by Laura Landon
Not only did the ring not suit her, it hung loosely on her finger, and if she was not careful, she would lose it. Now that they were in Bath, she would find a jeweler and have the ring altered.
She studied the painting once again. Bolton was handsome enough with russet hair and blue eyes. Yet there was something about those very same eyes that appeared almost feral. She gave herself a shake. That could have been a mistake by the artist. She hoped it was.
Debrett’s stated that the duke was in his sixties. If the portrait was accurate, he was either in very good health, or the painter had—except for the eyes—flattered him. For he did not look like a man of four and sixty years. Once again, she wished he was younger.
Laia shrugged her shoulders lightly. She was becoming fanciful. Father had said she would meet him here, and once she did, she was certain everything would be fine. She just wished she knew when that would be.
A half hour later, she sat before her mirror as her maid, Smithers, deftly twisted Laia’s normally unruly curls into a fashionable confection of braids, a knot, and tendrils, before weaving a Prussian-blue ribbon through it all.
After donning a white spangled shawl, she picked up her reticule and fan and proceeded to the drawing room. Unlike the two other houses she had visited, Meg’s family’s home and Anna’s—her other sister-in-law, the Duchess of Wharton—Laia did not require a footman to show her the way. The Laura Place house was not only small, but straight forward.
As she approached the parlor, low voices filtered into the corridor. One of them was male and very familiar.
“Damon!” The next moment, she spied her sister-in-law. “Meg! How come you to be in Bath? I would have thought you would spend the summer in Brighton.” Laia glanced at her sister-in-law’s stomach. Meg was five months pregnant, but she was barely showing in the high-waisted gown. “How are you feeling?”
“Excellent.” She bussed Laia’s cheek. “I have not been ill once. Why would we go to Brighton when you are in Bath? We have so little opportunity to spend time with you.”
Meg laughed as Damon scooped Laia up into a tight hug and exclaimed, “I swear you have grown prettier since I last saw you.”
“Do not crush me. Smithers just spent thirty minutes on my hair.”
“This”—Damon released her—“is what happens when the children grow up. They become too old for hugs from their brother.”
Mama shook her head and Meg embraced Laia, careful not to muss her. “We have taken a house and plan to spend as much time as possible with you and your sisters and brothers. Catherine told us you would be here.”
Ever since Damon’s falling out with their father, her brother had not been home to visit. Laia still did not know how her mother had got her father to agree her brothers and sisters could attend Damon and her second eldest brother, Frank’s, wedding breakfasts.
“I’m glad for it.” Rising up on her toes, she pecked Damon’s cheek. “We do not see enough of you. Have you heard I am to marry?”
“Yes.” Meg’s smile was more polite than real and did not reach her normally expressive eyes. First Mama, now Meg. For some reason, neither of them was happy about Laia’s wedding. “Your mother wrote to us about the betrothal.”
That answered the question of who Mama had written that day, but why was no one but Laia and her father pleased with her engagement? It was as if her mother, brother, and sister-in-law chose to completely ignore Laia’s new status. And that irked her. She was about to mention the subject when Euphrosyne entered the room and practically threw herself into their brother’s arms.
“Meg, Damon! This is wonderful. I never dreamt you would be our surprise.”
“Now, that’s what I call a proper welcome!” He twirled Euphrosyne around before setting her feet back on the floor.
“We miss you.” She gave Meg a quick hug. “Thalia, Mary, and the twins are at Roselands. Will you visit them as well?”
“Of course we will.” Meg kissed Euphrosyne’s cheek. “We have missed all of you as well.”
The small drawing room already seemed crowded with people when her mother’s butler, Perkins, intoned, “Mr. Guy Paulet.”
Paulet? That was the Duke of Bolton’s family name. She tried to envision the information in Debrett’s concerning the Paulets. If she was not mistaken, Guy Paulet was the son of the duke’s younger twin brother and currently heir to the dukedom.
