If Love Were Enough (2 page)

Priscilla paused at the banister at the top of the stairs, where she could look down on the reception of the guests while remaining unobserved. The large crystal chandelier already had its many candles lit in preparation for the coming evening. The black and white marble floor was polished to a high shine, and Rogers was standing as straight as his aged body would allow. He closed the door he’d opened after the first arriving guests.

Lord and Lady Dimsford had already entered the foyer. Thomas, chatting with her ladyship, seemed oblivious to the young thing’s fluttering eyelashes and coquettish smiles. Though she had some beauty of her own, it looked harsh from the layer of powder she had applied. And her gown—how had she managed to dampen her pale pink bodice while still in the carriage?

Anne was doing her best to keep Lord Dimsford from crawling on top of her right at the door. He clutched her hand in his and kept taking it to his mouth to kiss it. Was that his tongue touching her sister-in-law’s skin?

Though Lady Dimsford was pretty enough, with rich black hair and brown eyes, Priscilla had no idea how Anne would be interested in jumping into bed with his lordship. He was fat, to say the least. How would a man of such girth even make love? His tendency for weight alone would dismiss him as a possible surrogate for Robert, who had grown thinner as he aged. And his coloring was all wrong too. Robert’s skin tone had been a healthier shade, at least until the last few years, not pasty like Dimsford.

Rogers opened the front door again as the Dimsfords retired for refreshments in the formal drawing room.

This must be the Earl and Countess of Blackston, as Rogers indicated it was their carriage coming next up the drive.

The echoes up the staircase increased when a woman, one could describe as abundant in figure, with hair the color of carrots, entered the foyer. Her shrill voice seemed to reverberate from the walls; her laugh reminded one of a caterwauling cat. She had the temerity to take Thomas’s hand and place it against her huge expanse of chest, knocking the fichu out of place so Thomas’s hand touched bare skin.

Meanwhile, Anne was greeting a stick of a man not more than five feet and eight inches high, with hair almost as red as his wife’s. He kissed her on the cheek, then whispered something in her ear. Anne laughed and squeezed the lord’s hand as he bowed over hers. While his wife was occupied, the Earl of Blackston proceeded to kiss Anne’s wrist, then moved right up to her elbow. It was when her sister-in-law gave him a slight shove that he desisted. With his derisive chuckle, the couple followed their predecessors toward the drawing room and the front door opened yet again.

For a moment, Priscilla leaned back against a nearby wall, out of sight. Lord Blackston would not do either. Though thin enough in build, his brown eyes and red hair would never pass the scrutiny of the neighbors.

These were the attendees of a house party? Who would want to swap intimacies with these people? Were Anne and Thomas so bored with each other and so lacking of friends of finer quality they would settle for these? But then, maybe friends of better quality would not be interested in swapping their wives and husbands.

Another raucous laugh, this time in a man’s tenor tones, rolled up the staircase bringing Priscilla back to spying on the latest arrivals.

A man looking closer to Robert’s age than Thomas’s was chatting it up. His pronounced over-bite eliminated him from contention, while his behavior reinforced her repulsion. On one side, he had his arm around a younger, mousy looking woman, who must be his wife. While, on the other, Anne stood as dignified as she could with the man’s hand on her backside. From her perch, Priscilla could see Edward, Squire Tilden, for that was what her brother called him, squeezing Anne’s derriere with relish. Thomas seemed oblivious, while they exchanged pleasantries. When Mrs. Tilden, whom Thomas called Charlotte, released herself to remove her wrap, Priscilla was stunned to see the rouged nipples of her meager breasts through sheer fabric.

Ugh. These people were disgusting. She leaned back again, grabbing her pendant. How could she stand to touch and seduce one of these gentlemen? Maybe she would leave tomorrow and see what she could find at one of the inns on the way home. He might not be a gentleman, but he might at least look more appealing than any of these. And have a closer resemblance to Robert.

She heard Rogers greet yet another guest. Then her brother shouted, “Brandon, bloody hell, you’re the last person I expected to attend. Has your father improved so?”

A deep, warm voice rolled up the stairs and through her body, its resonance touching every cell. Her heart skipped. She was afraid to look around the corner and back down the stairs. She was afraid what she might see would devastate the tingling feeling that permeated her entire being. This could be the one. Maybe, if he was as ugly as a toad but matched Robert’s coloring, she could just keep her eyes closed when they went to bed.

