I Love the Earl Read online

  “Precisely.” Clyve rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Just choose one, get an heir or two on her, then send her off to the country and you’ll never need see her again.”

  Rhys sighed. He supposed it was the best course open to him. It was certainly better than the alternatives, which included losing everything his ancestors had amassed and being locked away in the Fleet, if he couldn’t manage to scarper off to the Continent. When viewed from that angle, marriage didn’t look quite so bad. He set the decanter on the table with a clank. “Very well. I shall go courting.”

  Clyve grinned. “Knew you would. Mind if I come along?”

  “To take your pick of my discards, as usual?” Rhys managed a cocky grin in reply. Perhaps if he brought Clyve along, it would seem like their typical jaunts, with nothing of sacrifice about it. One of the girls might turn out to be pretty, and it wouldn’t be a punishment to bed her. And he only needed to do that once or twice, to make everything irrevocable. Then he could get on with the important duty, restoring his family fortunes and estate.

  The first introductions were contrived with little effort. Clyve reported two young ladies would be at the Willoughby ball, so Rhys steeled himself to the task and unearthed his invitation. They encountered Lady Anne first. She was pretty, in a pale, thin way, and struck dumb with nerves at the sight of him. Rhys felt her hand tremble as he bowed over it, and the panicked look in her eyes made him think of a hare cornered by the hounds. He conversed politely with her mother, who was unquestionably pleased to make his acquaintance, and took his leave feeling like a sinner escaping Purgatory.

  Lady Charlotte was also in attendance. She was more promising than Lady Anne, a pretty girl who responded very graciously when they were introduced. She was young, but appeared to have a bit of spirit and even some sense. Since she was also surrounded by several other gentlemen of rank, including some with fortunes of their own, Rhys foresaw stiff competition for the lady and her twenty-five thousand pounds. Still, he was confident in his title and his own personal persuasions, should he decide to set himself to winning her. He deemed Lady Charlotte possible.

  “Very pretty,” said Clyve as they walked away, sounding somewhat surprised. “Wonder how I was never introduced to her.”

  “If you like her,” began Rhys, but Clyve threw up his hands.

  “Well, I didn’t say that! Only that one might take a second look. I thought I knew every handsome lady in town, but I don’t recall her.” They passed through the ballroom back into the hall. Clyve glanced longingly toward the room opposite the ballroom, where plumes of smoke trailed out. Clyve had a weakness for cards, but Rhys wasn’t in the mood this evening. He sent the footman for his things.

  “Clyve, if you took a fancy to her, admit it. I shan’t disparage you for being struck by a pretty girl, with or without a fortune.” Rhys took his hat and ran one hand over his head before putting it on. Clyve, who ran more to the dandyish than he did, had persuaded him he must wear powder for these forays into society, and it made his head itch.

  His friend followed him out to the carriage and stepped in behind him. He reclined on the opposite seat, one hand dangling elegantly over the head of his walking stick. “There is a great difference between being struck and being foolish.”

  “Not two days ago you told me it was prudent to be struck by a girl, pretty or otherwise, so long as she came with a plump dowry.”

  “Yes, Dowling, in your circumstance, it would be prudent.” Clyve smiled wryly. “In mine, it would be merely foolish.”

  Rhys just looked out the window as the carriage jerked forward, rocking over the rutted street. Clyve wasn’t nearly bankrupt, as he was. His mother might be nattering at him to marry and produce an heir, but Clyve had been ignoring her for most of his life, and there was no reason he should heed her now. He didn’t need the money. A flirtation with Lady Charlotte Cranmore would only put him needlessly in danger of the parson’s noose. Lord Cranmore would have him strung up in a fortnight if Clyve so much as leered at his daughter.

