The Bride Price (6 page)

“Borrow some of Sarah’s dresses. Should have had you fitted for better garments. Puttering around with the villagers has turned you into one.”

She lifted her chin; the initial taunting words of the man from Roseford ran through her head. “I have a few appropriate dresses. I didn’t realize I was to be present for the events today until a footman delivered your orders.”

“I told you to be prepared for everything. You refuse to listen. But you can stay in your cottage today after you report to Lady Tevon. She has some tasks for you. She’ll tell you when you need to be here.” His eyes narrowed on her before he rifled
through some papers. “I expect you to follow her instructions.”

“Of course.” Lady Tevon was easily led if she thought a plan was her own idea.

“And I have need of your help in arranging the last two games of the tournament. There will be a large amount of work involved and the villagers will need to contribute.”

“Of course I will help.”

“I expect no less.”

She continued to stand in her place. Something had switched inside her at Roseford when she’d let the dam free. She would not let bottled anger direct her actions, but instead use guile to convince Cheevers to her way of thinking.

The earl looked up and watched her. “You did a good job with the sketch, if I didn’t tell you the other night,” he said gruffly.

He hadn’t, and it made her swallow to feel the absurd gratefulness well inside her. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head and turned back to his papers. “Off with you,” he said, but there was no edge. It was a start.

The gathering quickly grew tedious. The younger men postured. The older men postured. Sizing up the competition, as he did in every card or dice game, Sebastien quickly discarded most of the posturing males of the younger generation. The competitors that mattered were Sloane, Timtree, Everly, Benedict, Parley, and Bateman. Three bastards, three legitimate sons. With him included,
there was a slight edge to the illegitimate side of the board. The other participants would be weeded in due course.

A tittering noise drew his attention to the hall, where a number of women were doing their own posturing. Impetuous companions and flashy widows. Women who had been invited to the estate before the games began and before the heiress and the more high-minded society guests joined them socially. Another sort of sport.

The women entered and began making the rounds of the room.

“Sebastien, dear. How good to see you,” Harriet Noke cooed.

Sebastien looked over the saucy widow. She was always dressed in the latest fashions, the tilt of her head both inviting and demanding. “Harriet.”

“I knew you’d be here.” She placed a gloved hand on his arm, stroking the material gently beneath. “I expect you to win, of course. I have a hundred pounds on you to win the first game.”

He regarded her, more than familiar with her tactics and flattery. “Money well placed.”

“If you should need…advice.” She tipped her head. “Do come see me.” Her almond eyes were smoky.

He lifted her fingertips from his arm, stroking beneath them in a visually apparent way, watching Benedict’s rage grow from the corner of his eye. “Of course.”

She sashayed away, and he dealt with a repeat performance from three of the other women. Tiresome. The same faces. The same overtures. The
same pat, tittering responses. No risk. No adventure. No challenge. Not even Benedict’s jealousy could perk his mood.

While some flighty bird twittered about her new bonnet, he surveyed the room again, watching the women and men work their charms. Or lack thereof. Movement in the hall focused his attention as three women walked into view.

Lady Sarah Pims. The bride. Plain. Meek. She was likely to wither away under marriage to any of them. Not that he particularly cared about her feelings, but she wasn’t a glorified debutante, sashaying her way through the parties and begging to be taken down a peg. He’d left her alone in London. He’d likely leave her alone in marriage as well.

Lady Tevon, Cheevers’s mistress in London, was at her side. Good. The willowy siren from Roseford wouldn’t be in Cheevers’s bed then. Lady Tevon took Sarah’s arm in a commanding manner and the girl’s head dropped, like a horse broken too early to the saddle.

The third woman wore a plain blue dress, one at odds with the sumptuous materials on fervent female display, and stood at the edge of the door, just outside of full view. Ladies’ maids rarely interested him—they made poor conquests. Then again, the woman from Roseford could have been a ladies’ maid, or more likely a governess. She’d been too cultured to be a scullery maid, for all his taunting.

The blue-frocked woman stepped farther into the frame of the door, and a drum started to beat
under his skin. A low hum vibrated in his blood. Her shoulders were firmly set and she was arguing with Lady Tevon, a feat that would have earned his attention alone.

