Lord Suitor (3 page)

"Hmm,
then if you say it is not doom and gloom and death, then what is it? The Regent
has opened the coffers and decided we deserve thousands? I don't believe it. Prinny
is not that foreseeing. We have been left a fortune by an aunt none of us knew
about? That only happens in novels. Someone wants to adopt Amalia? Let them. She
is sending me nigh on demented with how she thinks it is acceptable to behave."

"No,
none of those," Theo said. "And Amalia is young."

Spoiled.

"The
thing is, Tessa, I have received an offer for you," Theo continued from
where his wife had left off. "One I implore you to think very seriously
about."

Tessa's
glass tilted, slipped though her fingers, and fell to the floor. Luckily it
bounced, and there was very little brandy in it to stain the carpet. "And
you say that is not devastating news? Who on earth is stupid enough to offer
for me, old cattish and on the shelf as I am?"

Chapter Three

Nathaniel,
the Earl of Fenniston, looked at himself in the mirror with critical eyes and
very slowly lowered his chin to add one crucial crease to his intricately tied
cravat.

Behind
him Judd, his valet, stood silent and still. He knew the value of reading his employer's
every mood and need. Silence was a prerequisite for the tying and finishing of
a cravat. Not that Nat was a pink of the ton or a beau, anything but, and he
would have been aghast to be called such. He was merely fastidious and one whom
men looked up to, and often to his disgust, aped and followed his dress.

Now
he contemplated his reflection for long seconds before he nodded. "It will
do. Now my jacket if you please. Yes, that one is perfect." He suffered
being helped into the snug-fitting garment and the way his valet smoothed out
each crease until he was satisfied. For himself, Nat couldn't be bothered to be
so fastidious. Perhaps it was as well he had Judd to minister to his every
need. "Oh, and while I remember, do not wait up for me."

“Yes,
my lord, and not wait up?" Judd sounded astonished, and also hurt.
"But your boots?" He bent and rubbed what Nat decided was an
imaginary spot of dirt on his left heel, with a large square of linen, just,
Nat assumed, to make a point.

"Will
come off, as well you know. I am not so effete that I cannot remove them myself.
Judd, I am not having you dozing in the chair until such time as I arrive home.
You have enough late nights as it is. Tonight I will see to myself. Do not
argue."

Judd
sighed heavily. "You are a hard master, my lord. I will not stop up past..."

"Midnight,"
Nat said inexorably. "Not one minute more, and believe me I will
know."

"You
have spies everywhere," Judd said in a muttered undertone.

"And
sharp ears," Nat said cheerfully. "And don't you forget it." He waited
until Judd handed him a handkerchief, and then he slipped his signet on his
finger. "Wish me luck, Judd."

"Of
course, my lord." Judd flicked a miniscule piece of dust from Nat's
sleeve. "May I inquire as to why?"

"I'm
off to get myself a wife, I hope. Mind you"—Nat smiled slowly—"knowing
the lady I have in mind, I have no expectations whatsoever it will be as easy
as that." It was just as well he thrived on a challenge. He left the room,
whistling.

****

Several
hours later he handed his cloak and cane to the waiting attendant, and adjusted
his cuffs. Nat planned his campaign carefully. He was under no illusions that a
campaign it was, if not out and out hostilities. The lady he had chosen had
never been known for holding back her feelings on any subject she felt strongly
about. Marriage to him would no doubt come under the classification of strongly
held opinions. Probably in the ‘never to be entertained’ ones. Nat intended to
change her mind, and rather thought it could be a pleasurable task. Or at
least, he amended to himself, less than boring.

He
nodded to some of his peers and adroitly avoided two former mistresses, both of
whom he was on friendly terms with. Nat wanted to begin his campaign in the
manner he chose, without either lady looking on avidly or offering helpful, and
not so helpful, suggestions to either him or his intended, and made his way
toward where his hostess stood.

As
he was, by choice, late, there was no receiving line, and his sister, Jane,
also known as Lady Antrim, his hostess, was sitting in a chair and conversing
with the mother of his quarry. Neither husband was anywhere to be seen, and Nat
assumed Michael, Lord Antrim would be hosting a card table, and the other man
discussing politics in the library. Once known as a hell-raiser, he had
mellowed with age and children.

