Love Me, Lord Tender (A Series of Unconventional Courtships Book 1)

by Deb Marlowe

  How could he?

  How could he not?

  With a shake of his head, he bade the footman not to open the parlor doors. Not just yet. He stood a moment, looking around, letting the peace of the place sink in.

  Barrett’s uncle’s house was small, but quite . . . splendid. The colors were warm and the lighting soft and inviting. The rug appeared worn, but everything looked scrubbed and polished and well cared for. Lady Hope’s earlier words echoed in his head. We are fortunate, all of us who know the comfort of good smells, a warm welcome and a full belly.

  He nodded and the footman opened the door. Tensford stepped into the parlor, and relaxed a little. It was that sort of atmosphere. The swish of silk and satin was the same, the gleam of jewels and smiles were as one would find at a ton gathering. But the crowd was small, and seemed intimate. Conversations flowed with familiar ease. There was nothing frantic or artificial about the feeling in the room.

  “There you are.” Sterne handed him a drink. “Let me show you around and introduce you to a few people.”

  In normal circumstances Tensford would have been thrilled to be there. More than a few people there had interest in the sciences, naturally. Lady Hargrove was there. She was kind, as was most everyone else. Yet Tensford could scarcely concentrate. He could not think past the ache in his chest and that niggle in his brain.

  Then Barrett was back. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go pay respects to my aunt and uncle.”

  Mr. John Sterne was friendly, as always, and his wife welcoming.

  “Barrett says you intend to sell that fossilized sea urchin of yours, the one embedded in the round stone.”

  “I am considering it, sir.”

  “A fine piece. Unique. I’d be interested, of course. Give you a fair price, too. But you have a fine mind for the science yourself, Tensford. Why not keep the piece and let it be the start of your own collection?”

  “I would like to. I’ll think about your advice, sir.”

  “I know what you are thinking,” Barrett said after his aunt and uncle moved on. “You’re thinking you’ll keep that piece if you marry the Irish merchant’s daughter.”

  “I might as well get something above the forty thousand, for that will all go to Greystone.”

  “She’s the worst prospect yet.”

  “She’s the only prospect so far.”

  “Still, you cannot marry her.” He shuddered. “I met her last night, out with your mother. She’s glittery, I give you, but hard underneath.”

  “I have more than just myself to consider,” he said irritably. “But perhaps Lady Hope will come up with a suitable candidate.”

  “That’s just it. I think you should consider Lady Hope.”

  Tensford closed his eyes.

  “It’s why I invited you here tonight. I wanted to tell you more about my uncle.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was never meant to marry my aunt, you know. The family had picked out his bride.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother?” Tensford said, shocked. “No offense meant, Sterne, but your mother is nothing like your aunt. She’s so . . . formal.”

  “And cold. You can say it. And I’ll add dull to the stack. But she had the money the family wished to use to ease Uncle John’s fate as a second son.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were not suited. She was happier with my father, as heir to the title and as a man closer to her in disposition. Uncle John loved another. And my aunt loved him. The family wasn’t happy, but they married in spite of the objections. Their road has not always been easy. They don’t have the funds my parents do, but they’ve done well for themselves.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, looking around.

  “They’ve created a home. A place of warmth and caring.”

  “And I know they’ve been generous in sharing it with you, my friend.”

  “Thank God, they have. It wins hands down over the sterile atmosphere of my own home, as you know. So you see, their marriage affected more than just their own lives. They’ve touched so many. Created a community,” he said, gesturing around.

  Understanding began to dawn as Sterne continued.

  “In my mind, your Greystone has been like my parent’s house. Grand, but cold. No heart to the place. Empty of joy and warmth and welcome and the things that truly make a home. And I know you want a home, Tensford, not just a restored house. God knows, you deserve to finally have one.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s one thing if you marry Miss McNamara knowing that she does not care for you. But remember, too, that when you choose a bride, you must bring her home to Greystone. She will be in charge of the house and your servants and in constant contact with the people on your land. She will raise your children.” Sterne frowned at him. “Will she have a care for any of that?”

