“Now, my lord,” chided Evangeline with a brittle laugh. She might be sitting next to her husband, even look the portrait of a marchioness in an embroidered gold gown with the Pinehurst emeralds at her neck and threaded through her coiffure, but the gulf between them was wider than the English Channel. “Finlay is just excited to see Pippa.”
His father sat forward, a malicious glint in his bloodshot eyes. “I hear Devonshire is attending the soiree. What a coup for Lady Kingsford if not one but two of her granddaughters were duchesses. The dowager has done a fine job in correcting those girls; what with the late mother’s common blood and all. Don’t know what Kingsford was thinking, marrying the likes of her. Oh no, wait, I do. The fool thought himself in love. Now there’s a sentiment entirely unnecessary for marriage. Duty, that’s what is important.”
Finn’s hands nearly curled into fists, especially at his mother’s wince. Instead, he concentrated on drumming his fingers on his knee as though bored with the conversation rather than furious. “As you often say.”
“I say it because it’s true…” his father paused for a coughing fit. “Our family has a proud history. Knighton. Strong, brave warriors who never flinched in offering service to the crown, even when the crown was regrettably worn by a woman. But here you are, wasting your time housing bastards and bedding other men’s wives—”
“Pinehurst, please,” said Evangeline, her cheeks bright red.
“Do not interrupt, madam. You birthed one child when my peers were presented with a half-dozen at least. You’re as much a failure as your son is.”
Christ. How often had they heard that tale of woe? Yet it was only directed at his wife; apparently his own mother and Lady Kingsford having birthed one child was quite acceptable.
Goddamned sack of shit hypocrite.
Finn counted backward from twenty as the silence seethed with his fury, his father’s bitter resentment, and his mother’s hurt. He didn’t want to hate his own father, but Pinehurst made it impossible with his cruel declarations and standards that could never be met. No doubt if they’d gone to Waterloo and captured Napoleon himself, it would have been done on the wrong day, at the wrong time, in the wrong way.
Thankfully the carriage in front of them finally moved on from the double doors of Kingsford House, and they were able to disembark.
While the cream stone façade and four-bay length made the Nash family townhouse look large and modern, inside was something quite different. For some unknown reason it paid homage to the Tudor era; all narrow hallways and stairs, small, diamond-paned windows, and enough dark paneling to make the rooms feel small and oppressive even when they weren’t. Sure, the entrance hall wasn’t an emotionless blank canvas, but warmth could be sucked from any space with Lady Kingsford leading the receiving line wearing her usual lilac gown and diamonds.
After his parents greeted the dowager then moved along to shake hands with Lord Kingsford, Northam, Pippa, and Georgiana, Finn made his bow.
“Knighton,” the elderly woman said, gazing at him the way an insect enthusiast might size up a pinned moth. “I am pleased your father is here.”
“Lady Kingsford,” he replied cheerfully, just to annoy. “Honored to be here also.”
“One does try to be charitable…ah, my dear Lord Campbell. How delightful to see you. Welcome to my humble soiree. And…Lady Campbell.”
Finn glanced back and exchanged an eye roll with his favorite baroness, a fellow member of the Lady Kingsford disfavor club. The dowager couldn’t ignore or exclude them, they were too well-connected for that, so relied on barbs as punishment. Yet she adored Campbell, though. Ugh. Those two plus his father could only be described as an unholy trinity. But it didn’t matter anyway, he and Pippa would win the day with their betrothal announcement.
Finn bowed to Pippa’s father. “Evening.”
“Evening, Knighton,” said Lord Kingsford pleasantly. “Glad to see you, as always. Must offer my thanks for yet another service, keeping Exton company while Lilian was in childbed. ‘Tis an anxious wait for a husband, that.”
He grinned. “Congratulations on becoming a grandfather, my lord.”
The earl beamed in return. “Amanda holds my whole heart in her tiny hand already. Sweet as spun sugar, that one. And such a perfect name—”
“You two are holding up the line,” said Lady Kingsford, her low tone cracking like a whip.
“Heaven forfend,” muttered Northam, shaking Finn’s hand. “I’ll add my thanks. Would’ve liked to have been there, but another urgent matter required my attention.”