But her familiar features, her carriage, the expression on her face…

Impassioned. Determined. High cheekbones, delicate jaw, straight nose. Classic lines. Blonde hair pinned to her crown in a coronet. A restrained young queen, but for the lock of wavy hair that threatened to break free with every decisive movement of her head. But for the common garb she wore. But for the fire that broke beneath the ice.

He knew that her eyes were a tumult of blue and gray. Entrancing.

She said something to the heiress and strode off. The meek girl perked up, showing real enthusiasm for once, and followed behind. Lady Tevon looked disgruntled as she trailed in their wake, both attendants to the blonde’s tow.

He smiled slowly, ignoring the other women vying for his attention, picturing that one lock of wavy hair joined by a waterfall of more, pins falling at his feet. Freed from every confine like passion from a Puritan cage.

Yes, another sort of sport indeed.

The first game begins today. Do not fret, Dear Reader, that we will not bring you the latest news and standings, for we are determined to do so, even if it requires a transformation into a lark or chickadee in order to accomplish the task. London is in an uproar over anything and everything to do with the tournament. One can only imagine the spectacle taking place at this very moment…

“W
hat the devil is this? This isn’t mine.”

“Well, it isn’t mine, you arse,” someone answered Bateman in an equally strident voice.

“How poetic. Why they have allowed such riffraff into civilized society, one will never know.” Benedict’s world-weary tones added to the unpleasantness of Sebastien’s afternoon as he strode into the overflowing stable yard.

After putting his valet on the scent last night, he had been told that his lovely little blonde would be joining them for the day. He had thought the day was looking up until she had failed to show to the breakfast table. Then he’d seen the rem
nants of some type of substance in the bottom of his teacup, luckily before he’d had a taste. Two other men hadn’t been as lucky. They were hugging chamber pots currently, and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to separate from their newfound ceramic companions. The late risers had studiously avoided drinking anything after that.

And now this. Whatever
this
was.

Bateman’s strident voice continued to yell, “What do you mean by putting this rubbish on Prancer? A navy blanket?”

He reached his own mount, Herakles, and saw what the commotion was about. There was a patterned blanket—garish in its mix of colors—on his horse’s back, underneath an equally foreign saddle. Herakles threw him a look full of disgust and stepped irritably from side to side.

Sebastien stroked his nose, letting the horse nudge into the caress. “I think we’ve found Prancer’s blanket, don’t you?” he murmured. He called a stable hand over.

“Someone has switched them all,” Timtree drawled as he joined him. “A prank. Probably Petrie, the puck.”

Sebastien looked at Petrie, Valpage’s third son, and wasn’t so sure. He looked as irritated and baffled as the others, and he was the type of man who couldn’t hide anything on his face—one of the reasons he was so terrible at gambling.

The grooms bustled about trying to figure out which tack went with which horse, obviously confused as to how such a thing could have happened. Whoever had done this had done it well.

As it turned out, more than just the tack had been swapped. Each blanket
and
each saddle had been exchanged. It took two grooms to negotiate each one. One to remove the saddle, one to grab the blanket. Then they had to find the correct horse and switch those with the correct tack. Repeating that process more than a dozen times took well past an hour. It was another half hour before each horse was cinched into the correct equipment, and each rider was satisfied.

Unlike straight cheating, this maneuver had affected everyone. He gazed around the yard wondering who had done such a thing, and whether it was going to be an isolated incident.

“An idiotic prank of yours, Deville?”

Benedict approached, and Sebastien wondered if the day was ever going to get better.

Dear God, dear God, dear God. The prayer was a litany in her head as she peered through the fronds and watched the demon from Roseford inspect the crowd.

A participant. In the games. All the information she had pieced together about him at Roseford—his conflicting actions and words—barreled together. She had thought him a spoiled and world-weary son, one who might be hiding depths that only required some careful uncovering. But this…his words and actions were explained in a much different manner. Spoiled became bitter, world-weary became jaded. Hidden depths became hunger. He was a man who believed himself above the rule of others.

He had utterly seduced her. She had
let
him.

Her nails dug into her palms. The overtly sensual man started speaking with a participant with a hooked nose, then a third man with brown hair and an entitled swagger joined them. She pulled back, closing her eyes.

Skilled hands and haunting words.

The man had given her plenty of clues to his involvement, if she had but listened. Nothing specifically stated, but he’d known that Roseford was a prize, he’d reacted to Cheevers’s name and obviously had known the duke. She should have put it all together.

