A Daring Deception

by Trentham, Laura

  “Will Widow Parsom be the one to tame you?” Simon asked sarcastically, knowing full well it would be a cold day in hell a woman brought Damien to heel.

  He barked a laugh. “I was glad of this charming little party to put some distance between us. She was already dropping hints after three nights in my bed. Can you imagine?”

  Looking Damien up and down, Simon said seriously, “Actually, no, I can’t. I don’t understand why ladies pant after you. Even more puzzling is why they keep coming back time and again begging for a mere pat of affection. The poor debutantes are alternately terrified and fascinated by you every season.”

  Damien waggled his brows. “I work hard to cultivate a bit of fear in the young and innocent. I hardly want to become an object of their desire, not that their mamas would allow it. I’m extremely bad ton if ton at all.”

  “There are plenty who would accept your money even though you’re a bastard.” Simon chuckled to lessen the sting of the truth. “I meant that in both the figurative and literal sense.”

  Damien accepted the brandy Simon poured for him with aplomb, not animus. “I’m only here to make you look more shining and golden by comparison. As if you need my help. I’m going to start calling you Saint Simon.”

  Simon quaffed his drink and huffed. “If you only knew how far off the mark you are.”

  Damien straightened, and the mask of nonchalance fell away under his curiosity. “Do tell. Does this unsaintly behavior have something to do with inviting Goforth? Are you planning to garrote him in the night?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. And what have you heard about my invitation?”

  “Drummond cornered me on my arrival for an interrogation. If I had known why you were set on Goforth’s attendance, I would have cracked, by the way. Drummond is positively terrifying when he sets his mind to it. Are you planning to sway Goforth to your way of thinking?”

  “That seems like an impossibility.”

  Damien ran a finger over his lower lip and regarded Simon. While Damien projected an air of insouciance, underneath was an intellect and ambition that equaled Simon’s. While their approach to societal change was vastly different, their goals aligned. Their friendship had remained unshakable since their first meeting at Eton. Simon a duke and Damien the bastard son of one.

  “Surely this has nothing to do with the daughter? I saw her on their arrival. She’s not your usual taste.” Damien took a sip of his brandy but didn’t look away from Simon, who felt himself being stripped and evaluated as if he were sitting across from Damien at a card table. The man was ruthless in the pursuit of money.

  Even with Damien, Simon didn’t feel comfortable revealing his true reason for the invitation. “I met Miss Tremaine soon after she arrived in England. She was quite the spitfire then. Goforth has kept her cloistered since, and I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. It was only polite to issue an invitation as the Penhaven estate sits not five miles away.”

  Thankfully, Damien’s too-perceptive gaze shifted to the window where the sun cast brilliant colors as it fell toward the horizon. “Your sister has assembled a veritable buffet of young innocents for you this week. If I weren’t so amused at the thought of you being hunted like a fox, I’d feel rather sorry for you.”

  “It’s rather horrific, isn’t it? I promised I’d keep an open mind, but if you see me dragged into the garden, please come save me.” Simon was only half joking. He could imagine a scheming mama encouraging her offspring to lure him into a compromising situation so he would be obligated to extend an offer. Manipulation and lies were not solid foundations for marriage.

  Further conversation was cut short as Rafe and Minerva, along with a handful of guests, arrived in the drawing room. Drinks were poured, and tongues loosened. Three young ladies—one with black hair, one brown, and one blond—cornered him, tittering about the latest fashions and the opera. Besides their coloring, there was nothing to distinguish one from another.

  Even if he had an opinion—which he didn’t—he could hardly get a word in edgewise. They moved on to discuss the other young ladies in attendance, wrapping veiled insinuations and insults in backhanded compliments.

  Minerva would no doubt chide him about being ungracious and judgmental, and as usual, she would be right. Yet he couldn’t help feeling an almost primal urge to escape. Simon kept an eye on the door, debating his chances.

