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

by Linda Rae Sande

  Christopher allowed a shrug. “I had to see her, of course.”

  “Won’t you be seeing her tomorrow?”

  “Well, yes, but... one-and-twenty hours? I could not wait that long,” Christopher admitted before he took an unsteady breath. “I don’t know what’s happened to me, but—”

  “You hit your head, and you’re not thinking straight.”

  “I’m thinking far straighter than I have in years,” Christopher countered, his voice rising for a moment. He quickly settled back in his chair when the waiter returned with their drinks. “And it’s all because of her. I want her. I need her, Mr. Grandby.”

  Tom was about to chide the earl for his obsessiveness, but after his evening with Victoria, he was beginning to understand. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted Victoria Statton.

  Gabe’s words from a few nights ago came back to him, and he allowed a chuckle. “I have it on good authority that you must chase her until she catches you.”

  Christopher stared at him and then blinked. He looked into his brandy glass and then into Tom’s. “How many of these have you had?”

  “Apparently not enough,” Tom murmured. “Look, it’s just a suggestion, of course, but perhaps it would behoove you to give the young lady a few days to catch up to your affections. If you’re too aggressive with your pursuit of Miss Comber, you will only annoy her,” he explained. “Now that she knows you are enamored with her, you may need to allow her to decide that she has feelings for you.”

  “And if she does not?”

  The look of desperation on the earl’s face had Tom swallowing. “You must be prepared to give up your pursuit of Miss Comber. Turn you attentions to another young lady who might better suit you and the position she must fill as your wife. As your countess.”

  An audible moan erupted from Christopher. “Oh, I suppose there is always Vicky,” he said on a sigh.

  Tom blinked. “Lady Victoria?” he questioned, attempting to tamp down his alarm.

  Christopher nodded. “We would vex one another, but I believe she would agree to a betrothal. I would have to make concessions, of course.”

  “Concessions?”

  “Well, she has to have her horses, which is fine, really.”

  “Go on,” Tom prompted, his alarm turning to something palpable.

  “I would have to agree to forgo any claim to her dowry, since she’s made it quiet clear no man will take it from her,” Christopher continued. “I have my own fortune, of course, so that wouldn’t be a hardship. As for Fairmont Park, I really don’t like the place—it’s too far from town and terribly rustic—but she seems determined to live there.” He sighed. “So I suppose I would keep the house in Mayfair and then pay calls on my wife when I wish to see her.”

  Tom stared at the earl, at first wondering if Christopher was teasing him. Did he know that Tom had come under the woman’s spell? If not, Tom needed to dissuade the earl from considering the duke’s daughter as his future marchioness. “You do realize there are literally hundreds of daughters of the ton in need of husbands?” Tom half-asked. “Young ladies who would love to be wed to you. Who would worship the ground you walk on and never vex you. Who you would grow to adore over time. Love, even, as they bestowed you with lots of babies.”

  Women who are not Lady Victoria.

  Christopher drained his brandy. “I want Juliet Comber.” He set his glass on the table and lifted his gaze to regard Tom. “No other woman will do.”

  Tom stared at the earl, somewhat relieved but now grasping at ideas that might change the young lady’s opinion of the earl.

  For once, he wished Cupid could be summoned.

  “Perhaps you just need to be... you,” Tom suggested. When Christopher grimaced, he added, “Friendly. Obliging. Generous. Humble.”

  “You mean anything but a pompous ass?”

  Tom jerked at hearing the earl’s self-assessment. “Exactly.”

  Christopher inhaled and allowed a nod. “I shall endeavor to do so.”

  Tom watched the earl take his leave, a sense of calm replacing his momentary foreboding.

  He knew one thing for sure.

  He was not going to allow Christopher, Earl of Haddon, to marry Lady Victoria.

  But did that also mean he had to see to it Juliet Comber agreed to marry Haddon?

  He hoped not. He really hoped not.