  He, on the other hand . . . Rhys heaved a silent sigh. It wasn’t so much marriage he objected to as the necessity. Even under better circumstances it would be time for him to find a wife; he had turned thirty already. His father waited until his forties to marry, and as a result Rhys had been only ten when he inherited his title. His mother was married again before he turned eleven, and Rhys hadn’t seen her more than a dozen times since then, just brief visits between school terms until he took himself off to London for good. She lived with her husband in York, Rhys lived in London, and they hadn’t met in years. How fortunate he was to have Clyve’s mother providing guidance on choosing a bride, however inadvertently.

  “The real question is,” Clyve said, “do you like her?”

  “She’s lovely,” Rhys murmured shortly. “Very suitable.”

  “Your enthusiasm takes my breath away.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I’m not the one you need to impress,” Clyve reminded him. “A woman wants to be wooed, Dowling. Try not to look impatient to be away from her, as you did Lady Anne.”

  “I did wish to be away from her, but I rather think if I wanted her, I would get her for the asking.” He paused, thinking. “The Cranmore girl would have to be pursued, I grant you.”

  “Hotly.” Clyve looked wistful at the thought. “How unfortunate she’s not for me. I haven’t had a promising seduction in months.”

  “Who are the other candidates on your list?”

  “Baverstock’s eldest girl. My mother prefers her; she wrote me just the other day to extol the poor girl’s singing voice.” Clyve shuddered. “It astonishes me what women think important in a wife.”

  “And the other one,” Rhys said, remembering. “The very rich one.”

  “Ah, yes, the Durham spinster. I heard of her the other day.” His friend sat forward, his face lighting with the fiendish malice of a born gossip. “Quite old—thirty or more—and thin and plain as pudding. They say her brother settled a fortune on her in desperate hopes of being rid of her at last; she’s been under his roof for several years.”

  Rhys pictured a dour, unattractive woman, accustomed to ruling a merchant household. Could he really install such a creature as the mistress of Dowling Park? “I daresay he will be, if he’s truly given her forty thousand pounds.”

  Clyve laughed. “Without a doubt! For that price, someone will be willing to have her.”

  He thought of all the use he could make of forty thousand pounds. It was an absolute fortune, and would propel him clear out of debt and still leave a pretty penny. He could repair the house and Dowling Park, even improve it. Refurnish it. Perhaps the prospect of refitting Dowling Park would win the heiress’s shriveled heart. The estate house had good lines and character, and was set in a beautiful landscape. It had once been called the prettiest estate in England. It was a far cry from that now, but if he could tear down the decrepit east wing and rebuild the ruined front, it would be a gem once again. His spirits rose. Yes, a managing older woman with little experience of society might embrace the challenge of restoring Dowling, and do a splendid job of it, if she had taste.

  And all he had to do was charm her into marrying him, leaving spinsterhood to become the Countess of Dowling. How hard could that be?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite her trepidation, Margaret began to like being the sister of a duke.

  It was quite a change; no sooner had Francis formally ascended to the title than a horde of retainers descended on their modest house in Holborn, tramping through the rooms at all hours of the day and night. The neighbors protested. The housekeeper threw up her hands over the constant stream of visitors. Finally even Francis had enough. The late Duke of Durham had built an enormous mansion in Berkeley Square, still so new some rooms weren’t completed, and within a month her brother sold his house and removed across town. Margaret felt a twinge of worry as they left behind the comfortable neighborhood and drove across town
, a distance of hardly more than a couple of miles but crossing an unfathomable gulf between Miss Margaret de Lacey, penniless spinster, and Miss Margaret de Lacey, sister of a duke.

  Once installed in Berkeley Square, her brother charged her with finishing his house. Tentatively at first, but with more and more confidence as she realized the nearly unbounded possibilities open to her with Francis’s new fortune at her disposal, she chose furniture and paint colors, upholstery and carpets. She replaced china and draperies, pensioned off several elderly servants, and hired a bevy of new ones. She hardly saw her brother, closeted away as he was with his new estate managers and business agents and solicitors, but when their paths did cross, he assured her she was doing a splendid job on the house, and he reminded her of his vow, to see her married.