  Tensford stared.

  “One more thing. I think you need to remember that your people care for you, just as you care for them. Do you think they would ask you to make this sacrifice? To resign yourself to a lifetime of misery married to the wrong woman, for their sake?”

  He didn’t know the answer.

  “Dinner is ready,” the butler intoned at the doorway.

  Woodenly, Tensford followed the party to the dining room. He took his seat—and proceeded to act as history’s worst dinner guest.

  He ate nothing. He spoke to neither of the ladies on either side of him. He merely stared into his wine and contemplated the largest decision of his life.

  Was his heart agreeing with Barrett because it was what he wished to hear? Because he did want Lady Hope Brightley with a passion bordering madness. He wanted her wit and her charm and her kisses. Her wanted her mornings and her nights and every hour from here to eternity. He went a little mad every time he thought of her choosing, marrying, someone else.

  His heart kept whispering that Barrett was right, so he let his brain do as it wished and compare the choices that lay before him.

  A union made for money. Greystone Park with a new roof, restored outbuildings, a set future, but no soul. A loveless marriage at the center of it. This would be their fate if he took Miss McNamara as his bride, or even some yet-to-be-met candidate that Lady Hope brought to him.

  But Lady Hope. His head couldn’t keep up with the images he finally allowed himself to conjure. Her laughter ringing through the house. Her compassion a balm to his people. It would be a life of hard work, but she would be there by his side. It was so easy to imagine his servants loving her as he did, to picture her listening to their woes, carrying baskets to the sick, attending the fairs, becoming a part of their community.

  Laughter at Greystone. Hope. Hard work.

  Love.

  Abruptly, he stood. What time was it? He didn’t care. He had to find her and tell her. Ask her to share his life. “Please excuse me,” he said to the staring tableful of guests. “I suddenly realized . . . recalled . . . something extremely urgent.”

  Mrs. Sterne’s eyes softened. “Of course, dear boy.”

  “Go on, then.” Mr. Sterne shooed him.

  Tensford raced out. He waited impatiently for his cloak, trying to recall where the nearest hack stand would be. He raced down the front steps—and skidded to a halt when a boy stepped out of the shadows into his path.

  Lady X’s messenger boy.

  “My mistress says she’ll meet you—if you promise not to unmask her to the world.”

  Tensford shook his head.

  The boy looked upset. “She says as she feels like she owes it to you to talk, but if you won’t promise, then I cannot tell you where to meet her.”

  “No, that isn’t it.” Lord, he was a lovesick fool, but he couldn’t summon any further desire for revenge or confrontation. “Tell your employer . . .” He thought of Lady Hope’s defense of him, her desire to repay him for reviving Lady X’s interest. He thought of the empathy that she’d shown the anonymous lady. “
Tell your mistress that if ever she needs a champion, or help of any kind, then she may call on Lord Tender.”

  He left the surprised boy behind and ran forward to hail a hack.

  Chapter 9

  I hear from several sources that Lord Tender has been running amuck again, acting oddly at Mr. Sterne’s dinner party and assorted other gatherings. But as he’s held up so well under my interference and appears to perhaps be thriving under the influence of certain others . . . we must forgive him.

  —Whispers from Lady X

  “Lord Bardham,” Hope said with a sigh. “I am just on my way to speak with Miss Nichols.”

  “Where is your gallant suitor, Lady Hope?” Bardham asked with a sneer. “I hear he has a bigger fish on his line these days. Has he deserted you?”

  “If you speak of Lord Tensford, I have not seen him this evening.” A wicked idea occurred to her. “But if you speak of Miss McNamara, I could hardly be angry if he has decided to pursue her. Who could compete?”

  “With a merchant’s daughter?” he scoffed.

