“Lady Portia, might I have the pleasure of…”
“Of?” she said innocently, batting her lashes at him when his voice trailed away.
“...of-calling-on-you-tomorrow?” The words came out in one long, unintelligible sentence that had him inwardly cursing, but thankfully Lady Portia was able to decipher his gibberish. Although she did not give him the answer he wished for.
“I am terribly sorry, Your Grace,” she said apologetically. “I would like that very much, but I am afraid I am leaving tomorrow to visit my aunt in Gloucester. Mayhap when I return?”
“Of course.” He hesitated, gaze lingering on the curve of her bosom before lifting to her face. She was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful females he’d ever encountered. All soft lines and ivory skin with hair just a shade lighter than the sun. The quintessential English rose. And she’d wanted to dance. With him. “When do you think that will be?”
“Hmmm?” She’d been looking at something – or someone – over his left shoulder, and it took her a moment to respond. “Oh, I’m not certain.”
Evan’s brow furrowed. “You’re not certain when you’ll return?”
“No.” Was it his imagination, or had her demeanor suddenly cooled? “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I fear my presence is requested on the other side of the room.”
“Wait, I–” But she was already gone, the train of her ivory gown fluttering silently in her wake as she cut a path through the middle of the floor to where three other women stood waiting in front of a pillar, their expressions hidden behind large silk fans.
Giving a bemused shake of his head, Evan managed to hobble back to his corner. His champagne was exactly where he’d left it, and he drained what remained of the warm bubbly liquid in one swallow. For an instant he considered going after Lady Portia and asking for a second dance, but he didn’t want to come on too strongly. Besides, he doubted his leg would hold up.
A glance at his gold pocket watch indicated the hour to be just shy of two in the morning, nearly fifteen minutes later than when he’d told his driver to be waiting for him outside. With one last cursory glance around the room – a vain attempt to make it appear as though he was looking at everyone when in fact he was really only looking for one person – he exited through a matching set of glass doors and onto a stone terrace that wrapped around the entire front of the house.
Standing at one end of the terrace was a bevy of females with their heads bent together. Evan clung to the shadows as he hobbled past them, only to stop short when his ears detected Lady Portia’s sweet, melodious voice. Except it no longer sounded very sweet or melodious.
“Well, I did it.” Her tone vaguely triumphant, Lady Portia opened her beaded reticule and held it out. “Five shillings each, if you please.”
Evan frowned. What was she talking about?
“I cannot believe you let him touch you.” With a visible shudder, a tall brunette standing to Lady Portia’s left tossed a handful of coins into the reticule. “Weren’t you afraid you were going to catch something?”
“He’s not diseased, Nora.” Lady Portia rolled her eyes. “He’s disfigured. There’s a difference.”
“Not much of one.” This from a slender redhead with a smattering of freckles across her nose. “What did he say to you?”
Lady Portia’s snickering laugh cut through Evan like the sharpest of blades. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I was concentrating too hard on not being sick to listen to a word he had to say. Honestly, I knew he was hideous, but up close...” She made a face. “It was horrible. I honestly don’t know how the poor man gets out of bed every morning. He must keep every mirror in his house covered. It’s such a pity he’s a duke. All of that wealth and good breeding completely wasted.”
Evan had heard more than enough. Unfortunately, when he tried to put weight down on his bad leg it buckled beneath him, even one dance having been too much for the fragile muscle and shattered bone. With a grunt and a curse he stumbled out of the shadows and fell down hard on his knees, drawing the attention of Lady Portia and her friends.
“Your Grace!” she gasped, and if not for what he’d just overheard Evan might have been tempted to believe her concern was genuine. “Are you all right? Here, let me help you.”
“Do not touch me,” he snarled when she crouched down beside him and reached for his arm. Her head canted to the side, the feigned worry sliding off her face as easily as dust being wiped off a table.
“Very well.” Standing with the effortless grace of someone who’d never had their body betray them, Lady Portia watched Evan struggle to his feet with the faintest of smirks. When he was once again standing – more or less – she stepped out of his way and let him pass without speaking, her pitying stare saying more than words ever could.
Ashamed, angry, furiously betrayed, he gritted his teeth against the agonizing pain pulsing through his fractured limb and, through sheer will and determination, made it around the corner and down the steps before he collapsed against a stone wall covered in ivy, his tortured body refusing to take another step.
Never again, he vowed silently as he tilted his head back to glare bleakly up at the stars. He would never attend another ball. Never let himself be fooled by a beautiful woman. Never be stupid enough to believe anyone could see past the monster on the outside to the man beneath.
And, most importantly of all, he would never, ever fall in love.
Chapter One
“Not again.” Her nose wrinkling when she passed by her father’s study and was overwhelmed by the unmistakable stench of cigar smoke and strong spirits, Hannah knocked softly on the door before letting herself in.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, she was met with a familiar sight: Lord Fairchild slumped forward over his desk, one hand still wrapped around the bottle of brandy he’d used to drink himself into mindless oblivion and a cigar smoldering dangerously close to a towering stack of unpaid notes.
