One Tempting Proposal (2 page)

She heard laughter echoing in the silence and realized it was her own. What a notion. A man who would love a woman for her flaws. Each woman in the room had been taught to eradicate their flaws, or at least give the appearance they had. Her own mother bought tonics to cover blemishes, salves to soften skin, unctions to make one's hair glossy, and powder to whiten her teeth. And those only redressed physical flaws. What of the rest? Was there a miracle cure to improve one's inner flaws, to turn unkind thoughts sunny, to fill the empty spaces in a heart and light up dark corners of doubt? If she could bottle that tonic and sell it, she'd never need any man's income to sustain her.

As their weekly teatime drew to a close, Bess moved to occupy the empty spot on the settee next to Kitty.

“Are you all right, Kitty? You seem a bit unsettled.”

“I'm well, Bess. Thank you.”

The girl's query wasn't an accusation or a warning that her weakness would be used against her. Bess Berwick didn't seem to possess that sort of malice.

“You're too sweet.”

And she was. Sweet and naive and kind without expecting anything in return. She feared for anyone so gentle. In this company it was better to be hard, to wear one's armor, as well as perfecting one's noncommittal grin. If Bess ever challenged someone like Cynthia, she'd be cut down before she ever saw the scythe.

“I don't disagree with your notion of independence.” Even when espousing women's independence, Bess spoke softly. “But what of love?” She waited a beat and turned to watch Cynthia leave the room to see the Lissman sisters off.

When Bess turned back, her delicate features tensed as she whispered, “What of passion?”

Yes, what of passion? Kitty had been waiting to feel it for four seasons. There'd been moments of excitement—­the thrill of catching a handsome man's gaze, the zing of physical attraction when a gentleman took her in his arms before a waltz, and even the heady pleasure of conversing with a clever man interested in topics beyond sports and gentlemanly wagers.

Every spark of intrigue fizzled, and not a single burst of initial enchantment ever grew into a flame. If a man's attention toward her didn't quickly wane, her interest in him did. In Kitty's experience, most men's appeal lasted the length of one ball or perhaps a single other afternoon social call. If a gentleman didn't drone on endlessly about himself, he took to telling Kitty what
she
must do.
You must see the new play at Drury Lane. You must go riding with me in Hyde Park tomorrow. You must come see my horse run the Derby.

Few asked her opinions or considered her preferences. Just like her father.

When she found herself unable to wrap four years of disappointment into a few words, Bess nudged her arm.

The girl's eyes were huge and danced with mischief as she spoke in a low voice meant for secrets and intrigue. “If you have no plans to marry, will you take a lover?”

Apparently Miss Berwick could be as fanciful as she was kind.

Passion. A lover. Kitty couldn't imagine either when she anticipated a season of struggling with her father to make her own choices.

 

Chapter Two

Cambridgeshire, May, 1891

S
LASHING THE AIR
with a sword was doing nothing to improve Sebastian Fennick's mood. As he thrust, the needle-­thin foil bending and arching through the air and sending tingling reverberations along his hand, he glared across at his opponent, though he doubted she could see any better than he could from behind the tight mesh of her fencing mask.

His sister parried before offering a spot-­on riposte of her own, her foil bowing in a perfect semicircle as she struck him.

“Are you making any sort of effort at all?”

Seb bit back the reply burning the tip of his tongue. Fencing was the least of his concerns. In the last month he'd learned of the death of a cousin he'd barely known and inherited the responsibility for one dukedom, three thousand acres of land, hundreds of tenants, twenty-­eight staff members, one London residence, and a country house with so many rooms, he was still counting. He could find no competitive pleasure in wielding a lightweight foil when his mind brimmed with repairs, meetings, investments, and invitations to social events that spanned the rest of the calendar year.

And all of it was nothing to the bit of paper in his waistcoat pocket, separated by two layers of fabric from the scar on his chest, dual reminders of what a fool he'd been, how one woman's lies nearly ended his life.

He wouldn't open her letter. Instead, he'd take pleasure in burning the damn thing.

Never again.
Never would he allow himself to be manipulated as he had been in the past. He had to put the past from his mind altogether.

Fencing wasn't doing the trick. Give him a proper sword and let him dash it against a tree trunk. Better yet, give him a dragon to slay. That might do quite nicely, but this dance of lunges and feints only made his irritation bubble over.

Yet his sister didn't deserve his ire, and he'd no wish to stifle her enthusiasm for the newest of her myriad interests.

“I fear fencing and I do not suit, Pippa.” As she returned to
en garde
position, preparing for another strike, Seb hastened to add, “Nor shall we ever.”

Pippa sagged in disappointment when he reached up to remove his fencing mask. “I'd hoped you might find it invigorating. A pleasant challenge.”

In truth, his mathematical mind found the precision of the sport appealing, and the physical exertion was refreshing. But when he'd inherited the dukedom of Wrexford, Seb left his mathematics career at Cambridge behind. And weren't there a dozen tasks he should be attending to rather than waving a flexible bit of steel about at his sister?