  Margaret laughed at that. She knew Francis meant the suitor of her choice, subject to his approval. “I doubt there’s a man in Europe who could please both me and my brother,” she told Miss Cuthbert, the middle-aged lady of impeccable reputation hired to be her companion and teacher in the ways of high society. “At least when I had nothing, I had no one to please but myself.”

  Miss Cuthbert looked at her in shocked disapproval. Miss Cuthbert was the granddaughter of an earl, raised in elegant society from birth, and was routinely shocked by things Margaret said. “Every lady should wish to be married,” she said with her slightly nasal drawl. “Especially every lady of good fortune.”

  No one should know better than Miss Cuthbert that wanting to be married didn’t necessarily mean one would be married, but Margaret kept the thought to herself. “I do wish to be married,” she assured her companion. “Just not to the first single man with empty pockets who asks me.”

  Miss Cuthbert looked down her long, narrow nose. “Naturally not,” she said in freezing tones. “I shan’t permit that.”

  Privately Margaret thought Miss Cuthbert would be far less discriminating than she would be. The older lady had made it clear she was something of a matchmaker, and her purpose was to see her charges well married within a year. Margaret glared suspiciously at her brother when Miss Cuthbert baldly announced that last goal, but Francis shrugged it off and said of course Miss Cuthbert wished to see her well married; overseeing a high-profile marriage would enhance her status as a desirable companion for unmarried ladies, ensuring her more income in the future. Margaret imagined how her own life would have been, at Miss Cuthbert’s age, if Cousin Arthur hadn’t died without a son. Playing matchmaker to nouveau riche heiresses seemed less objectionable after that.

  And she most certainly was an heiress. Francis had settled an obscene amount of money on her, so much she gasped in shock when he told her. Even Miss Cuthbert blinked when she heard. But Francis had set his mind on it, and wouldn’t reconsider.

  “Don’t even think of protesting,” he told her. “It’s not even a year’s income. I’ve only just sorted out where all the funds come from, and where they go, but you’re my only family, Meg, and you deserve to benefit from this unexpected turn even more than I do.”

  “Goodness.” She fanned herself. “Is this a benefit, or a curse?”

  He scowled, rifling through the papers on his desk in search of something. He never seemed to have a spare moment anymore, and when she wished to see him, she had to make an appointment with his secretary and go to his study. “Only you would ask that. You’ve given every indication of pleasure thus far.”

  She blushed. He meant her clothes. It had been years since anyone cared how she looked, and as she grew older and settled in spinsterhood, her wardrobe had grown simple and even a bit dull. But now she was an heiress, with a companion hired specially to help her attract a good match, and suddenly Margaret found herself wearing the most deliciously fashionable clothing. Silk stockings instead of wool. Snug new corsets that made her deeply thankful she hadn’t put on much weight since her debut. Beautifully draped and embroidered dresses that shimmered and glowed when she moved and made her feel like a princess from another world. Hand-painted chiné silks and Mechlin lace and shoes that sparkled with spangles and gilt embroidery. Miss Cuthbert declared the wardrobe vital to her new standing; Francis made no objection; and Margaret reveled in every scrap of silk and lace she purchased. Of all the changes wrought by Francis’s new title, she liked the clothes the best.

  “You promised me I would have my choice.” She returned to the important point. Her new clothing was the wardrobe of a fashionable, eligible woman, meant to attract a husband, but she wasn’t about to yield on that one all-important point. “You won’t change your mind or try to change mine, now you’ve committed such a dowry to me?”

  “No.” He pulled out one paper with a grunt of satisfaction and leaned back in his chair to read it.

  “Truly?” she pressed. The amount of the dowry took her breath away, and made her anxious. It was a staggering sum. Her brother was too keen a businessman to allow that much money to flow from his coffers without having some say in where it went. His grand promise that she would have her choice began to look more complicated than simply choosing from the line of gentlemen, penniless or otherwise, who would queue for her hand.

  “For God’s sake, Maggie,” he snapped. “For forty thousand pounds I expect to have my choice of every bachelor in England. What has you so upset?”

