Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) (3 page)

“Might I speak freely?”

“Please,” Christian said brusquely.

“Your household is overrunning with inadequate maids and footmen. You need but a handful of the servants you presently employ, but certainly not the crip—inexperienced,” he swiftly amended at the black glower Christian trained on him. “—men you now call servants.”

And here it was. The argument in favor of cutting his present staff had been a long time coming. One year, six weeks, three days, and a handful of hours if one wanted to be truly precise. The leather of the winged back chair Christian now occupied cracked as he shifted. He placed his palms on the edge of the man’s desk and leaned forward. “They are not men I call servants.” He dipped his voice to a menacing whisper. “They
are
servants.” All the highhanded insolence demonstrated by the man in their previous exchanges faded as Redding’s throat muscles moved, hinting at his nervousness. “And they are not going anywhere.” From the moment he’d inherited the debt-ridden marquisate from his late father’s distant cousin with nothing more than a housekeeper, butler, and scullery maid, Christian had set out to build an altogether new staff; hiring men he’d wronged, who were, as such, in need of work. By God, he’d not turn them out. “Are we clear?” he repeated, infusing a steely edge to those three words.

Redding gave a jerky nod, looking like a chicken pecking at the farmer’s feed. “V-very clear, my lord.” He withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-dampened brow. “You would see to the security of those crip—men,” he hurriedly corrected. “As such, it will present problems for your mother and sister.”

Always in these meetings, Redding emerged triumphant in his cold, callous dealings. For with that slight but powerful reminder, he neatly kicked the legs out from under Christian’s already uncertain world. One could say the old solicitor was harsh, cold, and heartless, but the man spoke the truth. Unwilling to let him see the effect his words had, he leaned back in his seat and settled comfortably into the leather folds. All the while, furious energy pumped through his veins. A desire to throw his head back and snarl at his own failings and his inability these years to oversee all the debt left by both his father and the demmed cousin who’d left Christian nothing more than a title. “How much longer do I have to maintain the staff at the present level?”

“Three months, perhaps a bit more.”

Christian swallowed a curse. Three months. Three months with which to find a fortune that might save his sister, mother, and staff. Suddenly, he wished the other man were, in fact, a wizard with answers to solve his tenuous situation. “What of my investments in steam?”

He may as well have spoken treason against the king. The other man pursed his lips, having made clear his opinion on his new employer’s foray into trade and investment ventures. “As of yet, they’ve proven little return.”

Unable to feign indifference any longer, Christian swiped a hand over his eyes. Knowing the miserable, if meticulous, solicitor as he did, the traditional-thinking man of affairs had likely worked through his own solution to Christian’s impending doom. “You’ve surely some idea as to how I might,” avoid debtor’s prison and see to his responsibilities this time when he’d so failed before, “see to the mounting debt?”

Redding inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord.” Then with a casualness that set his teeth on edge, the older man put aside his spectacles and flipped open the leather folio. He ruffled through several thick, ivory sheets, containing columns of numbers and then paused. With his short, stubby fingers he proffered a single page.

Christian eyed it a moment and then took the sheet. He furrowed his brow. “Throw a ball?” he repeated back the words on the page. “How in bloody hell is throwing a lavish ball going to do anything but further deplete my already nonexistent coffers?”

Wordlessly, Redding held forth another piece of parchment. Christian accepted the second sheet. He quickly scanned the handful of sentences and numbers contained upon the page. Tamping down another black curse, he gave the man a questioning look. “What in blazes is this?”

The old solicitor jabbed one finger toward the loathsome page. “That is the most immediate, definitive way to salvage your family, staff, and holdings without relinquishing control of those
investments
you’re so determined to retain.” Redding’s lip curled in distaste.

Christian dragged his reluctant stare back to the page. A knot sat hard in his belly as he re-read the contents of Redding’s notes.

Wed an heiress with a fortune not worth less than 50,000 lbs.

Bloody hell, so this is what it would come to?

“I advise you to throw a ball with the ladies who fit your qualifications.”

“My qualifications?” A humorless laugh escaped him.

“In your marchioness,” Redding said slowly as though speaking to a lackwit.

If he weren’t already going to hell for the crimes upon the battlefields of Toulouse, this final act jested about earlier by Maxwell, and now encouraged by Redding, as the only solution was certainly the death knell to whatever pure piece remained of his tarnished soul for even considering it.

Redding’s leather seat creaked and Christian looked up from the note to find the man studying him with his patent impatience. “That is the surest, quickest way to replenish the coffers, paying off the mountain of debt upon the property, my lord.” As casual as he was in his words, the matter-of-fact solicitor might as well have been making a case for tea over coffee.