She peered through the fronds once more, watching the tableau and trying to keep her eyes away from
him
.

The rest of the men were milling and squeaking. Just as she’d thought. A bunch of men who hadn’t a thought in their heads but to squawk like chickens. There were three or four that held themselves admirably, but that one man…the man from Roseford…He stood to the side with his beast of a horse, stroking the horse’s nose, alternately arguing with the brown-haired man and watching the scene unfold.

A gambler. She’d bet her eyeteeth he was a gambler.

Rotten gamblers. Rotten luck. Rotten choices.

She worried her lip.

“Caro, what are you—” Sarah gave a squawk as Caroline yanked her into the bushes.

“Shhh! I’m examining your suitors,” she whispered, trying to keep her heartbeat steady.

“Hardly my suitors,” Sarah whispered back.

Caroline could hear the grimace in her voice, but she kept her eyes firmly on the spectacle. They kept straying to
him
, and she forced herself to focus on the others. She couldn’t lose sight of her goal here, even if everything in her said to run far away.

Sarah scooted in and peered through the opening. “What are you doing? We can simply walk over—”

“We’d never be able to observe them in the same way.” And there was no way she was going out there now that
he
was there. She tried to think of a way to leave the county instead.

“And why do we need to observe them?”

“I’m looking for weaknesses.”

Sarah’s brows shot straight into her hairline. “Weaknesses?”

The men started moving, the saddle situation having apparently been resolved. It had taken a solid hour though, much to Caroline’s delight.

Caroline moved her head back and forth to get a better view. “So what can you tell me about them now that they are nearly all present and accounted for?”

Sarah pressed in next to her as the men mounted and queued up in line. “That is Marcus Sloane. The golden one there.” She pointed to one of the men who held himself confidently. “The
ton
loves him. He has a fortune and could have married well four times over by now. It’s the title that is driving him here—it has to be. He’s the son of the Marquess of Sloanestone.” She lowered her voice. “Illegitimate.”

Caroline gave her an amused look. “From what I understand, at least half of them are. You can just say it Sarah. He’s a bastard.”

Sarah’s eyes went round and her cheeks pinked. “Caroline!”

“What about that one?” She pointed to a decently fit man with an avaricious and intent expression. He was the type of man that made her hackles rise.

“Mr. Bateman. Browett’s ba—” Sarah struggled for a second on the word. “Oh, drat it, the Earl of Browett’s natural son.”

Caroline smiled and continued to catalog each man in her mind, noting weaknesses as Sarah described them.

“Lord Benedict Alvarest and Sebastien Deville.” Something in Sarah’s voice made her turn toward her friend. There was a strange expression in Sarah’s eyes.

Caroline was surprised. “Don’t tell me you have a tendre for one of them?”

Sarah quickly shook her head. “No, no. But Sebastien Deville, he’s…well, look at him. Looks just like the duke, and there never was a more sought-after man in the
ton
than the duke, I’m told.”

The duke. Caroline reluctantly looked to where she was pointing, already heaving an inward sigh at who she knew it would be. Of course. Rumors and gossip swirled through her head. “He is minorly handsome, I suppose, in that rakish way some women enjoy,” she said grudgingly.

It was Sarah’s turn to look amused. “Really,
Caro. The man is deadly handsome. And dangerous.” Her smile died. “He has ruined a good many of society’s darlings. I’d be surprised if you hadn’t heard of him. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t been ostracized from the
ton
completely. I’m sure the duke, his father, has something to do with that. Though there seems to be no love lost there. A peculiar situation, and all the more fascinating for society.”

“I’m sure he revels in it.” If she had seen him for the first time right now, with the easy, focused way he stood, she might not think so, but with the cutting way he had spoken of the duke, and his actions at the Grange with her…

His reputation preceded him. She had heard of him from the gossip sheets. Even Lady Tevon had spoken of Sebastien Deville in deliciously scandalized tones. Spinning tales and delivering secretive glances.

“And the other one?” Her voice was already weary. She was in deep, deep trouble.

“Lord Benedict Alvarest is the third son of the duke. Legitimate.”

She watched the two men interact. “They don’t seem to like each other much.”

“An understatement. They loathe each other. Only a few months separated in age—you can imagine the gossip that caused. Lord Benedict is
entitled
to anything he wants. Deville
gets
everything he wants.”

