The Match of the Century (22 page)
Gavin Whitridge,
5th Duke of Baynton
requests the honor
of your presence at a ball
Wednesday 5 February, 1812.
Dances begin at 10 p.m.
A cold supper will be provided.
R.S.V.P. Menheim House
W
hat the devil had Gavin put himself into . . .
“Wellbourne,” his great-aunt Imogen whispered, her voice still crisp in spite of quiet speaking. She referred to the tall, long faced man coming in the door with his wife and daughter to take his place in the receiving line. “Lady Amanda is the earl’s only child—wrong politics, but loyal and well connected. A possibility.”
Gavin had long respected Wellbourne’s loyalty to his ideals, although he thought him deluded. Could he tolerate being related to the Opposition by marriage?
“Granted she is horse-faced like her sire,” Imogen continued as if he could not see the obvious, “but her breeding is impeccable and she comes with an income of five thousand.”
Not for the first time this evening was Gavin uncomfortable with his aunt’s bluntness. Hopefully, the musicians in the ballroom covered his aunt’s more acerbic comments, like the horse-facedness. Intent on finding Gavin a wife who met her high expectations, she’d maintained her cataloguing all evening as one proud family after another presented their daughters, nieces, even sisters and second cousins for Gavin’s consideration.
And the line was endless. Gavin understood that it would be a fine thing to be a duchess, but this gambit to find him a wife was turning ridiculous. He felt as if he’d been standing there for hours. His mother, who had organized this ball, stood on Gavin’s other side, her smile growing as strained as his own. As his hostess, he didn’t believe she had
ever
invited so many people to an event at Menheim. Peers of the realm, his friends, and many mere acquaintances, all dressed in their finest, poured through his front door. Each touted a flower of English womanhood for Gavin’s perusal before happily tottering off to drink his punch and devour his food. These weren’t guests. They were locusts.
Of course, the idea for a ball was not an unsound one. Gavin was a busy man. There were affairs of state that needed his immediate attention. Britain was at war with France, a conflict that extended to almost every corner of the world. Meanwhile, domestic issues threatened to erupt into violence if not finessed soon. And as if Gavin didn’t have enough concerns, the Prime Minister insisted on his guidance with an American delegation that had been expected months ago and had yet to show.
Gawd, the Americans
. The damn upstarts thought to bully Britain out of her holdings. They wanted all of North America and would settle for nothing less. They said one thing out of the left side of their mouths and something completely different out of the right.
Still, Gavin needed a wife. It was time. He was thirty-two years of age. He was ready.
In fact,
past
ready. While other men had indulged themselves in wildly wicked ways, Gavin had been the dutiful heir to a dukedom. He’d not wenched. He had morals. He was known for his character. No bastards would muddy his line for the simple reason that he had yet to give in to base impulses and “know” a woman, as the theologians were wont to say.
But he wanted to. He wanted to very much.
However first, he must survive this travesty and Imogen’s strong opinions.
If a young woman had the right connections and bloodlines, Imogen might dismiss her for what he believed were flimsy reasons.
“Unsuitable,” Imogen asserted in Gavin’s ear when Miss Vivian Dorchester was presented to him.
“Because she is petite?”
“Because you are tall.”
“But the last one was tall and you rejected her.”
“
Too
tall,” Imogen argued. “The portraits of you together will look odd.”
“I’m choosing my wife for how she will look in portraits?” Gavin replied in disbelief, annoyed beyond reason.
His aunt smiled her complete conviction. “The portraits will outlast both of your lives. Do you wish future generations to find you fodder for jests? To mock your images?”
To worry about what his descendents thought long after he was gone sounded outlandish to Gavin, until he remembered the numerous quips and jibes he and his brothers had made about the ancestors already hanging on the Menheim’s walls.
“You definitely,” his aunt continued, “don’t want a petite wife. Yes, they are attractive bits, but you run a danger of breeding runts. And is that what you want in your son?”
Gavin could have replied he just wanted to breed . . . but in truth, he was as picky as his aunt, well, when it came to looks or figure. Imogen was more a stickler for the family bloodlines. The duke of Marlborough’s niece was not good enough for her. However, the Most Reverend Berk’s family could be traced back to the Conqueror so his oldest daughter had possibilities in Imogen’s eyes. Gavin tried not to stare at her mustache.
Money was also of little consequence to either of them. Gavin was a very wealthy man.
Of course, if he could have his choice . . .
Gavin’s jealous gaze drifted down this interminable receiving line where his brother Ben stood with his new wife Elin. They were very happy in their love. Elin was to have been Gavin’s, even though they hadn’t really known each other. The betrothal had been arranged by their parents more than two decades ago.
However, Elin had wanted more. She’d wanted a man who loved her with Ben’s devotion and Gavin had reluctantly let her go.
Now, he found himself on the hunt for—what? Love? What the devil was that?
His fate was to marry out of obligation and duty, hence Aunt Imogen’s whispered cataloguing of each young woman’s assets without respect to their, hmmmm, well, what Gavin and any other male in the room would consider
assets
.
At the same time, Gavin had a sense he, like Elin, wanted more. The word
kissable
came to mind as did the thought of companionship. He longed for a helpmate. Ducal responsibilities wore a man down. Gavin could only bear so much alone—
A prickling of awareness tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. He looked to the door and his gaze honed in upon a young woman waiting her turn in the receiving line. Woman? Goddess was a better description.
