unfortunate moment when he had thought he had wounded her with his foil, Christopher struggled to come back from his reverie. “I fell at her feet, prostrate before her,” he murmured.

  Blinking, Parker cleared his throat as he held a waistcoat open. “She must be the one, then. I cannot imagine you doing that with anyone else. Or with anyone, for that matter.”

  Christopher stared at the waistcoat. “That’s far too elaborate for the day,” he complained. “Juliet will think I’m a peacock if I show up at her door wearing that.”

  Parker’s jaw dropped. “Uh, yes, sir.” He moved into the dressing room and brought out a more conservative waistcoat, one with simpler embroidery.

  “That’s more like it,” Christopher said as he allowed the valet to help him into the garment before he did the buttons.

  “It’s good to have you back, sir,” Parker said with a nod.

  “Back from where?”

  “From wherever you’ve been these past few years, sir.”

  Christopher remembered his conversation with his mother. “You mean, since I turned forty?”

  Parker nodded. “Mayhap a year before that.”

  “Seems I have much to atone for,” Christopher whispered. “But first, I must court and marry Juliet.”

  The valet’s eyes darted sideways before he said, “Very good, sir.”

  Christopher was already in his town coach settling into the leather squabs when it dawned on him that he had no idea where Juliet Comber lived.

  The trap door above opened and the driver said, “Where to, sir?”

  “Do you know where Mr. Alistair Comber lives?”

  “The equine expert, sir?”

  “That would be him,” Christopher replied, his opinion of the driver rising a notch.

  “I do not.”

  The opinion dropped a notch.

  “However, I can find out in a few moments.” The trap door closed and Christopher was left wondering who the driver would be bothering with such a query.

  The coach lurched into motion and proceeded down Park Lane, but stopped after only a few houses. Christopher watched from the window as the driver hurried to the servants’ entrance of what he just then realized was Harrington House, home to the Earl of Mayfield. A few minutes later, and the driver bounded back up onto the seat and the coach once again moved.

  Curious, Christopher tapped his cane against the trap door. A second later, and the driver appeared, his head silhouetted against a wintery sky.

  “Sir?”

  “Pray tell, why did you stop at Mayfield’s house?”

  The driver’s attention briefly turned back to the street before he said, “Mr. Comber is in charge of his lordship’s stables at Harrington House. He’s not there today, though, as there was an auction this morning at Tattersall’s. The stableboy gave me the address for his townhouse, though. It’s not far.”

  “Ah, very good,” Christopher replied, his opinion of the driver going up two notches.

  He watched through the window as they made a turn off of Park Lane and then were in South Audley Street. Before they had made it to the next intersection, the coach slowed and came to a halt in front of a fashionable townhouse decorated with green wrought iron fencing, window boxes topped with mounds of snow and a front door painted in deep blue.

  The coach door opened and Christopher glanced west—he could almost see Hyde Park— and then turned to discover they weren’t far from Carlington House in Park Lane.

  “Good God, I could have walked,” he murmured under his breath.

  “Would you like me to wait for you, sir?”

  “Please do,” Christopher replied. If this meeting with Mr. Comber went well, he might be taking Juliet on a ride in the park. If it did not go well, he would be heading to White’s.

  He stepped up to the front door, but before he could lift the brass mermaid door knocker, the door opened.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” a rather portly butler said as he gave a nod.

  “Lord Haddon to see Mr. Comber.” Christopher flicked a calling card between two fingers, the pasteboard landing in the butler’s palm.

  The butler opened the door wider. “I’ll see if Mr. Comber is in residence. Would you care to wait in the salon?” The servant indicated the room to the left of the front door.

  Christopher glanced in, his first thought that it appeared a bit pink. But he gave a shrug and moved to take a seat in a floral upholstered chair that faced the fireplace.

  He sank into the cushions with a sigh, deciding it wasn’t so bad to be surrounded by pink peonies. The chair was more comfortable than anything in his mother’s salon.

  Imagining a chair this comfortable in his own home, perhaps in his study once he inherited Carlington House from his father, Christopher barely registered the butler as the portly man turned and made his way in measured steps to the stairs.

  Christopher turned his head and watched through the salon’s open door as the butler climbed them, wondering on which floor Comber might have his study.

  Or perhaps he hadn’t yet returned from Tattersall’s.

  For a moment, Christopher felt a bit of panic. What if he couldn’t speak with Juliet’s father? Time was of the essence.

  He wasn’t getting any younger.

