One Tempting Proposal Page 7

  Pippa was as resilient as she was hopeful, and she had years of seeing the world as a very fine place ahead of her before experience’s bruises and disappointments might temper her perspective. He prayed she’d never know heartache, even while acknowledging his inability to prevent it.

  “You’ll dance at many balls, Pippa. And I suspect you’ll enjoy every one of them.”

  It was wrong of Lady Katherine to burst his sister’s illusions. Time and tribulations would see to that soon enough.

  “Promise?”

  It was a question she’d asked of him as a child, securing promises as often as she’d ask for a sweet. She was old enough to know that promises weren’t simple to come by and, sometimes, even harder to keep. But she still asked him. And he still promised.

  “I do.”

  That finally brought a smile to her face, and a bit of the tension in his chest eased.

  “And will you promise me something else?”

  He crooked an eyebrow. Promises weren’t as plentiful as sweets anymore. They’d both seen promises broken.

  “I’ll consider it. What is it?”

  She glanced around, as if to ensure none of the half-­dozen ­people standing within arm’s length might hear and whispered, “As a marquess’s daughter, I know she’s just the sort of lady you should be considering, but please have a care. Lady Katherine is not . . . what she seems. Remember the rose and bee.”

  His sister cast him a long look, brow furrowed in concern. There was no need for her to mention his past foolishness, that he’d been taken in by just such a woman once before.

  Never again.

  Chapter Six

  “I CANNOT IMAGINE anyone less appropriate for her.” Desmond Adderly, Marquess of Clayborne, had a tendency to voice his very definitive opinions in extreme terms. On Lord Clayborne’s scale, you were the worst or the best, the most or the least. There was little room for gray.

  Kitty reached up, smoothing the patch of skin between her eyebrows, and inhaled deeply, gathering strength before replying to her father’s declaration. He pounced on any sign of weakness. Leveraged any vulnerability. Becoming overwrought or allowing him to see the effect of his words was equivalent to losing the battle. And she needed to win this one. For Hattie’s sake.

  Though he’d tolerated Oliver Treadwell’s presence at the first ball of the season, the marquess had done little but complain about the young man since.

  “Hattie is in love with Oliver Treadwell. Whatever his shortcomings, we cannot change her mind. Hattie has always been led by her heart. Did you think it would be any different when she chose a man to marry?”

  Her father bent his head and shook it in denial. Anyone watching might conclude he simply disagreed with her assertion, but Kitty knew her father’s mannerisms better than her own. He was disgusted, disappointed. With her. And she was familiar with that most of all.

  Panic welled up, an irrepressible need to please him warring with her determination not to be tamed. She swallowed to keep herself from blurting out defensively, stifling the desire to appease him.

  “Will you never learn, girl? There is no aspect of our constitution, no organ of our body more susceptible to deception and more likely to deceive its bearer. Never trust the heart. It is weak and fragile. Trust what you know—­about yourself, and especially about others. Use that knowledge to your advantage.”

  Kitty realized she was moving her lips, silently mouthing the words he had repeated so many times before. He’d been a soldier during the Crimean War, but if the boasts of his army cronies were to be believed, he’d been a bit more. It was no stretch to imagine Lord Clayborne had been a brilliant tactician, a skilled collector of information and coordinator of men and arms, and a master spy, if the rumors that he’d always refused to confirm were true.

  Relegating himself to the marital machinations of his daughters must have been a very great letdown. Kitty sometimes wondered how he could bear it, and if he secretly wished for another war to fill his life with excitement, to make him feel truly useful. She understood the desire to be of use. It was why she’d joined the Women’s Union and attempted to organize charitable initiatives among her circle of friends.

  “She loves him.” Kitty feared he would interrupt her and hurried on to stave him off. “And he does seem to be an ambitious young man.”

  “Ambitious for her dowry.”

