"Yes… he's quite overprotective of the girls. And Bethanny, she's sure to attract the attention of all." His sister grinned, a strange expression lighting her gaze.
"How so?" he asked, curious and slightly concerned over his sister's expression.
He furrowed his brow as he thought about the slight-framed girl he remembered. Bethanny. Miss Lamont. Her eyes had taken up most of her face, deep brown and soulful, and far older and wiser than her young frame. There was nothing significant about her, save the eyes. She was thin, too thin, and had the figure of a boy rather than girl.
Poor thing. Clairmont was probably afraid he'd never find her a match.
She paused then tilted her head ever so slightly. "Never mind. The truth is that Carlotta rather thought that her husband might welcome your company to distract him from the stressful situation."
"Oh, was that it?" he asked, though he was sure he already knew.
"Yes."
"Not a problem. When did you say the debut was?"
"Tomorrow."
"Perfect. I'll stop by today and help the old man forget about his blossoming wards." He bowed.
His sister choked.
"Er, what?" he asked, confused.
"Nothing, nothing at all." She snickered, her eyes now dancing with some mysterious mirth.
But he never had understood his sister and didn't pretend to now. The truth was, he didn't really care either.
So, with a shrug and a bow to his sister, he quit the Southridge residence and made his way to Mayfair to catch up with his longtime friend, the Duke of Clairmont.
Bethanny studied herself in the mirror. The dress was perfect, utterly and devastatingly perfect. She spun slowly, taking in every drape of the rose-hued fabric and the pearl cream of the ribbon adorning it. The cut hugged her womanly shape, accentuating her curves, yet was still modest enough for the duke to allow her out of her room. And she knew full well that he'd have no reservations of locking her in her room if she were immodest, her come out or not.
He meant well, and Bethanny loved him, even if he was overprotective. She found it endearing rather than offensive. It reminded her of her parents, and that thought always brought her comfort, as if being reminded of them kept their memory, their legacy, alive, even when they were no longer. A pinch in her heart caused her to wince as she thought again about how her father wouldn't be there to watch her debut, nor would her mother kiss her on the cheek and encourage her. But it was enough to have her sisters, Beatrix and Berty, as well as the duchess and duke. Together, they made a family, Lady Southridge adding that final touch of random meddling that made everyone cringe. It might not be a perfect family, but it was hers, and she was thankful.
"Are you done admiring yourself?" Beatrix asked with amusement thick in her tone. Beatrix was sixteen, the very age of Bethanny when they had come to live with the duke. In two years Beatrix had grown from a girl to a woman, a keenly intelligent woman. Bethanny tried to keep her overprotective emotions in check, but in truth, she knew she was little better than the duke. But she couldn't help it. Since their mother and father died, Bethanny felt this… responsibility to be there, to be strong for her sisters.
"No." Bethanny glanced over to her sister and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should come back later," she teased, hoping to lighten her own musings.
"If I did come back later, it would be tomorrow, and you'll spend the night in with a modiste rather than your nice warm bed back home." Beatrix quipped, a knowing smile bending her lips.
"Very well," Bethanny conceded. She was quite fond of her bed.
And morning chocolate.
And the newspaper.
"I knew you had some sense," Beatrix replied, a grin tugging at her lips.
Bethanny scrunched up her nose at her sister but smiled nonetheless. With a reluctant sigh, she signaled the modiste, Madame Beaulieu. She was a short woman, thin and petite, with chestnut hair strewn with silver.
"Avez-vous terminé?" she asked, her accent thick.
"Yes, I believe I'm finished," Bethanny answered.
"Vous êtes une vision, Miss Lamont. An utter vision. The gentlemen will fall to their knees at your beauty! De l'avenir, les messieurs vont tomber à genoux autour de vous."
"Thank you, Madame Beaulieu." Bethanny felt her face flame at the compliment.
While she appreciated the sentiment, she would rather prefer to simply draw the attention of one man, having him fall to his knees… now that would be perfect.