  Chapter 24

  A Ride in Hyde Park

  Thursday, January 10, 1839, three o’clock in the afternoon

  Juliet nervously watched the clock on her bedchamber’s fireplace mantel. She couldn’t decide if she wanted the hands to move forward or backward.

  Her lady’s maid, Beeker, chattered away as she styled Juliet’s hair, well aware of who was scheduled to take her mistress for a ride in the park.

  “An earl! And a rich one,” Beeker said with excitement.

  Juliet managed a wan smile. For some reason, she had decided this ride in the park would be much like the last trips to the park made by those who were hung at the gallows. The thought of such finality had her daring another glance at the clock.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Oh, if I must be,” Beeker replied, inserting one last pin in Juliet’s hair.

  “You do realize I have to cover most of my hair with a hat?” Juliet asked rhetorically. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “But when he brings you back, it will be time for tea, and you can show it off then.”

  Juliet blinked. She hadn’t thought about what came after the ride in the park. “I don’t know that I’m to invite him to tea,” she said with uncertainty. “I’ll ask Mother.”

  Williamson’s footfalls sounded from the corridor, and Juliet allowed a sigh of resignation. “I suppose I must go.”

  “Well, ye needn’t say it like ye was going to the gallows,” Beeker scolded.

  Juliet gave her maid a quelling glance and met the butler at the door.

  “I know,” she said before Williamson could announce her caller.

  The butler blinked and then nodded. “I put him in the salon.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Juliet realized Williamson might have put Christopher in the salon, but Christopher certainly hadn’t stayed there. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with an expression much like that of a puppy dog. The sight had her smiling despite her earlier sense of foreboding. “Good afternoon, Haddon.” She managed a curtsy on the last step.

  “My Juliet, you are a vision,” Christopher said as he leaned over her hand and kissed the back of it. “I regret it’s not a warmer day, so that you might be spared the need to cover your gorgeous hair with a hat.”

  Juliet blinked as color suffused her face. Had he been listening in on her conversation with Beeker? “You are kind to make mention of it, my lord,” she said as she regarded him. “My maid has been fussing over it for some time.”

  Still standing on the last step, her eyes were even with his. For a moment, Juliet could not have looked away if she wanted to, for he seemed determined to mesmerize her with his gaze.

  “Will she be joining us on our jaunt this afternoon?”

  Juliet had completely forgotten about the need for a chaperone, but before she could respond, her father appeared from the study and said, “I think we can forgo a chaperone just this once.”

  Awestruck, Christopher turned and nodded to Alistair. “Your trust is noted, Mr. Comber. I shall comport myself with the utmost propriety,” he claimed.

  When her father turned his gaze on her, Juliet had to quickly hide her own shock and say, “As will I.”

  “Have her home in an hour, my lord,” Alistair said. “Tea will be served at four o’clock.”

  “I will, sir.” With that Christopher offered his arm to Juliet, and she took the last step down.

  “Will we be riding on your phaeton?” she asked, concerned about how heavy a redingote to wear.

  “I brought the barouche and unfolded the hood. There’s a hot bri
ck for your feet and plenty of quilts to keep us warm,” he said as they paused in the entry so Juliet could don a coat and hat.

  The mention of quilts sent an odd sensation fluttering through Juliet’s mid-section. Although they would be riding in an open carriage, his barouche’s hood would essentially hide them from anyone except those riding toward them.

  Williamson helped her with her coat while Christopher pulled on his black wool greatcoat and then his black riding gloves. With the addition of a low profile top hat, he cut a fine figure.

  He once again offered his arm, and Juliet placed her hand on it, managing to grab a muff just before they took their leave.

  “You must let me know if it becomes too chilly for you,” Christopher said as he held out a hand to help her into the barouche. But Juliet’s attention had gone to the perfectly matched pair of horses in front.

  “Where did these black shires come from?” she asked in awe. She lifted a gloved hand and slid it up the first horse’s head, cooing softly as she did so. She repeated the move with the other horse, angling her head in delight when the first horse nickered. “They’re gorgeous.”