  “The Duke of Wrexford considers him a brother. Will the duke not wish to see his brother well settled? Mr. Treadwell is to be a barrister. He may yet make a splash with his legal career.”

  When she’d finally said it all and allowed herself to take a breath, she lifted her gaze to her father’s face, only to encounter a virtual expressive wall of displeasure. His mouth was fixed in that disgusted moue he often wore, and his two graying brows dipped and drew together, meeting in the center of his forehead.

  “No splashes, thank you very much. I would simply like the man to have the ability to care for your sister as she deserves.”

  Kitty edged forward in her seat. Might he truly accept Hattie’s young man without a full pitched battle? If Wrexford saw fit to settle a reasonable sum on the young man, they could live very comfortably with the addition of Hattie’s dowry. A tight clamp of tension released in the center of her chest, and she realized how anxious she’d been. It had been weeks since she and her father had spoken privately, face-­to-­face, and she’d expected awkwardness. She’d half expected him to order her out of his study before she’d even managed to put in a good word for Mr. Treadwell, as she’d promised Hattie she would.

  “So your only objection relates to means? If the gentleman can provide for—­”

  “Let us not parse it until supper. If the man can give her a fine home and take over her dressmaker, milliner, and jeweler’s bills, I shall consider giving him my blessing.”

  He would imply it was all about money and lady’s finery, though the truth was the Adderly sisters had as hefty a bill with the book vendors as the designers. Her father never gave in gracefully. He growled and grumbled and made sure he got in a final blow when he finally surrendered.

  Relief and gratitude had Kitty on her feet. If he were a different kind of father and she was a better sort of daughter, she would move toward him with arms outstretched. But her father loathed hugs and kisses and any kind of physical display of warmth or affection. He hadn’t touched her in years. She recalled only one embrace he’d given her as a child. She’d been ailing with a fever, and Papa had come into her sickroom to watch over her while the nurse stepped out for fresh water and linens. He’d encouraged her to test her strength, to get out of bed after three days of resting. Stand on your own two feet, child.

  She’d been eager to please him and scrambled out from under the covers. The cool floorboards under her bare feet, dizziness that set the room spinning, the fearful trembling she couldn’t stifle however hard she tried—­it all rushed back as if she was still a desperate little girl. Failing at her first step, she’d reached out to stop her fall, and he’d been there. His impossibly strong arms surrounded her, gathering her near, and he’d squeezed her tight a moment before lifting her back into bed. Covering the top of her head with this hand, he’d patted her gently before turning away. Though he’d said nothing more to her, he shouted at the nurse as he departed. See that my child gets well.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  Excitement bubbled up. She had to tell Hattie, couldn’t wait to see her sister’s face when she heard that the biggest hurdle to her match with Mr. Treadwell had been managed. Their father’s approval was contingent only on the duke’s support of the match, and Kitty had no doubt he’d give it.

  “I must go and find Hattie.”

  “Not so swiftly, Katherine. That’s not the end of the matter.”

  All of the anticipation of a moment before dipped in her belly and Kitty held stiff and still,
waiting for the rest. She wasn’t going to like it. The smirk on her father’s face told her as much.

  “Sit.”

  Reaching up to swipe away a strand of hair tickling at her ear, Kitty shook her head. “No, Papa. I’ll stand.”

  He loathed minor skirmishes. He found them a waste of precious time and energy. So he’d let her stand, but his stare was cold, his jaw tight.

  “You’ve always been obstinate.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She’d learned from his own supremely stubborn example. One might think a woman as agreeable as their mother would make for at least one docile daughter, but Desmond Adderly had been cursed with three young women under his roof who’d inherited a portion of his intractable nature. Kitty most of all.

  “While I’m willing to consider Hattie’s barrister, that comes later. First, there’s the matter of your marriage.”

  She’d told herself he wouldn’t insist on the ridiculous and only just instituted rule that she marry first, but of course he would.

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid there’s no one I wish to marry.”

  “My patience for your wishes and preferences has run thin. Your mother and I will decide, if you cannot.”