  Goforth strutted into the room and greeted Rafe with a grating, boisterous laugh. Simon almost overlooked the drab figure who edged into the room on his heels and inched along the wall.

  He was beset by equal amounts of shock and pity. The Jessica Tremaine he recalled was nothing like the young woman whose shoulders slumped and mouth turned down, making her appear older than he knew she was. Her hair was scraped back from her face and covered in a cap that would have looked more at home on a dowager matron of eighty instead of a young unmarried miss of twenty.

  Her face was sickly pale against the dark brown of her gown, which was severe and hung on her square frame. It was the sort of dress a woman wore to dig a large hole or dust an abandoned house. He dithered over what to do. Miss Tremaine was here by his invitation, even if she didn’t realize it. Guilt assailed him. He had invited her for the most selfish and dishonorable reasons. His prurient interest in her maid must be quashed.

  The young ladies who had trapped him turned their arrows upon one another. Simon excused himself from the three furies and sidled toward the corner Miss Tremaine had tucked herself into. She was worrying a loose string along the edge of her dingy lace gloves and didn’t notice his approach.

  He stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. Her head popped up, surprise widening her eyes and smoothing away her frown. In a blink, her expression resumed its wary anxiousness, her eyes and mouth downcast, but for a moment, she had struck him as… not pretty perhaps, but not as unappealing as he was given to believe.

  “Good evening, Miss Tremaine.” Simon sidled a bit closer. Unlike the other young women in attendance, she didn’t appear at all enthusiastic at his attentions, which was a welcome change from the usual fawning and made her more interesting rather than less. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

  “It seems you’ve caught me between being overrun with guests seeking my regard.” While her voice bore the hallmarks of an American accent, it was flavored with an indistinct English lilt.

  But it was her dry sarcasm that was wholly unexpected. A genuine laugh sneaked out of him before he stifled it with a clearing of his throat. “I hope you’re finding everything to your liking at Wintermarsh.”

  She tilted her head and scanned the room as if evaluating every person and piece of furniture. “Indeed. It is a very welcoming house. Happiness resides here.”

  Simon was taken aback. His question had been polite small talk. Instead, she had answered with a truth he felt in his bones as well. “I have always thought so too. Perhaps that’s why I find myself spending as much time here as my own estates.”

  “Lady Drummond informed me you relinquished your usual chamber for me. It’s a lovely room, thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Silence followed. Usually, he left it to the young ladies to drive the conversation, but Miss Tremaine seemed content with the quiet between them.

  Oddly, he found himself wanting to natter on. “What sorts of things interest you?”

  “Interest me?” Another flash of surprise animated her face. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all? Do you paint or embroider?”

  “Neither. I find needlework tedious and have no talent with the brush.”

  “Do you play the pianoforte?”

  She flinched as if the question hurt. “I used to, but my stepfather rid the manor of our pianoforte some time ago.”

  A story scrolled untold behind her answer. One he wanted to hear but was sure she would never tell him. “There’s an excellent one here. Minerva has a musical evening planned. You should entertain the group.”


  “I’m sure the other ladies will be eager to demonstrate their skills.”

  “Then I would be honored if you would favor me with a tune one afternoon.”

  “Goodness, no. I only ever played for my mother.” Her voice hitched with emotion, and Simon regretted his insistence had caused her any grief.

  His brief recollection of her mother was of a wan woman who had been pretty yet beaten down by life’s circumstances. Many women he met in Whitechapel and Seven Dials had the same haunted, exhausted look in their eyes. Given the nature of her husband, Simon wasn’t surprised.

  Simon flicked his attention to Edward Goforth. The man had cornered Mr. Comstock, who was an offshoot of a titled family but much wealthier. Goforth’s cheeks were ruddy from the drink. Comstock looked around as if seeking an escape after only a few minutes.

  Living with Goforth day in and day out must be hell. It would crush anyone’s spirit. Forcing a merry tone, he leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve sat through performances that made the alley cats wail. You would do your mother proud, I’m sure.”