Assuming she could get him into her bed.

She released her pendant, took a deep breath and girded her loins to peek at the latest addition.

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

He had to be at least six feet tall. He looked Thomas straight in the eye, and Thomas was more than six feet. His hair, not the pale yellow of Anne’s but the rich golden color gained from the sun, waved then curled over his collar at his nape. He was lean and muscled, the way the
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described the Corinthians when she was a girl in London. He had his large hand in Thomas’s, and they were shaking as if to rip each other’s arm off.

Priscilla thought about the portrait of Robert in the gallery back at Rutherford Park. Though she had not seen it since she was a newlywed, she was sure her late husband was no more than thirty-five when it had been commissioned. He would have been happily married to his first wife, Amanda, and still hoping for an heir. Before his illnesses, arthritis, and time had crippled and ravaged his body, Robert had been tall, blond-haired and green-eyed.

The man before her would be perfect. And even she could see his desirability as a bed partner.

If she could manage to play the role of seductress.

If he would be willing to be seduced.

“Baron Brookfield,” Anne sidled up to him. “What a wonderful surprise. Asher told me of your father’s illness so we had no hope to be graced with your presence.” She presented her hand for his attentions.

Lord Brookfield bowed over it but when he was done, Anne held onto him, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her eyes were alight with interest as she looked up into the newcomer’s face, despite the fact his lordship’s attention returned to Thomas.

“Father sent me away. He said I was hovering beside his bed for more than three months and needed to be with younger people, to relax and share some enjoyment. I swear he would have saddled my horse if he could have raised himself from his bed. Estella agreed so I came. I hope you are not inconvenienced.”

Who was Estella? His sister? His betrothed? His wife?

What should it matter to her since she only wanted the child and not the father?

“We are most delighted, my lord,” crooned Anne. It became obvious to Priscilla that Anne had Lord Brookfield in her sights and would be happy to forego the other rabble.

“Come into the drawing room for refreshments.” Anne regained his hand to lead the way.

Lord Brookfield held back. “If it would not be too much of an inconvenience, I would like to freshen up. I came by horseback and fear I am as dusty as the road itself. With any luck, my carriage and belongings should arrive with my valet, Simpson, shortly.”

“Of course,” Thomas said. “Rogers, can we make a place for my old friend?” Not waiting for the butler’s reply, he slapped his friend on the back. “Brandon, this weekend will be like old times when we were dissipated rakes in London.”

“Immediately, my lord.” Rogers bowed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me.” They both turned toward the stairs.

Panic seized Priscilla. They were coming her way. She whirled around to escape to the sitting room. She would have to wait before she could make her way back to her rooms.

And she would have to make a plan. She was no longer an unmatched female, so more than likely, she would be invited to dinner and activities. She would be introduced to Lord Brookfield. So, she would have to strategize a seduction. She saw Anne’s interest, and Anne had far greater experience and allure than she.

What must she do to bring his lordship’s attention her way?

From the doorway, Brandon perused the collection of dissipated aristocrats in the drawing room. He wondered again why he obliged his dying father to participate in this folly. It was over a year since he frequented such dissolute activities in town. Could he not be of more use on their estate than fretting over his father’s fate from afar? True, he had been at his father’s bedside for three months. But it was a loving son’s duty to do such things. And at this point, he could not see any personal restoration of energies would occur from an activity such as this.

He no longer had any interest in bedding another man’s wife. Those days of playing the rake passed when his succession to his father’s title of Viscount and the associated responsibilities became imminent. And none of the ladies flaunting their charms here held enough allure to make him waiver from that path. He was glad he had no wife to bring to such a debauched entertainment. Had he a wife he cared for and respected, this would be the last form of
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association in which he would permit her to participate.

His betrothed, Estella, would be no less than appalled.

Brandon took a deep breath, and strolled to the fireplace to keep a deliberate distance while he studied the tableau before him further. He could feel the sexual tension and energy in the air.

Though he met most of these people before, he had not fraternized with them much. Dimsford’s wife, Sally, had her come out maybe three years before. But she held little attraction for him even then. It seemed she had been more than happy to marry for great wealth and title, than for love.

Baron Haddon and his wife, Helene, arrived after Brandon was shown to his rooms. No more than three and twenty years old, the young baroness showed little interest in her husband, placing herself as far away from him as the room would allow. When she looked in her husband’s direction, seeing a withered old man with gray hair and an ear trumpet, her lip curled in distaste.