“Sounds like a pleasant pair. Not sure which one is worse, though if I had to place my bets, Deville seems like the more dangerous.” Every
thing about him fairly screamed it, and the sum of her experience with him confirmed it. “The legitimate sons always have a chance at their fathers’ titles if something happens to the heirs ahead of them. Lord Benedict is probably high on the earl’s list, as a potential heir to a dukedom too.”

Sarah didn’t respond, and Caroline cursed herself for thinking aloud. Her words could be interpreted in a manner she hadn’t meant. “I’m sorry, Sarah, that was thoughtless. What I meant by that—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I know. But it
is
just what you said. Lord Benedict, Everly, Petrie, they are potential heirs and men about Town. Men that wouldn’t be interested in me, under other circumstances.”

“Don’t say that. Of course they would. They will,” she amended.

Sarah’s chin lifted. “For a match with Father, maybe. For good breeding stock as a daughter of an earl, maybe. But not for
me
. I know it. You weren’t there this season, Caroline. The matches I
could
make weren’t good enough. The matches Father wanted me to pursue weren’t remotely interested in me. The silent, mannerly girl my mother raised just isn’t interesting to most men. Look at Father. How many mistresses has he had? I’m just surprised he doesn’t have a bastard out there competing in this tournament.” She smiled a thin smile. “Though that would remove me from the competition then.”

Caroline swallowed. “And the earl thinks these men better than ones you could choose? Men like Deville and Bateman?”

“He was nice to me once.”

Caroline couldn’t credit that she could be talking about
him
. “Which one?”

“Deville.”

A tiny bit of anger that felt an awful lot like a worse emotion threaded through her. “He was likely trying to worm his way past your skirts, Sarah,” she said pragmatically, trying not to wince. It was obviously one of the man’s traits.

“Caro!” she admonished. Her expression turned thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t rate on his scale of regard. You should see him in action at a
ton
event, Caro. It’s—” She shivered. “I can tell you that nearly every unmarried lady fancies him to some extent. Wishes that for just one night…”

Caroline grimaced, the notions striking too close for comfort. “Lovely.”

A smile cracked Sarah’s face. “Oh, of course you wouldn’t be taken in, Caro. But he veritably prowls the rooms. And he is everything that the other men are not. It makes things so simple for him. I can’t believe no one has eloped with him, though he seems as far from marriage-minded as a man could get.”

“It sounds as if he has the
ton
firmly in his grasp.” Irritation ran through her at the games he obviously played. At the one he’d played with her, not that she’d been an unwilling participant, but all of a sudden there was something personally stinging about it. “Little reason for him to participate here.”

“No. It is the opposite. He is an outsider, only occasionally invited to the best parties, and only
when someone is hoping for a scandal. The duke has never firmly sponsored him.”

“But you said—”

“Don’t ask, because I don’t understand either. It is something none of us do. But being an outsider—it just adds to his allure, don’t you see? The debutantes drop like flies. The older married women do as well. Scandal simply swirls around him.”

Caroline muttered under her breath.

“As much as I can joke about all of the women wanting him in their beds—” Sarah’s knowledge of the marriage state had Caroline silently cursing the earl and his steady stream of mistresses. “I—I can’t—” She looked away. “I don’t want a marriage like my parents. Mother was miserable.”

Caroline remembered the pasty-faced woman the earl had married. The oldest daughter of a duke, she had been secured for power and property and then been disposed of at Meadowbrook.

“Sarah—”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “I will do my duty. Forgive me my weakness?”

Caroline took her by the arms. “It’s not weakness. I…”

If only she hadn’t made the mistake with Patrick…she might have been able to help Sarah in London…to prevent this fiasco of a contest from occurring. She could have begged the earl to let her go as Sarah’s companion. Could have…

She shoved the thoughts firmly away. She had a chance to make the right decision this time, to help Sarah, and she would.

Caroline slipped an arm around her. “Things will work out. I won’t let them work out in any way other than the best for you.”

She’d keep her away from the likes of Sebastien Deville. Make sure that he and his kind did not win.

“How?”

“With magic, if need be.” She gave her a bright smile, which Sarah tentatively returned.

Sarah turned back to the spectacle. “Oh no. There’s Lady Tevon.” Lady Tevon searched the crowd, features furrowed.

Sarah tugged the sleeve of Caroline’s dress. “We should join them. Or else she will bring Father’s attention to my absence and he will be displeased with me.”