Mr. Paulet was as tall as Damon and had the same military bearing. Dressed in a well cut dark blue jacket with a lighter blue and gold waistcoat Mr. Paulet was the epitome of what Laia imagined a fashionable gentleman to look like. His breeches were of the same dark blue, and his cravat was tied neatly. His only ornaments were a pocket watch, quizzing glass, and a sapphire cravat pin.
Yet, what captured Laia’s attention most was his reddish-brown hair. It was very much like the duke’s. In fact, he looked very much like the man in the miniature. She was too far away to get a good look at his eyes, but she would wager her new pearl necklace they were blue.
“Guy,” Mama glided forward, her hands held out in greeting, “how good of you to come.”
“Your grace. You flatter me.” His lips tilted up and Laia could tell he had a ready smile. “I could not have turned down an invitation to see you again.” Lightly grasping her fingers he bowed. “My mother sends her love and wishes she could be here as well. However, she is with my sister, Constance, who has just given birth to her third child.”
Mama placed her hand on his sleeve, drawing him into the room. “I received a letter from her before we left Somerwood. A healthy boy, is it not?”
“Yes, indeed. Haverstone has been telling everyone who would listen how clever my sister is.”
That would be the Earl of Haverstone if Laia remembered correctly. Had Mr. Paulet come here to inspect her before she met the duke? If so, she did not like that idea. On the other hand, he might have come to welcome her to the family as it were.
Her mother smiled. “Guy, I understand you have been making a name for yourself in the Commons.”
“So I am told.” Mr. Paulet was close enough now that she could see his eyes were blue and, unlike his uncle’s, they seemed to sparkle with good humor “It is not much different than moving troops around. Once one has the trick of it, that is.”
She remained where she was, but set her glass of wine down on a small table as Mr. Paulet greeted Damon and Meg as friends.
“Laia, my dear,” her mother said. “I would like to make you known to Mr. Paulet. His mother is an old and close friend of mine. I have known him since he was in leading strings. He also served in the Army with Hawksworth.” Mama cast the man a twinkling glance. “At present he is a Member of Parliament and doing quite a good job from all accounts. I was delighted to hear he meant to spend some time in Bath this summer.
Goodness, he seemed to know everyone and was liked by them as well. Perhaps his being here had nothing at all to do with the duke.
She curtseyed slightly and held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Paulet.”
CHAPTER THREE
Guy barely stopped his jaw from dropping. She was Hawksworth’s younger sister? Why had no one told him she was . . . was . . . so beautiful? The word hardly did her justice.
Thick curls of the palest blond framed her oval face. Her eyes reminded him of the sky in winter. Not the deep blue of summer but warmer than the ice that covered the lake at his home. Her brows and lashes of dark brown and the roses in her cheeks set off the white of her demure muslin gown. Her nose was straight, but not sharp, and her deep pink lips were nicely shaped, the bottom just slightly plumper than her top lip.
A mouth made for kissing.
For a moment, Guy was so dumbstruck he almost forgot to bow, bringing her fingers to his lips at the last minute.
She was the lady Meg and Hawksworth wanted him to wed?
“Guy”—he could hear the merriment in the duchess’s voice. He could almost hear Hawksworth laughing as well. Still,
he could not marry a lady based on beauty alone. There must be common interests and a confluence of minds—“my eldest daughter Lady Aglaia Trevor.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.” Guy straightened and remembered to give her hand back.
Before he could draw her into conversation, the duchess brought forward a younger lady. “Euphrosyne, I would like to introduce Mr. Paulet. Guy, my second daughter, Lady Euphrosyne.”
Once again, he bowed and the lady curtseyed. “Delighted, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at her brother. “I am always happy to meet my brother’s friends.” Leaning toward him a bit, she said, “We do not often get to do so.”
A minx as well. Hawksworth would have to keep an eye on her.
Meg handed Lady Euphrosyne a glass of lemonade, drawing her away and enabling him to speak with the older sister.
