Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (4 page)

With a toss of her head Lady Thornby swept down the hall, stopping at the end of it, dramatically. “I will see myself out,” she said, chin high, and disappeared down the staircase.

“I don’t know why I bother going to the theater,” Alfred said. “I see more drama under your roof than I ever do at Drury Lane.”

“So do I,” Beckett said flatly.

Mr. Livingston donned his hat. “I’ll be going then as well, my lord. I advise you to find a bride as soon as possible, so that we may proceed with the details of the inheritance. Considering the uncertain state of your finances at present, I should think you’ll be anxious to take your new title.” The solicitor made a quick bow and left.

Moments later, Martha emerged from the bed-chamber and closed the door quietly behind her.

“How is our guest, Martha?” Beckett asked.

“Restin’, m’lord. She took some laudanum with her tea. She’ll sleep for a bit, I expect.”

Beckett nodded. “Let’s leave her until she awakens. Then she and I shall have a little chat.”

The men sauntered down the hallway and entered the drawing room, Monty following. Beckett flopped down on the sofa and looked at his dog, who sat near him, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth and dangling in rhythm with his panting breaths. He looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Beckett reached out a hand and rubbed Monty’s head, bringing an expression of pure ecstasy to the mongrel’s face.

Alfred brought a bottle of brandy and two glasses out of one of the cupboards. He poured the brandy and handed one of the snifters to Beckett.

“Brandy for breakfast?” Beckett asked. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“A Livingston said, it’s well past noon, so this can be considered luncheon,” Alfred said. “Are you going to marry her, then?”

“I said that to give Mother a shock,” Beckett replied, “but given my urgent need for a wife, I’m starting to warm to the idea.”

“Your mother’s right about Cordelia,” Alfred pointed out. “Now that you stand to inherit a fortune, she would take you back—but I know you don’t want to fall in love with her again. In fact, I remember you swearing you’d never fall in love with any woman again as long as you lived.”

“And I never shall,” Beckett stated firmly. “Just because I must take a bride doesn’t mean I’m going to fall in love with her. In fact, the perfect bride for any man is one that he is not in love with. Love just spoils things, in the end.”

“Exactly,” Alfred agreed. “Which is why our mystery girl would be perfect. You don’t know her from Eve., and if you don’t know her, you can’t possibly be in love with her, can you?”

“No.” Beckett had an image of her naked covered in nothing but the sheet from his bed.

“Alright,” Alfred continued. “Let’s review your options. I think I’m right in saying you’d rather have your teeth pulled out by an angry barber than ask Cordelia to take you back. And I think that goes for the other ladies of the ton, who, due to your previous lack of funds, have scorned your recent proposals; though they would surely now be yours for the asking.”

Beckett sipped his brandy. “You’re right about that. I’d sooner wed a goat than take my suit to any of them.”

“I am also assuming you’ve ruled out Martha, your cook, whom—though she is a lovely woman and makes a delicious ‘canard l’orange’—I doubt you would want to kiss, let alone take to your bed.”

Beckett frowned.

“Right. Which leaves our girl,” Alfred said. “Her voice and manner show her to be cultured—”

“She tried to brain me with a candlestick,” Beckett interjected, “and she threw a clock at my head.”

Alfred grinned. “So, she’s spirited. It’ll keep the marriage interesting. She obviously doesn’t have any family or she would have asked after them. And as for money, she seems woefully without. So you see, she will probably be more than agreeable—and she’s here now, which will save you a lot of time. Not to mention that in the light of day, she is quite an eyeful.”

Beckett gave his friend a look of warning. “Watch it—that’s my future wife you’re talking about.”

Alfred ignored the comment and continued, “It’s a brilliant scheme, Beck. Marry her, inherit the estate, stick her off on one of your properties—as you would do with any wife—then visit her from time to time to make a baby or two, and you and I go traveling about the continent spending your money and having fun.”

“Your reasoning is not without merit,” Beckett agreed. “Certainly I never want to fall in love again, with any woman. I’ve learned that lesson. Love is nothing more than a disease that infects your heart and makes you delusional, leaving you wasted and empty when it has run its course.”

“You make it sound so dreary.” Alfred made a face. “But then again, you’d know. I’ve certainly never fallen in love.”

“It is dreary. It’s worse than dreary,” Beckett asserted. “Love is an illusion, old chum. Cordelia taught me that. I can still see the look in her eyes when I told her my father had lost most of my inheritance in bad investments. She told me everything had changed. I realized then that the only thing that had changed was my eyesight. For the first time, I was seeing things as they really were.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about that with our mystery girl,” Alfred argued. “Marry her, and you’re the next earl of Ravenwood. You’ll have money, power and position. What’s not to like about that?”

Beckett swished the last of his brandy around in his glass, and then downed it. The fact remained that he had to marry somebody, or risk losing his inheritance. There was no doubt—he was attracted to the girl. The golden hair, the challenging eyes, the perfection of a body he shouldn’t have lay next to in bed, not to mention her spirited nature.

The decision was made, then.

“Alright, Alfred. You win. I shall make her my bride,” Beckett said, standing. “I only hope I can convince her.”

As Beckett shook his friend’s proffered congratulatory hand, he found himself smiling. It was the perfect plan. A marriage of convenience would keep his life just as he liked it. Simple and uncomplicated.

And what could be more simple and uncomplicated than marriage to a beautiful, golden-haired goddess he’d found in the gutter?

Chapter 4

The pale yellow light of late afternoon crept through the window, filling the bedchamber with a warm, golden glow. Isobel lay on her side in the huge bed, wondering what time it was. She surveyed the room groggily, studying the dark mahogany furniture and the heavy brocade draperies.