Jane
looked up as he approached and waggled her finger at him before she held her
hand out for him to kiss. He obliged and then bowed to her companion.

"My
lady, you are, as ever, fetching."

The
lady gurgled with laughter. "You are incorrigible, Nathaniel."

"I
hope so. And where, may I inquire, is your daughter?" Nat ignored the interested
look Jane gave him. No doubt she would make a call on him the following day to
quiz him with regard to his intentions. She would learn exactly what he was
prepared to divulge—which was very little—no more and no less.

"Ah,
it depends which daughter," he was told. "Marielle and Sybille are
dancing, with my Lords Cottingham and Jeavons respectively. Cecily is talking
to Mr. Tilton, and Amalia is practicing her wiles on young Ferrand." Mijo
Birch giggled like a schoolgirl. "She now admits it was worth her while
being forced to converse in my mother tongue. However, I assume you mean Tessa.
I do believe she was about to step outside with Arthur Mitcham."

"And
you let her?" Nat frowned. Mitcham had little between his ears and
therefore as much sense as a gnat. He was, however, considered to be on the
lookout for an amiable and plump in the pocket wife. Neither descriptions fitted
Tessa Birch, but Nat doubted Mitcham knew that. He wouldn't look past a fine
bosom and sparkling brown eyes, and not see the heaving of said bosom or
flashing eyes as the impatience they indicated.

Mijo
sighed. "As with all my children, she has a mind of her own and at her age
is not afraid to use it, my lord. Something you'll discover if..." She shrugged.

"If
what?" Jane asked eagerly.

"If
I'm not in prison for your attempted murder," Nat said. "Do not
interfere, Jane, or Lucinda loses her allowance."

It
was cruel, and he mentally castigated himself as Jane went pale and bit her
lip. Lucinda was Jane's older daughter. As Jane's husband was only a minor
lord, with a relatively small estate, Nat, Lucinda's godfather, willingly
helped out. However, sometimes Jane went too far, and it was one statement
guaranteed to rein her in even if they both know it was empty.

"That
is not a threat; it is a promise."

"Nat."
Jane was reproachful. "As if I would."

"Jane."
He mimicked her petulant tone. "You would and you have been warned."

She
glared at him, and Nat fancied he saw her mental dilemma. Revert to childhood
and stick her tongue out at him or keep up the pretense of sensible, somber matron?
The latter won out, but he'd bet his new chestnut hunter it was a close run
thing.

"Then
I demand you visit me tomorrow," his sister said with a determined note in
her voice. "Before noon."

He
laughed. "After an evening here? Surely not?"

"Nathaniel
John Frederick Fenniston."

Oh ho, she has the big guns
primed
. He only
got the full mouthful when Jane was uppity.

"Jane
Amanda Aurelia Fenniston Antrim," he said, and she grimaced. "I will
call on you on my way back from my early-morning ride in the park. If you are
awake, I'll stay for a visit. Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies?" He'd
caught sight of his quarry, who did not look amused at something her companion
was saying. Not only that, that fool Mitcham seemed to have her hovering by the
doors that led to the gardens. She was apparently remonstrating with him.

Nat
weaved his way through dancers, conversationalists, and those he deemed just to
be intent in getting in his way and stopping him. He ignored them all, even as
he used a circuitous route so no one could guess his destination. At one point
he deviated slightly to avoid two of his cronies deep in a discussion over
horseflesh. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into whichever argument
was sure to develop. Both had very strong ideas on what was ideal and what was
not. He had no intention of being asked to take sides.

Instead,
he took two elegant—and extravagantly expensive—crystal glasses of wine from a
passing waiter and smiled his thanks. Trust his sister not to think of the
expense of replacing the glasses that would undoubtedly be shattered. Nat was
no cheapskate, but unnecessary waste annoyed him, and many glasses would be
lost before the night was over. Due to heavy taxation, good goblets were
incredibly costly, and for such a large gathering, most hostesses would use ones
that were not so high quality. Nat made a note to direct Jane toward his own
supplier, who he knew would give her a good deal, and then intentionally forgot
the subject. After all, it was up to her. He might happily help with her
children's allowances, but his largesse stopped there. If she wanted to throw
money away—literally—it was her decision.

