Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) (2 page)

The gentleman doffed his hat and with that splendid, black Oxonian in his long, white-gloved fingertips, swept a deep bow. “A pleasure, my lady. I was fortunate to be passing by.”

He grinned and her heart tripped another beat. Oh, dear.
This
was the manner of wicked smile that had cost Patrina her name, her reputation and, subsequently, all the Tidemore girls a hope of a happily-ever-after.
This
is why Patrina courted and found ruin. At last it made sense. The wild fluttering in her belly and hopelessly warm heart were certainly worth dancing with ruin for.

Then, as though fate sought to remind her of this momentary madness, a carriage rattled by, jerking her from her foolish and, worse, dangerous woolgathering over a nameless stranger. She stumbled back a step, away from him, and toward the shop.
Oh, blast! Madame Bisset’s!

No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things proper…

“I—I must leave,” she said quickly. She dropped a hasty curtsy, well aware that speaking to a stranger, unchaperoned in the streets certainly violated, at the very least, two requirements stressed by Mama in her daily urgings. She looked to the shop window and then at the gentleman once more. It would be impolite to exchange greetings and yet, he’d saved her. From a sopping bucket of water, but saved nonetheless.

The glorious, golden stranger with his chiseled cheeks and aquiline nose made the decision for her. “It would be wrong for me not to know the name of the woman whom I’ve saved from a shopkeeper’s dirtied water.”

Her heart skipped several more important, now gone, beats. It was as though their thoughts moved in harmony.
Foolish girl. Foolish girl
… “Lady Prudence Tidemore.” As soon as her introduction left her mouth, she bit the inside of her cheek.

Everyone knew a Tidemore girl. The whole lot of them were ruined by Patrina’s failed elopement and then hasty marriage.

Except, if this man knew who she was, he gave no outward indication. He merely inclined his head. “Lady Prudence,” he murmured, and warmth unfurled within her at his husky command of her name.

What was the mantra? What was the mantra? It had to do with being proper and gentlemen…but surely not about speaking to those gentlemen, upon a London street with her mother unaware of her momentary defection. Oh, blast! Her mother!

If it were discovered she’d snuck away, her mother would likely send her off to an abbey before Prudence could create a Patrina-esque scandal, the likes of which would place the remainder of the Tidemore girls’ reputations well past the hope of saving. Her time with the gentleman was at an end. There could be nothing more than this quick, stolen exchange. But she could not leave without knowing the identity of the man who’d broken the tedium she’d known since arriving in London. She wetted her lips.

He touched a hand to the lapel of his elegant, black cloak and answered her unspoken question. “Christian Villiers, Marquess of St. Cyr.”

Her heart slowed. A marquess? Just then, a lone snowflake landed on the tip of her nose. She touched her fingertips to that magical flake. “You are a marquess,” she breathed and then momentarily lifted her gaze up to the sky. “And it is snowing. And very nearly Christmas.” Her
ruined
sister had married a marquess at Christmas and now lived blissfully, in love and happy. Prudence’s mind raced with the possibilities presented by those magical flakes falling and this serendipitous meeting with a marquess at the holiday time.

The marquess furrowed his brow.

Prudence silently cursed. By her reaction, the gentleman would believe she was interested in his title. Which she assuredly was not. Not in the way he might believe, anyhow. “It does not matter that you are a marquess,” she hurried to assure him.

Except by the further wrinkling of his brow, she was only further confounding him. “Er…” He beat his hat against his leg.

Prudence cleared her throat. “That is not to say it does not matter, per se. I am sure it matters to some, and most, and,” she lifted up her gloved palms. “I merely meant it does not matter whether you are a marquess or not. To me.”
Stop your rambling Prudence Gwendolyn Tidemore.
She snapped her lips closed.

From beyond the marquess’ shoulder, a tall, lean gentleman stepped out of a nearby shop. His gaze collided with hers and then he looked between Prudence and Lord St. Cyr.

Oh bloody damn.
She widened her eyes, as with this new figure’s presence she moved past a mere dance, and may as well have waltzed with ruin. Lord St. Cyr followed her stare to the gentleman who’d intruded on their stolen moment.

“I must go.” Prudence dropped another curtsy and raced back to Madame Bisset’s. All the while, her neck pricked with the awareness of his gaze on her. With her heart threatening to pound a hole right out of her chest, she stood at the door and looked through the long, crystal pane. Well, saints in heaven. However was she to manage to reenter the shop without that blasted bell alerting everyone to her disappearance?

