by Lenora Bell
She wanted to grab the brass paperweight shaped like a raven off the writing desk and heave it through one of the windows. Instead she unclenched her hands from the desk and smoothed her skirts.
She hadn’t used every tool in her workshop to unstick Lord White only to be forced to cleave to another conceited, idle aristocrat.
“How exactly does one win a marquess at cards?” she asked.
“Quite easily, as it turns out,” her father said. “Found the Duke of Barrington playing whist at the Crimson, won his crumbling old London mansion, and he suggested I take his heir instead. I accepted on your behalf.”
At Alice’s stricken expression, he frowned. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me? You weren’t exactly producing any proposals, my girl. Becoming a bit long in the tooth, I’d say.”
Seething, Alice reminded herself that her father probably thought he’d been doing her a favor. “Surely you can’t mean the Marquess of Hatherly, Papa,” she said through gritted teeth.
“The very gentleman.”
Worse and worse.
Alice had met the notorious Lord Hatherly at the Duchess of Osborne’s art exhibition last year. He’d more than lived up to his wild reputation, making a splashy entrance with a bosomy woman on each arm, reeking of decadence and power.
He’d commanded the room, insufferably full of himself, certain that every lady in the room would swoon at his feet.
Even more annoyingly, they had.
Lady Melinda had fainted dead away when he spoke to her.
Dizzy-headed thing.
For her part, Alice had made certain to make an impression of a very different sort. She’d given him a lecture on putrid fevers that he wouldn’t soon forget.
There was some slight reassurance in the fact that, thanks to her prudence and forethought, she’d already laid the groundwork for ensuring he’d never contemplate marrying her.
“Lord Hatherly is not interested in marriage in the slightest. Everyone knows that,” said Alice.
“Then his father shouldn’t have bargained him away.”
“Isn’t the duke mad? Can he be held responsible for his actions?” asked Alice.
“Didn’t seem mad,” her father replied. “Quite lucid. Entertained me with tales of his orchid-hunting expeditions.”
“I’m sure the rumors of insanity have been greatly exaggerated,” her mother said. “One day Lord Hatherly will be a duke. A duke.” Her mouth trembled with the grandeur of the thought. “What matter a few skeletons in the family closet when you shall be a duchess? We shall assume our proper place in society, no matter what Fred has done, isn’t that right, Sir Alfred?”
Sir Alfred’s face grew thunderous again. “Damned disgrace of a boy.”
Apparently there was no more time for subtle persuasion.
Alice drew herself up to her full height, nearly a head taller than her mother, and spoke in a calm, authoritative voice. “Papa, remember that box of grandfather’s Indian books and papers I saved you from burning? I’ve been corresponding with the Sanskrit scholars at Fort William College and one of the manuscripts could be the missing chapters from an important ancient text. I want to travel to Calcutta with Fred in—”
“Alice Perpetua Felicity Tombs!” said Mama.
Alice flinched. She’d been named for two holy Church of England martyrs. Her mother invoked their long-suffering names only when she was thoroughly fed up with Alice’s foibles.
“However could you have fixed upon such a nonsensical scheme?” The ribbons streaming from her mother’s white lace cap quivered indignantly. “Have I not taught you your proper place is at the center of the circle of domestic bliss? A female must never stray from hearth and home. Your duty is to marry well. Even doubly so now that Fred has . . . done what he has done.”
Oh yes. Alice had been taught her proper place very thoroughly.
Hearth and home. Housekeeping and homilies.
The muscles in Alice’s jaw began to ache. She turned to her father. “I’m not asking for a Grand Tour, Papa. Only a very modest and scholarly one. Grant me this one favor and I’ll be the most dutiful daughter in the world when I return. I’ll marry immediately, and to great advantage.”
Her two best friends had found worthy gentlemen to love. Perhaps Alice might find a kind, gentle, scholarly sort of gentleman. Maybe even one who cared for her, instead of only her father’s fortune.
Papa averted his gaze, rearranging the papers on his desk. “Out of the question.”