  “A pretty merchant’s daughter who brings forty thousand pounds. I could hardly begrudge him for being interested.”

  “Forty . . . thousand?” he whispered.

  “Yes. I heard Lady Tensford say so, to one of her friends. I daresay they hope it doesn’t get around right away or the girl will be swamped.”

  “That’s her, is it not?” Bardham asked. “By the French doors?”

  She looked. “I believe so.”

  “Tensford is not there,” he reflected.

  “No doubt he’ll be here soon enough. Lord Bardham?”

  But the coarse, predictable man was already drifting away. Hope moved on, shaking her head, until she reached Miss Nichols.

  “How do I look?” she asked her friend, nervously smoothing her skirts.

  “Stunning. And frightened half to death.” Miss Nichols patted her arm. “Calm down. All will go well.”

  “I hope so. But I cannot be sure.”

  “I can. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

  “He might be angry.” It was just one of the risks she’d taken.

  “He might. But would you change anything you’ve done?”

  “No.” She thought about it. “No. It’s better this way.”

  “Then head up there. He’ll be here soon.” Laughing, she gave Hope a push. “And don’t come down until you’ve got him.”

  Hope started to go, but paused as several footmen entered, carrying trays of canapés. “Lobster patties,” she said. “Save some for me? They might end up being my only consolation.”

  “You can serve them at your wedding,” Miss Nichols told her. “Now go on.”

  Tensford was striding into the Montbarrow’s party when it hit him.

  He saw the butler fussing, overseeing the comings and goings of a fleet of footmen, all carrying trays of food and drinks. And he knew what had been nagging at him. Suddenly his mind flashed back to the afternoon at Le Cygne.

  He remembered what Madame had said. Everything is fine, yes? And then, Lady Hope and her friends are always welcome, and they do not pay here.

  Why not? Why would Madame be so grateful? Because . . . because Lady Hope was a benefactress of Madame’s program? He thought of what she’d said about the young woman who had opened the newest arm of the project. Was it her? Had she been introducing him to her qualities and concerns, rather than those of anonymous ladies of the ton? But then, what of the other one? The letter writer? Had that been her, too?

  But that would mean . . .

  He stared up the stairs, but then turned and stalked resolutely into the crowd. He looked around wildly—there. He approached Lady Kincade and bowed.

  “Lord Tensford,” she said sourly.

  “How nice to see you again, my lady. I understand you had guests to dinner tonight.”

  “Guest,” she corrected. “Weatherby.”

  “Ah, of the Stud Book family?”

  “Yes. Tiresome, to be so consumed with horses. I vow, we would have been here ages ago, had Hope not quizzed the man on generations of horseflesh. As if one must know all of that history before buying a mount for a young girl. But I suppose she’ll write it all in one those tomes she sends her sister.”

  He straightened. “You mean letters to her sister?”

  “Yes. She’s lucky her brother can frank them, thick as they are,” she grumbled. “Nothing but dresses and horses.”

  “Letters to her lame sister?” he asked tightly.

  “Have they another?” the countess asked snidely. “If they do, I remain unaware.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Lady Kincade.” His mind was racing. “Good evening.”

  He turned on his heel without waiting for a response and nearly collided with a footman carrying a tray.

  A tray of lobster patties. He froze for a moment, then reached out and deftly took the platter from the startled servant. “I’ll return the tray, sir, do not worry.” He left the ballroom and took the stairs, two at a time.

  The parlor door burst open. Hope nearly burst out of her skin.

  “Lord Tensford! Here you are,” she said pedantically. Why did he carry a silver serving tray?

  “Here we are,” he corrected. He looked around. “But are there no other young ladies? No one for me to meet?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted. “We’ll enjoy these before we go to make the introductions.” He approached her and held out the tray.

  “Lobster patties,” she said weakly. Her stomach was aflutter. She couldn’t eat a bite.

