She sighed in exasperation. “How I wish I knew the name of her dressmaker!”
Not that a new dress could perform miracles, if Bliss Pryce was the sort of woman Neville preferred. The same could be said for all men, everywhere, she supposed, but that meant her friendship with Neville would remain just that—a friendship built on common scholarly interests and a few shared secrets.
Not attraction.
At least such an admission would save her from future disappointment.
“His name is Lementeur, miss.”
Katarina scrambled at the sound of the butler’s voice, straightening herself into a presentable position and gripping the edge of the settee for balance.
“What?” She adjusted the bandeau now sagging over one eye. “What did you say, Regis?”
He handed her a card embossed with nothing but a London address. “Pardon me for intruding, Miss Beckham. The name of Mrs. Pryce’s dressmaker is Lementeur. He runs the most exclusive ladies’ shop in London.”
Katarina realized that her mouth had fallen open in shock. She snapped it closed and smiled at Regis. “Do you think it is possible to—”
“I’ll have the carriage brought round, miss, and I’ll summon your maid to accompany you.”
With a bow, Regis was gone.
Katarina stared at the card in her hand, blinking in disbelief. What an exciting day this had been—and it was not yet noon!
Chapter 19
“OH, Ollieeee!”
Not for the first time, Lord Oliver found himself flinching. On paper, it had seemed a simple enough proposition: Invite the beleaguered widow to London, introduce one insignificant girl to the ton, and win an exclusive shipping contract that would fatten the Danton coffers for decades to come.
In practice, however, the daily proximity of Paulette Beckham had transformed his peaceful home into the bowels of hell. Not coincidentally, he now suffered from an aching head, a tensed jaw, a painful tooth, and an overarching sense of doom.
Not exactly the bargain he had planned.
“Where are you, Ollieeee?”
He ducked into to the butler’s pantry, an untried first-floor hiding place. So far, his private rooms had proven the only safe haven in the entire grand house, as even Paulette Beckham was not brazen enough to enter a lord’s bedchamber. But he couldn’t very well stay locked away like a recluse. Lord Oliver Danton absolutely refused to be a prisoner in his own home!
He shut the pantry door, leaned against the cabinets, and sighed with relief. Almost immediately, the door was flung wide upon its hinges.
“Oh, there you are, dear Ollie! I was looking absolutely all over the house for you, darling! Why, you’re not trying to hide from me, are you?”
Bloody hell.
Lord Oliver straightened to a stand in the most nonchalant way possible, then extended his hand to snatch whatever item might happen to be within reach. “Of course not, dear lady. I simply came in here to find a—” When he glanced down to determine what, exactly, he now held in his hand, his mind went blank. “This lovely silver . . . bauble.”
Paulette Beckham pursed her lips, seeing right through his ruse. She gave him a pitying smile, as if she believed him daft. “It is called a napkin ring, Ollie dear. Will you be assisting Regis with today’s lunch service?”
Lord Oliver tossed the silver knickknack to the shelf and tugged mightily upon his cravat. This woman was positively maddening! “Exactly how may I be of service to you this time, Mrs. Beckham?”
“Well, I thought you should be aware that an invitation to the Fletchers’ ball for Katarina and me did not arrive this morning, as you assured me it would. And the event is a mere two days away! Two days! What are we to do, Ollie? How are we to prepare for a ball to which we have not been invited? I think I shall weep from the distress of it all. And my poor, sweet Katarina! She has allowed herself to have such high hopes of securing a suitable . . .”
Lord Oliver felt his eyes glaze over. He stopped listening. Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself into?
“. . . and then I shall have to find some way to console her broken feminine heart.”
Lord Oliver cleared his throat, committed to ending this excruciating encounter, regardless of the cost. “Do not fret, dear lady. You and your daughter shall accompany the duke and me to the Fletchers’ as our personal guests.”
“Oh! Joy!” Mrs. Beckham clapped her hands together, then pressed them to her smiling cheeks. “How terribly sweet and thoughtful of you, Ollie! I am deeply touched by your kindness. I cannot tell you how pleased this makes me!”
Then, please don’t.
By this juncture, Lord Oliver was dizzy from the effort required to remain civil, and desired nothing more than to flee the swirling madness induced by her shrill voice and never-ending demands. But he also knew that now was an opportune time to bargain with Mrs. Beckham regarding the future of Sunbury Plantation. After all, he had just given her something she desperately wanted. She surely would be softened by his generosity.
“Dear Mrs. Beckham, I have been thinking . . .”
Her eyes widened. “Oh dear. You have?”
Lord Oliver cleared his throat. Had she just insulted him? With this woman he found it most difficult to determine insult from inanity. “Yes, and I’ve been thinking how terrible the burden must be for you now that your husband is gone. All the details of managing Sunbury—labor, production, harvest, shipping, income, accounting—it must be too much for a gentlewoman of your breeding to manage.”
She folded her hands demurely before her and sighed deeply. “I thank you for your concern.”