“But—”
“Beg your pardon, Sir Alfred,” interrupted Ellen, one of the upstairs maids, entering the room with saucer eyes and bobbing a quick curtsy. “There’s a carriage arrived. Danvers sent me to warn you, sir, as I was closest at hand.”
“Well?” Sir Alfred said irritably. “Who is it?”
“It’s . . . it’s the M-Marquess of Hatherly, if you please, sir.”
Sir Alfred frowned. “Are you quite sure?”
“Oh yes. There’s no mistaking him, sir. I saw him leave the carriage with my own eyes. So very imposing, he is. And just as handsome as the papers say.”
“Do you hear that, Alice?” her father said. “Your intended is quite a handsome fellow.”
“Lord Hatherly is here?” Lady Tombs’s hand flew to her lace cap. “Oh dear me. I must do something about my appearance. I’m not fit to be seen.”
Why must every female flutter so about the man?
Ellen’s cheeks were flushed, her bosom heaved, and her eyes had an unhealthy brilliance.
Sure symptoms of a Hatherly sighting.
Alice crossed the room to the maid. “You’re not about to swoon, are you?” she asked in a clipped undertone.
“I don’t think so, miss. Only those eyes of his. Like twice-polished silver, they are. They quite take one’s breath away.”
“Calm yourself, please. He’s only a man.”
“Yes, miss. Only . . .”
“Yes? What is it?”
Ellen twisted her apron in her hands. “You might feel breathless when you see him. Truly you might.”
Breathing was essential to life. Alice was never breathless. And wouldn’t be until she expired at a ripe old age.
“Inform Danvers I’ll be down shortly,” Papa said.
“You mean to keep the marquess waiting?” Ellen’s eyes widened. “Oh, Sir Alfred, are you sure that’s the best—”
A forceful, arrogant blur of black silk and stark white linen strode into the library.
“Oh!” Ellen squeaked, jumping behind Alice and using her as a shield.
Poor Danvers, the butler, followed close behind, breathing heavily.
“His Lordship, the Marquess . . . of . . . Hatherly,” Danvers gasped.
Chapter 2
It is notorious that men who have given themselves up to pleasure alone have been ruined along with their families and relations.
The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana
Alice studied the gentleman who made parlor maids squeak and debutantes swoon, as if he were a map, plotting out the best route to cross him.
Thick, dark brown hair.
Long, lean nose; long, lean body.
Ruby-red silk waistcoat and indecently fitted buckskin breeches that sent a clear message: Here stands a man who rides hard. Batten the hatches. Lock up the ladies.
Alice shivered slightly.
Here stood a gentleman who must have an intimate knowledge of all sixty-four varieties of pleasure. She was quite sure of it.
There was an aura of danger about him—an air of unpredictability.
The apothecaries of the world would do a brisk trade if they could distill his decadent allure to sell to the masses.
Only a dab of this, Mr. Smith, and the ladies will swoon at your feet.
Alice stood taller. She might be country bred, but no man, no matter how outrageously good-looking, would make her breathless.
Really, his eyes are an ordinary gray, she reflected.
Mice are
gray. Cobwebs. Dirty dishcloths.
He was perfectly at ease in unfamiliar surroundings.
All that expensive tailoring and aristocratic indolence made the library’s new-purchased Aubusson rugs and gilt ormolu clocks look tawdry and pretentious.
“This won’t stand, Sir Alfred,” Lord Hatherly said with an icy smile. “The duke can’t be held responsible for his actions.”
Her father crossed his arms, refusing to crumple under the disdainful assault of Lord Hatherly’s gaze. “My man of business made some inquiries this morning. We believe the wager to be legal and binding, Lord Hatherly.”
A brief flicker of surprise lit Hatherly’s eyes. He hadn’t expected such resistance.
“You may have one of our other properties.” The marquess made an impatient gesture. “You’re welcome to the castle in Essex. It’s far more profitable and better maintained than Sunderland.”
“I’ll have Sunderland House or I’ll have you for a son-in-law. It’s entirely up to you,” Papa said belligerently, not yielding an inch.