At the precise moment, Poppy, God love her soul, caught her eye through the window. From where she stood in the shop, beside their mother and Madame Bisset, she gave a familiar wink, and then upended a table of fabric. Startled shrieks went up about the shop, and using the carefully orchestrated distraction, Prudence let loose a relieved sigh and hurriedly slipped inside.

Penelope rushed over to her side, with a stern set to her mouth. She may as well have been the avenging mama for all the displeasure stamped on the lines of her plump cheeks. “Whatever were you doing outside?” she hissed, casting a quick glance about.

“It is snowing,” she blurted and then looked outside.

At that exact moment, the Marquess of St. Cyr walked past the broad windowpane. That stranger, who’d startled her into movement, must be a friend, for the two gentlemen walked side by side. Though the nameless man cut an impressive figure as well, it was the marquess with his sharp features and powerfully square jaw with the faintest cleft who commanded her notice.

“What are you looking at?” Penelope demanded at her side on a quiet whisper.

Her alarmed question was echoed moments later by Poppy who rushed over. “What is she looking at?”

A silly smile played on her lips as she recalled his dashing rescue just moments ago. As though feeling her gaze, Lord St. Cyr froze. Their eyes caught through the window and he inclined his head.

“Why, she is not looking at something, she is looking at…at—”

Penelope slapped her hand over Poppy’s mouth, effectively ending that damning discovery on the fifteen-year-old Poppy’s lips. With a scowl, Penelope gripped Prudence by the forearm and yanked her away from the window. “Come along,” she snapped.

Despite herself, Prudence cast a glance back at the window and disappointment filled her at finding Lord St. Cyr had since moved beyond the shop. She sighed and allowed Penelope to tug her toward the front and away from what she likely perceived as danger.

It was not a marquess at Christmas whom she’d met in the street, but it was very nearly Christmas. And it was snowing.

As such, surely Mama could forgive the whole “
no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things proper…”
mantra.

With a smile, Prudence rather found herself looking forward to the Season, after all.

Lesson Two

Chaperones only interfere with a lady’s plans…

C
hristian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr, strode quickly down the quiet London streets and proceeded to run through a list he’d already committed to memory some time back.

One butler.

One under butler.

Four footmen.

One groom.

One valet.

Cook—

“She was lovely.”

At having his cataloguing interrupted, Christian shot a frown in his friend, the Earl of Maxwell’s direction.

“The young lady you were speaking to. Without a chaperone,” his friend added needlessly. Christian hardly needed a reminder of the unexpected meeting with the winsome young lady with her cheery, red cheeks moments earlier.

“I’ve more pressing matters to attend than an unchaperoned miss,” he replied, cutting into whatever else his friend might add about the pretty miss in her blue muslin cloak. He’d sworn off those innocent-seeming, young beauties long ago. His friend wisely let the matter rest.

Under any other circumstances, Christian Villiers, the rather recent Marquess of St. Cyr would have found himself intrigued by a young lady, alone, and unchaperoned in the middle of a London street—a woman with crimson, bow-shaped lips and golden hair that harkened to summer sunshine. More particularly, there was the matter of his sister. And mother. And butler. One under butler. Four footmen.
One groom. One valet. Cook—
He resisted the urge to dig his fingertips into his temples to blot out the demmed headache that came in thinking of that catalogue of individuals.

Despite his reputation as unrepentant rogue, interested in nothing more than the widows and unhappily wedded ladies desiring a place in his bed, the
ton
would be shocked to discover he did, in fact, care about something a good deal more than his own pleasures. Namely, that list, which was about to become a good deal shorter if he didn’t find a way around his current situation.

Christian trained his gaze down the cobbled roads to the corner establishment of his solicitor’s offices. With annoyance thrumming through him, he tensed his jaw. Bloody futile meetings. Unless the man had since transformed himself into a bloody skilled wizard who could make money from nothing, then there was little benefit to this weekly appointment. The facts invariably remained the same. Christian was in dun territory. A growl rumbled up his chest and he quickened his stride.

Maxwell hurried to keep up. “Bah, you make for miserable company these days.” As a lifelong friend, the earl had taken it upon himself to telling Christian precisely what he thought about his of-late surliness.

“You are, of course, free to not join me in my weekly visits with Redding.”

His friend gave a mock shudder. “And be stuck behind with a too-doting mama and three younger sisters? I think not.” The hard pavement swallowed the sound of their footsteps as they moved with military precision through the quiet streets.