He could swear Baron Haddon and Squire Tilden were acquaintances of his father. Both outlived their first wives, then revisited the Marriage Market for younger blood. He doubted the matches were successful, especially since both couples were here and their ladies looked as interested in alternate liaisons as did their husbands.

Blackston and his wife Brandon knew of, but had never met. Not regulars to
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activities, neither had much of a reputation there.

It was difficult for him to study the scene without making eye contact with any of the women. And it seemed, at the moment at least, each of them set her sights on him, including their hostess, Asher’s wife, Anne.

This could get difficult.

But, in truth, it was not too very long ago he would have enjoyed the flirting, teasing and innuendoes that circulated in such a heady gathering. His body tightened even now with the expectation despite his lack of interest.

Old rakehell habits must die hard. But his mind had changed direction, so his body must learn to follow suit. He would have responsibilities and a nursery he must fill to guarantee the survival of his line.

Estella remained at home, ready to marry him whenever he gave the word. And, possibly, he should do just that before his father took his last breath. It would give his father and hers the joy of knowing their families and lands would be united at last. It would also double the properties he would leave to his heir, whenever he had one, and reinforce his family fortunes. Though not tapped out, they could benefit from the bolstering in short order.

Why then was he hesitating when he knew it was expected he would marry his childhood friend? He knew her as well as anyone. She seemed ready to accept him and their parents’ plans for them. Yet, for some reason, he was filled with reservation. Theirs would be a better match than most. Probably better than any of those in this drawing room, or for that matter, his parents’.

Even Asher married for money, not for love.

What was it that made him hesitant, wary even, of marrying Estella?

Could it just be it was not a love match? How possible was it he could ever make one?

He barely settled his elbow on the mantel before his solitude was breeched by his host.

“Well, Brandon, I must say again, I did not expect you here, what with your father’s illness and all.”

Thomas Merton, Viscount Asherton, had always been a good friend even after his marriage and escape to the countryside. Just over six feet in height, he still kept himself in shape with his riding and hunting. A Corinthian in his youth, his vanity must still be too strong to let his physical appearance dissipate the way his moral ethics had.

Having been clapped on the back, Brandon answered, “As I mentioned, I was kicked out, Asher. My father felt I had been too long out of Society and needed some company to renew my spirits. Even Estella urged me to come, though I am not sure she was clear on the type of activity I am attending. Thus, I am here to partake of your generous hospitality, though I doubt I shall partake in much else.”

His eyes roamed the room once again. No one garnered his interest until his tutored gaze fell upon a new face of fair and enduring beauty standing near the open French doors. He missed her moments ago because the four gentlemen hovered around her, shielding her from his view.

“If you are to renew your energies, Brandon, then you must find some willing accomplice to entice you. I am sure Anne would be happy to assist you in making a temporary match.”

Just what he needed, Asher’s wife fitting him up with an empty-headed female. Or worse, based on past experience, Anne would be throwing herself at him.

His eyes had not left the beauty near the French doors. Her auburn hair showed to advantage when the setting sun glinted red upon it. Her eyes looked green from this distance, or were they made so from the green satin she wore. She was not tall, no more than an inch or two over five feet from his estimation, but her small frame had all the curves a man could want to smooth his hands over. And the high neckline of her gown did little to camouflage the generosity of the charms beneath it.

“The lady near the French doors, Asher. Who is she? I have not seen her in your company previously. I doubt she is shackled to any of the four gentlemen pressing their company upon her, since she does not look the least bit interested in any one of them. Her demeanor is polite but cold, if I had my guess.”

Asher looked over. “I have never invited her to any of my house parties. In fact, she was not invited to this one.”

“She doesn’t look the type to force herself into such a gathering.” Brandon let his gaze flow over her curvaceous form again. His inner being stirred; his body hardened.

“One does not introduce one’s sister into such society intentionally, my Lord Brookfield.”

Brandon’s perusal stopped short then he turned his head to meet the gaze of his host.

“Your sister? I never knew you had one. You never mentioned it when I met you in town. What was that? Near ten years ago? You have been holding out on me. Have you introduced her to the other rakes gathered here?” Brandon could see the discomfort in Asher’s face. His friend’s brow furrowed; his smile dissolved into a frown.

