The Marriage List (4 page)

“May would never fall for such trickery.” Aunt Winnie freed her hand from May’s and rose. “She has a level-head on her shoulders. She economizes with that money and has never sought to spend frivolously, unless for my benefit.” She closed the distance between Sires and herself, approaching like an ancient dragon. Her careful steps lent her a rare grace. Winnie normally leaned heavily on a cane or May’s arm. May knew well how it took all her aunt’s concentration to walk unassisted.

She feared the exertion would prove too great a strain on Winnie’s heart.

“Now, Winnie.” Sires retreated a step. “I only have the family’s best interests at heart—even the child’s.”

“Do you? And what did you intend her to do without access to her parents’ money? Will you have her grovel for crumbs? She’s a proud woman. She shouldn’t have to beg.”

“No, no. I would never allow that.” Sires retreated another step.

“And what of me? What did you expect would happen to me without May’s care? I have never possessed a fortune of my own. Will I too be forced to beg?”

Sires stepped back again only to find he’d reached a wall. He sighed deeply and held his hands out in front of him, as if trying to hold Winnie back. “Listen, you know I would never hurt you. I miss you, in fact. I want you to come back to Redfield Abbey with me.” His gaze traversed the room. “And I want you to move into my home here in Bath—with me tonight.”

He had a house here in Bath? The bounder! They’d made no secret of the necessity to move from their London townhouse to Bath. Aunt Winnie had been more than forthcoming with him regarding her failing health. He knew and yet never offered to open up the family home to them?

May pinched her lips together and prayed for calm. Uncle Sires denied his own sister the luxury of his property out of hatred for May—and the sins of her father’s bastard birth. A thousand times a bounder, he was.

“Please, Winnie. Let me see to your care.” His voice slid as smooth as honey off his deceitful tongue. He lowered his hands, no longer trying to hold his sister back but lure her closer.

“But what is to become of May?” Aunt Winnie asked. She gave a nervous glance over her shoulder to where May stood, still half in shock.

“Why, she’ll marry, of course.”

“Marry? But she has no prospects, no suitors. She’s not had the opportunity to pursue that avenue.” Tears appeared in Aunt Winnie’s eyes. Her button nose and round cheeks bloomed a bright red. “She’s spent nearly every waking hour taking care of me. You worry she’ll make a hasty marriage, and then you ask her to do just that?”

“But she must marry,” he said as if May wasn’t in the room or, possibly, too brainless to understand. “Look at her. She’s nearly on the shelf. Before our foolish sister ran off with that crazed gypsy and abandoned her child into our care, she dreamed of the day her babe would marry. Besides, the child’s too headstrong to sink gracefully into the background as you have done, dear Winnie. She needs a man with an iron will to care for her.”

He gave a meaningful glance out the parlor window to where the graying Mr. Tumblestone was making a show of admiring May’s vibrant yellow and pale pink roses.

May could see it in her uncle’s eyes then. The man truly believed he was doing her a great kindness. He smiled as he spoke. “In fact, I have already taken it upon myself to select a suitable gentleman for precisely that task.”

* * * * *

“He means to marry you off to a decrepit old man?” Lady Iona’s ice blue eyes couldn’t possibly open any wider.

“I don’t believe he is decrepit.” Though his skin appeared as fragile as Aunt Winnie’s and twice as mottled with unusually shaped liver-colored moles, he moved with the energy of a man half his age.

May swallowed hard, remembering the intimate way Mr. Tumblestone leered at her upon his departure, his hungry gaze not reaching her eyes, his cod-shaped lips moistening. “He is most certainly old,” May whispered.

Iona linked arms with May as they continued to promenade around the interior of the Pump Room, tilting their heads in greeting to acquaintances. Aunt Winnie sat on a cushioned bench near the grand fountain that circulated the sulfur waters prescribed by doctors as a curative for just about every ailment.

The water smelled sour, not much different than eggs left sitting in the sun for too long. Despite her aunt’s constant persuasions, May refused to taste a sip.

Their morning schedule rarely varied. They’d arrive at the Pump Room at eight in the morning, early enough to avoid the thickest crowds, yet late enough to mingle with some of the most influential members of society, which included Iona and several of her unmarried sisters. Iona’s family, led by the respected Duke of Newbury, were all the rage this season, being the highest ranking family to choose Bath over the more popular summer destinations of Brighton or Scotland.

Before anything else, May would first help her aunt to a comfortable bench and then fetch three glasses of the water, the generally prescribed number to drink a day. Winnie took her time sipping the foul liquid while speaking with friends from her youth. When she had drained the glasses, May would offer her arm as support and the two women would take a turn through the marble interior of the Pump Room, spending more time visiting with members of the
ton
than getting any sort of vigorous exercise.