With a doting mama and just
one
younger sister, Christian could certainly well appreciate the need for freedom from those infernal, never-ending questions:

When do you plan to marry? Have you met a young lady whom you’d care to wed?
Might I introduce you to a young lady who’d make you a splendid wife?
Invariably, the questions all came ’round to the same matter—marital state. That interference on his mother’s part had become all the more frequent following his first, and last, meeting with the inherited solicitor, Redding, inside his also inherited townhouse. That whole keyhole listening business by his mother had led to weekly meetings at the oft-scowling solicitor’s office.

Maxwell sighed. “Regardless of your ill luck, I do not like this uncharacteristic solemnity to you.”

It would seem only his friend could see through the easy half-grin he’d adopted for Society’s benefit. “Forgive me if I am not more casual about my state of affairs,” he gritted out. “Not all of us were blessed with a fortune.” Those words were not spoken out of bitterness, but rather as a matter-of-fact. The recently titled earl had been deuced lucky.

Most would have considered themselves properly chastised. Maxwell merely grinned. “Hardly my fault I’ve found myself on the good side of fortune.”

“I would never begrudge you that,” he answered with an automaticity born of truth. For it was true. Some solace was to be found in the truth that at least one of them was not a miserable rotter in dire straits.

They turned right at the end of the street and continued on. No, Christian had long ago ceased bemoaning the circumstances in any aspect of his life: war, fortune, or in his case, a lack of fortune, the demons that haunted him for past crimes. Just as the earth turned and the tides ebbed and flowed, some would find themselves on the receiving end of good fortune. Others would not. Then, hadn’t the small trio of he, Maxwell, and the recent Duke of Blackthorne proven as much? Three friends since their days at Eton he, Maxwell, and the last sorry member of their childhood trio, Lord Derek Winters, had been born as lesser lords or spares to heirs. In fate’s fickle way, they’d all found themselves powerfully titled lords. Guilt crept in. Though Lord Derek Winters, the recent Duke of Blackthorne, would never be considered fortunate in any regard, thanks to Christian’s own failings.

Maxwell was not content to allow Christian the misery of his musings this day. “Would it help were we to speak of that blonde beauty on Bond Street you were casually speaking to without the benefit of a chaperone?”

“It would not,” he bit out. Except, the young lady’s awestruck visage slipped into his mind once more. The wide, blue eyes, enormous in her face, had been filled with such joy and innocence that a man could forever lose himself in their cornflower depths. That was if he’d not already been drowning in the state of his financial circumstances. When his tenacious friend opened his mouth to speak again, Christian glared him into no more mention of the innocent stranger. Little good could come in discussing an unchaperoned miss—little good that could solve his current financial affairs, anyway.

A carriage rumbled past, blotting out his friend’s deliberately drawn out sigh. “These are sorry days indeed when you are more eager to sit with your infernally depressing solicitor than attend the winsome young miss who’d been making eyes at you in the street.”

He cast a sideways glance at his friend. “I am so very pleased that one of us should find amusement in my bloody financial affairs,” he complained. Christian found little amusement in the grimness of his circumstances. His blasted inherited title had proven as dire as his previous debt-ridden one.

“Oh, come,” Maxwell scoffed. “You know I’m hardly amused by your lot. You, however, are making a good deal more of it than you ought. You merely need to wed a deliciously lovely beauty with an abundant fortune.” How very easy the other man made it out to be. As they walked, he slapped Christian on the back. “How very difficult should it be to find such a lady to wed the sought-after, heroic Marquess of St. Cyr?”

Maxwell would speak so flippantly about Christian selling what little remained of his honor for some young woman’s fortune. A dull flush burned his neck. Maxwell knew all the details surrounding Christian’s
honorable
showing at Toulouse. He was grateful to be spared from answering, as they came to a stop outside the offices of his solicitor.

The air stirred with a cold, winter wind. It tugged at the sign hanging above the establishment which creaked noisily in the morning quiet. He momentarily eyed the name etched in the wood.
Gideon Redding.
God, how he despised the curt, no-nonsense man of affairs. He looked to Maxwell. “I will be a short while.” For the other man’s constant presence and support, and everything he already did, in fact, know about Christian’s life, there was the humiliating rest, he’d keep to himself—that was the full extent of his finances.