Shaking her head to dispel her daydream, she waited as Madame helped her out of the dress.
In short work, the dress was packaged up to take home. The servants at the duke's townhome in Mayfair would press it and have it perfect by tomorrow.
"Can we go now, please? I'm so hungry!" Berty whined.
"Yes, yes, we can leave now." Carlotta, Duchess of Clairmont placed her gloved hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
Bethanny indulged in an amused grin at her youngest sister's propensity for food, sweets in particular. If Berty wasn't eating, she was impatiently waiting till she was given the opportunity to do so again. At nine, the little girl was as opinionated as Lady Southridge and as stubborn as the duke. Her dark hair and feathery lashes made her appear innocent when the opposite was often far more accurate
"Berty, you cannot possibly be hungry." Beatrix speared her sister with a disbelieving glare.
"I am! It's been hours—"
"It's been perhaps one hour, Berty."
"One hour too long," Berty huffed, crossing her slightly pump arms in front of her slightly plumper frame.
Beatrix rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow to Carlotta.
"We'll return shortly. I have faith that you'll survive until we do."
"But—"
"Berty…" Carlotta warned gently.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Bethanny noted the slight color in Carlotta's cheeks as Berty used the address Your Grace as they were to do when in public. Though it had been almost two years since their marriage, Bethanny doubted that Carlotta, or Lottie, as they usually called her, was accustomed to such a title. Her humility endeared her further to the girls.
"Come along, girls. Let's be off. We still have a few other places to stop before we head home," Carlotta spoke kindly.
"A few more places? Truly? I'm going to wither up and die!" Berty lamented.
Bethanny snickered then covered her mouth with her gloved hand as Carlotta shot Berty a silencing glare.
Beatrix snorted.
Berty stomped.
"It's not funny, Bea." She growled.
"Oh, it is. It wouldn't be nearly as amusing, however, if you didn't react so." Beatrix replied.
Berty glared and took a menacing step toward her sister.
"Girls?" Carlotta called, a slightly exasperated edge to her tone.
"Coming." Berty paused then raised her eyebrows toward Beatrix. Pointing to her eyes and then Beatrix's, she mouthed. "I'm watching you." Then, with a longing glance across the street at a pastry shop, she turned and followed Carlotta.
Bethanny swallowed her laughter and, rather, focused on all that needed to be done.
It was nearly one in the afternoon, and they still needed to visit the milliner and get back in time to prepare for Lady Hollyworth's small dinner party. Bethanny took in a deep breath, wincing at the smoky and stale scent that hung in the air. One more day.
One more day, but it felt like one million.
Graham followed Murray down the marble hall toward the library. Though the house looked the same as far as he could remember, the tone felt different. It wasn't noticeable, the change; rather, subtle enough that if he hadn't been away for so long, he likely would have missed it. But the atmosphere was lighter, freer, as if a weight had been removed from the very air. A weight he hadn't noticed till its presence had been removed. Pushing his strange observation to the back of his mind, he tugged on his gloves as he entered the library, a smile curling his lips as he saw h
is old friend.
"Clairmont!" he called out, immediately reaching for his friend's hand.
"I say, old man, how are you?"
He studied his friend. The cynical gleam in his eye was startlingly absent; rather, his expression was light, weightless even. A strange emotion stirred in Graham's belly, one with which he wasn't familiar.
Envy.
Shaking his head to dispel the horrid emotion, he focused back on his friend.
"Quite well, no worse for the wear." The duke chuckled.
Never before had Graham seen his friend so blissfully happy. It was almost frightening.
Yet the burning sensation of envy overpowered any other weaker emotion. Later he'd have to figure out why exactly he was feeling so out of sorts.
Or maybe he'd just forget it entirely.
"I can see that! You're positively tame! I never thought I'd see the day," Graham teased.
"Ah, I'm far from tame, my friend." Clairmont grinned wickedly.
Ah, there's my old friend.
"How is your governess these days?" Graham asked, earning a chuckle from the duke.