  If the butler returned to tell him that Mr. Comber wasn’t in residence, then he would ask for Juliet. He could apprise her of his desire to court her and reassure her that he wasn’t the pompous ass his reputation claimed.

  He was so lost in thought, he didn’t realize Alistair Comber stood before him until a hand waved in front of his face.

  “Mr. Comber,” he said as he jerked into awarene
ss. His host wore a banyan and sported hair that appeared as if feminine fingers had been playing in it. He also wore an expression that could best be described as one of annoyance. “It’s very good to see you again.”

  Alistair’s eyes widened. “I’m surprised you remember me. My lord, you’ll have to excuse my lack of proper dress, but—”

  “I’ve interrupted an afternoon tryst,” Christopher said with some consternation. “Please, accept my apologies—”

  “She’s asleep,” Alistair said as his gaze darted sideways. “Look, if you’re here about what happened in front of Angelo’s yesterday—”

  “I am,” Christopher affirmed with a nod.

  “My daughter is uninjured, and there is nothing you need do to make amends.”

  “I am heartened to hear it,” Christopher replied. “But that is not the reason for my call.”

  Alistair frowned as he ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to put it back into place. The butler’s knock at his bedchamber door had woken him from a blissful post-coital sleep, one in which his head had come to rest next to one of his wife’s soft breasts. Her fingers had speared his dark hair, their nails sending shivers through his scalp just as the last of his release had left him sated and sleepy.

  Two times in two days had him feeling young again.

  He nearly fired the butler.

  Instead, he had absently pulled on his dressing robe, his mind so addled and his manner so annoyed, he hadn’t even thought of pulling on proper clothes. Now he stood before an earl—the heir to the Morganfield marquessate—and feared what was to come.

  “Then, what is?” he asked, curious as to why Haddon would pay a call on him.

  “I wish to court your daughter.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Alistair replied quickly. “Juliet has happily forgiven you. She knows what happened yesterday was all just an accident.”

  “Yes, but... I have given this a great deal of thought, and find I cannot put her from my mind. I’m quite besotted.”

  “Besotted?” Alistair blinked at the earl, quite sure he had never heard a man use the term before.

  “It’s very possible I have fallen in love with her.”

  Alistair frowned, suddenly wondering if he was still asleep and merely experiencing a nightmare. Yes, that was it. That could be the only explanation as to why the Earl of Haddon was in his wife’s salon, sitting in a chair featuring pink peonies and claiming he was besotted with Juliet.

  There was another possibility, though.

  “Did you hit your head?” Alistair asked, an expression of concern replacing the look of shock that had appeared there only the moment before.

  Christopher gave him a quelling glance. “She told you, did she? I assure you, this...” He raised a hand to the side of his head. “This bump is a reminder of who I truly am.”

  Alistair was about to say, “A pompous ass?” but caught himself in time. He was speaking to an earl, after all. One who had apparently developed a fondness for his daughter. “And what might that be?”

  “Well, not a pompous ass, if that’s what you were thinking.” Christopher sighed when he saw the guilty look flash over his host’s face. He was about to say more, but the butler appeared at the door with a tea tray.

  “Ah, yes. You can just set that down over here,” Alistair said as he moved to sit in a chair adjacent to the earl. The tray was placed on the low table in front of them, and the butler saw to pouring the tea.

  “Would you like brandy in your tea, my lord?”

  “Just a lump of sugar is all,” Christopher replied, and then he turned to Alistair to add, “I’d best keep a clear head. This is my first time for courting anyone. And hopefully last, of course.”

  “A... about that,” Alistair stammered as he accepted a cup of tea. “It’s really not necessary for you to marry my daughter.”

  “But it is. I cannot imagine anyone else to be my wife.”

  Alistair was about to chide his caller for his lack of imagination, but the fact that the earl would one day hold the title of marquess stilled his tongue. “Surely there is a woman with closer ties to a duke or a... a marquess you should be considering.”

  Christopher seemed to ponder the comment before he said. “Perhaps, but Vicky—”

  “Vicky?”

  “Lady Victoria. Somerset’s daughter. She’s still unwed, and I’ve known her for years, but I’ll not take second or third place to horses.” He dipped his head. “That sounded a bit pompous, didn’t it?”

  “Surprisingly, not,” Alistair replied. “It’s interesting you should mention Lady Victoria, though, since she is hosting my daughter today.”

  “Oh?”

  From the sound of the two-syllable “oh,” Alistair thought he might have made a mistake in mentioning just where his daughter could be found. “Juliet spends Tuesdays with her ladyship. Riding horses, of course. Training horses. Talking about horses.” Perhaps he could dissuade the earl from his interest in Juliet by extolling her interest in horses.

