“Take that insolent look off your face, girl, or by God I’ll remove it for you,” he drawled in the slow, chilling way she loathed. “You already try my patience on a daily basis but after your disgraceful behavior at the Bruces, I have come to the end of my tether regarding your refusal to marry.”
“I haven’t refused to marry in general, just—”
“Do not interrupt me. Out of respect for your mother, I have decided to give you one last chance to behave like a properly obedient young lady.”
“Or what? You’ll have me sent down to Newgate on charges of willful spinstering?” Caroline replied lightly, hating him and the absolute power he wielded over them all. But she immediately regretted her lapse into brevity when he encircled her throat in a brutal grip.
“You think this is some sort of joke?”
“No,” she rasped, refusing to betray by so much as an eyelid flicker her mind-numbing terror. Would today be the day he didn’t stop?
“Good. Well, let me tell you it is past time you were gone from this house. Long past time. And there is a man in the parlor who inexplicably thinks you are a chit of decent breeding and manners. He wants to make you his wife.”
Shock held her immobile.
“Wh-who wishes to marry me?”
“Bradford Shilton. A glutton for punishment it seems, to be offering again.”
Released from Sir Malcolm’s grip, Caroline sat back in the chair, her mind whirling. Lord Shilton was the Marquess of Doverfield’s spare, but also a baron in his own right. Several inches shorter than her and painfully shy, certainly, but well connected, wealthy and unfailingly courteous. A man who would treat her with kindness, never publicly humiliate her, and give her children to lavish affection on. He might never hold her heart, but he’d never break it either.
Straightening her shoulders, she regarded her stepfather. “Very well.”
Sir Malcolm stilled and tilted his head. “What?”
“I agree to the betrothal. I’ll marry Lord Shilton.”
“Well…well…” her stepfather spluttered, the wind completely gone from his sails. He clearly hadn’t been expecting acquiescence, but then he hadn’t been present in the Bruce’s ballroom when her entire world had fallen apart. Not that she would ever share such news with the likes of him.
“Well,” she replied calmly, “Shall we go downstairs and give Lord Shilton the happy news?”
“There’ll be no backing out of this, Caroline,” he snapped. “No fits of temper, no silences, no nothing. You will conduct yourself perfectly until you have Shilton’s ring on your finger. After that you’ll be his problem.”
“As always, your loving concern for my wellbeing means the world.”
Sir Malcolm scowled. “The front parlor. Immediately.”
Inclining her head, Caroline got to her feet and followed him downstairs. But just as she was about to push open the wide parlor door, he grabbed her arm and jerked it high behind her back.
“If,” he murmured, “you do—or say—anything to cause this to fail, I swear you’ll be sorrier than you’ve ever been in your life.”
It took every bit of her willpower not to cry out and alert Lord Shilton to trouble, but somehow she managed a carefree laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
His face twisted, the malevolence in his eyes utterly chilling.
“Do not test me on this. Shilton is willing to make a generous settlement. A very generous settlement.”
“You need money.”
“Emily and I both need money,” Sir Malcolm drawled, while his fingers bit viciously into her flesh. “It would be shame if your mother suffered due to your selfishness, don’t you think?”
“She suffers enough already.”
“Oh, m’dear. You have no idea about suffering or how precarious life can be. Terrible accidents happen with fire or poison. Respectable ladies go for strolls and never return.”
“All right,” she choked out, wrenching from his grasp and gulping in quick, harsh breaths. Her hatred for Sir Malcolm knew no bounds, but to protect her mother and for the chance of children she would somehow become England’s most demure and dutiful wife. Bradford Shilton would never have cause to regret his decision.
Strolling into the parlor, Caroline closed the heavy door behind her with a firm click. The sound startled her fiancé-to-be, and he stumbled to his feet, his hat crumpling in his hands.
“Miss Edwards! Good morning…I say, where is your father?”