Christian winged an eyebrow up. “And should the ball prove nothing more than an exorbitant expense with no future Marchioness of St. Cyr to show for those efforts?” The practical solicitor was placing a good deal of hope upon one lavish event.

Redding frowned. “I suggest you be sure that ball is not a wasted expense then, my lord.”

He’d not hang his future on this man’s cryptic warnings. “But if it does and I do not wed an heiress within three months,” he pressed.

“Within three months you will be unable to employ any staff in any of your households. You will be required to sell off your,” he curled his lip, “ventures in steam. Is that clear enough for you, my lord?” He added that last part almost as though an afterthought.

“Quite,” he bit out. It was hard to say just then whom he despised more; his father for his miserable handling of their family’s finances, the marquess who’d died and left him this quagmire, or himself for being unable to muddle his way out of it. Christian shoved back his chair and the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. “I will see myself out,” he said when Redding made to rise. He despised Redding on most days, but in this instance he hated him for being accurate in this blasted matter.

Despite his palpable dislike for Christian, the man was a stickler for propriety. He came to his feet. “As you will, my lord,” Redding said inclining his head.

With a curt bow, Christian stuffed the pages into the pocket sewn inside his cloak and took his leave of his solicitor’s office. As he closed the door behind him and made the return trek down the narrow, darkened hall, his insides twisted.

A wife.

Nay, a wife with a fortune worth. He pulled out the sheets and skimmed the damning notes made by Redding. 50,000 pounds, to be precise. Christian slowed his steps. The black ink glared mockingly back at him. He’d not allowed himself to consider marriage since he’d returned from war. Rather, he’d been content to lose himself in the arms of mindless widows and courtesans who didn’t care who he was truly on the inside.

He stared unblinkingly down at the page. His solicitor indicated the only solution to save his staff, sister, and mother from ruin was marriage. But he’d not sell the last piece of his soul by wedding one of those optimistic debutantes with dreams in their hearts. He had nothing to give those creatures in the way of his heart. A memory flared of the golden-haired beauty in the street. He gave his head a shake. No, one such as her would never do. Christian had already learned the perils presented by those young ladies with starry-eyed gazes. He would do as Redding said and wed, but it would not be to one of those naïve innocents but rather one of those cold, avaricious ladies who wanted nothing more than his title.

Lesson Three

Boldly stare down those who gossip about you…

2 months later

London, England

S
tanding amidst the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake’s ballroom, Prudence conceded that she’d been very, very wrong in her momentary flight of fancy nearly two months ago. Before Christmas. In the snow. There was really nothing to look forward to where a London Season was concerned.

A sniggering from down the row of wallflowers that she kept company with caught her notice. She cast a glance at her sisters in solitariness. The two young women immediately jerked their attention in the opposite direction. A sigh escaped her and she battled back the loneliness that came from these events, wishing for Penelope or Poppy, or Patrina, or even Prinny, if he’d so much as talk to her. Alas, with two sisters too young to make their Come Out and one expecting, Prudence found herself remarkably alone.

Another flurry of giggles.

She pursed her lips. She also found herself
gossiped
about.

A ruffle hanging over the poof of her
white
satin sleeve tickled her arm and she scratched at it. Blasted white ruffles. From across Lady Drake’s ballroom, where her mother stood conversing with the host and hostess, she looked up mid-conversation and frowned as though to say “do-not-be-so-much-as-improper-to-that-white-ruffle”.

“No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things—”

“Oh, dear, you’ve begun speaking to yourself,” a familiar voice sounded from over her shoulder.

Prudence leapt to her feet as a sudden wave of relief ran through her. “Sin!” She made to throw her arms about her conquering hero of a brother and his crimson-haired, all things lovely and wonderful wife, Juliet. Years earlier, Prudence and her sisters decided
Sin
was a far more interesting name for their roguish brother than his given one. As such, he would forever be Sin. She remembered herself and sank back on her heels. “Sin, Juliet,” she greeted in smooth, modulated tones her mother would have been hard pressed to find fault with.

Juliet claimed her hands and in a show that earned disapproving glances, placed a kiss on Prudence’s cheek. “My dear Prudence.”

Sin snorted. “How very proper you’ve become, Pru.” His use of her childhood moniker set her teeth on edge. He paused and gave her a deliberate look.

Vexing as always, he expected some tart response. Instead, she gave a flounce of her silly, blonde ringlets refusing to take his bait.

“Ah, it seems the governess I hired for you did an admirable job of turning you into an—oomph.” He grunted as his wife buried her elbow into his side and glared up at him with a look that screamed all governess jests were not permitted. Then, Juliet gentled that look with a smile.