By
the time he arrived at the garden door next to the one he intended to reach, his
quarry were walking out of the room. Nat changed his mind, turned briskly, and
stepped out through the open doorway he'd passed seconds earlier, to approach the
unsuspecting pair from behind. He took a moment to admire the lady's contours,
admirably silhouetted by the sconces and torches dotted along the balustrade of
the terrace, before he took a silent step closer. Engrossed with each other, neither
heard nor noticed him. Nat bit his lip as her words drifted back to him.
Perhaps engrossed wasn't the correct word. It seemed, on one side at least,
exasperated would be a better description.

"Mitcham,
you are an idiot. Of course I'm not going to marry you." Her firm voice
floated back to Nat. "Why on earth," she continued, "should
I?"

"Well,"
Mitcham said, sulkiness uppermost in his voice. "My mama said I need to
marry someone from a well-established family, someone who knows what's needed
and when. Let's face it, you aren't getting any younger, and I could well be
your last chance. So, why not? And out here with no one else around, I can
compromise you," he finished triumphantly. "Then we will have to
wed."

"Do...ow...really..."
Tessa's voice was furious. "You pathetic worm, over my dead body, and
yours. Let go of me, you oaf."

"Exactly."
Nat reached the pair, handed a surprised Tessa both glasses, and removed Mitcham's
hand from Tessa's arm. "Not the most flattering of proposals,
Mitcham." He made sure he nipped the man's skin hard enough to make
Mitcham wince. "You cannot compromise the lady. Not good ton at all. Plus,
you aren't alone with the lady, are you, Mitcham? I am here. And we both know
you would never besmirch a lady's reputation by saying you were. Because."
Nat narrowed his eyes and glared until Mitcham paled and tried to take a step
back. Nat tightened his grip, and Mitcham yelped. Nat ignored him, and Tessa
sniggered.

"If
you do, I will see to it you are blackballed from everywhere," Nat said in
a voice hard enough to shatter china. "With black balls to whit. Do you
understand?"

"You
can't do that," Mitcham muttered in a squeaky voice. It was so unlike the
voice he usually affected, Nat wasn't surprised Tessa giggled. One would almost
think Nat
had
blackened the man's
balls already.

"I've
sent the notice to the
Times
,"
Mitcham said.

Tessa
squeaked. "What?"

Both
men ignored her.

Nat
raised one eyebrow. "Then you better unsend it if you value your life. And
if John Walter values his job, and his livelihood, he will ignore it. Blackballing
will be the least I do if your statement is true. De-balling will be next on
the list if it shows."

Mitcham
blanched and visibly shook. "You cannot."

"Can't
I? Watch me and see." Nat released the man's arm and very deliberately
dusted his hands together, as if to show he was removing any trace of the white-faced
man in front of him. He turned to Tessa, took the untouched glasses from her,
put them on a convenient stone table, and offered his arm.

"Remember
my words, Mitcham. I do not make false promises. Ever."

"It's
not true. I...I thought it best to wait. But I had it ready. Let's face it, she
is well on the shelf, and after all what else has she got?" Mitcham said in
a disgruntled tone.

"Me."
Nat stared at the other man until he was satisfied the message had sunk in.
"My lady." Nat turned to Tessa, whom he decided didn't know whether
to thank him or berate him for interfering. "Your mother asked me to escort
you to her." Very deliberately he lifted her hand from her side and placed
it over the lower sleeve of his jacket. Then he handed a glass back to her
before he took hold of the other one. Damned if he couldn't swallow the
contents in one mouthful. "Shall we go? It wouldn't do to leave her
waiting."

Nat
didn't give Tessa a chance to answer and leaving a shaking Mitcham to stare
after them, led Tessa along the terrace and into a small antechamber next to
the ballroom.

Once
inside he turned on her furiously. "What on earth were you thinking about?
Going outside with Mitcham? Everyone knows that he..."

"Is
about as effectual as a worm that has fallen in a bottle of port," Tessa
said scathingly. The wine in her glass slopped over the top and splashed,
unnoticed, on her silk skirts. "We both know no one would believe a word
he said about my agreeing to marry him. I'd rather marry a toad."

"That
could be arranged, I'm sure."

Her
lips twitched. "Anyway, my lord, what gives you the right to pull me up on
my behavior?"