  He moved and the very air in the room shifted as he stood to ring the bellpull. It was too late for afternoon tea unless he was thirsty and didn’t mind being casual about his tea taking, but Papa was never casual about when he took his tea.

  Then she heard her mother’s footsteps, measured and precise, and the softest of knocks at the door before she entered and seated herself on the settee. Once her mother had settled her gown and Papa had taken his place beside her, Lady Clayborne flicked her wrist toward the chair next to her, indicating her eldest daughter should sit.

  Kitty clenched her jaw, debating whether to press the issue and insist on standing. While she took satisfaction in holding fast to her own choices where Papa was concerned, her relationship with her mother was sometimes chilly, but rarely a tug of war. Kitty simply didn’t understand her mother. Her obsequiousness and overly agreeable nature were the opposite of Kitty’s strong will. Yet Mama, through her softness and meek ways, still managed to wield a uniquely powerful sway over her husband. To Kitty, that was the greatest mystery of all.

  “Come sit by me, my dear.”

  Kitty relented and took the seat next to her mother, but she couldn’t relax against the fabric and sat forward, perching just on the edge.

  “You say there is no one you wish to marry, but I am done with heeding your wishes, Katherine.” Her father’s tone was matter-­of-­fact, emotionless, as if he was discussing a business investment or the results of the horse races at Epsom. “Long past done.”

  Mother lifted a hand and placed it gently on her husband’s arm. “Marriage and the selection of a husband are among the most important decisions a woman will make in her life. I understand your wish to take care with your choice, my dear.”

  Mama’s voice was like a soft stroke of fingers on harp strings after the bark of Papa’s tone, but he cut in at the very instant her mother stopped speaking. “If you cannot decide, you must trust our judgment to guide you along.”

  A squeeze, like the constriction of a too-­tight collar, pressed at Kitty’s neck and throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think except for one word.

  “No.” She wouldn’t be forced into anything. Her father might remind her of what a frightened eager-­to-­please little girl she’d been, but she was no longer a child. And she wasn’t going to pinch her nose and take her medicine just because Mama added a bit of treacle to the mix.

  Kitty hadn’t noticed the clammy dampness of her mother’s hand the first time she’d touched her, but she felt it now. “Now hear us out, my dear.”

  Papa’s gruff voiced intruded over her mother’s soothing tone. “You mentioned Wrexford. Secure a proposal from him.”

  “No.” She’d feared it and more than half expected it, but hearing the words and seeing the flinty resolve in her father’s eyes made her want to bolt. Marriage wasn’t a fate she expected to escape. Not forever. She simply wanted it on her terms. In her time. And with a man of her own choosing.

  And the Duke of Wrexford was the last man she could imagine being shackled to for the rest of her days. He unsettled her. A few moments in his presence had tipped everything inside her on end. And they’d begun on a footing of disappointment and derision. She’d had her fill of that as Desmond Adderly’s daughter. Binding herself to a man as critical and overbearing as her father was unthinkable.

  “He’s inherited well and seems clever enough to maintain it or even improve on the late duke’s investments. And he’ll need a wife to get an heir on. No one will wish to see the dukedom pass to another Oxford don.”

  “Cambridge.” Kitty knew that much about the man at least, and she suspected the duke would take the distinction quite seriously.

  “He’s very handsome,” her mother chimed in, as if Kitty hadn’t corrected her father at all.

  Her father turned a momentary glare on his wife, as if a man’s countenance was of little importance, and yet the Duke of Wrexford’s face was the one thing Kitty could like about the man unreservedly. It was perhaps the finest face she’d ever seen, perfectly proportioned and yet not too Rob Wellesley beautiful. The Duke of Wrexford’s face was graced with lines of age and laughter, and he wore them well. Yes, he was handsome. Unforgivably so. And well-­proportioned—­tall and broad-­shouldered with wide masculine hands.