Prudence stared at them a moment as they eyed each other in that moonstruck way of theirs. The kind of look in which she suspected she could jump up and down waving her hands wildly and still they’d not see anything or anyone but one another. Yes, it had been Juliet’s brother on a warped game of revenge against Sin who’d embroiled the Tidemore clan into a quagmire of grim marital prospects. But it was still difficult to begrudge Juliet and Sin the love they’d come to know. A twinge of envy pulled at her. She’d trade her left foot to have a gentleman stare at her with such devotion and love in his eyes. With a sigh, Prudence glanced out across the crowded ballroom floor to the lords and ladies performing the lively steps of a country reel.

The gentleman who would own her heart would be bold enough to face down the gossips and dance with her, for nothing more than the need to hold her in his arms. He would be a man of conviction. She scanned the room; passing her gaze over the gentlemen present. He would be a man who was honorable and brave and—

Sin cuffed her under the chin. “Why so glum?”

“Do not cuff me under the chin,” she demanded. “I am not a girl.”

“You are but eighteen.”

“I am a woman,” she reminded him.

Momentarily silenced, her brother tugged at his cravat and a flush mottled his cheeks.

When he opened his mouth to likely protest with talks of dolls she’d played with or schemes she’d concocted as a girl, she interrupted him. “If I am not a woman then spare me from attending these infernal events.” No, she was no longer a girl but rather a woman grown and likely to spend the rest of her days a spinster. Nor was she one of those ladies excited about the prospect. She’d always looked forward to the grand adventure of marriage and falling in love as Sin and Patrina had managed. Those grand illusions had been shattered when she’d made her Come Out. The gentlemen of the
ton
had proven themselves remarkably uninterested in courting her, the latest Tidemore sister. She sighed. It was rather hard to find love and excitement when not a single lord offered so much as a dance.

The tension left her brother’s shoulders and he passed a searching stare over her face. “You are not having a good time then, Prudence?”

She looked over at Juliet. Pained regret seeped from her eyes. Her sister-in-law would take on the guilt of her brother’s crimes. At one time she’d blamed Juliet. She’d delighted in the other woman’s guilt. No more. She grimaced.
I was really a horrid creature.
“I am having a good enough time,” she answered noncommittally.

Her brother snorted once more and she and Juliet turned matching glares on him. Whatever droll response he would make, however, was lost to a flurry of whispers that spread like a slow conflagration through the crowded room. Having been the recipient of those same hushed words from the
ton
gossips, Prudence had come to recognize there were various types of whispers. There were the “she-is-scandalous-and-should-be-loudly-shamed” whispers and then there were the reverent “this-person-commands-awe-and-intrigue” whispers. This latest flurry of interest from Lady Drake’s guests indicated whispers of the latter sort.

Curiosity pulled at Prudence and grateful for the diversion away from her own miserable state, she went up on tiptoe and craned her neck to see over the heads of the far taller guests. “Who is it?”

Her brother eyed the entrance of the ballroom a moment. His gaze lingered on the figure who’d commanded the crowd’s attention. “You do not attend gossip,” Sin pointed out.

And as she’d well-learned his diversionary tactics through the years, she recognized it now turned on her. Her interest redoubled, and still arched on tiptoes for a glimpse of the figure at the front of the ballroom, she looked to Juliet.

Ignoring her husband’s pointed frown, Juliet supplied the identity of the whispered-about figure. “It is the Marquess of St. Cyr.”

“The Marquess of St. Cyr?” she squeaked. Shock sent her stumbling into Sin’s side. Her brother quickly steadied her. Heart racing, she ignored Juliet’s concerned question and boldly stepped around Sin in search of the man she’d convinced herself she’d merely dreamed about. Alas, he’d been no dream. An odd fluttering danced in her belly as the crowd parted. He moved with a powerful strength most kings would fail to evince. Prudence pressed a hand to her heart to calm the wildly pounding organ.

“For the love of God, Pru, stop staring,” her brother bit out.

“Everyone is staring,” she tossed back, not taking her gaze from the marquess. “Who is he?” By her brother’s disapproving glower for the gentleman, he was not someone Sin approved of in any way.

At his silence, Prudence momentarily shifted her attention away from the marquess and to her sister-in-law. Husband and wife exchanged a look. Some silent dialogue seemed to pass between them; an unspoken language that only they two understood, until Prudence wanted to stamp her foot in annoyance the way she’d done as a small girl. Blast. She’d lost the gentleman months earlier and hadn’t seen him since. She would be damned if she allowed her overprotective brother and equally protective sister-in-law to withhold what they knew of the man.

Juliet looked at Prudence and must have seen the resolve in her eyes. “He is the Marquess of St. Cyr.” A detail she was already well aware of. “He was something of a war hero.”