She was not too tall and not too petite but exactly right.
Her eyes were a sparkling blue, as clear as pieces of cut glass. Her hair was so blonde it was close to white, speaking to some Viking forbearer and her brows were dark, expressive. They added character to a face that would have been otherwise bland in its perfection. Her gown was layers of sheer white gauze trimmed in sky blue ribbons that emphasized the womanly curve of some of the best
assets
Gavin had ever seen.
She was undeniably kissable. Her lips were full and pink and, he was certain, very sweet.
Gavin’s mouth went dry. His knees turned weak. For the first time in his life, he had the urge to toss aside all veneer of civilization, throw this woman over his shoulder, and carry her off to his bed.
Aunt Imogen noticed the direction of his interest. Her voice purred with satisfaction as she confided, “This is one I wanted you to particularly meet. The late Lord Dearne’s only child, Lady Charlene.”
“Dearne? The profligate?”
“And buried years ago for his sins. He left his wife and daughter destitute. However, their bloodlines are the purest in the realm. Their stock is hardy. Look at the hips on that child. She will bear many sons.”
Gavin couldn’t stop staring at her hips or any other part of her. “And the portraits?”
“Will be spectacular,” Imogen promised.
And then Lady Charlene stood in front of him.
His aunt introduced them as if he wasn’t ready to fall into her arms and beg her to kiss him. The tops of breasts swelled against her bodice with the graceful movement of her curtsey and Gavin could barely stifle the rush of desire.
He barely heard his aunt introduce him to Lady Charlene’s chaperone. He wasn’t interested in her. His focus was on the beauty before him.
Lady Charlene—even her name was lush and full. He took her gloved hand and helped her rise.
She appraised him frankly and with the promise of a good intelligence and he realized she was waiting for him to speak. Everyone was waiting for him.
On the morrow, he was certain the papers and anyone witnessing this meeting between them would claim he’d been smitten—and they would be right.
“Welcome to my home,” he managed to say.
“Thank you, Your Grace. It is an honor.”
Her voice surprised him. There was a huskiness to it, a unique, melodic timbre.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his aunt exchange a knowing glance with his mother. They approved.
He
approved.
He was cognizant that they were holding up the receiving line. He didn’t care. In fact, he was done with this nonsense. He’d found
his
woman. Let the dancing begin and let him stake his claim by leading her first onto the dance floor.
Gavin looked for Henry to signal the receiving line was officially at an end. The waiting guests could meander their own way in. However, the always present butler was missing from his post by the door. Instead, there was the sound of stern words and indications by the number of footmen moving toward the door that there was a disturbance.
Gavin stepped forward, placing himself between the door and the ladies even as Henry burst through the knot of footmen and waiting guests. He strode to Gavin’s side. “Your Grace, there is a difficulty.”
“With whom?”
“The American delegation has arrived and wishes to present himself to you.”
“I have no time for thorny Americans.” For the first time in Gavin’s life, he was done with duty and obligation. He desired to spend an evening basking in the company of a woman. He did not want to discuss negotiations, or business, or favors. “Tell them to present themselves to my secretary on the morrow. He will schedule a meeting.”
But Henry didn’t bow and obey. He leaned close to Gavin. “With all due respect Your Grace, you may wish to meet this man.”
“Not tonight,” Gavin repeated, his tone alone making it clear he was in no mood for argument.
He turned to Lady Charlene who had not stayed safely behind him but had moved to his side, obviously curious about the disruption. “My lady, would you honor me with this first dance?”
But before she could answer, the American literally muscled his way through the door, several footmen gingerly holding on to his arms as if both determined and uncertain about holding him back—and in the blink of an eye, Gavin understood why.
Of course
this man would not wait in any line, any more than Gavin himself would.
Lady Charlene vanished from Gavin’s mind. The spectators in the crowded front hall all faded from his view as did the humming of voices in the ballroom and the strains of music.
The “American” was tall and dressed in plain clothing. His jacket was one that had been worn many times before but he filled it well. His overlong dark hair touched his collar in contrary to any style on either side of the Atlantic.
He gave the impression of being headstrong and proud, something Gavin knew to be true because he understood this man well. He even knew his name before it could be announced
Gavin and Jack were not identical twins, but enough alike in appearance that people would immediately recognize them as brothers—even now, over fifteen years after Jack had vanished without fanfare from his bed at school.
His disappearance had been the great mystery of that year. Their father had hired men to search for him and they’d found not a trace of his whereabouts or even a clue as to why he would go off in the middle of the night.
Bones had been found during that time in a shallow grave not far from the school. Some believed they were Jack’s. Experts their father had hired to evaluate them could not reach a consensus.
But Gavin had known. In his heart of hearts, he’d always believed his twin was alive. No one knew Jack better than Gavin. They had shared the same womb, the same mother’s beating heart. In their childhood, there had always been just the two of them, in spite of their brother Ben’s birth eight years later.
And now here they were, face-to-face.
At last.
There were no hello’s, no outstretched hands, or brotherly hugs. Instead, they squared off, stoic men, men much like their sire.
In a voice as familiar to Gavin as his own, Jack said what Gavin and all who had been listening already knew, “I’m the American delegation.”
Their mother swooned.
CATHY MAXWELL spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats. Fans can contact Cathy at
www.cathymaxwell.com
or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.
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