  She jerked away. Had he been too familiar and caused offense? As he opened his mouth to apologize, she asked, “Have you been eating peppermints?”

  He smiled at the unexpectedness of her question. “I have. I actually brought them for my nephew, but I learned the hard way to dole them out one by one or else he’ll sick up on my sister’s favorite rug. I can commiserate with his gluttony. My weakness for sweets is legendary.”

  Her slight laugh was husky and attractive. “My father loved his peppermints. I would crawl up on his lap at night while he told me stories before bed. It’s my favorite memory of him.”

  Simon reached into his jacket and offered her a peppermint. “Here. Take one.”

  Like she was a starved dog being offered kindness for the first time, she hesitated with her hand halfway to his. Slowly, so as not to scare her off, he inched the treat closer. Careful not to touch him, she took the candy and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes closed, and her lips tipped into a smile. She had traveled into her memories.

  With her pallid, sickly complexion, she would never qualify as a beauty among the ton’s finest. Yet something in her expression spoke to him.

  “My parents died when I was young.” He surprised himself with the admission.

  “How young?”

  “I was seven.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  How to answer? When they had been alive, he’d only seen them on their occasional visits to the nursery. They had been beautiful distant strangers. “I miss the lack of memories of them. I have nothing to revisit. Does that sound odd?”

  “Not at all.” Severity tightened her features, and he felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable.

  No matter the pity she inspired, he would do well to remember she was the relation of his political enemy and any weakness could be used against him.

  He performed a small bow and excused himself. She merely nodded and retreated farther into her corner, if it was possible. Troubled, he made his way toward his sister and drew her aside.

  “Have you made everyone’s acquaintance, or do you require an introduction?” Minerva smiled and nodded at one of the guests behind him.

  “I interpret that to mean the acquaintance of the available ladies present. I was lucky enough to be cornered for a scintillating discussion of where ladies’ waistlines will fall at the new season.”

  “Some may need a bit of polish, but they will mature. Any one of the ladies here would make a fine matrimonial option.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “I see you aren’t even attempting to disguise your ambition to see me married off.”

  Minerva transferred her full attention to him and lay her hand on his arm. “I want you to be happy. That’s all.”

  The sincerity in her eyes was enough to make his resentment dissipate even if he didn’t approve of her methods. “I will marry when I’m ready and not before.”

  “And that will be…?”

  “When I find what you and Rafe have.” A moment of doubt assailed him. What if he never found anything resembling love? What if he was forced to accept a marriage of convenience?

  Minerva squeezed his arm, her expression somewhere between hope and pity.

  Simon cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I welcomed Miss Tremaine.”

  Minerva’s gaze darted over his shoulder toward Jessica’s corner. “She seems a sweet but painfully awkward young lady with horrendous fashion sense.”

  While awkward was certainly apt, he wasn’t so sure sweet was the correct descriptor. Their conversation had proved to be unusually profound, and the young lady had an acerbic bite he rather enjoyed. “I worry she’ll be ignored and bullied by the other ladies.”

  “I’ll not allow it.” Minerva on the warpath could wither the prime minister. The only man she was unable to intimidate was her husband. “Oh dear. You’d better rescue Rafe before he plants a fist between Goforth’s eyes.”

  Simon quickly stepped toward Rafe and Goforth. Rafe shot him a dirty look that promised retribution the next time they sparred and stalked off without a by-your-leave.

  Goforth stared at his retreat. “I say, I was in the middle of advising Drummond about a more efficient way to manage Wintermarsh. There’s no reason for him to support the rabble on small plots of land. They should be pushed out to make more room for stock.”

  “He seems to be managing things adequately.” While Rafe was forward thinking in terms of investments and estate management, he was also traditional in his beliefs of caring for those under his domain. Simon forced a lightness he did not feel into his voice. “Let’s not speak of politics or business this evening.”