There was a distinct smell in this chamber. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and leather and horse. In short, it smelled like a man.

A knock sounded on the door, startling her. She sat up in bed and brushed the hair away from her face.

Was it Sir Harry, come to take her away? Was she in the house of his minions?

Another knock came, only a little louder.

She grabbed the candlestick and leapt from the bed, now clad in one of the cook’s dressing gowns. If it was Sir Harry, he wasn’t leaving this house without a nice big hole in his head.

The knob turned slowly, and Isobel watched, readying herself to spring into action. As the door opened, she braced herself for the worst.

It was the man who had lain in bed with her. He looked to be in his late twenties, tall and muscular, with a handsome face to match his sparkling blue eyes. His wavy, tawny-brown hair gave him a mischievous air, and when he looked at her, he smiled.

“I should like to come in for a chat, if you promise not to brain me with that,” he said.

Isobel nodded warily, lowering her weapon. She kept it at her side as she sat on the edge of the bed.

He entered smoothly and brought a chair from his desk, moving it and sitting down at an acceptable distance away from her.

“Feeling better?” he asked. “You’ve been resting for a few hours, now.”

Isobel felt herself relax a little, and wondered at it. “Yes, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. I’ve managed to arrange some clothes for you, so you can leave at any time.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “That is very kind.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Of course, you are invited to stay for supper before you go. But before you leave, I wish to make you a proposition. I wish to make you my wife.”

The viscount waited for her response. Isobel stared at him silently as a maelstrom of thoughts whirled through her head.

Finally she asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“I wish to marry you,” he said.

“And why should you want to do that, my lord?”

“That is a long story, only some of which you know,” Lord Thornby replied, rising and walking about the room. “I shall give you the condensed version. You see, last night, my friend Lord Weston and I stumbled upon you unconscious, under a heap of refuse on King Street. We decided that we could not leave you there in good conscience, so we brought you here, to my home.”

He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “We put you to bed and I retired to the adjoining room. Unfortunately, I awoke in the night and through habit made my way back here, unwittingly falling asleep beside you. For which I now offer my deepest apologies. You may remember the fiasco that followed with my mother fainting and screaming in shock. While Martha attended to you, I had the most amazing news from my solicitor. News which also concerns you, my dear.”

“Me?” Isobel asked, her pulse quickening. Was Sir Harry involved in this somehow? Had he found her, as he’d promised?

“Yes,” Lord Thornby answered. “You see, it appears that I am the sole heir to the sixth earl of Ravenwood. In order to claim my inheritance, I must have a bride.”

Isobel stared at him. “A bride?” What did any of this have to do with her?

He continued, “Yes, my dear. And I feel that you would be perfect. Considering the circumstances—you and I caught sharing a bed together—I would presume an offer of marriage to be most acceptable to you. In truth, I offer a business arrangement, one that would be very advantageous to both parties. Of course, it would be a marriage of convenience—a union in name only. We would have to make the usual appearances before the ton—a few balls, the theater and whatnot, then we could go our separate ways. I would provide a handsome allowance, a nice little property of some sort, and you would be, after all, a countess. That is, assuming that you are not already married.”

“No,” she replied, “I am not married.”

“And you have no other family to look after you, or who might object to the match?” he asked.

“No.” If she had, she wouldn’t be in this mess, she thought.

“Good,” he said. “It’s settled, then. We can be married by special license.”

“One moment, my lord,” she said. “I have not yet consented to your proposal.”

Lord Thornby paused, piercing her with his dynamic blue eyes. “But I pray that you will.”

“You do not even know my name,” she pointed out.

“Details,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “We’ll get to your name, eventually.”

Why was she even entertaining the idea? Her life had been turned upside down and this man was only making it worse. “My name is Isobel Hampton.”

“A perfectly good name,” he said. “You see? Isobel, Countess of Ravenwood. It has a ring to it.”

“But you don’t even know me, my lord,” she pointed out.

“Then tell me about yourself,” he countered. “How did you come to be in that alley all alone? Where is your family?”

Isobel had never lied to anyone before, never had the need. But she found how quickly one could acquire new skills when it was a matter of survival. She would lie to this man. She would accept his generous offer and gain back her life.

The sad truth was, she would do anything to escape life with Sir Harry Lennox. Anything at all….

“I have no home, Lord Thornby, nor any family.” That wasn’t completely untrue. “My guardian recently died. He had accumulated a vast debt. The barristers sold everything, and I had nowhere to go.” Her lies and the truth were all mixing together now like knotted embroidery floss.

“I am terribly sorry to hear that, Miss Hampton,” he said. “Do not trouble yourself further with those awful memories. You needn’t tell me everything now. There will be plenty of time for that, if you consent to marry me.”

“But why me, my lord?” she asked. “Surely someone of your rank could have any bride he chose.”

“That’s true, now that I stand to inherit an earldom. And I choose you, Isobel Hampton.”

“But why?” she demanded. “I must know.”

“I could say all number of things to you,” Lord Thornby continued. “I could confess to being overwhelmed by your ethereal beauty, or to feelings of undying love for you. I have my reasons for wanting a marriage of this kind, and part of it has to do with love. You see, I have no interest in it.”

He studied her with those blue eyes that seemed to look straight into her very soul. “If you agree to this ‘marriage bargain,’ you must know that love will never have a place in our union,” he said. “What I propose is not so unusual, after all. Most of the marriages in London fare the same, I’d wager. Hopefully, we will enjoy an amiable friendship. Hopefully, there will be children. I must know as soon as possible if you accept. Because if you don’t, I’ll need to start looking for another bride before the day is out. And I must remind you that although it was an innocent mistake, you have, in fact, been quite decidedly compromised. Of course, the decision is entirely yours.”