Finn nodded. Most thought the young and vibrantly dressed viscount was no more than a feckless, charming rake, but sometimes he wondered if Pippa’s twin didn’t have his own secrets. Northam could be exceedingly vague when it came to his plans and whereabouts. “No trouble at all.”
“Good evening, Finn. Are you well?”
Pippa. Like a crisp breeze on an overwarm day, standing beside Northam and looking beautiful yet uncharacteristically dramatic in scarlet, spectacles perched low on her nose. She was anxious though, and he wanted to wrap her in another comforting embrace. Discreetly squeezing her hand would have to suffice, but it would never compare to the paradise of holding her. “I am well. Eagerly anticipating the events to come. Let me also compliment you on a most fetching gown.”
“I was instructed to wear white but got confused,” she said placidly.
Finn laughed. The dowager would hate this color. “It happens.”
“Hurry up, you two,” said Georgiana, holding out her hand for Finn to bow over. “You are preventing me liberating some of Father’s brandy to fortify my nerves before the string quartet begins in earnest. Quite unforgiveable.”
“Humblest apologies, Little G,” he replied. “But now I know what to purchase for your next birthday. A reticule-sized silver flask.”
She winked, the action entirely at odds with her angelic appearance in white satin. “That could be acceptable. Continue on with such notions, and one day you might even make it into my good graces.”
Finn’s lips twitched. No way would a gentleman skunk ever tame this minx. He almost pitied the man who genuinely fell in love with her; Georgiana’s husband would require nerves of steel. “One can only strive.”
Now he’d reached the end of the receiving line, he sauntered into the fussy drawing room near-bursting with people despite the weather outside and the fact that parliament had only just returned to session. When Lady Kingsford issued an invitation, one had to practically be on their deathbed to decline, although as his father had demonstrated, even that was negotiable. The only high-ranking couple not here were Gabriel and Lilian; she wouldn’t attend events again until after she was churched. However, there were a plethora of politicians, peers, Almack’s patronesses, and ambassadors, even two of the unmarried royal dukes. That would set tongues wagging that they weren’t as opposed to a bride as they had previously demonstrated.
“Evening, Knighton. Quite a crush, isn’t it?”
Surprised at the greeting, Finn turned and bowed to the lanky, dark-haired Duke of Devonshire. If it weren’t for the company William Cavendish kept and the marital plots he agreed to, they might have even been friends, for they had a fair amount in common. Similar age, tumultuous upbringings with cold fathers, mothers who stepped out with other men, and secret half-sisters. The poor duke had inherited the title as a raw twenty-one-year-old, though, a burden he wouldn’t wish on anyone. “Devonshire. Don’t want to alarm you, but as we speak there are at least two dozen young ladies watching your every movement.”
“They are probably watching you as well, plenty would be well satisfied to be a viscountess and eventually a marchioness. Sometimes I consider propping up a life-sized mannequin of myself against a wall and fleeing to my greenhouse, see if anyone actually notices I’m gone.”
“I’m sure they would. Eventually. When you failed to dance or fetch lemonade.”
“Exactly. I’m sincerely looking forward to being a h
usband, and thus as exciting as barley water to the marriage-minded mamas and their offspring.”
You cannot have Pippa!
Finn inhaled deeply rather than snarling the words and demanding a dawn appointment. “Er, yes. Quite—”
“Devonshire, there you are,” said Lady Kingsford crisply, curling a proprietary hand around the duke’s arm. “Why don’t we go and find dear Pippa. I heard it from her own lips that she is greatly anticipating this evening. A little dancing, a little supper with my granddaughter sounds just the thing before the grand announcement does it not?”
Grand announcement?
Finn froze, but the duke politely murmured, “Indeed, my lady.”
“Excellent…Knighton, be a good boy and go tend your father. His cheeks are quite flushed. Devonshire and I have important business we must see to.”
Shit.
As usual, Lady Kingsford was advancing plots, and was about to unleash a nasty surprise on Pippa.
He had to get to his best friend first.
She didn’t like this drawing room when empty, but once filled to overflowing with people, it reeked of perfume, sweat, wilting flowers, burning firewood, and various supper platters. A combination to turn anyone’s stomach; but far worse: Finn was nowhere to be found.