Hannah extinguished the cigar first and then dumped what remained of the brandy out the nearest window before tossing the empty bottle into a bin. Her father jolted when the glass clanged against metal, but with a snort and a loud snore he promptly fell back asleep.
“Oh Papa.” Tenderly covering his shoulders with a blanket before turning her attention to the various bank notes scattered across the desk, she began to sort through them one by one, the corners of her mouth tightening as she encountered one frivolous expense after another.
Honestly. Who needed one pair of crocodile skin gloves, let alone two? No wonder her poor father had tried to drown himself in brandy. Lord Fairchild was not the sort of man to idly indulge in spirits, but if there was one thing that made him reach for the bottle it was his wife and daughter’s penchant for spending beyond their means.
Lady Fairchild had never met a shiny bauble she didn’t like and her children, with the exception of Hannah, had all followed in her footsteps. Alice loved hats. Cadence adored reticules. And Sarah, it seemed, had recently developed a yearning for skinned reptiles.
For three weeks out of the month Lord Fairchild managed to turn a blind eye to his family’s outrageous spending, but on the fourth week – when notes were delivered in alarming quantities to their modest townhome on the outskirts of Berkeley Square – he locked himself in his study and scarcely emerged for days.
Hannah hadn’t the faintest idea how he had managed to keep the creditors at bay for this long, but she knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer. Something which Lady Fairchild seemed incapable of understanding.
“Eight new dresses?” Staring at the note from Madame Dillard's in disbelief, Hannah was tempted to reach for the brandy herself. What were her sisters thinking? She’d told them time and again that they’d have to reuse their wardrobes from last season. A negligible sacrifice, given that every gown had been worn only once and some not at all.
Biting down on the tips of her fingers – a nervous habit she’d possess
ed since childhood – Hannah crossed to the window and let her forehead fall against the cool glass with a dull thud. There was no getting around it this time. They were going to find themselves in the poor house for sure, or – at the very least – be forced to strip the house bare and sell off everything that wasn’t nailed down. Then re-wearing the same dress twice would be the least of her sister’s concerns.
Without a shilling to their names, they’d quickly become the laughingstock of the ton. Something Cadence could ill afford now that she’d managed to capture the attention of an earl. And what would happen to Alice and Sarah, both of whom were so looking forward to their debuts? Born only three minutes apart, the twins had been counting down their launch into society since the day they could talk. Having it taken away would devastate them, not to mention the embarrassment of which would send Lady Fairchild into an early grave.
Something had to be done.
But what?
The most obvious answer was a marriage of means, but with Cadence all but promised to the Earl of Benfield (who, while well off, was by no stretch of the imagination wealthy enough to cover the Fairchild’s outstanding debt) and the twins having yet to make their debut, that left Hannah.
Hannah, who had never met a man she was even remotely interested in marrying. Hannah, who – at the age of six and twenty – was perilously close to becoming a spinster. Hannah, who would rather attend a reading at the library than a fancy ball at Almack’s. Hannah, who, after eight miserable seasons, had failed to attract a single suitor.
Lifting her head, she scowled at her reflection in the window. A young woman with gray eyes and thick chestnut hair pinned in a loose coil at the nape of her neck scowled back. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, giving her a youthful appearance that was countered by the generous swell of her bosom and the prominent curve of her backside. She had a wide mouth and a narrow chin, with a neck that was slightly too long and a body that lent itself to awkwardness.
A breathtaking swan Hannah was not – unlike her sisters, all of whom were strikingly beautiful – but she didn’t mind her ordinary appearance. In fact, she rather liked it. When someone was too pretty they ran the risk of receiving attention that was less than genuine. Hannah, on the other hand, never had to worry if a gentleman was only paying attention to her because of her appearance.
Mostly because they never paid her any attention at all.
With an annoyed expulsion of breath she turned away from the window and left the study, leaving her father to sleep off the effects of his overindulgence until morning. After seeking out the housekeeper to ensure she would have a hot pot of coffee ready the moment Lord Fairfield awoke, she made her way up the creaking staircase to the bedroom she shared with Cadence. Alice and Sarah were across the way, and their parents had an adjoining chamber down the hall.
“Cadence, you’re still awake,” Hannah noted with some surprise as she tiptoed into the room and shut the door silently behind her. “I thought you’d gone to sleep ages ago.”
Sitting in the middle of her bed with the blankets drawn up over her knees, Cadence set aside a well-worn copy of Ackermann’s Repository and shrugged her shoulders. “I was waiting for you. How is Father?”
“How do you think he is?” Hannah said, her tone gently chiding. Not wanting to summon their lady’s maid at such a late hour, she presented her back to Cadence and her sister automatically began to undo the long row of buttons that ran down the length of her dress. “We’re lucky he hasn’t taken what little money remains and run away to start a new life.”
“He wouldn’t do that.” Cadence’s hands stilled. “Would he?”
“No, of course not. Besides, there’s no money to be had.” She delivered a stern glare over her shoulder. “You spent it all on beaded reticules you didn’t need.”
