Love Me, Lord Tender

by Deb Marlowe

  Love Me, Lord Tender

  Deb Marlowe

  Copyright © 2019 by Deb Marlowe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  Created with Vellum

  To Caren,

  for laughter, sympathy, and love—and for putting on your damn pants and coming out

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  Also by Deb Marlowe

  A Series of Unconventional Courtships

  * * *

  Love Me, Lord Tender

  Nothing But a Rakehell

  and

  coming soon

  Kiss Me, Lady, One More Time

  Chapter 1

  A little bird has whispered in my ear. The reclusive Lord Terror has arrived in Town. Guard the women in your families, gentlemen. Rumor has it that Lord Terror does not always display the respect that is due a lady . . .

  --Whispers From Lady X

  * * *

  Lady Hope Brightley weaved skillfully through the throng at Lady Loxton’s ball. She was following her nose toward the buffet, until her sister-in-law grabbed her and pulled her behind a potted plant.

  “Just where do you think you are going?” Catherine, Lady Kincade, hissed.

  Hope rubbed her wrist. “To the buffet,” she answered absently. “I rather fancy the sound of the lobster patties.”

  “Lobster patties! Lobster patties? How can you be thinking of lobster patties now? Lord Bardham has just left me and he is most upset! He says that you have treated him quite coldly.”

  “I am not surprised that he would say so.” Hope craned her neck toward the food, hoping her sister-in-law would get the hint. “I refused his offer. He didn’t take it well.” She took a step away. “I shall speak with you later, Catherine.”

  But Catherine grabbed her again. “Refused him? Why? Why would you be so foolish?”

  “I do not care for him—as I have told you before.”

  “He is a fine young man, my brother’s closest friend. What possible objection could you have?”

  “He is younger than I, for one. And as I have told you, I find him insincere.”

  Catherine waved both of those objections off. “The age difference means nothing. And as I said, every suitor has a few honeyed words—”

  “Honeyed is one thing. Salacious is another.” Hope shivered. “His words, his insinuating looks, the way he acts as if I were as good as betrothed to him already, just because he has shown an interest—it’s all feels more slimy than honeyed. No. I do not care for him.” Hope speared the tiresome woman with a stern look. “And if you are the one who is encouraging him in his suit, then I beg you to stop.”

  Catherine reared back. “Oh? And whom should I encourage? It’s not as if you are entertaining a host of suitors, all ready to go down on one knee. And at your age, the chances that such a thing would occur . . .”

  She allowed her words to trail off into dire, silent speculation.

  Hope sighed. “The Season has barely begun. As you point out—again—I have waited overlong to enjoy it. But enjoy it, I mean to do.” She nodded over Catherine’s shoulder. “Your brother approaches.” Hope suspected that both Catherine and her brother, Mr. James Judson, were behind Lord Bardham’s persistent and unwelcome attentions. “I imagine you wish to share the bad news.”

  She left her sister-in-law sputtering, determined to make her escape. She tried to make allowances for the woman. Her own brother implored her to do so often enough, trying to keep the peace between his wife and sister. But Catherine was so irritating. She’d been trying to get rid of Hope since Papa had passed on and Matthew had inherited the title. Certainly, she’d made it easier to contemplate moving on.

  But if Hope was going to leave her younger sister, her home, and everything and everyone she loved, well then, she was going to do it on her own terms.

  Right now, though, she was going to enjoy a lobster patty. Or two.

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  William Grey, Lord Tensford, eyed his host from across the room and suppressed a sigh of impatience. He could not recall when he’d last attended a London ball. All around him, members of the ton eyed him askance. Some gave awkward nods or the occasional bow. Others frowned or let their gazes slide away as if they had not been staring.

  They looked at him with knowing eyes, as if they were already acquainted with everything about him.

  They were not. Nor did they care to be, he had found. They were not interested in Will Grey. Only in the terrible Earl of Tensford.

  He hated hearing his name whispered as he passed. He despised hearing his nickname even more. Lord Terror. Ridiculous.

