by Regina Scott
He would not choose her. Matthew might have been elevated, but Ivy was still the daughter of a millworker. She and Daisy were fortunate that their new sister-in-law, Charlotte, was the daughter of a viscount and sister to Lord Worthington, or they would likely never have set foot in a Society event. Even when they did, some refused to speak to them, gazed at them when they passed as if aghast someone so common would be allowed admittance.
Still, the Countess of Carrolton had invited them, and, as the evening wore on, Ivy did her best to honor the lady. She accompanied Miss Thorn as she made her way around the room, greeted acquaintances, chatted about the weather, the ridiculous war America had declared on her mother country, and the latest fashion. Daisy lagged behind or forged ahead from time to time, but Miss Thorn or Ivy always managed to pull her back into their circle. Ivy knew Miss Thorn was keeping an eye on Daisy, but after caring for her sister since they’d lost their mother, she found it difficult to remember she didn’t have to be on her guard.
“Dare I claim this beauty for a promenade?” Sir William asked, gaze on Daisy and grin infectious.
Miss Thorn eyed him from his artfully curled blond hair to his polished evening pumps and inclined her head. “Once around the room, sir. I will be watching.”
He bowed, then offered Daisy his arm, and the pair set off, Daisy preening.
“She sets her sights high,” Miss Thorn observed.
Unease pulled Ivy’s shoulders tighter. “She’s clever. She’ll learn her place.”
The employment agency owner transferred her gaze to Ivy. “And what place would that be?”
Ivy felt the need to step back and promptly bumped into another lady. Turning to apologize, she had to raise her chin to meet the fierce gaze of the Amazon standing there.
“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Villers,” Ivy said, dropping her chin.
“Miss Bateman,” the lady intoned, sounding a bit as if she’d discovered a fly in her soup. “Miss Thorn.”
“Mrs. Villers,” Miss Thorn acknowledged. “Mr. Villers.”
Ivy looked up in time to see the saturnine fellow at the lady’s elbow raise a silver quizzing glass and examine Ivy and her chaperone through it.
“The Beast of Birmingham’s sister, is it not?” he drawled.
“Sir Matthew Bateman’s sister,” Miss Thorn corrected him as Ivy’s cheeks heated. “Miss Bateman, I don’t believe you have met Mr. Villers. He is Lady Worthington’s brother.”
“And brother-in-law to the Earl of Carrolton,” the fellow seemed compelled to remind her. “Good of you to come.” He turned to his wife. “Isn’t that dear Gregory waving us over, darling?” He offered his wife his arm, and the two sailed off, noses in the air.
“I do hope they don’t go outside that way,” Miss Thorn said. “If it was raining, they might drown.”
Just then a footman approached them and bowed as well as he could among the crush. “I was asked to deliver this to you, miss.” He offered Ivy a folded piece of parchment.
Ivy accepted it from him, mystified, then opened the note, aware of Miss Thorn’s gaze on her.
I have made a cake of myself, the note read in Daisy’s brisk hand. Meet me in the library on the first floor, and don’t bring Miss Thorn. I cannot face her now.
“Trouble?” Miss Thorn asked.
Heart starting to beat faster, Ivy folded the note. “Just a friend reminding me of my duty. Will you excuse me? I won’t be long.”
Miss Thorn eyed her. Ivy willed her not to suggest she needed a chaperone, to remember they were at a party given by a trusted couple, to recall that Ivy was the reliable sister. Whether Miss Thorn heard Ivy’s frantic thoughts or not, she inclined her head in consent, and Ivy hurried for the stairs.
The same footman directed her around the corner to the double doors of the library, and Ivy slipped inside. A single lamp had been left burning, leaving the corners in shadow. By its golden light, she made out tall oak cases, offering row upon row of books she would at another time have been delighted to peruse. Indeed, the deep leather sofa before the black marble hearth invited her to linger and read.
“Daisy?” Ivy called, venturing deeper into the room.
“Miss Bateman?”
Ivy turned to find the Marquess of Kendall standing in the doorway. The black of his evening coat and breeches emphasized his height. The lamplight picked out gold in his sable hair. He shut the door behind him and moved closer. “How might I be of assistance?”
There must be some mistake. He should not be here. She should not be here. Ivy edged around the sofa, away from him. “I need no assistance, my lord. I was concerned for my sister.”
He frowned, following her. “Your sister, Miss Daisy?”
“Yes.” She rounded the other end of the sofa and started for the door. “I must have misunderstood. Excuse me.” She seized the latch and tugged.
The door refused to open.
~~~
Stephen, Marquess of Kendall, watched as the pretty Miss Bateman pulled at the latch, color rising with each movement. She was such a cipher. The round face, the wide brown eyes, and her soft voice combined to make her appear sweet, uncertain, and full of amazement at the world. Yet there were moments when she exhibited an inner strength that surprised him. He had wondered whether she might be the woman he needed.
That woman had proven exceedingly difficult to find. Now that the Season was drawing to a close, his quest would become even more challenging. A marquess possessed of a decent fortune and an excellent family name ought to be able to locate a wife easily enough. But he didn’t want a wife. He wanted a mother for Sophia.