“It wasn’t just me,” Cadence protested. “I told Sarah she didn’t need two pairs of gloves, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“She never does,” Hannah murmured as she shrugged out of her dress and carefully laid it over the back of a chair so as to avoid any unnecessary wrinkles. Whisking a long white nightgown over her head, she turned and regarded Cadence with a lifted brow. “It’s serious this time. The creditors are going to be knocking on our door by the dozens, and there’s nothing left to pay them with.”
Her sister frowned. “There has to be something left. Father is a baron, for heaven’s sake.”
“A baron with three daughters and a wife who like to spend beyond their means,” Hannah countered. “We should thank our stars if we’re not homeless by the end of the month.”
“I cannot be homeless,” Cadence exclaimed, her eyes – several shades darker than Hannah’s own and tip tilted at the corners to give her a feline appearance – widening in distress. “Where would I keep all of my dresses?”
Hannah bit her tongue.
Hard.
“When do you think Lord Benfield might present you with a proposal?” she asked after a long, heavy pause in which she struggled to rein in her exasperation. She knew her sister had only the best intentions, but just once she’d like for Cadence to take their financial predicament seriously. Heavens knew their mother and the twins weren’t going to and their father, for all that he bellowed and blustered when the bills came due, never actually did anything about his family’s atrocious spending. Which left Hannah and, to a lesser degree, Cadence, to pick up the pieces.
“I’d hope he might approach Father over the summer.” A line of annoyance formed between Cadence’s dark brows. “But he’s dragging his heels.”
A prickling of alarm swept down Hannah’s spine as she sat on the edge of her bed. Lord Benfield may not have been able to pay off all their debts, but he could at least make a significant dent. But that was only if he did, in fact, marry Cadence. “Do you think he has changed his mind?”
“About marrying me? Of course not,” said Cadence, looking insulted her sister would dare imply otherwise. “He has all but promised he will propose once his brother returns from his tour abroad.”
“And when will that be?”
“At the end of the Season.”
“At the end of the...but that’s months away!” Hannah said, aghast.
Cadence pursed her lips. “So?”
“So we need a wealthy benefactor now, Cadence. Do you think Lord Benfield might help with some of our debts as a measure of good faith?” she asked hopefully. “You said yourself that you’re practically engaged.”
“I said no such thing,” her sister said stiffly, “and I am not about to risk my proposal by demanding an allowance before we are even engaged. Everyone knows you wait until after you’re married to spend their money.”
“You don’t have to demand. I’m sure if you asked nicely–”
Cadence’s lips pinched together to form a hard, stubborn line. “No.”
“But–”
“I said no, and that’s the end of it. If we’re in as dire straits as you say we are–”
“We are,” Hannah interrupted.
“–then why don’t you find an earl to marry? Or, better yet, a duke?”
“A duke?” Hannah was so startled by the suggestion she couldn’t help but laugh. “Do be serious.”
“I am being serious,” Cadence insisted. “You do not give yourself enough credit, Han. If you put any effort at all into your appearance you’re actually quite pretty-”
“Thank you,” Hannah said dryly.
“–and you’re far more intelligent than I am.” Cadence frowned. “A bit too intelligent, actually. But that can be easily fixed. Our family doesn’t have so much as a hint of scandal–”
“We’re in debt up to our bonnets!”
“Yes, but no one else knows that.” She paused. “Do they?”
Hannah shook her head. “Not that I know of, but it’s only a matter of–”
“There, you see? You are an excellent candidate for a duchess.”
“Because I am passably pretty, somewhat i
ntelligent, and I haven’t had an affair or otherwise besmirched the family name?”
Her sister smiled. It was a devious sort of smile, the kind a cat might wear right before it pounced on an unsuspecting bird. “Precisely. Now all we have to do is find you the right duke.”
Chapter Two
Hannah hadn’t the faintest idea if the notoriously reclusive Duke of Wycliffe was the right duke, but he was a duke, and she was desperate. Desperate enough to listen to Cadence’s fool-brained idea. Desperate enough to hope it actually might work. Desperate enough to find herself in a hired hackney, gritting her teeth against every hard bump on the narrow, rocky road that led to Wycliffe Estate.
Sitting high on a hill overlooking hundreds of acres of dense wood and swampland, the aging manor house was a tired tribute to eras gone by with its cracked stone exterior, sagging roof, and dark, expressionless windows. The surrounding grounds were also in disrepair, the lawns untended and overgrown, the gardens filled with weeds, and the fountain in the middle of the drive overflowing with leaves and several inches of stagnant water.
Oh Cadence, Hannah thought in silent distress as the hackney rolled to a stop amidst a cloud of dust. What have you gotten me into this time?
Her sister had been adamant that of all the eligible dukes in England, Wycliffe was the most likely to be receptive to Hannah’s...unusual...proposal. But she’d failed to mention anything about the appalling condition of his estate, including how remote it was.
Instead, all she had said was that Wycliffe was an eligible bachelor who had suffered a grave injury as a child and as a result had spent much of his adulthood in seclusion. When Hannah had asked for more details she’d merely shrugged and said, ‘He is not married and he’s a duke. What else is there to know?’
A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection Page 27