“Do you remain in Bath long?” he asked Lady Laia even though he knew the answer.
She gave him a quizzical look. “Only until my marriage. Surely you are aware that I am to wed the Duke of Bolton.” A delicate pink painted her cheeks. “Before I knew of your friendships with my family, I had assumed you were here at his behest.”
Little did she know that Guy was the last person Bolton would send to meet his new betrothed. Guy would have to skirt the truth if he wasn’t to give the plan away. A plan to which he was starting to become agreeable “My uncle has told me nothing. In truth, I am rather surprised he has decided to marry again. Thus far, marriage has not gone well for him.”
She pulled her plump lower lip between a set of white teeth. “I understand that he has lost four wives. I had assumed it was to do with complications surrounding their delicate conditions.”
Her blush deepened, and she took a drink of wine. She was even more innocent than he had realized.
Then again, she was brave enough not to shy away from the subject. Guy was surprised she had asked at all. It was not a topic an unmarried lady usually broached with a gentleman.
Her courage convinced him to give her a more direct answer than he had planned to offer. “Not at all. None of his wives were”—drat, how was he to put this so as not to embarrass her? “None of the ladies were even slightly pregnant or had a hope of giving birth unless they played his uncle false—“were in an interesting condition. He had been married to his first wife for fifteen years when she succumbed to a lung condition. He has been wed considerably shorter times to his subsequent wives. All of them surrendered to similar ailments. You might have noticed”—surely she had read about them in Debrett’s—“the length of his marriages have decreased with each wife.”
A frown turned the corners of her lips down and her smooth forehead creased. “Are you trying to tell me he has had something to do with their deaths?”
“Unless one has absolute proof, to do so would be slander.” This was the ticklesome part. He arched one brow. “I am merely saying that his brides are not long lived.” Avoiding her gaze, he flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “Aside from that, I would not want him convicted of murder. I am his heir, you see.” Better to get that piece of information out before Lady Laia discovered it herself. Although, what she would do with the knowledge he had no idea.
She gazed at him for several moments before saying, “I believe I do understand. It would do you no good if he were to produce an heir.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. If he could do so, I would be extremely happy for him and for myself.” He fixed her with a look of his own. “I have my own property, wealth, and career. I do not require Bolton’s. That said, I do not believe an heir will be forthcoming no matter how many wives he acquires.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Paulet. However, I cannot believe my father would betroth me to a gentleman in whose hands my life would be at risk.”
She regally inclined her head and went off to her sister-in-law. Leaving him standing there wondering if it would even be possible to turn her from Bolton. Honesty had obviously not worked.
Hawksworth sidled up to Guy, two glasses of wine in his hand. “I believe we forgot to ask you if you would like refreshment.”
“Thank you.” He took the claret, and tossed back half the glass.
“I take it your conversation with Laia did not go well?”
“In a word, no. I told her as much as I could without accusing my uncle of murder, but she has a firm belief that your father would not put her life in danger.”
His friend scoffed. “He would do anything to accomplish what he wants. Since we last met, I discovered your uncle has a minor property that marches along Roselands. I do not think he would have approached your uncle with the plan, but . . . .”
“But if my uncle was searching for a good breeder, he need look no further than the duchess and, thus, her daughters.”
“Indeed.” Hawksworth sipped his wine. “Out of fifteen she has only lost one and that was not in childbirth. My grandmother Somerset also had an impressive number of healthy children.”
Guy tried to think of a way to change Lady Laia’s mind about his uncle. The problem, as he saw it, was that it would be easier for someone else, a member of her family, for example, to do it. He was obviously suspect. “Could your step-mother help?”
“No.” Hawksworth shook his head. “Catherine is in a precarious position. She dare not be seen taking a position opposite of my father’s. If he had an inkling that she was defying him, she’d be banished to one of the minor estates without the children. Needless to say, that would break her heart. The only thing she can do is help guide.”