Mama gave Alice a small push forward. “Here is our daughter, Miss Alice Tombs. Curtsy to His Lordship, Alice.”
Alice dropped a grudging curtsy, hoping the marquess remembered the gory details of their last conversation.
“We’ve met.” Hatherly’s gaze flicked over her dismissively.
She gave him her best kitten-with-sharp-claws smile. “So your father gambled you away, Lord Hatherly? What must the other gentlemen be saying? How very inconvenient to be society’s latest drollery.”
“Alice,” whispered her mother warningly.
Hatherly’s gaze darkened. “I could challenge this in the courts.”
“But you won’t,” said her father with a smug smile. “You don’t wish for a protracted public dispute.”
Hatherly’s wide shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he rotated toward Alice’s father. “Do not presume to know what I want, sir.”
Her father shrugged. “If you don’t wish to marry, Sunderland will be mine. Even if I have to fight you for years. I have unlimited resources, don’t forget.”
Alice’s heart sank into her kid slippers. This was bad.
The only silver lining here was the way Hatherly’s cold gaze swept over her with approximately the same amount of interest he might give a moldy carrot.
Excellent. She didn’t need him to find her attractive. Quite the opposite. She needed him to find her repellent.
So repellent that he’d be willing to give up his house rather than marry her.
Alice had to make absolutely certain the option of marrying her was inconceivable.
She had more pressing problems. No Fred. No passage to Calcutta. No reuniting the missing chapters of the Kama Sutra to make a whole.
An adventureless lifetime stretching before her.
Her painstaking translation moldering in a drawer somewhere, unread. Unloved.
She must rid herself of the marquess swiftly and concoct another plan.
But how to send him running?
A man who wore such tight-fitting breeches required something custom-fit, Alice decided.
Hit him where it hurts the most.
“Papa, I simply can’t marry Lord Hatherly given his”—she arched her eyebrows delicately and lowered her eyes to his snug breeches—“condition.”
“My what now?” Hatherly asked with a frown.
“The price you’ve paid for a lifetime of dissolution and dissipation.”
“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Tombs.”
“Come, ’tis plain for all to see. The unhealthful sheen upon your brow.” Alice warmed to her topic, improvising glibly. “The grayish pallor of your skin.” Actually, his skin was a nicely tanned shade, as if he liked to be out of doors in summer in only his shirtsleeves. “How your hands tremor.”
He looked down at one of his large hands for a moment in puzzlement.
She shook her head sadly. “It is ever so with gentlemen who overindulge in drink, fatty meats, and other immoderate pleasures of the flesh.”
Hatherly stared at her with a gratifyingly dazed expression.
“Stop this nonsense immediately, Alice.” Mama stamped her foot and set the perfectly formed clusters of curls about her cheeks shaking.
“What are you implying, Miss Tombs?” Lord Hatherly’s deep, bass voice held a jagged edge.
“I’m not implying anything, my lord.” She leaned closer to deliver the coup de grâce. “Everyone says you’ll never be able to sire an heir. Terribly tragic, I’m sure.”
She heaved a dramatic, anguished sigh, as if she were auditioning for the role of Lady Macbeth.
Out, out, damned marquess!
Hatherly stared at her as though she had crawled out from a crack in the wall. No young lady had ever dared impugn his manhood before.
“Alice,” her mother wailed. “Such an indelicate topic! Are you just going to stand there, Sir Alfred? You must do something to stop your daughter! She’s behaving most impertinently.”
Sir Alfred hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and regarded Alice with an amused smile. “I’m rather enjoying myself, my dear. It’s obvious they suit each other perfectly.”
“Pardon?” Alice and Hatherly said in unison.
“We don’t suit,” the marquess growled.
“Not in the slightest,” Alice agreed.
What a preposterous notion.
She could never care for an idle nobleman with thoroughly unwholesome appetites, and he could certainly never care for her.
All he cared for was his immediate gratification.
He’d drink himself into an early grave, if he didn’t go mad first.
