by Dawn Brower
“You are very kind, sir,” she said softly. “But I think perhaps you need that small bit of bliss more than I.”
With a nod, she turned away.
He stood, transfixed. Something momentous had just happened. Hadn’t it?
“Perhaps we might share,” he blurted after her.
She turned and looked back. “The lobster patty?” she asked carefully.
“Or the bliss,” he breathed. “If you prefer.”
She took a step closer. “I do think that would be frowned upon.”
He laughed bitterly. “So many things are.”
She considered him for a moment. “True. All the really interesting things.”
“It does seem so.” He held out the plate again. “Perhaps we might start with the lobster and move on from there?”
“Into more interesting territory?” she whispered. “It sounds dangerous.”
“We could start with canapés. Or perhaps a dance. If more dangerous territory was to follow . . .” He shrugged.
Her big, bright eyes unfocused a little, as if she was imagining it.
“Lady Hope Brightley?” Another footman had approached. “Lord Kincade requests your presence in the library.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “Ah. Perhaps my brother is ready to depart. You see?” She smiled at Tensford. “The last lobster patty was meant for you. You enjoy it. I’ll let my brother’s kitchens feed me, once we’re home.”
She walked away, following in the footman’s wake. He stared after her, still a little befuddled.
But then he frowned. She was Kincade’s sister? He glanced toward the other side of the ballroom, where he thought he could just see the man through the crush, still conversing with their host.
He closed his eyes. Despite his earlier temptation, the last thing he needed was to embroil himself in . . . anything. The damned beau monde had had enough entertainment at his expense.
He should let it go. He should.
Setting down the plate, he followed after her.
It was only as she was crossing the room that she heard someone’s remark and realized who he was.
Lord Tensford. The infamous Lord Terror.
Not so terrible in her estimation. Gracious, but he was handsome. Tall enough to look up to, but without being overbearing. Dark hair, tousled just the most tempting bit, making a girl wish to smooth it. A square jaw, a straight Roman blade of a nose—and the most striking light green eyes, like none she’d ever seen. She’d been quite caught up in his gaze, comfortably amused with his banter, and somewhat enthralled with the sparkle that erupted into the air between them.
Why the horrible nickname, then? She could only recall vague rumors about his cavalier treatment of his family. She frowned. No care for anyone but himself. That was the whisper she remembered.
Surely it was an exaggeration? If anything, Hope had thought he’d looked careworn. As if something worried him and weighed upon him.
“Here we are, Miss.” The footman opened a heavily carved door.
“Thank you.”
The library was large, but only dimly lit.
“Matthew?” she called softly, stepping in.
The light grew dimmer still as the servant shut the door behind her. She ventured further. “If you’ve called me here to berate me over Bardham, then you are wasting your time. I will not have him.”
“Oh, but you will.”
She rounded a pillar and came face to face with her rejected suitor himself. “What are you doing?”
Lord Bardham was moving furniture, creating an open space before the long windows. With a grimace in her direction, he pulled cushions and pillows from the comfortable chairs and piled them on the floor. “I’m setting the scene.” He said it as if it should have been plain.
Hope turned on her heel and headed back the way she’d come.
The door was locked.
Don’t panic.
Catherine. Or her brother, James. It must be one of them, in cahoots with Bardham, trying to force her hand. She could pound on the door and shout, but she doubted she’d be heard over the noise of the ball—and she might be putting her foot straight into their trap.
“Come, now.” Bardham was right behind her. “You’ve demonstrated your maidenly shyness. Now we move forward. I know you are not very . . . experienced in the world, but I can teach you what you need to know.”
Her chin went up. “Lord Bardham, if you wish for a wife who finds such declarations romantic or even acceptable, then you must search elsewhere. I’ve already refused you once this evening. Do not make me do so again.”
“There is no good reason to refuse me, my dear. In fact, it all fits perfectly. I have debts. You have a substantial dowry. And as a matchmaker’s fee, my dear friend James has a place in my father’s canal scheme. Everyone gets what they want, if only you cease to be stubborn.”
“Everyone but me.” She glared at him.
“Ah, but you get the best prize of all.” He gave her a flourishing, little bow. “Me.” Rising up, he grabbed her upper arms and pulled her in for a kiss.
She shook her right arm free and hit him in the nose.
She was too close to get enough leverage for a really good punch, but he let her go and grabbed at his nose as it began to bleed. “You spiteful bitch!”
He pushed her away from the door and toward his makeshift boudoir. She stumbled, but kept on going, stepping over to the pillows to the window and throwing up the sash. She was lifting her skirts and preparing to step out when he caught up and tried to grab her again.
She slapped his hand away. “Have you been drinking, sir? You cannot believe that I would allow you to ravish me during the Loxton ball.”
He laughed and wiped at his bloody nose. “I don’t have to ravish you, I only need to make everyone believe that I did.”
Fear and fury vied for dominance. “Perhaps I only need to make everyone believe you incapable of accosting me.” For a moment she was angry enough to contemplate fighting back, but if they were discovered . . .
No. She threw a leg out of the window. It was so long and wide, stepping out onto the terrace would be easy.