“My stepfather has permitted us some time to, ah, get to know each other a little better,” Caroline replied brightly, hoping he would take the hint and kiss her senseless like the heroes did in Lulu’s scandalous penny novels. Just because Bradford appeared mild-mannered didn’t mean he wasn’t burning with ungovernable passion underneath. She could well be a very contented wife. Far more than Flora Hartley, anyway.
“Get to know each other? You mean you will…that is you’re considering…”
“My answer is yes, Lord Shilton. Yes, I will marry you.”
“Why, Miss Edwards,” he said, his lips stretching into a huge grin. “How capital! I simply cannot believe it, you have made me the happiest of men. But what made you change your mind?”
Smiling in return despite his criminal failure to sweep her into his arms and begin a toe-curling ravishment of her senses as smitten men were supposed to do, Caroline regarded her brand new fiancé. Lord Shilton’s rapid blinking had turned his rather nice gray-colored eyes pale pink, and his scarlet-flushed cheeks were clashing jarringly with his almost white-blond hair, but it didn’t matter. She was now engaged to a man who clearly liked her. Soon enough she would be a wife and mother. Soon enough, her life would be so full and busy she’d scarcely even remember having feelings for Stephen Forsyth.
“Forgive me, Lord Shilton,” she replied ruefully. “Sometimes we simply can’t see the best match in the world is right under our noses. But happily for me, you stayed the course and tried again.”
“How could I not? As I said to my dear mother, you are by far the prettiest buttercup in the field. And so refreshingly plain-spoken! She said you were too long in the tooth, but I soon set her straight. I told her firmly, but not too firmly of course, that a silly debutante was simply not for me. Now, when shall we announce our betrothal?”
“As soon as possible?”
To her great relief, he nodded with enthusiasm.
“Of course! As for a wedding date, I know you ladies like to buy all the fripperies and such, so take as long as you need.”
“Actually, Lord Shilton, I don’t really enjoy shopping so I won’t need a great deal of time at all. Perhaps we could marry during the Season?”
The baron started blinking rapidly again. “My word, I’m not sure if Mother would approve of that. I believe she wants my wedding to have all due pomp and ceremony, and such occasions take many months to prepare.”
“Hmmm. So Gretna Green isn’t on the list of possible venues then?” she joked, but immediately regretted her slip when his face crumpled in shock.
“Certainly not! Imagine the scandal…people might think we’d indulged in inappropriate behavior and had no choice but to get married.”
Oh, the horror.
“Indeed…indeed…” she said hastily. “Then perhaps you’ll take me to visit Lady Doverfield soon and she and I can begin to discuss arrangements?”
Thankfully the anxiety faded from Lord Shilton’s face.
“A capital idea. I…oh bother,” he muttered as the sweet chimes of the parlor clock echoed through the room.
“What’s wrong?”
“Forgive me, but I’ve just remembered another appointment I must get to. As soon as I’ve written the necessary letters I will be in touch, and may I say again, how very, very happy I am.”
Smiling, he leaned forward. Desperate
ly relieved, Caroline stooped and tilted her head so they would be the same height for an embrace. But instead of the long, tender kiss of an enraptured suitor who had finally won his sweetheart, or even the hot, hungry kiss of a man who couldn’t wait to get said sweetheart into a bedchamber, he shook her hand.
Shook. Her. Hand.
“Good day, Miss Edwards…Caroline…buttercup,” he said with a low bow, and smoothing his crumpled hat, he placed it on his head and strode from the room.
“Good day, Lord Shilton,” she whispered, sinking onto an embroidered chaise and pressing a closed fist to her mouth.
Oh God.
***
Before his carriage had even come to a complete halt outside the imposing gray stone exterior of Forsyth House, Stephen found himself bounding out the door and up the front steps.
Home.
Nodding to his butler, Innes, Stephen continued across the foyer and down a long, portrait-lined corridor to the ground floor library. Forget lunch, a few bottles of whisky, a box of cheroots and he’d be fine. God knew he deserved them after the horrors of the past few days, attending another house party within the next century would be far too soon.