Devil it all. What was Guy to do without help?
His friend grinned wickedly. “I, on the other hand, and Meg, will do everything we are able to ensure my sister does not wed Bolton.”
Meg joined them, saying, “We still need a strategy. Laia has no idea what her father truly is. Nevertheless, Guy, your honesty has made her question, at least a little, the betrothal. We may never convince her that Somerset doesn’t care about her, or anyone else for that matter, but we can make sure she comes to know you better.” Meg’s eyes twinkled. “You do not dare to be seen with her in the Pump Room. If there are any intimates of my father-in-law in town, that is where they will be. My Grandmother Featherton claims Bath is a hot-bed of gossip. I have no doubt we shall soon know who is here.”
“Won’t the duke’s friends notice if the duchess is not in the Pump Room?” Guy asked.
“That is the reason I shall accompany Catherine to the Pump Room, subscription libraries, and the Assembly Rooms to give our names to the Masters of Ceremony. Whilst we’re doing that you and Hawksworth shall take Laia and Euphrosyne to the Gardens. Or”—Meg glanced at Hawksworth—“you could order the horses to be brought round from the stables and go riding on Lansdowne. I leave it to you to arrange.” Meg tapped her lips with her index finger. “Talk about anything except the betrothal. Your first step is to earn her trust.”
“I’ll ask her which she would like best,” Hawksworth said.
Guy’s shoulders lightened. He was still not sure he wished to marry Lady Laia. Yes, she was beautiful and seemed to be intelligent, and he desired her, but he wanted more. He wanted the type of marriage his parents had, one filled with trust and love.
Yet, at the moment he was going to make sure Lady Laia did not fall victim to his uncle’s maniacal search for an heir. And if they were not meant to spend their lives together, she would find another gentleman.
Her tinkling laugh floated across the room. Or perhaps they would suit.
. . .
The Duke of Bolton crumpled up his latest missive from Somerset and threw it in the fireplace. What in blazes was the blasted old man thinking about in sending Lady Aglaia to Bath of all the God forsaken places?
Her being there was going to cause Bolton problems. He could feel it in his bones.
Margaret, the last Duchess of Bolton, had a grandmother living there. And the old besom blamed him for Margaret’s d
eath. Well, it was the chit’s own damn fault. She should have accepted his offer of a divorce. He had arranged for two gentlemen to testify that she had been unfaithful.
Not that she could have remained in England. The scandal would have ruined her. But he had offered to set her up nicely somewhere in Italy. His lip curled. Instead of agreeing, she had enacted him a Cheltenham tragedy and threatened to tell her grandmother, the Dowager Lady Engle. That old lady would have taken pleasure in sticking a spoke in his wheel. She never had liked him. And he’d had no choice but to get rid of Margaret.
The dukedom needed an heir and an heir it would have.
He glanced at the letter again. There was nothing for it. He’d have to make a bolt to Bath. It would be just for a day. If he avoided the Pump Room where Lady Engle held court, all should be well.
“Rogers.”
Bolton’s secretary appeared at the door between his study and his employee’s office. “I must travel to Bath.”
“Bath, your grace?”
“That’s what I said. Look at my diary and arrange the trip when I have nothing else planned. I’ll stay at The York.”
“Yes, your grace.” A few minutes later, Rogers tapped on the door. “The settlement agreements have arrived, your grace.”
“Bring them here.” After a brief perusal, Bolton signed them and affixed his seal. Somerset’s terms were high, but if it got Bolton his heir, the price would be worth it. “I want them sent back immediately.”
“I shall send them by courier, your grace.”
Once his secretary had taken the documents and left the study, he leaned back in his intricately carved Moroccan leather chair. He should be able to keep the betrothal quiet. Somerset had described Lady Aglaia as a shy young lady, not prone to speaking a great deal. She had been educated at home and had not had a Season. Ergo, she had no close friends in which to confide.