  Christopher joined her, secretly thrilled she seemed so impressed with his team. “At Tattersall’s. Your father helped me pick them out,” he replied. “I bought them for my phaeton, but they do just as well for the barouche.”

  “They are stunning with your black barouche,” Juliet remarked as she fished for a carrot in her redingote pockets. She pulled one out and broke it in half, immediately endearing herself to the matched pair.

  “You needn’t curry favor, my sweet. They already adore you,” Christopher said with a grin. “As do I.”

  Juliet inhaled softly upon hearing his endearment and then dipped her head when he made his claim. “You hardly know me,” she murmured.

  “Nor you me, I suppose. Which is why I wanted to spend the afternoon in your company.” He led her to the side of the barouche and assisted as she stepped up and into the equipage. He followed her in, and they settled onto the single seat lined with several quilts. At their feet were bricks, still warm in their wrappings.

  The earl quickly unfurled a quilt and settled it over their legs while he reached behind her to wrap the edges of the quilt around Juliet’s shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”

  Between inhaling the Bay Rum scent of Christopher’s cologne and sensing the close proximity of his body, Juliet felt a sudden rush of heat. “I am. And you?”

  Christopher unwrapped the reins from the pole. “I have felt nothing but warmth since the moment I laid eyes upon you, my sweet,” he replied. He set the horses into motion, merging them into the afternoon traffic in South Audley Street.

  Despite the layers of quilts, Juliet was sure her thigh was touching the earl’s. Given the quilts and the size of the bench, she feared if she attempted to shift away, Christopher would notice. She was arguing the merits of moving in her head when she realized he had turned his head in her direction.

  “I do hope you’re not uncomfortable sitting so close to me.”

  Juliet sighed. “I wouldn’t be, except I cannot help but think someone will notice.”

  “And if they do?”

  Her eyes widened with a combination of shock and annoyance. “There will be gossip,” she countered.

  Christopher seemed about to agree—happily—but then he settled back in the seat and took a deep breath, his broad shoulders brushing against hers. “No one will see us tucked in here,” he assured her, moving his free hand to take one of hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of her kid glove. “You needn’t concern yourself, my sweet.”

  Juliet was sure the space under the hood seemed to warm considerably more. For a moment, she imagined what life would be like with such a doting husband. ‘My sweet’ were words of endearment she hadn’t expected to hear from the earl, especially this soon in his pursuit of her.

  Struggling for a topic of conversation, she remembered what had them meeting each other in the first place.

  Fencing.

  “How long have you been fencing?”

  Christopher’s face lit up with his smile. “Since I was at Eton,” he replied. “At one time, I thought I might enjoy bare knuckle fighting, but I have since decided I prefer a more elegant sport. There is a version of fencing that I find very challenging, though—more physical, if you will—and I prefer it to the classical version practiced here in town.”

  Juliet gave a start. “Bare knuckle fighting? Have you ever punched someone?”

  Christopher dared a glance in her direction before he saw to turning the team south onto Park Lane. “Indeed. I punched Lord Wessex once, much like you did me.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked in surprise.

  “He thought I was pursuing Lord Lancaster’s daughter with the idea of ruining her. And although I liked—like Analise—”

  “Lady Wessex?” Juliet countered, just then understanding to whom he was referring. “Soon to be Lady Middleton?” There was talk Lord Wessex’ father, the Earl of Middleton, was quite ill and might die at any time.

  “The very one. I never once did anything to besmirch her reputation, nor did I have a thought of making her my wife,” Christopher claimed. “I was fresh out of Oxford. Far too young to be marrying.”

  Juliet did the math. Lady Wessex had probably been married as long as Juliet had been alive. “She has four children now,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “I am well aware. You reminded me of her that day in front of Angelo’s.”