Pouring himself a large glass, he reclined in his favorite chair and took several gulps, relishing the blaze of the amber liquor as it trickled down his throat and settled comfortingly in his belly. This was how life should be, quiet, serene and orderly. No bad food, no rabid spinsters or screeching mothers, and definitely no criminals pointing loaded weapons at his head.
Shuddering, he leaned forward and picked up a pile of unopened correspondence. The top one immediately caught his eye with its unusual symbol in the top right corner, a five-pointed star enclosing an Egyptian-looking eye and a circle of thorns around the bottom. Vaguely familiar, yet he had no idea where he’d seen it before.
Flipping it over, Stephen stared at the imprinted wax seal.
Kimbolton.
Anticipation and grief intertwined. Gregory had often mentioned his close friend Baron Kimbolton in letters, and eager to connect with someone who had known Gregory so well, he reached for a letter opener.
A knock sounded, then Innes poked his head around the frame. “Excuse me, my lord—”
“Did the contracts come back from Hartley?”
“Yes, my lord. Our warmest congratulations. However—”
“Then cease and desist, man. I don’t want to hear any matters until I’ve opened my mail and finished at least two bottles. Been a hell of a few days.”
“In that case,” Innes replied primly, “I shan’t mention Lady Westleigh is currently entertaining Miss Hartley with colorful stories from your childhood.”
Oh Christ.
“How long has Flora been here?”
“I believe they’ll soon be reaching the Eton years, my lord.”
Cursing out loud this time, Stephen scooped up the whisky bottle and refilled his glass. “How could I forget I’d arranged to take her out? My diary is usually so reliable.”
“You didn’t forget, my lord. Her ladyship personally invited Miss Hartley to tea. I believe, she, ah, thought you wouldn’t be home for several more hours.”
“You’re a prince among men,” Stephen said, reaching into his pocket for a guinea and flipping it to the older man.
“I do try, sir. You’ll find the ladies in the gold parlor.”
Stifling a smile at the glint in Innes’ eyes, Stephen picked up his glass and marched to his mother’s favorite room. Some might think it charming of her to invite his fiancée over for tea, all he felt was acute disquiet. “Ladies,” he greeted, striding through the door and kicking it shut behind him.
“Stephen,” Jane gasped, almost leaping out of her seat. “You’re home…early.”
“We made excellent time from Kent, Mama,” he said, amused at her obvious dismay. “I insisted we hurry so I could return to my dear fiancée. And my dear mother, of course.”
“Naturally,” she replied lamely, and he almost laughed before turning and bowing to the elegant young woman sitting demurely on the chaise.
“How are you, Flora? Have you been discussing wedding plans?”
She peeped at him from under her lashes and twisted a lock of ebony hair around her finger. “I am quite well, my lord. Actually, Lady Westleigh has been telling me the most extraordinary tales. How you love mathematics, especially charts and percentages and such.”
“Oh?” he said, sending a look in his mother’s direction that promised dire retribution. It was very lucky for her slender neck he held a drink.
“Indeed,” Jane replied, snapping open a fan and waving it frantically. “It was the only subject where you refrained from zooming paper darts into your tutor’s head. But enough of that, darling, sit and have something to eat. How was the house party?”
Stephen slumped into a chair and loaded a fine china plate with an apple tart, large slice of fruit cake and several cucumber sandwiches. “Eventful.”
“Eventful?” asked Flora. “How do you mean, Lord Westleigh?”
“I’ve already asked you to call me Stephen.”
“Oh, yes, excuse me. But what happened?”
He swallowed a bite of rich fruit cake and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The Bruces have seven unmarried daughters who descended on George and myself like a pack of starving hawks. Caroline Edwards and her friend Louisa Donovan rescued us, but while we were dancing, Caroline tripped over a troublesome hem and dashed from the ballroom. Then she and George disappeared in the middle of the night, barely leaving a note.”