This morning when May offered her arm, Aunt Winnie had declined. She claimed she wished to save her energies for the evening’s fancy ball at the Upper Rooms. May believed otherwise. Her uncle’s surprise appearance had upset Winnie. She appeared paler than usual, her eyes hazy.

It was Aunt Winnie who’d suggested May stroll with Lady Iona in her stead. May accepted the suggestion gratefully, desperate for a private moment with her closest friend.

She related the whole story to Iona, including how she’d been too shocked to object, too shocked to do anything but promise to accompany her uncle and Mr. Tumblestone to chapel that afternoon and then stroll along Pulteney Street.

“You cannot agree to this marriage. It is barbaric.” Iona’s hold on May’s arm tightened. Whenever matters became sticky, Iona would cling to the nearest female object. May rather appreciated the close contact.

“I don’t have many options. Uncle Sires has made quite certain of that by taking my parents’ money away. He did relent and agree to pay the past three months’ rent to the viscount, claiming it was the only proper thing to do.”

May had lain awake in bed the night before, trying to think of another course of action. Although overdue rents would be paid, Uncle Sires had been most adamant about not paying any future bills. A woman without a shilling to her name didn’t have many options.

“I could seek a position as a lady’s companion or governess if I can convince Aunt Winnie to go against her brother’s wishes and provide me with a reference.”

“Oh no, you mustn’t do that!” Iona squeezed May’s arm so tightly May’s fingers turned numb. “You mustn’t take a position or marry or do anything rash that will take you away from me! Perhaps Papa—”

A burgundy-smooth voice interrupted. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

Iona was the first to turn to greet the speaker. “My lord.” A graceful smile froze on her lips. A deep red blush spread all the way up to the roots of her hair.

Disquieted by her friend’s reaction, May turned around. “My lord,” she gasped.

Viscount Evers looked as fierce as the devil, dressed in a black high-collared, cut-away short coat. His cream vest wasn’t fully buttoned, a common style among the wildest rakes. His tan trousers were loose-fitted, casual. His sharp features and jade-colored gaze bore down on her in a most oppressive manner. Why ever would he address her—here—in public? Would he call her out for yesterday’s shocking behavior?

May took a step back, as if retreat could stave off trouble. It wasn’t so much herself she was worried about. Her life was nothing—meaningless. Iona, dear precious, always proper Iona, would be in a world of trouble if her father, the duke, ever learned about their most improper unescorted visit to the viscount’s home. “Please, my lord,” May said, lowering her voice. She was prepared to play the part of withering female and eat a king’s portion of humble pie to safeguard her friend’s reputation.

She didn’t get the chance.

As if trying to prove her uncle’s belief that there was something innately unacceptable about her, her foot slipped. A small puddle of water spilt by some careless drinker made the marble floor under May’s feet slick. Her foot shot out from under her and before she could catch herself, the toe of her slipper became entangled within the folds of her gown’s long skirt. May pitched forward and fully expected to humiliate herself in front of the utterly grim Viscount Evers.

Time slowed. She watched as he stepped forward and spread his arms like a lover greeting some long lost key to his heart. He caught her, his gloved hands curling delightfully around her shoulders in an attempt to save her.

He teetered, his fingers digging into her skin as he struggled to gain his faltering balance. His injured leg could barely support his own weight much less hold up against a clumsy cow such as herself. How nobly stupid of him to rush to her rescue.

Not until that moment did May realize he wasn’t very tall. He was much taller than most women, yes. But he didn’t tower over her like some men, which at the moment was probably a very good thing. Many a time her aunt had swayed, just as the viscount swayed now—a fall imminent. She had never allowed her aunt to fall, and since the viscount was so doggedly determined to save her, May planted her feet and used her strength to help steady him.

“Bloody hell.” His jade gaze simmered with anger once they had both found a solid footing. He released her arms and took a hasty step backward. His jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth and fought gravity’s pull on his injured leg.

May refused to be shocked by the foul language he’d muttered only loudly enough for her hearing. Her aunt had been known to spew far worse after such a close call. Infirmities had to be terribly humbling.

That’s not to say she didn’t feel a slight burning in her cheeks. She had so much to be embarrassed about—the near public stumble brought the room’s gazes upon her. A man’s cursing couldn’t possibly aggravate her already mortified state.

“I say.” Lord Nathan Wynter advanced, white-faced, from where he had stood chatting with Lady Lillian, Iona’s very fair, very beautiful younger sister, and her doting mamma. He darted a distrustful eye in May’s direction. “Are you quite well, Evers? Shall I summon a sedan chair to carry you home?” He waved the cane in his hand, trying in a most obvious manner to get Viscount Evers to take the prop.