"Splendid. After all, she is married to me." He raised an eyebrow, a very self-satisfied grin firmly in place.
"And here, that was the very reason I even asked the question." Graham shot back.
Clairmont glared.
Graham chuckled and rocked on his heels. How he missed teasing his friend. Perhaps the envy was simply a passing fancy.
"So I'm told that my presence is needed, with your ward's come out and all." Graham strode to a chair and sat, his gaze firmly on his friend, watching for his reaction.
"Who told you that rubbish?" Clairmont grumbled as he took the chair across from Graham.
"My sister."
"Your sister is nothing but a thorn in my side."
"Mine too."
"You haven't been around bloody long enough for her to even tickle you, let alone gouge out your flesh."
"My, my, we're macabre."
Clairmont glared.
"I can see why my presence is needed."
"I do not need you."
"Are you concerned that the girl won't make a suitable match?" Graham leaned forward, apprehension taking over from the earlier banter.
Clairmont's glare deepened.
"What?"
"I should be so lucky."
"Pardon? Isn't the whole reason for the season to find a husband?" Graham asked, perplexed.
"Yes, but—"
"You don't think she'll find a match?"
"No, but—"
"I'm failing to see—"
"Because you keep interrupting me! Damn, you're as bad as your sister!" Clairmont stood and stalked to the fireplace.
"Now, Clairmont, there's no reason to stoop so low," Graham grumbled.
"Forgive me. It's just…" He paused, his shoulders sagging slightly.
Graham stood and walked toward his friend, unaccustomed to seeing him in such a state of upheaval. It was awkward, and he didn't know how to react, or to help.
"Bethanny… she's beautiful," the duke spoke reverently, with pride and fear.
"I'm sure she's quite lovely," Graham spoke softly.
Clairmont turned toward him, an intolerant expression clouding his blue eyes. "No, you don't get it. She's not lovely, she's… she's… my nightmare. Every fortune hunter, dandy, rake, and decent fellow is going to be fawning all over her, and I will have to resort to beating them off with a large stick if they think they can gain entrance into my home. You know how men's minds work, Graham. They'll see her as nothing more than a fine face, a beautiful figure. They'll see her money, her connection to me and — and ah! I don't want some rake to ruin her." Clairmont was pacing furiously, his expression stormy, unsettled and wild.
"Heaven help your daughters, should you have any," Graham murmured to himself.
Clairmont stopped midstride.
Perhaps he'd spoken too loudly.
"Therein lies the issue. I'm responsible for my wards, but they have become my family. Bethanny, Beatrix, and Berty, they deserve love matches. Heaven knows how difficult marriage can be, and I'm married to a saint. I never understood the dynamic of marriage till I entered it myself, and, being ferociously in love with my wife, I do not want any less for the girls. They deserve to be cherished, adored, wanted. Not simply used to carry an heir and discarded. And for many men of the ton, that is exactly what they want from a wife. I refuse to sentence them to that fate. Not when it's in my power to protect them. As I said, marriage is difficult, and without any fondness, affection or love for the person you married, it's doomed."
Graham simply stared, gazing at his friend as if seeing him for the first time. "I…don't quite know what to say."
Clairmont exhaled loudly, his gaze looking heavenward. "Your sister was right." He said after a moment. Then closed his eyes.
"No, I'm quite sure that's not what I was going to say." Graham teased.
Clairmont opened his eyes and glared, again. If Graham weren't so self-confident he would have wondered if his presence was even appreciated.
"No…and heaven help you if you dare repeat it to your sister. Bloody hell, I'd never hear the end of it."
"My lips are sealed." Graham made a show of pretending to lock them up.
"My heartfelt thanks."
"So, at the risk of hell freezing over… what exactly was my sister correct about?" Graham asked, once again taking his seat in his abandoned chair.
"I need help."
"With?" Graham leaned forward. Never before had the great Duke of Clairmont needed anything, let alone help.
Good Lord, what was the world coming to?