  “I would expect nothing less from a young lady whose father is London’s leading equine expert,” Christopher stated.

  Alistair blinked at hearing the earl’s assessment of him.

  Perhaps he should be encouraging a courtship.

  “A young lady needs a hobby. A cause to champion. Something about which to be passionate. My sister has always had her charities,” Christopher continued, referring to Elizabeth Bennett-Jones, Viscountess Bostwick. “And I would expect Juliet to be no different.” He took a drink from his tea and said, “I don’t want an insipid English miss for a wife, Mr. Comber. I want a woman who will stand up to me should I do something... pompous.”

  “Like punch you in the gut?”

  Christopher rolled his eyes. “I felt horrid about that. Her poor hand. I’m sure she thought my belly would be soft, but I’ve been determined not to go fat with age. I fence and I ride. I do not stuff myself at meals, despite the urge to do so.” When he noted Alistair’s arched brow, he added, “I think that must be the Italian side of me.”

  Alistair nodded. “Ah. Well. If you are seeking permission to court Juliet, then you have it,” he said carefully.

  “That is all I ask.”

  “But I will not force my daughter to marry you if she does not wish to,” Alistair warned.

  Christopher nodded. “I understand. I must woo her. Convince her I am worthy of her. Treat her like a queen.”

  Alistair allowed a wan grin. “She is my only daughter.”

  “She will be my only love,” Christopher promised.

  Staring at the earl in disbelief, Alistair said, “You really did hit your head, didn’t you?”

  Christopher nodded. “Best thing that ever happened to me.” He straightened in the chair and added, “Please give my compliments to Mrs. Comber on these chairs. I have decided I rather like pink peonies.”

  Blinking with his continued disbelief, Alistair said, “I will.”

  Alistair stood when the earl did and led him to the front door. When Christopher offered his hand, he shook it and said, “Good luck.”

  Christopher smiled, his face youthening at least a decade. “Thank you.” He took his leave as Alistair stared after him, the older man wondering how he was going to break the news to his wife.

  Worse, though, was he couldn’t imagine how he would tell Juliet.

  Chapter 15

  An Invigorating Ride

  Meanwhile, at Fairmont Park

  Garbed in their riding habits—Victoria in her breeches and short jacket and Juliet in a traditional navy velvet habit with epaulets at the shoulders—the two met at the top of the stairs. “I thought you would already be at the stables,” Juliet said as they started to make their way down.

  “I had trouble with my boot,” Victoria complained as she reached for the railing. Although she could usually make it down the stairs without assistance, she wasn’t yet sure her bad foot was firmly ensconced in the box of its boot. She felt
her foot shift a bit and she sighed in relief as it settled properly.

  “Better?” Juliet asked with concern as she paused on a wide step.

  “Much. Sometimes it just doesn’t go in as it should.”

  Their attentions were drawn to the front door. Clark, the butler, was speaking to someone who stood beyond the door before he opened it wider to reveal the caller.

  Tom Grandby.

  “Mr. Grandby,” Victoria said with some surprise. The oddest sensation, pleasant and entirely unexpected, had her moving her hand to her midsection as she took in the sight of the tall, dark-haired man.

  As was the case the Saturday before, he wore exquisitely tailored clothes, his topcoat of a deep blue wool, his embroidered waistcoat a scarlet that perfectly matched the gown Victoria had been wearing only the hour before, and dove gray trousers. His top hat was tucked under one arm.

  “Lady Victoria,” he replied. He turned his attention to Juliet and bowed. “Miss Comber. I see I have come at an inopportune time. I will simply leave these—”

  “Nonsense,” Victoria said as she hurried down the rest of the stairs. Although she didn’t offer her hand, Tom was quick to take it and brush his lips over the bare knuckles. He did the same with Juliet, although she had already pulled on her gloves. “We were just headed to the stables.” She noted the papers he held in his gloved hand, and her eyes widened. “Is that the paperwork for the investment? Already?”

  “It is,” he acknowledged, his gaze briefly darting to Juliet. “My clerk completed the copies of the contract about an hour ago, along with the terms and such. I can come back and we can go over them in more detail when it’s convenient for you.”

  Victoria and Juliet exchanged quick glances. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Should you be of a mind to sign anything, you’ll note there is a line for a witness to sign as well, so you’ll want to be doing the actual signature in someone’s presence.”

  “Will that be you?”

  He shook his head. “It shouldn’t be, as I will already be signing as your advisor. I don’t wish there to appear to be any hint of impropriety.”