  She froze at his words, then turned a narrow glare on him. “I shall have the choice,” she said carefully. “Surely you meant to say I shall have my choice of bachelors.”

  “That’s what I said.” He frowned at whatever he was reading.

  “No, it isn’t. You said you shall have your choice—which is precisely what has me so upset. Your money, your choice. I’d rather have nothing!”

  He waved one hand in exasperation. “I won’t let you marry a charlatan! I’m not a fool.”

  “But within those bounds, you won’t overrule me?”

  Francis gave a huff. “I won’t overrule you! Just don’t fall for a swindler or a seducer. I trust you have more sense than that, Maggie.”

  She smiled in relief. Once her brother gave his word, he never went back on it. “Of course I do.”

  Invitations had piled up from the moment Francis assumed the title, but they hadn’t gone out thus far. Now Miss Cuthbert began directing Margaret which ones would be fitting places to make her first appearances as the Duke of Durham’s sister, and Francis agreed to escort them to a few. Society must be curious to set eyes on these upstart de Laceys, he said, but Margaret had to admit she was curious to see this new society as well. When she’d been a young woman brought to London in hopes of acquiring some sophistication and a husband, they had mixed mostly with other families like theirs: genteel, modestly well off, vaguely “connected” without being important themselves. The dukedom had vaulted them to the rarified echelon of the very richest and noblest families, though. At first she worried she would feel out of place and gauche, but after the first few events, she realized that was foolish. Francis was right; her new dowry made her the most eligible lady in town, despite being nearly twice the age of other debutantes. She only sat out dances by choice. Whenever she was hungry or thirsty, two gentlemen begged the honor of fetching refreshment for her. No matter where she went, a gentleman, or two or ten, hovered at her elbow.

  At first it was flattering—no girl who has been ignored can resist a little delight in being the focus of so much male attention—but quickly grew tedious, and finally irksome. The constant horde of suitors imposed a barrier between Margaret and every other lady in the room except Miss Cuthbert, who followed her with the keen eye of a jailor watching a prisoner on parole. Whatever interest other ladies might have had in being friendly seemed to evaporate once all the eligible gentlemen in the room rushed to surround her. Society was a lonely, dull place with no friends, Margaret thought. She felt a glimmer of sympathy for her brother’s continued refusal to marry and his fear of being hounded by unmarried ladies hoping to become a duchess. Of course, he could go about marriage very directly
, while she must wait for an appropriate man to approach her. And so far, not a one had.

  “This is a bloody waste of time,” she fumed behind her fan to Miss Cuthbert one particularly bad evening. Three gentlemen had clung to her side all evening until she finally announced she had turned her ankle and marched off to sit with the ladies who had no partners—the place where she had spent most of her evenings as a young lady, and which suddenly looked almost idyllically peaceful.

  “Miss de Lacey, mind your tongue,” said her companion sternly. “Genteel ladies do not use vulgar language.”

  Ballocks to that, she thought, but it wasn’t worth angering Miss Cuthbert to say so out loud. Now that she had come out in society, Miss Cuthbert was more intensely determined than ever to make Margaret into a proper lady, or at least into enough of one to snare an eligible husband. No one was more dismayed than Margaret herself to discover it wouldn’t be a romantic, tender process, but more of a hard-fought campaign, with tactical objectives and maneuvers to get the desired proposal. She had no interest in manipulating a man into offering for her. It was bad enough she would have to question and doubt any protestations of love a suitor made, in suspicion that his affections were mainly for her fortune.

  “I’m ready to go home,” she announced.

  Miss Cuthbert’s lips tightened, but she couldn’t protest. Francis had explicitly told her she was an advisor only. “I shall send for the carriage, Miss de Lacey.” She rose and made her way through the room.

  “Good heavens, I thought she’d never go,” said a bright voice from Margaret’s other side. “Is she your keeper? Even my mother doesn’t hover so oppressively.”