But he caught a hold of her skirts. “I’m not letting you get away. I have plans for . . . you.”
A step sounded behind her. Someone approached on the terrace. Caught in her awkward position, she could only see a dark figure step near.
“Is that you? You’re too early, damn you.” Bardham made a shooing motion with one hand. “Give me a few moments more, then come in through the door as planned.”
“Unhand the lady. Now.”
Bardham backed up, viciously yanking at her skirts and unbalancing her so that she fell back into the library. The man outside stepped close to peer in.
“Tensford?? Bardham sounded incredulous. “Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”
Her head snapped up.
“Still making a nuisance of yourself, Boredom? Some things never change. You need to find a new way to outrun that old nickname.”
Bardham laughed, and then he reached down to haul Hope to her feet. “Run along, Lord Terror, and I shall endeavor to live up to your nickname, once you’ve gone.”
Even in the dim light, the furious flush of color in the earl’s face was obvious. He stepped inside, clearing the window without a hint of effort. “I tell you again, let her go—or I will hold you down and allow her to do as she threatened. The lady looks furious. I expect she’ll kick you in the stones so hard, your grandchildren will feel it.”
“Get out!” Bardham had begun to sound unhinged. “The girl is my intended. Leave her to me and confine your abuses to your own women.”
Lord Tensford had no problem with leverage. He hauled back and planted Bardham a facer that sent him reeling back. The man tottered a moment, then crumpled to the floor.
“Are you all right?” Tensford’s tone was still harsh, but his touch was gentle as he steered Hope away.
Th
e fear and anger began to drain, leaving her shaking. She nodded up at him, blinking furiously as her eyes began to fill.
“Oh, no!” he said. “No tears. We are not done yet. Come.” He held out a hand and she stared at it, finding it a welcome change from all the grabbing of her person that had gone on this evening. “Hurry. We cannot let you be found here.”
She put her hand in his—and couldn’t contain the shiver that went through her. He paused, looking for a moment at their clasped hands, then at her, before leading her to the window and helping her to climb through. Following, he tucked her hand in his arm and led her away. They strolled toward the wider portion of the terrace as if they’d only been following the curve of the balustrade.
“Are you betrothed to him?” he asked sharply.
“No.” She shivered, but indignation began to rise again. “He offered. I refused. With no hesitation and utmost certainty.”
“Ah.” Some of the tension left the arm beneath her hand. “What is the man thinking?”
She snorted. “He is thinking of paying off his debts with my dowry, I believe.”
“Then he must be deep in dun territory. This reeks of desperation.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.” Pained, she paused. “We have not even been introduced. But you are Lord Tensford? I am Lady Hope Brightley—and I am so grateful.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry to thank me. We are not out of the woods yet,” he said sardonically. “If you are going to emerge from this unscathed, there must not be a whisper of your involvement. It would be best if we got you to a public spot where you can appear calm and unruffled and then completely surprised if news of Bardham’s condition becomes known.”
“I know you must be right, but it infuriates me.” She breathed out a huff of frustration. “I want to shout Bardham’s perfidy from the rooftops, let everyone know exactly what he is—if only to prevent some other girl from falling into his clutches.”
He stopped. “That is exactly what you must not do.” It emerged on a severe note. An order. “You cannot give these people . . . anything.” He waved at the house, shining and full to the brim with guests, his expression bitter. “Don’t give them a morsel, a tidbit or even a whisper of scandal. It will not matter that Bardham is a fool and a predator. The truth will not matter. They will take the facts and twist and turn them to suit themselves, sculpting a scandal that fits their prejudices and appetites, spreading it and allowing it to grow until it no longer resembles even a particle of the truth.”
They had reached the area of the terrace that lay outside the ballroom. The light from inside set his oddly lovely eyes to glittering. “Your innocence will be inconsequential. The fact that you acted just as you ought—it doesn’t make a good enough story.” He snorted. “The ton will delight in your downfall. Especially the women.” His eyes rolled. “The fairer sex? That is a joke. You will hear them say things of you that you will scarcely believe.”
She stared up at him and wondered if he knew how he was exposing his own pain. “Is that what happened to you, my lord?”
He started, pulled back. For a moment, she thought that he wouldn’t answer. She held her breath, afraid he would walk away.
He didn’t. He glared again at the dancers whirling inside, at the people chatting and laughing. Then he looked back at her. “Thank you.”
She blinked. “For . . ?”
“For asking. You are the first person who ever asked me.”
The undeniable sadness of that statement struck her hard. Was he so alone?
“Yes,” he answered. “That is exactly what happened to me.” He took her arm and started them moving again. “It will not happen to you.”
He paused and leaned against the rail next to the stairs and gestured below, over the small garden. “Do you see anyone you know? It would be best if you were among friends when Bardham awakes or his conspirator shows up.”
She peered down. “Yes. There. I am acquainted with Miss Nichols.”
“Perfect. We’ll see you added to her group.” He straightened and offered his arm again at the top of the stairway, but before she could take it, someone blurred past her and barreled into him, knocking him down the stairs.”