  He refused to let their disdain affect him. But he hated being the object of their gossip.

  He moved on. He’d been waiting to speak with the host of this evening’s event. A chance for a word with Lord Loxton had been the only thing to tempt him here this evening. But the earl had been huddled in a corner with Lord Kincade for quite a while. He wondered if they discussed the growing unrest in the country. It was part of the reason why he was here. Loxton, he had heard, was rumored to have had quite a bit of success in modernizing his estates and keeping his tenants happy despite the current difficulties.

  Tensford would be thrilled to glean any bit of advice in that direction. It would be the height of bad manners to interrupt, however. So he wandered, impatient with the delay.

  A pair of young ladies breezed past him. So caught up were they, in their giggling behind their fans, that they failed to watch their step. A risk in a crowd like this. And sure enough, as one girl leaned in to whisper, she stepped on her friend’s hem, sending her stumbling.

  “Whoops!” Tensford reached out and caught the young lady, setting her back on her feet. “There you are.”

  Eyes twinkling, she looked up. “Oh, thank you so—”

  She stopped. All of her bright color drained away. “Oh!” She looked as if she might fall over again—into a faint. “Lord Terror!”

  Her friend snatched her close. “Lord Tensford, thank you for catching Dolly. It’s so close in here, she might have been stepped on.” She retreated, dragging her friend with her. “Do excuse us.”

  The girl he’d caught stared back at him as they fled, all of her laughter and exuberance drowned in fear. Fear of what? Of him? Of taint? Of scandal?

  Fury churned like lava in his gut. He suffered the irresistible urge to do something. Something wicked. Whisper a naughty invitation to a starchy matron or snap his teeth and growl like a dog at a wide-eyed debutante. Why not? If he was going to be condemned without trial or question, then he might as well earn his fiendish reputation.

  He paced a while longer, ignoring the crowd and keeping an eye on his host, waiting to catch him alone. After a few minutes, he considered leaving and catching the man another time.

  But a footman passed with a tray of canapés, intent on replenishing the buffet. Tensford’s stomach growled. So, instead, he followed in the servant’s wake.

  Tarts. That’s what the footman carried to the end of the buffet. He set about arranging them, while Will took up a plate and the last lobster patty and then turned to the platter of
cheeses.

  “Oh, dear.” A feminine voice sounded close behind him. He glanced back to see a woman moving away from him, approaching the footman. “Will it be a long delay?” she asked. “Before the lobster patties are replenished? I heard Lady Arthnaught say they were culinary creations of sheer bliss.”

  Color drained from the servant’s face. “I’m very sorry, miss,” he said in a hushed tone. “But the kitchen has run short of lobster patties.”

  “Oh, dear. How disappointing.”

  “But the cook is preparing a lovely salmon mousse,” he offered.

  “Thank you.” She turned back to peruse the other choices and gave Tensford a glancing smile.

  He blinked. Before it could bloom as a conscious thought in his head, Tensford stepped forward, offering his plate. “But of course, if this is the last, then you must have it.”

  It was because of her easy smile. And because of her eyes. Large and shining and the same deep, warm brown as his mother’s sable coat, they sparkled up at him over a nose that was long and snubbed the smallest bit at the end. Her hair was sleek and a similar rich, chocolate color. It contrasted wonderfully with the soft yellow of her gown.

  Their gazes held. She reached for the plate, all comfortable manner and pleasant acceptance.

  And his stomach let out a long, gurgling protest.

  The footman’s laugh turned into a cough as he quickly fled. And then it came—the assessing gaze, the measuring look that would size him up and reduce him to pound notes, parliamentary votes, and rumors of his callous disregard of his family.

  He stiffened. Drew the haughty veil of his indifference around him.

  Except that the assessment looked different on her. Kinder. Her gaze touched on his suddenly fisted hand, on the tense set of his shoulders. It lingered on the faint shadows that he knew lived beneath his eyes.

  “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.