“Get that away from me, Wynter,” the viscount forced from behind clenched teeth.

May stiffened and so did Viscount Evers—visibly so. Lord Nathan’s rush to assistance only rubbed salt into a prideful man’s wounds.

A crowd was beginning to form. Questions poured out from helpful friends and the merely curious minded. May’s cheeks felt fire-branded, singed beyond repair. She could feel the viscount’s humiliation as if it were her own.

This was her fault. Grace and elegance, such important traits for a proper lady, were foreign elements in her limbs. Hadn’t her uncle, her governess, and many of the
ton
’s matrons declared it to be so?

May held up her hands to quiet the crowd to a dull murmur. “I must thank you, my lord,” she said loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “My careless ankles are forever putting me in impossible situations. If not for your quick actions, I believe I would now be sprawled on the floor, hopelessly tangled in yards of muslin. You have my humblest gratitude for saving me from such a horrific fate.” She gave him a sweet smile, bowed her head, and curtsied deeply.

The women in the crowd nodded with smug satisfaction. Several of the town tabbies vocally agreed with her assessment. The scene ended as quickly as it had begun with members of the
haut ton
wandering off and returning to their own sphere of concerns.

Only Lady Iona, her younger sister, the very pale, very lovely Lady Lillian, Lord Nathan, and the viscount remained behind, their gazes directed generally toward May. Lady Lillian quickly turned from May and beamed—quite unabashedly—up at Viscount Evers.

He gave the group a cursory glance before capturing May’s gloved hand in his own. His brows crinkled as his expression darkened. He pulled her a step closer to him, holding her a hair’s breadth away from improperly close.

“Madam,” he said, his voice a low scold, “what are you about?”

Chapter 4

“What am I about?” Miss Sheffers tilted her head back till her bonnet hung at a precarious angle, much in danger of falling off. She glared up at Radford with those haunting violet eyes. Her nose wrinkled in concert with her frown.

What was she about
? Such a simple question, yet he doubted it was one she could answer.

Madness must have possessed him to wonder about such a fairyland creature. Why else would he have approached Miss Sheffers and Lady Iona Newbury but for a freak onset of madness? He’d been speaking with Lady Lillian, trying his hand at flirting outrageously—a safe undertaking under the watchful eye of the young lady’s mamma—when he caught sight of Miss Sheffers. She was wearing another worn dress, faded pink in hue. Her russet hair, a riot of curls, was barely contained under a straw bonnet.

As Lady Lillian spoke softly about a gown she had recently purchased, Radford had found his attention drawn to the rather elfish Miss Sheffers. She’d appeared to be in the middle of a serious
tête-à-tête
with her friend, Lady Iona. An eerie darkness cast a shadow over her expression.

Miss Sheffers was troubled?

Of course she was. Only a half-wit wouldn’t be troubled with a writ of eviction hanging over her head. The lady was in imminent danger of being tossed out on the street. A fey creature such as she might be tempted into taking a foolish action—like forcing her way into a bachelor’s home.

With a wave of his hand, he could save her.

He had hobbled over to impulsively do just that when both women turned and gazed upon him as if he were the devil risen from hell with the smell of brimstone still fresh on his clothes. And that was when all hell actually did break loose . . .

Radford shuddered at the memory. His cursed leg had failed him before he could utter two coherent words to the lady. Though he had tried to save her from falling—she ended up saving him. Humiliation flooded his veins.

What was she about
?

She’d added insult to his humiliation by taking the full blame, by making herself look the fool.

“I don’t welcome your help or your pity, madam,” he said to her, his anger growing as he conjured up the only reason she would have fallen on the sword for him—him, the villain evicting her from her home.

Pity
.

She pitied the poor, helpless cripple.

“I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need an insignificant speck of a lady on the brink of disgrace and disaster as a champion.”

“Very well.” She twisted her wrist, trying to wrench free from his iron hold without drawing attention to herself. She blinked furiously when he refused to break his hold. “Very well,” she said again, her voice growing husky. She swallowed hard. “I will never deign to assist you again, my lord. Flames may spew from your head and I would not spare you a drop of water.”

He enjoyed far too much the spirited way she fought him. His body heated as he entertained visions of playing the part of a villainous count set on dragging this uncommon fairy princess back to his lair. Then he might slay her with passionate kisses on those satiny lips of hers and perhaps do much more than that . . .

Good Lord, he
was
mad.

He let his fingers slip away from her delicate wrist.