  “Oh?” Juliet couldn’t imagine how she could be compared to Analise Lancaster Merriweather, Viscountess Wessex. The viscountess always seemed so elegant, so refined.

  “She knew what she wanted. Whom she wanted, I should say,” he explained.

  “And who was that?”

  “Well, Wessex, of course. I knew the first time I met Miss Analise at a ball that no one else would do for her,” he explained. “Wessex was of the same mind about her, so I only had to pretend a tendre for her. Tricked her father into believing I might have designs on her. His attentions were entirely on me, which allowed Wessex to court Analise right under her father’s nose.”

  Juliet’s eyes widened. “So... you helped Lord Wessex? Despite having punched him?” Her opinion of the earl shifted slightly. Perhaps he wasn’t as selfish as she might have first thought.

  Christopher allowed a shrug. “I thought of it as helping Miss Analise, if you must know,” he said, a dimple appearing in one of his cheeks.

  Remembering his earlier words, Juliet asked, “What do you think it is that I want?” She wasn’t about to ask who he thought she wanted. She certainly didn’t want to offend him, but she had no intention of claiming to want Christopher.

  Once again turning his attention to her, the earl said, “To own and run your own stables, of course. Much like Vicky does.”

  Juliet inhaled sharply. “You say that as if you don’t mind.”

  Christopher allowed a shrug. “Why would I? I want you to be happy. I wouldn’t think to deny you anything you wanted.” His face suddenly displayed a more serious expression. “Although I would deny you the freedom to take a lover. There will be no other man allowed in your bed. Nor would you be allowed in his.”

  Incensed by his even suggesting such a situation might occur, Juliet straightened on the bench. “How dare you think such a thing,” she scolded.

  Christopher blinked. “I didn’t,” he argued, his gaze quickly darting to the side when a sudden movement caught his attention. Another horse had pulled up directly on his left.

  “You just did, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Juliet countered, her ire evident.

  Leaning forward, Christopher peered out around the front edge of the unfolded hood of the barouche and allowed a curse. “Hold on, my sweet!”

  A phaeton heading in the same direction as they were going nearly collided with them, and Christopher was forced to pull back on the reins. One of the ribbons slipped th
rough his gloved hands, though, and the barouche suddenly swerved as the horse on the left continued his trot while the one on the right attempted to slow down, the pole between them shifting.

  Both Christopher and Juliet were jerked sideways in the barouche, which left Juliet leaning heavily against him. She struggled to right herself, but Christopher took hold of the ribbons in one hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, forcing her to his side in order to protect her from being slammed against the side of the barouche.

  Juliet wriggled in his hold. “Unhand me,” she demanded.

  Still holding the reins one-handed, Christopher found he needed both hands in order to control the team. “Hang on, my sweet,” he said as he gave up his hold on her at the very moment the horses straightened in the yoke and once again resumed their original course.

  The barouche swayed to the right to compensate, and Christopher was sent sliding sideways, crushing Juliet against her side of the barouche. “Get off me!” she cried out, attempting to push the earl away, her hands still stuffed in her muff.

  Meanwhile, the phaeton pulled by a single horse moved ahead of them by a few feet, and one of the occupants glanced in their direction.

  “Why, good afternoon, Haddon!” a woman called out.

  Juliet leaned forward, mortified to see Lady Parkerhouse. She quickly leaned back, right onto Christopher’s outstretched arm.

  “How do, my lady? Fine day for a ride, is it not?” he called out.

  “Well, it would be if I could drive this beast,” the young widow replied, her words followed by a titter. “Why, I nearly ran you off the road.”

  “No harm done,” Christopher said with a nod as he waved a gloved hand. He directed the horses to take the turn into Hyde Park while the phaeton sped on its way down Park Lane. Once they were through the gate, he pulled the barouche to a halt.

  The earl turned to Juliet, his eyes wide. “Are you all right, my sweet? I am so sorry about what happened.”

  Juliet stared at him. “Sorry?” she repeated in disbelief. “You were flirting with her!”