“Invigorating, yes. Challenging, absolutely. Pleasant? No.”

When he began removing his gloves and unbuttoning the fencing jacket Pippa insisted he purchase, she raised a hand to stop him.

“Wait. We must do this properly.” She approached and offered him her hand as if they were merely fellow sportsmen rather than siblings. “Politeness is an essential element of fencing.”

Seb cleared his throat, infused his baritone with gravitas, and shook his younger sister's hand. “Well done, Miss Fennick.”

She'd tucked her fencing mask under her sword arm and met his gaze with eyes the same unique shade as their father's. Along with her dark hair and whiskey brown eyes, Pippa had inherited their patriarch's love for mathematics and sporting activity of every kind.

“Fine effort, Your Grace.” And father's compassion too, apparently.

Pippa smiled at him, her disappointment well-­hidden or forgotten, and Seb returned the expression. Then her words, the sound of his honorific at the end, settled in his mind.
Your Grace.
It still sounded odd to his ears.

Seb and his sister had been raised for academic pursuits, children of a mathematician father and a mother with as many accomplishments as her daughter now boasted. Formality, titles, rules—­none of it came naturally. The title of Duke of Wrexford had passed to him, but it still rankled and itched, as ill-­fitting as the imprisoning fencing mask he'd been relieved to remove.

As they exited the corner of the second ballroom Pippa had set out as her fencing strip, she turned one of her inquisitive glances on him.

“Perhaps you'd prefer boxing, like Grandfather.” Their grandfather had been as well known for his love of pugilism as his architectural designs, and had reputedly been one of Gentleman Jackson's best pupils.

Taller and broader than many of his classmates, Seb had engaged in his own share of scuffles in youth, and he'd been tempted to settle a few gentlemanly disagreements with his fists, but he never enjoyed fighting with his body as much as sparring with his intellect. Reason. Logic. Those were the weapons a man should bring to a dispute.

“Unless you're like Oliver and can't abide the sight of blood.”

It seemed his sister still sparred. Standing on the threshold of Sebastian's study, Oliver Treadwell lifted his hands, settled them on his hips, and heaved a frustrated sigh.

“I did consider medical school, Pip. I can bear the sight of blood better than most.” Ollie's eyes widened as he scanned the two of them. “What in heaven's name is that awful getup you two are wearing?”

Seb didn't know if it was his lack of enthusiasm for fencing or Ollie's jibe about their costumes that set her off, but the shock of seeing Pippa lift her foil, breaking a key point of protocol she'd been quite insistent upon—­“Never lift a sword when your opponent is unmasked”—­blunted the amusement of watching Ollie rear back like a frightened pony.

“Fencing costumes,” she explained through clenched teeth. “I tried instructing Sebastian, though he says the sport doesn't suit him.” She hadn't actually touched Ollie with the tip of her foil and quickly lowered it to her side, but the movement failed to ease the tension between them.

Turning back to Seb, she forced an even expression. “I'll go up and change for luncheon.” She offered Ollie a curt nod as she passed him, her wide fencing skirt fluttering around her ankles. At the door, she grasped the frame and turned back. “And don't call me Pip. No one calls me that anymore.”

“Goodness. When did she begin loathing me?” Ollie watched the doorway where Pippa exited as if she might reappear to answer his query. “Women are terribly inscrutable, aren't they?”

Seb thought the entire matter disturbingly clear, but he suspected Pippa would deny her infatuation with Oliver as heatedly as Ollie would argue against the claim. They'd been friends since childhood, and Ollie had been an unofficial member of the Fennick family from the day he'd lost his parents at twelve years old. Seb wasn't certain when Pippa began viewing Ollie less as a brotherly friend and more as a man worthy of her admiration.

As much as he loved him, Seb secretly prayed his sister's interest in the young buck would wane. Treadwell had never been the steadiest of fellows, particularly when it came to matters of the heart, and Seb would never allow anyone to hurt Pippa.

“Welcome to Roxbury.” He practiced the words as he spoke them, hoping the oddness of playing host in another man's home would eventually diminish.

“Thank you. It is grand, is it not? Had you ever visited before?”

“Once, as a young child. I expected it to be less imposing when I saw it again as a man.” It hadn't been. Not a whit. Upon arriving thirty days prior, he'd stood on the threshold a moment with his mouth agape before taking a step inside.

Seb caught Ollie staring at the ceiling, an extraordinary web of plastered fan-­vaulting meant to echo the design in the nave of an abbey the late duke had visited in Bath. Every aspect of Roxbury had been designed with care, and yet to match the whims of each successive duke and duchess. Somehow its hodgepodge of architectural styles blended into a harmonious and impressive whole.

“You mentioned an urgent matter. Trouble in London?” A few years older than his friend, Seb worried about Ollie with the same ever-­present paternal concern he felt for his sister.

After trying his hand at philosophy, chemistry, and medicine, Ollie had decided to pursue law and currently studied at the Inner Temple with high hopes of being called to the bar and becoming a barrister within the year.