“Oh, pardon.” Sarcasm weighted the words. “I must have missed you there, Tensford.”
“Lord Bardham, have you lost your senses?” She shrank back as the man turned to her. His cheek was split and bleeding, and his nose still trickled blood too. One eye was rapidly swelling and the other looked . . . utterly mad. “You should have cooperated,” he growled.
“The lady refused you.” Lord Tensford had managed to keep his feet. “Take your rejection like a gentleman,” he growled.
“No.” Bardham glared at her. “I don’t believe I will.”
“Heavens!” Miss Nichols and her friends had rushed forward. “What’s happened?” She climbed the stairs to stand next to Hope.
Lord Tensford climbed after her. “Leave the girl alone,” he told Bardham in a menacing tone. He turned then, and bowed to Hope. “It was a pleasure, Lady Hope.” With nods to the gathering guests, he turned and stalked into the house.
Bardham whirled and went back the way he’d come.
“Gracious,” someone murmured.
“What was that about?” another one asked.
“Are you well, Lady Hope?” Miss Nichols looked concerned.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She was looking off after Tensford.
“What happened to Lord Bardham?”
She hesitated. “An accident?” she offered. “What else could it have been?”
The murmurs hiked up a notch.
“And Lord Terror? Did he mistreat you?” someone asked.
“No!” She looked around, determined that Tensford should not be subjected to further disparaging rumors because of her. “Lord Bardham seems quite . . . not himself this evening. But Lord Tensford was nothing but kind.”
“Hard to believe that,” someone said nastily.
“Please do believe it, nonetheless,” she insisted, raising her voice so that all could hear her. “I only just met Lord Tensford this evening, but he treated me very kindly indeed. Almost tenderly,” she added, in a whisper, to herself.
Someone laughed.
“Don’t tease her.” Miss Nichols put her arm around Hope. “Come, let’s go and get you a glass of wine.”
She nodded and let herself be taken in by the considerate girl. And though she watched carefully for the rest of the evening, she did not see the Earl of Tensford again.
Chapter 2
My dearest readers, it is true. Even Lady X can make a mistake. And it does seem that I, and indeed all of London, have been mistaken in Lord Terror. He attended the Loxton ball and was seen aiding not one, but two damsels in distress! At first I thought it a trick, but having heard the stories, I am convinced. Indeed, it seems we must change his moniker, dear readers. He is Lord Terror to us no longer, but, borrowing the words of one of the lucky damsels, we dub him our Lord Tender!
—Whispers from Lady X
Tensford breathed deeply as he looked up from his accounts. Something smelled good. He felt hungry, really hungry, for the first time in a long while. Surprising, considering the state of the numbers he was working on, and the fact that he was no closer to solving his real dilemma.
But not so surprising, perhaps, since he felt the first glimmer of a lighter mood in months—and it had been brought to him along with a smile in a pair of dark, shining eyes.
He stood, stretching, as Higgins, his butler, entered with a tray. “Tea, sir. And Mrs. Agnew sends you some scones. They are not ginger cookies, alas.”
“Ah, but ginger is pricey these days, Higgins, or so I hear.”
“Yes, but they are your favorites, my lord. And you are the earl.”
“We make do. And these smell good, too.” He raised a brow at the man. “And we are lucky men, in the end. A good woman who is also a good cook? Mrs. Agnew is worth her weight in gold
.”
“I know you are correct, sir.” The butler’s expression changed but a moment. “Mrs. Agnew knows it, too.”
Tensford grinned into his tea. His butler and cook shared a tumultuous relationship that kept the rest of the staff on their toes.
Higgins left and Tensford took up one of his ledgers.
He was going to have to reach a decision soon. Greystone Park needed an influx of cash. He’d done what he could with economies, with reorganization, and with the strict enforcement of budgets that had so upset his assorted female relatives.
He had spared no one, not even himself. To the horror of his mother, he had let the manor house at Greystone, leasing it for a year to an extremely wealthy merchant who wished to introduce his family to the social niceties of the gentry’s country life before he took them up to Town. The servants had all stayed on and Tensford had moved himself into an empty tenant’s cottage.
Even that had not been enough. Especially as the harvest was in danger this year, after such a disastrously wet and gloomy spring. It was hard enough keeping his people fed. How would he do it if they had a bad season?
He picked up the round, fist sized rock on his desk. Absently, his fingers traced the outline of the fossilized sea urchin that stretched over the curve of it. He’d found it on an expedition with his father. Fossil hunting had been the hobby they shared when he was a boy. It was still his hobby, in point of fact. It was peaceful. Quiet. His best hours were spent away at the riverside cliffs at Greystone, exploring the rocks, looking for signs of ancient life, caught forever.
When he’d first inherited and learned of the difficulties his estates were facing after years of his mother’s stewardship, he’d hoped that his fossils might be their salvation. Good specimens fetched decent money. If he could find something really unusual, something large and intact, or something never seen before, it could bring in a fortune.
But he’d looked. Every spare minute, when he wasn’t working at the estate, but he’d had to conclude that nothing valuable enough was to be found. He had to find another way.