Of course the lady didn’t suit him.
Not in temperament—she’d just implied he had brewer’s droop, for God’s sake—or in appearance. Overly sweet and freshly scrubbed—exactly as he’d remembered—with those deep, symmetrical dimples and glossy, light brown hair clustered in ringlets on either side of her face.
Her dress made his teeth hurt—all strawberry muslin and sugary lace—like a confection placed in a shop window to entice him into ruining his supper.
Fortunately, Nick hated sweets and he never took dessert.
He accepted a glass of sherry from a footman. He needed fortification after the night he’d had. Only a few fitful hours of sleep and then he’d gone to his friend Dalton, Duke of Osborne’s house. Dalton had intimate knowledge of every gaming hell in London, and his brother Patrick was a lawyer who had promised to help determine the legalities of his father’s wager.
The duke had never gambled before.
Despite his uncle’s insistence, Nick had never filed the writ de lunatico inquirendo and been appointed his father’s committee. He hadn’t wanted to drag his father through the lengthy and humiliatingly public process of being found insane.
Where the devil was Stubbs? The caretaker had vanished without a trace. Nick found it difficult to believe that the gentle, caring giant he’d hired to watch over the duke could have led him so very far astray.
Nick swallowed more of Sir Alfred’s lamentable sherry. He needed something to alleviate the worst of the pounding in his skull.
Slamming his glass down on a table for emphasis, Nick planted his feet firmly and crossed his arms. This had gone on long enough. “We need privacy, Sir Alfred.”
He and the baronet would talk gentleman to gentleman.
There would most likely be fists involved.
Though the baronet didn’t appear easy to topple. Brawny arms and bushy whiskers. Looked like he should be throwing logs onto a barge somewhere.
Sir Alfred’s calculating smile said he knew he had Nick over a barrel and was enjoying every moment. “Certainly, Lord Hatherly,” he said with a jovial chuckle. “Come, my dear, privacy is required.” He set a hand under his wife’s elbow and nudged her toward the door.
Lady Tombs dug in her heels and turned her head, twining one of the ribbons of
her lace cap around a plump finger. “It was gratifying to make your acquaintance, Lord Hatherly,” she said in a high, tremulous voice. “I do fervently hope that we shall become far more intimately acquainted in the coming days. Why, as I was saying to Sir Alfred—”
“Come, come, the marquess wants privacy.” Sir Alfred propelled her forward.
Miss Tombs shot Nick a pointed barb of a glance and followed after her parents.
Sir Alfred nodded at the footmen and they left the room first. The wife followed after one last bright smile at Nick.
Sir Alfred flashed Nick a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll leave the two of you to become better acquainted.”
Before Nick could protest, the wily baronet was gone, slamming the door, leaving his daughter behind.
A key turned in the lock.
“Wait,” Nick shouted after him. “I meant privacy with you. Gentleman to gentleman.”
“Father.” Miss Tombs pounded on the door. “This isn’t funny.” There was no answer. “Father?”
She slowly turned around, keeping her back against the door, eyeing him warily. “This is his idea of a little joke, I’m afraid.”
Clearly, Nick was being outmaneuvered.
He probably should have eaten some breakfast before he came charging over to the baronet’s house. Last night’s brandy still sloshed in his belly and it wasn’t mixing well with the inferior sherry.
Only one thing to be done.
Drink more.
Nick poured another glass of sherry, willing his hands not to shake again before the damnably perceptive Miss Tombs.
She sashayed to the windows and flung the curtains wide.
He winced in the sudden slash of sunlight.
“Oh, I do hope you didn’t overimbibe last night, Lord Hatherly,” she said with a sugary smile, her voice dripping with false concern. “I’ve heard you rarely venture out of your house in the daylight.”
Her dimples were truly impressive.
They’d be lethal if she had any idea how to use them.
“Does your father often lock you in libraries with strange gentlemen to become better acquainted, Miss Tombs?”
“Only with gentlemen who were foolish enough to allow themselves to be gambled away.”