  And why shouldn’t a man’s beauty be as important in the marriage game as a woman’s? She’d been urged from childhood to brush her hair to make it shiny, stand up tall to straighten her back, and later to pinch her cheeks and bite her lips to make them pink. She’d been taught how to walk to emphasize her bustle and bosom, how to dip her gaze and practice her grins. She’d been praised for her appearance more often than any other skill or accomplishment she’d acquired through practice and effort.

  Whatever admiration she’d seen in the Duke of Wrexford’s gaze when he’d studied her had surely been about her outer beauty. The man made his disgust for her behavior all too clear.

  At the sound of her mother tapping her toes and clearing her throat, Kitty’s woolgathering smashed to shards and she recalled the dire matter at hand. If she wouldn’t go willingly into a match, her parents would force the matter.

  And they possessed powerful leverage. A match with the duke wouldn’t just see her settled. It would ensure Hattie’s happiness. Her father could hardly refuse to admit his own son-­in-­law’s closest friend into the family.

  “Why didn’t you dance with the Duke of Wrexford at the ball, my dear? I understand he did ask you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  But of course she’d know. The ball had been her mother’s event and while there’d been too many guests to track everyone’s movement, the behavior of a freshly titled duke would have been worth watching. In her own way, Kitty’s mother was every bit as adept as gathering information as her father.

  “I was concerned with Miss Benson. I wanted to make sure Mr. Wellesley danced with her. The duke and I . . . missed our chance.”

  It wouldn’t do to acknowledge that she’d planned to avoid dancing with him even if he’d sought her out again, or that their first encounter had included a chastisement for her bad behavior. Her parents could imagine a match with Wrexford all they liked, but it wouldn’t change the duke’s opinion of her, or the fact he’d thought her in need of a scolding from the first moment he laid eyes on her. They’d commenced an acquaintance on abysmal terms and nothing indicated that furthering their connection would improve it.

  “Nonsense.” Clearly her father didn’t agree. “You’ll soon have another chance to claim your waltz with the duke. We’ve been invited to Lady Stamford’s ball Friday next.”

  “How can you be certain he’ll be at t
he Stamford ball?”

  “Didn’t you know, my dear? The Countess of Stamford is his aunt.”

  His aunt? With a noblewoman in the family, the man couldn’t be as much a novice at gentlemanly behavior as she’d accused him of being. And despite conceding his lack of social graces when they were alone in the sitting room, he’d played the gentleman well enough in the ballroom.

  Blast the man for being a conundrum. Men invariably proved simple to suss out, and yet this mathematician-­turned-­duke posed a mystery.

  Kitty had never been able to resist a mystery.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WASN’T SATISFYING enough to rip the letter to shreds. Seb crumpled the fragments, clenching his fist until his knuckles strained against his skin, and strode over to throw them on the grate. But the remaining embers flickered with a waning heat, not enough to turn the pieces of the second unopened letter to cinders. A few flecks began to smolder and hiss, but he wanted to see them burn, to watch the flames and hear the satisfying crackle as he seared her from his life for good.

  Alecia Lloyd’s beauty and cleverness had enthralled him, and he’d been full of enough youthful arrogance to believe he alone had caught her interest. Those first few months had been bliss, and then learning he was one of three gentlemen she was playing for a fool, and uncovering each of her lies, had been a hellish descent that stripped him of ideals and naiveté.

  Memories of her ebony hair streaming out as he’d followed her through the woods didn’t haunt him anymore, but he could still feel the weight of the bulldog revolver he’d carried in his overcoat pocket. He’d been so determined to protect her.

  “I’ve been sent to fetch you in to dinner. You’re joining us, aren’t you?” Pippa strode into his study as she questioned him.

  “Yes, of course.” Seb gripped the fire poker and stirred up the coals, kindling a few flames to consume the shredded paper. That was what he needed. A tumbler tripped inside of him, unlocking a few bars of tension constricting his chest.