"I need you to help me keep an eye on Bethanny."
"Is that all?" Graham leaned back, his head tilting to the side. He was expecting something…more that babysitting a deb.
"All? You still don't bloody get it, do you? I swear I might have to agree with your sister on one more thing." Clairmont shook his head and paced a few steps more.
"Oh, and what is that?" Graham asked sarcastically.
"Your intelligence."
"There's not need to be insulting just because you're in a lather over your ward." Charles tugged on his coat sleeves, annoyed.
" Are you coming to the ball?"
"Am I invited?" Graham teased.
"You were." Clairmont clipped.
"Yes, I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Speaking of the world…why did you come back to London during The Season? You know your harridan of a sister will simply try to marry you off."
"Perhaps I'll let her." Graham studied the shine on his Hessian boots. After a moment he glanced up. Clairmont was studying him with an expression mixed between disbelief and horror.
"You can't be serious."
"You're quite right. The woman will be selected by myself, of course. Never can trust a sister. " Graham shrugged, a grin teasing at his lips.
"You… married." Clairmont pointed at Graham.
"Yes."
"This season?"
"I believe that is what I said, yes." Graham nodded.
Silence.
"Do you not believe me?" Graham asked, offended at his friend's cynical expression.
"I…do."
"You're bloody convincing." Graham grumbled.
"Why?" Clairmont asked, his brow furrowing.
"Why not?" Graham shot back.
Clairmont shrugged and walked toward him, sitting down in the chair directly across. "Why now, is a better question?"
"I'm not getting any younger."
"How sage."
Graham glared. Clairmont was wearing off on him apparently.
"I need to have an heir, and marriage cannot be as trying as you say. Look at you! Aside from the scowling, pacing, caged animal, you're positively beaming." Graham suppressed chuckle.
Clairmont didn't appear as amused.
"I'm one and thirty, I might as well get the whole bus
iness over and done with. Why not this season?" Graham shrugged and leaned back into the plush chair.
"You… are exactly what I'm afraid of." Clairmont stood abruptly. Truly it was as if the man could not sit still. It was bloody dizzying.
"Pardon?"
"You! Men like you are exactly why I am concerned about Bethanny's come out. Detached men, men who want heirs, spares, and a mistress on the side."
"I never said anything about a mistress." Graham felt the need to interject.
"Yes, but—"
"And if memory serves correctly, you have had scores more mistresses than I." He added further.
"Before Carlotta."
"Yes."
"So it's different."
"A mistress is—"
"No, and that, my friend, is exactly what I'm afraid of. A wife is not a mistress… and a mistress could never, ever take the place of a wife. The two are completely unrelated. I was once like you… an utter fool—"
"Why, thank you." Graham cut in, his eyes rolling in impatience. Clairmont was as emotional as a bloody woman. It was exhausting. Was this what marriage did to a man? Made him moody, emotional, and irrational? Heaven help him.
"I mean no disrespect."
"Because calling one a fool is generally taken as a compliment," Graham added.
"No, you nodcock."
"Ah, the compliments continue."
Clairmont cast his gaze upward as if in prayer.
"You look like my sister."
His prayer ended abruptly and was followed by a fierce scowl.
"What I'm trying to say is… unless your heart is invested in your wife, you'll never understand marriage, nor will you reap the amazing benefits of sharing your soul with another person. Carlotta isn't perfect, nor am I, but we're prefect for each other. She compliments where I lack and vice versa. It's a… waltz, our life together. Some give, some take, some crafty maneuvering, but never ever separated from the other. She's my lifeline, I'm her strength. I want that same… I don't know the word… I just want that for Bethanny, and quite honestly, I want it for you too…" Clairmont paused, his gaze piercing through Graham.
"Ah, old chap, I'm quite moved," Graham spoke softly. "I guess I never thought of it that way."
"So will you help me with Bethanny?" He took a step forward. "I just want her to be happy," Clairmont pleaded.
To Tempt an Earl Page 2