Just the thought of his little daughter tightened his chest. Her mother had been the love of his life. It wasn’t right that Adelaide had been taken so young, only the day after the birth of their daughter. Kendall never intended to give his heart again. How could he when it had gone to the grave with his wife?
But Sophia needed a mother, a woman who would cherish and guide her better than he could as her father. Oh, he knew not all mothers were so doting, but he had been assured his mother had been, that he would not be the man he was today without her love. And so he had come to London in search of a bride among the ladies on the marriage mart.
He’d soon realized his error. The ladies suited to be a marchioness fell into one of two camps. Either they were idealistic and hoped for a love match, or they delighted in Society and would never have enjoyed rusticating in Surrey and raising another woman’s child. He had learned Miss Bateman had guided her younger sisters and loved children, but he doubted she’d be content in the type of marriage he intended to offer.
Now she stepped back from the door with a frown. “It appears to be stuck. Would you try, my lord?”
He offered her a polite smile and approached the door. Why was she dissembling? He’d received word from a footman that Miss Bateman requested his help on a matter of some urgency and would meet him in the library. He had not doubted the report. Since becoming acquainted with her family, he had been put in a position of offering assistance twice, most recently when her youngest sister had gone missing. That was the day he’d realized the strength inside her otherwise soft demeanor. Miss Bateman would have gone to the ends of the earth to see her sister safe.
Would that he found someone who cared so much about Sophia.
He took hold of the latch, gave it a good tug. Through the thick wood, he thought he heard a metallic rattle, but the door didn’t budge.
“What’s wrong?” Miss Bateman asked, fingers knitting before her creamy gown.
He yanked harder. Something creaked in protest, but still the door held firm. He released the handle and stepped back. “We appear to be trapped.”
“How very inconvenient,” she said.
Or was it convenient? He did not know her well, after all. Could she have set up this meeting to cry compromise? In the past, she had gone out of her way to avoid any situation that might be construed as intimate. Or did she, too, see her
opportunities narrowing with the Season’s end?
She could easily have taken advantage of the opportunity now. But she did not attempt to throw herself into his arms, begging for comfort in their circumstances. She went to sit on the sofa, back straight, head high. As he followed, he was not surprised to find her hands folded properly in her lap.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Her gaze was on the barren hearth. “Waiting. Sooner or later Daisy or Miss Thorn will come in search of me.”
Her faith was commendable. He leaned against the hearth. “I fear by that time the damage will be done.”
She frowned, glancing up at him, lamplight shining in her dark eyes. “Damage?”
“To your reputation.”
She drew herself up further. “You are a gentleman, sir.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed I am. But the longer we are alone together, the quicker tongues will wag.”
Her chin inched higher. “Let them wag. I have done nothing wrong, and I won’t be pushed into apologizing.”
There was that strength again. It called to him, beckoned him closer. He took a step without thinking.
The door rattled a moment before swinging open, and Miss Thorn strode into the room, eyes flashing like a sword. He’d once approached the woman for help with the idea that she and her cat were some sort of matchmakers. After all, the Duke of Wey, Sir Harold Orwell, Lord Worthington, and their host tonight, the Earl of Carrolton, had found brides through her. Now she looked like nothing so much as a winged Fury as she swept toward the sofa and held out one hand.
“Come, Ivy. Your sister is looking for you.”
Ivy rose and hurried to her side. “Forgive me. The door jammed.”
“Doors tend to do that when someone shoves a candelabra through the latches,” she replied with a look in his direction.
He spread his hands. “May I remind you, madam, that I was trapped as well?”
“And may I remind you, sir, that I know your purpose for being in London.”
Kendall stiffened. He hardly wanted it known he sought a marriage of convenience. That would attract all the wrong kinds of interest.
She put an arm around Ivy’s waist as if determined to protect her. “You will call on me tomorrow, Lord Kendall, and we can discuss reparations.”
Ivy pulled away from her. “Reparations? But nothing happened, Miss Thorn. I promise you.”
“I believe you,” the lady replied, look softening. “But others may not. Think of Daisy’s reception if you will not think of your own.” She nodded to Kendall. “Tomorrow, my lord. I am usually receiving by eleven. I expect you then, with an offer.”
And she pulled her charge from the room before he could decide just who was manipulating whom.
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About the Author
Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has more than forty-five published works of warm, witty romance.
She has never been a fan of boxing, though she learned to fence in college. Her husband, however, has a first-degree black belt in Judo and a fourth-degree black belt in Shudokan Karate. He helps her choreograph her fight scenes. Her critique partner and dear friend Kristy J. Manhattan, on the other hand, helped Regina come up with the idea for Fortune’s Brides. Kristy is an avid fan of cats, supporting spay and neuter clinics and pet rescue groups. If Fortune resembles any cat you know, credit Kristy.
Regina Scott and her husband of 30 years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State on the way to Mt. Rainier. She has dressed as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.