A half-grin tugged at the other man’s lips. “Good God, man, I’ve little desire to interfere in your affairs, if that is what you were thinking.” Actually, he hadn’t thought as much. Even with their lifelong friendship, they’d taken care to not discuss the serious parts of either of their lives. For which Christian was grateful. He was content to wallow in the disgrace of his own making without having the words dragged forth by Maxwell or any other. “I shall leave you to your business while I go see to mine.” He winked. “A bauble for my mistress.” Christian hadn’t two farthings to put together for either a mistress or a bauble. The earl tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “There are less questions from my interfering mother determined to see me wed when I’m with you, chap.” He stuffed the piece back inside his cloak. Lifting his hand in salutation, he turned on his heel and continued on down the street.

Christian stared after the other man a long moment, hating the envy slicing through him; sentiments which had nothing to do with the widow necessitating his friend’s trip to Bond Street this day, and everything to do with the clear conscience carried by Maxwell. He’d never been the failure Christian himself had been and, as such, was deserving of that carefree half-grin. The fake that Christian was, however, and his own patent rogue’s grin was perfect for one such as him.

Shoving aside the guilt that would never be fully gone, he pressed the handle and entered. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark office; an all too familiar office which he paid weekly visits to, with the answer always the same and, as such, always bleak.

“My lord, I have been expecting you.” There was a touch of impatience in the tone of the solicitor who rushed forward. The other man had made little attempt at concealing his disdain for Christian; the very distant and last male issue connected to his former employer. Alas, Redding was one of just a handful who’d fully gleaned the current Marquess of St. Cyr’s worth.

Nonetheless, he’d be damned if he would be demeaned by the rotund, condescending solicitor. Christian turned a dark frown on Redding, which immediately slowed the other man’s steps. His inherited man of affairs had the good grace to turn red. “Redding,” he greeted coolly. He’d not bother to explain there had been a fleeting streetside exchange with a slip of an English miss which had momentarily distracted him and also proven a much-needed diversion from his own circumstances.

Redding cleared his throat. “I-if you will follow me, my lord?” The aging solicitor did not wait to see if his request was obeyed, but instead turned on his heel and started down the narrow corridor. His boot steps filled the quiet of the empty office.

Christian continued after him. Each trip to this godforsaken building was not unlike the trek he’d been forced to make to his father’s office when he’d been a troublesome boy wreaking havoc on his tutors. Odd, regardless if one was a boy of six or a man of twenty-six, the guilt was equally strong.

They entered Redding’s immaculate office. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust upon the mahogany surface of his furniture. Redding was as meticulous in attending his office as he was in his precision with numbers.

“Please sit, my lord,” Redding said as he came around his desk. He motioned to the opposite chair.

As he did each week, Christian slid into the seat hoping the situation had somehow miraculously worked itself through, all the while knowing nothing short of a bloody miracle could salvage the floundering estates left by the late marquess.

The other man wasted little time. “I am afraid your circumstances are even more dire, my lord.” He gave him a deliberate look. “Very dire.”

In an attempt at nonchalance, Christian bent his knee and hooked it over his opposite leg. He infused a droll tone to his response. “If you can spare me your dramatic commentary and instead focus on the numbers.”

Redding bristled. “Very well.” Then with an almost gleeful relish, he plucked his spectacles from his face and snapped them shut with a grating click. He set them down upon the leather folio containing the details of Christian’s estates. “The late marquess, as you know, lived heavily on debt for years. Since our last meeting, I’ve seen to his mighty steeds.” Seen to, as in sold off. The other man’s horseflesh mattered not. But for his own loyal mount, Valiant, he didn’t give a jot for the prized stallions and mares that had been passed down and since sold by Redding.

By the expectant look on the man’s fleshy face, there was something he expected. Christian rolled his shoulders. “And?”

“And it did little to cover the previous debt left.”

Of course. That whole wizarding business Redding hadn’t managed to accomplish. Christian’s annoyance snapped. He unfolded his knee and rested his booted feet upon the floor. “Will you get on with it?” He’d hardly expected the sale of the late marquess’ horseflesh to cover the years of neglect and debt to the estates.

The other man pursed his lips like an old Society matron who’d had her soiree invaded by rakes and rogues. “Very well.” He folded his hands together and leaned over his clasped hands. “Even with the sale of the horseflesh, as well as the inherited and since sold jewels belonging to the late marquess, you are still unable to maintain the staff at your present level.”

The muscles of his stomach clenched. He’d known those words were coming and yet hearing them did not lessen the power of hearing them flippantly tossed out by Redding.