  “Yes. We never did share any of it, that first night. The night we met. We spoke of sharing the last lobster patty—and other things. Do you remember?”

  Oh, she remembered.

  “In any case, I have these. And a question. I’ll trade you for the answer.”

  “Of course.” He was in a strange mood. How was she going to explain if he would not stop going on about lobster patties?

  “Mmm.” He held the tray beneath her nose. “Don’t they smell wonderful? But wait—that is not my question. I was just wondering about the tokens you mentioned earlier. The new tokens for the chophouse, they won’t have a swan on them, I wouldn’t think. What image is carved on the new tokens?”

  “A meat cleaver,” she said absently, watching him move the tray before her. She had to bring this conversation around.

  “Why did you choose a meat cleaver?”

  “It fit the chophouse and I thought the boys would like it bett—” She stopped suddenly and looked up at him. “Wait.” She pushed the tray away. “You know!”

  “I do know.”

  “But, how?” And how did he feel about it? She was in a panic. His expression was so . . . bland. Clutching her fists, she lifted her chin and tried to calm her racing heart. “I have questions of my own,” she said finally.

  “Ah, but what will you trade for answers?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Pots and pots of money.”

  He winced. “That’s what I thought it would be.”

  She searched his face. “I am sorry for deceiving you. But do you understand? Why I did . . . everything?”

  “I think I do. You said it yourself. I had no liking for being rejected because of my lack of funds. Nor do you wish to be courted for your possession of them. But how? How is it not widely known?”

  “I made my brother promise not to tell. I told him he owed it to me, after leaving me to care for our mother alone while she suffered and withered away, so slowly.”

  “Then your father left you more than the two thousand?”

  “No. That was my dowry. But my Aunt Margaret died before my mother, her sister. Her husband was a nabob and had made a fortune in the East. They had no children and we had been close. She left it all to me. I was in the midst of nursing my mother and barely registered it at first. But afterwards, I forced him to promise. No one knows except the family.”

  “And Bardham, o
ne assumes.”

  She made a face. “Not even Catherine knows the true extent of it.” She grinned. “And in any case, I think that tonight, I dealt with Bardham at last.”

  “How?”

  “I sent him off after Miss McNamara and her forty thousand pounds.”

  He laughed. “They will be perfect for each other.”

  “I’m sorry for putting you through so much, but I had to know . . . I wanted to be chosen . . .”

  “For yourself,” he said, taking her hands.

  “And it was important that you should know, too. We both deserved to know we chose each other.” She sighed—but then tossed her head. “But I don’t care, I want—”

  “No! Throw that thought right out of your head. I did. I made my choice tonight at the Sterne’s dinner party. Before I suspected the rest of it. Barrett invited me because he wanted to make a point and I listened. To him, and to my heart, at last. I imagined the bride I would bring back to Greystone and I knew it couldn’t ever be anyone but you.”

  He took her hand. “I’ve thought for so long that all that Greystone needed was money. But Barrett made me realize—there was money at Greystone once, before my father died—and yet it was never really a home, not even then. What Greystone needs, what I need—is something that we’ve never had. It needs you. I need you. I need your heart, your love. It’s the only thing that will make it a home—a life—worth living.”

  She blinked back tears, but he was grinning now. “And if you need confirmation, then ask anyone at the Sterne’s dinner. I made an ass of myself, running out in the middle of the fish course.”

  “Truly?”

  “I swear it. It wasn’t until I arrived here that I put it all together. I saw the butler worrying over the food—and I remembered what Madame said yesterday, about never allowing you to pay.”

  She groaned and laughed. “I thought I would sink beneath the table when she said it, but you never seemed to connect her words with what I had to show you, so I just moved forward.”

  “Yes, I was slow. But I was learning about you, even if I did think you were speaking of some other young lady.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t ask. I have nothing to give you except . . . me. These hands, a drafty, leaking estate, hard work aplenty—but we will do it together, Hope, and you will have my heart—and all of my love.”