Pippa craned her head, even went up on her tip-toes to get a better view, but while she could see Xavier and Georgiana each holding court in a corner, and her father talking with several politicians, no Finn.
Argh.
After landing the first blow with her scarlet gown, to be this close to victory over Grandmother made the wait unbearable. A public betrothal offered so much freedom; no more forced dancing, supper conversations, or murdered flowers. Though her father knew nothing about the plan, he liked Finn and was always amenable to something that required no effort on his part to achieve, so she remained confident he would raise no objection. But it needed to be announced at once, just for peace of mind.
“Pippa, dear. There you are.”
She shuddered. Grandmother only called her dear in public, and only in front of exalted company. Right now, that was the Duke of Devonshire, and the man was being towed like a shipwreck chained to a barge. “Indeed, here I am, Grandmother. Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Lady Pippa,” he said perfunctorily, looking every inch a wealthy duke in his immaculate black jacket, elaborate cravat, and gray satin breeches. “May I escort you to the supper table?”
If she had any feelings at all for Devonshire, the complete absence of lust, affection, or adoration in his gaze would have stung. Gracious, how did couples navigate marriage when they didn’t even like each other?
“Pippa would adore that,” said Lady Kingsford. “Run along with the duke now.”
“I was just looking for someone,” said Pippa. “Perhaps soon.”
Grandmother pinned her with a frigid gaze. “Perhaps now.”
The fact that glare still made her shrivel inside was infuriating. She was just one elderly woman, not a handmaiden of the devil. Well, not an official handmaiden.
The duke’s brow furrowed. “If not supper, a dance perhaps?”
“Yes,” said Grandmother approvingly. “Go on, Pippa. What a fine pair you’ll make…isn’t that right, everyone? My granddaughter and Devonshire?”
It felt like hundreds of eyes were abruptly upon her, and the soiree guests moved closer, like a pack of hunting dogs circling an injured fox.
“Supper,” Pippa gritted out. “I have an urgent craving for…berry tarts.”
“One tart, dear. Nobody likes a glutton, especially a lady soon to be a duch…oh no, I almost said too much, didn’t I, Your Grace?”
Her heart plummeted as the pack eyes lit up and loud whispers began. Grandmother was truly despicable; no villain in a romance novel even came close. Like two babes in the woods, Finn and Pippa had skipped along thinking they enjoyed the upper hand, but once again the ton grande dame fought dirty. And Devonshire, damn him, was meekly trotting along behind her, for he wanted the same outcome. Naturally, neither gave a fig for her wishes.
Where the bloody hell was Finn?
“Naughty Lady Kingsford,” said Devonshire indulgently. “But there is always time for a berry tart; I’m quite partial myself. Lady Pippa? Shall we?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured as she took his proffered arm, her mind churning as she pondered and discarded methods of becoming the duke’s worst nightmare.
Even now, Pippa could feel numerous envious glares boring into the back of her head. It made her want to bellow here, have him, and scurry back to her bedchamber to continue reading A Wicked Comte, which promised to be every bit as explicit as Finn had promised. But unlike the novel, the only weapons available for battle were items on the supper table.
While she couldn’t recall a duke crying off because he’d been slapped with a lobster tail or pelted with cream cakes, there was a first time for everything. With luck and ruthless purpose, perhaps Devonshire could be tripped in such a way that he fell headfirst into the lemonade bowl, broke the trestle table in two, and ended up with an ice sculpture of Queen Charlotte straddling his chest.
Ice Queen falls for Duke, the scandal sheet headline practically wrote itself.
But then Devonshire winked and handed her a linen napkin with two berry tarts nestled in it, and Pippa suppressed a scowl. It was much harder to envision death by ice sculpture when a man ignored Lady Kingsford’s edicts; however now she had two berry tarts she did not want.
“Mmmm, delightful,” Pippa murmured, taking the tiniest nibble. How ironic; for the first time in her life she was eating like a baby bird, just the way Grandmother wished.
“No need to peck on my account,” said the duke, his countenance warming. “I like a lady with a healthy appetite.”