  Goforth looked put out at the suggestion, making clear his plan to use the house party to make alliances. Simon had invited the fox into the henhouse.

  “What do you wish to speak of? Ton gossip?” Goforth sniffed dismissively.

  It had been clear when their paths crossed in the halls of Westminster that Goforth remembered their first meeting. Simon had used his title and youthful bravado to protect Jessica and humiliate Goforth. The man had not forgotten nor forgiven the slight. His poorly veiled disdain bordered on hatred, and Simon could honestly say the feeling was mutual.

  “Speaking of the ton… Will Miss Tremaine be making her debut this season?” Simon asked.

  “Why do you want to know?” Goforth rocked his feet farther apart and his bull-like shoulders seemed to stretch his jacket seams.

  “Merely curious.”

  Goforth narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been considering it. She’ll be too long in the tooth if I wait much longer, and it’s time for her to make an advantageous match.”

  Of course, Goforth meant politically advantageous to him. Simon couldn’t imagine he cared about his stepdaughter’s feelings or well-being.

  “That would not include you, of course,” Goforth added with a maliciousness that wasn’t often displayed so nakedly in Simon’s social circles. A facade of manners and breeding often kept such impulses at bay.

  While Simon hadn’t meant his curiosity to reflect a romantic interest in Miss Tremaine, he couldn’t deny himself the opportunity to needle Goforth. “Surely that is for her to decide.”

  Simon and Goforth stared one another down and might have continued the contest all evening if the dinner bell hadn’t rung.

  Goforth harrumphed and stalked off. Unfortunately, Simon knew something Goforth did not. They would be seated across from one another at dinner and could continue glaring at one another through the many courses. It was enough to make his stomach turn. Simon contemplated how angry Minerva would be if he and Goforth engaged in fisticuffs before the second course had arrived.

  The mental picture of Minerva withering Goforth with her look lightened Simon’s mood enough to make him smile as he joined the line of guests for dinner. If he paid extra attention to Miss Tremaine, he could raise her profile with the other ladies and keep Minerva�
�s dinner violence free.

  The party arranged itself in the proper hierarchy to proceed into the dining room. He stepped out of the front of the line and swooped in to offer Miss Tremaine his arm. “May I escort you in to dinner?”

  Chapter 5

  Jessica stared at Simon’s arm as if he were offering a powder keg for her to light. Her acceptance would be explosive. Not only did her stepfather detest the duke, but she had intercepted more than one green-eyed glare from other young ladies while she and Simon had conversed. And now, inexplicably, for a second time, he had sought her out. His attention threatened to upend her goal of being mistaken with the wall coverings.

  Examining herself in the looking glass earlier had confirmed she looked utterly dreadful. The white face powder, the flesh-colored greasepaint she’d used to blot out all color on her cheeks and lips, and the kohl she’d dotted under her eyes combined to make her look sickly. And that wasn’t even taking into account her cap, her dress, the way she tucked her chin back to make it look weak, and the perpetual frown she did her best to maintain.

  Although she couldn’t deny a tiny part of her squirmed with pleasure whenever he was near, he must have ulterior motives. Was he in search of her “maid,” or was he using her as a political pawn to get to her stepfather? She must remain on guard against either possibility.

  “Th-thank you.” She laid her hand lightly on his forearm. Her dingy lace glove was an abomination next to the snowy-white cuff shooting from the sleeve of his dark blue jacket. His clothes had been expertly tailored to accommodate the width of his shoulders and lean torso. She clamped an arm around her padded waist, knowing the contrast they must present.

  The awkwardness only grew when he showed her to her seat and she discovered they had been seated next to one another. Her stepfather was directly across the table, his stare piercing. She dropped her gaze to her lap.

  The conversation flowed around her as if she were a rock in the middle of a babbling brook. Socializing with the array of urbane, witty people gathered for the house party was like being thrown in the deep side of the lake in a heavy skirt while holding an anchor and expected to swim.