Prudence swung her attention back to the marquess, now being greeted by their host and hostess. “A war hero?” she murmured to herself. War heroes were older men who sported canes and serious stares, not this young marquess with a lazy grin. She tipped her head studying him. “Surely not.” The gentleman who’d rescued her on Bond Street. “But he is so very young to be a war hero.” Surely he’d not fought Boney’s forces.

“Waterloo,” Sin said grudgingly, that one-word admission seemingly dragged forcefully from him. “It is why Drake issued an invite.” Ah, so Sin’s closest friend Lord Drake, another revered, admired hero of the Peninsular Wars called the Marquess of St. Cyr friend.

Hmmm.

Prudence watched on with the rest of Society, as the two marquesses conversed. Both tall, blond, powerfully built men, they easily commanded a room. Yet only one demanded her notice. Her skin burned with the hard frown trained on her by her brother and she reluctantly dragged her attention away from Lord St. Cyr and over to their host. “You do not approve of the marquess?” She attempted to force a breezy nonchalance into that question, so as to not further rouse her brother’s notice.

“I have no problem with the marquess, but rather your unbridled interest in the gentleman.” Her brother spoke with a bluntness that deepened his wife’s frown.

Well, she knew to certainly never mention her chance encounter with the gentleman in the street. Not that she’d been considering it. Now, she just knew to carefully guard her secret all the more.

“Hush, Jonathan,” his wife quietly scolded. She looked pointedly about at the guests milling around them.

The orchestra concluded the reel and the ballroom erupted into excited clapping and cheers, blotting out whatever it was her brother intended to say. As the couples filed off, and the next pairs filed on to their respective places for the next dance, the haunting strains of a waltz filled the ballroom.

Her brother looked to his wife and held out his arm but then froze. He made to offer his elbow to Prudence.

Ugh, if that weren’t the height of humiliation. To be partnered in pity by one’s brother. She snorted and shoved at his elbow. “If you offer to partner me in a waltz, I swear I will clout you over the head right here before all of Society,” she warned. Then there would truly be a Prudence Tidemore scandal to speak of. “Go,” she urged the couple, still as in love as they’d been when she had been a girl of fifteen.

“Are you—?”

“Go.” She gave him another playful shove and with a wave for her sister-in-law, watched as Sin escorted Juliet onto the ballroom floor.

Prudence stared after them. A stirring of envy turned within her once more. As the couples twirled by in a kaleidoscope of colorful skirts, she remained standing so she might better see the lords and ladies present. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true. She searched out the towering gentleman with the look of Apollo to him.

Lord St. Cyr bowed to the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake, ending the exchange, and then continued on. More than a foot taller than her five-foot three-inch frame, he cut an easy path through the ballroom. Periodically, he’d tip his head in greeting to the lords who raised a hand or sketched a bow. It was not, however, the response of the gentlemen that she so cared about but rather the ladies who were not saddled with white gowns, instead wearing crimson satins and wetted silks. She wrinkled her nose. Those same ladies daringly moved into the gentleman’s path and skimmed their fingers over their low décolletages. One overly bold sapphire skirt-wearing beauty managed to halt his determined path—Lady Gemma Torrent, a young widow who’d recently abandoned her widow’s weeds. Prudence pursed her mouth. And the lady appeared to be in the market for the marquess’ affections.

She detested this insatiable urge to gape at the lovely pairing they made, with the young woman and her midnight black curls loosely piled atop her head. Whatever the widow said earned a half-grin from the marquess that caused a maddening flutter in Prudence’s chest. Then, Lady Torrent brushed her fingertips along the swell of bosom spilling from the top of her gown.

Prudence stole a discreet peek down at her rather less impressive décolletage and then back to the marquess with a scowl. White skirts and a non-existent décolletage. Scandal be damned, she’d little hope of garnering any gentleman’s attention with such a meager showing.

The marquess quickly disengaged himself from the attentions of the widow that set the lady to pouting. A trill of pleasure ran through Prudence under the very obvious dismissal. Why, he appeared wholly uninterested in the lady’s blatant self-offering. She drummed her fingertips together and continued to study his movement through the crowd away from those improper ladies. Away. Not toward. From all she recalled of her roguish brother in the gossip columns, gentlemen tended to court those ladies’ favors, and yet this one did not. A slow smile formed on her lips.

But then that small, happy grin promptly died. From across the ballroom the Marquess of Westfield introduced his sister, the golden-haired, perfectly beautiful Lady Beatrice Dennington to the Marquess of St. Cyr. The lady, who was neither scandalously clad nor wearing white, dipped her gaze and blushed at something the marquess said.