“No, all is well, but those words don't begin to describe my bliss.”

Bowing his head, Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and drew in a long breath, expanding his chest as far as the confines of his fencing jacket would allow. It had to be a woman. Another woman. Seb had never known a man as eager to be enamored. Unfortunately, the mysteries of love couldn't be bound within the elegance of a mathematical equation. If they could, Ollie's equation would be a simple one. Woman plus beauty equals infatuation. If Ollie's interest in this woman or that ever bloomed into constancy, Seb could rally a bit happiness for his friend.

Constancy.
An image of black hair came to mind with a piercing pain above his brow. How could he advocate that Ollie learn constancy when his own stubborn heart brought him nothing but misery?

“Tell me about her.”

Ollie's face lit with pleasure. “She's an angel.”

The last had been “a goddess” and Seb mentally calculated where each designation might rank in the heavenly hierarchy.

“With golden hair and sapphire eyes . . .” Ollie's loves were always described in the same terms one might use when speaking of a precious relic Mr. Petrie had dug up in Egypt, each of them carved in alabaster, gilded, and bejeweled.

“Slow down, Ollie. Let's start with her name.”

“Hattie. Harriet, though she says she dislikes Harriet. I think it's lovely. Isn't it a beautiful name, really?”

Too preoccupied with unbuttoning himself from his fencing gear, Sebastian didn't bother offering a response. Ollie rarely had any trouble rambling on without acknowledgment.

“She's the daughter of a marquess. Clayborne. Perhaps you know him.”

Seb arched both brows and Ollie smiled. “Yes, I know. You've only been a duke for the space of a month. Don't they introduce you to all of the other aristocrats straight away, then?”

A chuckle rumbled up in Seb's chest, and for a moment the burdens that had piled up since the last duke's passing slipped away. He laughed with Ollie as they had when they were simpler men, younger, less distracted with love or responsibilities. Seb felt lighter, and he held a smile so long his cheeks began to ache before the laughter ebbed and he addressed the serious matter of Oliver's pursuit of a marquess's daughter.

“I think the better question is whether you've met Harriet's father. What are your intentions toward this young woman?”

Ollie ducked his chin and deflated into a chair. “Goodness, Bash, you sound a bit like
you're
Hattie's father.”

Only Ollie called him Bash, claiming he'd earned it for defending him in a fight with a particularly truculent classmate. The nickname reminded him of all their shared battles as children, but if Ollie thought its use would soften him or make him retreat, he was wrong. Ollie needed someone to challenge him, to curb his tendency to rush in without considering the consequences. If he lost interest in this young woman as he had with all the others, a breach-­of-­promise suit brought by a marquess could ruin Ollie's burgeoning legal career.

“I intend to marry her.”

“May I ask how long you've been acquainted with the young lady?” Mercy, he did sound like a father. As the eldest, he'd always led the way, and with the loss of their parents, Seb had taken on a parental role with his sister too. Pippa might wish to marry one day, and it was his duty to ensure any prospective groom wasn't a complete and utter reprobate.

“Not all of us fall in love with our childhood friend.” The barb had no doubt been meant to bring Seb's past heartbreak to mind, but Seb thought of Pippa. Thankfully, she hadn't heard Ollie's declaration.

“Indeed. I would merely advise you to take more time and court Lord Clayborne's daughter properly. Her father will expect no less.”

Even with a properly drawn-­out courtship, a marquess would be unlikely to allow his daughter to marry a man who'd yet to become a barrister and may not succeed once he had.

“I must offer for her now. Soon. She's coming out this season, and I couldn't bear for another man to snatch her up.”

“You make her sound like a filly at market.”

“Will you come to London and meet her? I know you'll approve of the match once you've met her.”

Seb had already given into the necessity of spending the season in London at Wrexford House. Pippa had no interest in anything in London aside from the Reading Room at the British Museum, but their aristocratic aunt, Lady Stamford, insisted he give his sister a proper coming out. She'd also reminded him that a new duke should meet and be met by others in their slice of society.

“You hardly need my approval, Ollie.”

“I need more than that.”

If he meant money, Seb could help. Cousin Geoffrey and his steward maintained the estate well over the years, investing wisely and spending with restraint. Sebastian had met with the estate's steward once since arriving at Roxbury and emphasized his desire to match his predecessor's good fiscal sense.

“We should discuss a settlement of some kind.”

Waving away Seb's words, Ollie stood and strode to the window, looking out on one of Roxbury's gardens, perfectly manicured and daubed with color by the first blooms of spring.

Oliver Treadwell had never been a hard man to read. Seb knew him to be intelligent, but he used none of his cleverness for artifice. A changeable man, Ollie blew hot and cold with his passions, but he expressed himself honestly. Now Seb sensed something more. Another emotion undercut the giddiness he'd expressed about his most recent heart's desire.

His friend seemed to fall into contemplation of the scenery and Sebastian stood to approach, curious about what had drawn Ollie's attention. The sound of Ollie's voice stopped him short, the timbre strangely plaintive, almost childlike.