“Each and every one of them has taken up introductions on his own. She arrived unannounced, earlier today before the rest of you descended. She has been in her rooms resting from her trip from Northumberland.” Asher’s gaze traveled to his sister. “I didn’t want her to attend, but your arrival presented us with an unmatched male. So, we asked her to join us for dinner. You should know, she just buried her husband and is beside herself with grief. She came home for some much needed family consolation.”

“It looks like there are quite a few who would willingly console her.” With little reluctance, Brandon would take on the task himself. “Was the death expected?”

“Eventually. The man was forty years her senior.”

Brandon made a disapproving sound. “Which of your idiot relatives arranged that hideous match?”

“I did,” the viscount said, after clearing his throat. “Priscilla came out just after our parents died in the carriage accident. Soon after her first ball, Rutherford asked for her hand. He might have been old, but he was titled, rich and kind. He also needed an heir so he wanted a young wife and was willing to be generous over it.”

“After his death, I found my father had left the family’s finances in shambles. I had little in the way of a dowry to offer. Even financing a Season was to be a hardship.” Asher drew a cheroot from a sterling silver case from an inside pocket of his jacket then bent to light a piece of kindling from the hearth. “I did the best I could for her with what I had to work with. Priscilla was young, just seventeen, and seemed to be content enough to be banished to the wilds of Northumberland after having lost her parents.”

Asher, a name only his longtime acquaintances used due to his habit of leaving cheroot ashes in his wake, puffed away at his tobacco. “I was four years her senior. What could I have done, an unattached rake, to care and protect her? We had not even a maiden aunt for a chaperone.”

Ashes from his cheroot fell to the hearth.

“She has returned none the worse for wear, has she?” Brandon asked, while he continued to watch the interaction across the room.

“Well, Rutherford cared for her well enough, though the child never came. I don’t know how long she will remain here; Anne will take her under her wing.”

Brandon wished that would help the new widow, but doubted Anne’s self-absorbed assistance would be of any value. Priscilla could know little of the
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and its adventures after leaving it so young and being away from it so long. Though, from the looks of her currently, she was holding her own quite well. In fact, she looked like the Ice Queen. Her smiles, rare and forced at best, seemed to be granted solely because she knew it was appropriate.

Brandon shifted, sensing movement at the door.

The butler came in to announce dinner.

Knowing the crowd would move to the dining room, Brandon returned his attention to Asher’s sister. She gazed out the window oblivious while all but one of the gentlemen around her started for their dining companions. No longer did Priscilla have the look of the impenetrable princess, aloof, cold, unattainable. Now her features softened, her body stilled and crumpled. Her focus through the glass seemed distant, whether in distance or time he did not know.

Brandon perused the dispersing crowd again.

Priscilla couldn’t believe her circumstance. Though she had to admit her own intentions were less than honorable, she lacked interest in any of the four men who surrounded her, ogling her, like the finest horse for sale at Tattersall’s. It was debasing, no less confounding. Even her short time on the Marriage Market more than ten years ago was less demeaning than this. She was almost sorry Anne relented and invited her to join the company for dinner.

In the meantime, out of the corner of her eye, she could see each of the other women sitting around the room preening while they made eyes at her brother and Lord Brookfield, the two most attractive men present. What chance had she of cornering the unattached lord when there was so much interest from other quarters? And, he might be such a rake he would be servicing them all. Could she tolerate being one of many?

“Lady Rutherford, I shall escort you to dinner.” Lord Dimsford raised his arm to her. She hesitated. She had no desire to touch this repugnant stranger. But not knowing how to avoid this common courtesy in such formal circumstances, she reluctantly placed her hand upon his sleeve to join the others for dinner.

She caught a glimpse of Brookfield, one more society rake. Tall, taller than those around her, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. She had been warned off his kind before. But he might be the one who could solve her dilemma. And, he was probably irresponsible enough not to care, like the others presently attending her, only he was more handsome, more inviting, and even more dangerous. He must have women throwing themselves at his feet, only alone because he hadn’t yet chosen his victim.

Her spine tingled with the look of him, the thought of him, the sexuality he exuded even while he stood silently, perusing the crowd.

He could be Robert’s match.

His gaze turned to meet hers. The tingle that was sensitizing the surface of her skin turned into heat. The heat flushed through her entire body. Priscilla was quite sure her face and décolletage blushed from the heat this man inspired.

He nodded his greeting, sharing a subtle, seductive smile that reached his eyes. Her eyes blinked in astonishment. He was too knowing by half. Lord Dimsford murmured something in her ear. She turned and he led her away.