This was truly excruciating. Why hadn’t she claimed to crave something she actually enjoyed?
A flash of movement to her right made Pippa turn her head, to see Finn waving madly as he balanced against the drawing room wall. Good lord. Was he standing on a footstool? But then he tapped the third finger on his left hand and pointed at the duke, then over at her grandmother.
Oh no.
Her worst fears realized. The broad hints Grandmother had made in front of the crowd were just the beginning; it seemed the woman wanted to trap her with an actual public announcement!
Furious, Pippa squashed the berry tarts into a ball, covered the mess with the napkin, then dropped it onto a passing footman’s empty tray. “Botheration,” she said. “I seem to have torn the hem of my gown. Would you excuse me?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Grandmother, clamping her hand around Pippa’s elbow. “We have planned it all perfectly. You are staying right here…everyone! Please do clear a space for the Earl of Kingsford, who has a most joyous announcement to make.”
In seconds she found herself pinned between the two of them, at the center of a drawing room so quiet they could have heard a mouse sneeze.
“Er…evening all,” said her father, looking baffled. “A joyous announcement. Hmmm.”
“Betrothal,” hissed his mother.
Lord Kingsford brightened. “Ah, yes! As a proud father, it is my great honor to announce the betrothal of my second daughter, the Lady Pippa Nash, to—”
“Lord Finlay Knighton!”
At Finn’s words, roared as he barreled his way through the crowd and left crushed toes and spilled drinks in his wake to reach Pippa’s side, there was a chorus of shrieks and grumbles. But one glance at the Duke of Devonshire’s shock, Lady Kingsford’s ire, and the spinsters and their mothers beaming, the gossips twirled in delight.
Pippa nearly swooned in relief as Finn took her hand, his warm, sure touch the only thing keeping her upright.
“Here now, lad,” said her father sotto voce. “What is going on?”
Grandmother laughed, the sound like glass breaking. “Lord Knighton. I know you and Pippa are old friends, but I cannot believe you would pl
ay such a childish prank in my drawing room.”
“It is no prank, madam,” announced Finn. “I have loved Pippa for as long as I can remember, and it is a dream come true that she has consented to become my wife.”
Pippa beamed in astonished admiration. She needed no hired actor; Finn belonged on the stage. That had sounded so genuine there were ladies sighing all around her and even a smattering of applause. She squeezed his hand. Finn really was the best friend a lady could ask for.
“I know that the Nash family,” Finn continued, “Lord Kingsford, the dowager Lady Kingsford, Lord Northam, Lady Georgiana, and the absent Duchess of Exton along with the Duke, wish us every blessing and happiness. So, I ask you to raise a glass to myself and my bride-to-be: Finlay Knighton and Pippa Nash.”
“Kiss her first!” yelled a feminine voice from the back of the drawing room, and soon a chant of kiss her filled the air like a church choir.
“Go on, then,” said Lord Kingsford, chuckling. “If it’s a love match as you claim.”
“Don’t you dare,” hissed Grandmother, her face puce.
Pippa gazed into Finn’s eyes. It was indeed the perfect moment for the next step in kissing lessons. “Would you?”
He nodded, and she turned her cheek so he might press a brief kiss to it. Instead, Finn slid a finger under her chin, tilting it up. “Forgive me, Pippet,” he breathed.
Before she could reply, his mouth captured hers and the world turned upside down. Finn’s lips were warm and firm, but not gentle like a friend…demanding. Like a conqueror. Like The Highland Marauder or A Wicked Comte come to life, and her lips were tingling from the sheer goodness of the possessive pressure. Except then it got even better as the tip of his tongue flicked her lips, insisting on entry, and she surrendered her mouth with a whimper. Oh, but this was lovely. No, not lovely. Toe-curlingly, blood-fizzingly spectacular.
Why on earth had she waited to request kissing lessons? What a twit she was. All that time wasted, when they could have been kissing and touching and pleasuring.
Pippa gripped Finn’s arm, needing an anchor so she didn’t float away. Any moment now she would start tearing at her best friend’s clothes while offering herself up to be plundered, right here in this drawing room…
THE BEST MARQUESS: Wickedly Wed #2 Page 8