Jane frowned. “How odd. Very unlike them, just to up and leave. Were they summoned by Sir Malevolent?”
“Mama, you must stop calling him that. One day it will slip out in public.”
“I’ll call that creature whatever I please. If he sends me to Newgate, I’m sure you’d bail me out eventually.”
“Absolutely. Within a year at least.”
Flora’s beautiful blue eyes bulged. “You’d leave your mother in prison?”
“Er, no,” he said hastily. Hopefully once they got to know each other, Flora would better understand the rather offbeat Forsyth sense of humor. “Of course not.”
His mother snorted. “Don’t listen to him, dear. He most certainly would. Now, Stephen, what else happened for you to call the house party eventful and empty several bottles? Although that’s hardly uncommon nowadays, is it?”
“I’ve had one glass, Mother,” he replied through gritted teeth. “And yes, there was one other event. Yesterday, while riding with Lady Bruce and her daughters, we were set upon by poachers who tried to abduct me for ransom.”
“Stephen Douglas Forsyth!” Jane gasped, pinning him with a glare. “That is a terrible, terrible thing to say!”
“It’s true.”
“True?” she whispered, her hands bunching and smoothing her hunter-green striped gown. Then before he could speak, she leaned over, stole his full glass of whisky and slugged it back like a sailor on an hour’s shore leave.
“Take it easy, Mama, You know I hate having to scrape you off the floor.”
“Don’t you take it easy me. You could have been killed!”
“The gravity of the situation did not escape me. Luckily I was rescued by a passing stranger, a man by the name of Captain Tavistock Martin, but known to all as Taff. He charged into the clearing on his horse, shot one of the poachers in the arm and scared them both off.”
“How very brave,” said Flora. “Did you reward him?”
Stephen shook his head. “Taff wouldn’t take a reward.”
“My goodness. Does he have money? I thought most soldiers were rather poor. Who are his people?”
“Yes, where is he from, Stephen?” added Jane, her face still snow-white. “I don’t believe I know any Martins, but I would like to thank him personally.”
/>
“Apparently he’s an orphan. Not well off but quite proud, I think. And in terms of thanking him, you’ll get your chance. Taff mentioned he’d never been in London for the Season, so I invited him to come and stay for a few months. I’ll show him around, take him to my clubs—”
“Excellent,” Jane cried, clapping her hands. “We could host a ball.”
“We’re already hosting two, Mama,” he said patiently. “The first to formally celebrate my engagement to Flora; followed by the annual Midsummer’s Ball. I don’t want to bore the man senseless, he’s not trying to find a wife.”
His mother arched an elegant brow. “All bachelors are trying to find a wife, darling, whether they realize it or not.”
“Taff’s not a bachelor. Daniels overheard a couple of Bruce servants talking about him, it seems he’s a widower. She died in childbirth or something.”
“Oh, the poor man,” said Flora softly. “We must ensure he has a pleasant time in town then. But if you would both excuse me, I promised my sister I’d help her with a new song this afternoon.”
Stephen smothered a grin. His fiancée really was a saint, Esther Hartley had the worst voice in the country. Probably the world. “May I escort you home?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Twenty minutes later they were both ensconced in his carriage, as it sped down the busy London streets.
“I hope Mama didn’t alarm you earlier on,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “I don’t actually drink to excess.”
“It is your home, Lord Westleigh, you may do whatever you wish.”
“Soon to be our home, Flora. If you want to redecorate it in future, you will be welcome to. As long as my library is left alone and I don’t end up with a drawing room like Lady Havenhurst’s.”
“What is wrong with hers?”
Stephen shot Flora an arrested glance as they turned into Upper Brook Street and came to a halt outside the Hartley townhouse. The Havenhursts’ purple and orange monstrosity had been the talk of the ton for months; Caroline had called it a sure sign the end of the world was nigh. George had proposed a combination of the room and Esther Hartley’s singing to gain swift criminal confessions. “Guess I prefer less, hmmm, vibrant color combinations.”
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 5