“Oh, it is more than concern, I assure you, Mrs. Beckham! Your husband and I corresponded often, as you know. He was a brilliant businessman. And in the course of our discussions, I learned quite a lot about the sugar business.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed, madam. And I would like to propose that, in addition to granting White Rose the exclusive shipping rights to Sunbury exports, you might consider selling the entire operation to—”
“Please! No more!” Mrs. Beckham rubbed her fingertips into her temples, shaking her head as if in agony. “Oh, Ollie! You know all this business nonsense makes my head swim. You know I’ve come to London to find Katarina a suitable match, not engage in endless talk of balance sheets and shipping costs. Her happiness is my primary concern now.”
Dear God! Oliver saw the handwriting on the wall, and it was a eulogy. No tasty marriage prospect for that insipid chit, no business dealings. Furthermore, if he didn’t secure Sunbury soon, this brainless bit of female fluff would run the plantation to the ground! “Of course, my dear Mrs. Beckham. But think on this. If you sold the business, then you would be free of all those boring, distressing details! You would have unlimited time to dedicate to your lovely daughter’s future happiness.”
She blinked at him, as if she did not understand a word he said. It was all Oliver could do not to shake the stupid cow.
Pressing the back of one hand to her powdered brow, she sighed gustily. “Might we talk about this later? My head is simply pounding now.”
“Fine.” He sighed, thoroughly exhausted by this futile discussion. “Then please excuse me. I must—”
She stepped directly in front of him! “What time shall we depart on Thursday?”
Lord Oliver ground his teeth—Paulette Beckham had just blocked his exit—with her body! She had him quite literally cornered.
She batted her lashes at him. “You see, my lord, I must manage our time carefully in order to have Katarina’s hair styled and her gown freshened in time. And oh! The weather! Will she require a wrap in the evening, do you think? Silk? Or wool? I daresay, London is even chillier than I recalled.”
Lord Oliver knew that if he did not immediately escape the confines of this butler’s pantry—and the hellish inanity of this
conversation—he would go utterly and completely mad.
“I shall send Regis to you to discuss all matters of scheduling and vagaries of climate.” Lord Oliver pushed past Mrs. Beckham with the desperation of a fleeing convict. “Good day to you, madam.”
“Shall we see you at luncheon, Your Lordship?” Her piercing trill followed him down the hall.
Oliver pressed on, pretending not to hear her inquiry. He would rather dine in his rooms. Alone. Like a hermit. Not at all like a prisoner.
• • •
BLISS WAS MERE steps away from escaping Camberton House when she nearly collided with Lord Oliver Danton, who approached from the opposite direction. It appeared he had been rushing toward the grand staircase.
The two froze in place, an arm’s length from each other, in the center of the main hall. They stared in silence. It occurred to Bliss that Lord Oliver Danton was perhaps the last person on earth she wished to see at that moment.
As a wave of revulsion spread across Lord Oliver’s face, Bliss learned he was of a similar opinion.
“Why, Miss Worthington—or should I say Mrs. Pryce? What an unexpected . . . visit this is.”
Bliss stood her ground. She might suspect that the bitter old man had a hand in ruining her happiness, but she was incapable of being rude. At least not until thoroughly provoked.
She curtsied to the appropriate depth. “Lord Oliver.”
“May I ask what brings you here to Camberton?”
Bliss considered her words carefully. She did not know what games Lord Oliver played or the rules by which he played them, which left her but one option. She would answer him in the only manner that had ever served her—she would speak the truth. “I came to speak to Neville, my lord.”
“Oh?” He cocked his head, examining her from head to toe, a barely contained smirk snarling his lip. “And did you have a nice visit?”
“On the contrary, my lord. I waited for him in the formal parlor, but he did not come.”
“’Tis a pity. Yes, indeed.”
Lord Oliver rested his elbow on the staircase newel post, almost as if staking his claim on the structure, or perhaps the entire house. Bliss thought the pose looked rather ridiculous.
“And how are you finding the wedded life, Mrs. Pryce? I daresay it was quite a shock to hear of the mix-up at the chapel, but surely the unique pleasures of matrimony have made up for any inconvenience you may have experienced.”
Bliss blinked at him in disbelief. Though she felt perfectly calm at her core, her fingers tightened their grip on her reticule and began to tremble with tension. “Does this sort of thing usually work with people, my lord?”
He straightened up from the newel post, clearly offended. “I beg your pardon?”
“The backhanded concern. The spiteful innuendo. Do you find that most people cower before you when you belittle them in such a fashion?”
His lips parted in disbelief.
Bliss pressed on. “You see, my lord, I much prefer to speak plainly. I find there are fewer opportunities for misunderstanding between parties.”
Lord Oliver stared. She watched his expression move from faint surprise to pure loathing, and when he spoke, his words were delivered in a low hiss of rage. “You stupid, greedy little tart. Did you think I would allow you to ruin Neville’s life, to siphon off the Danton fortune?”
Oh dear. Plain speaking indeed.
Bliss sighed. How unfortunate that Lord Oliver had betrayed his nephew out of a miserly fear. Knowing the truth was painful, but Bliss did possess a sense of clarity now. It was always best to know the motivations of those who wished one ill, and now she knew Lord Oliver acted out of greed. “I take it you arranged for Morgan to replace Neville at the chapel.”
Lord Oliver laughed bitterly. “Of course I did.”
“Has Neville received any of my messages? Did he even know I was here today?”
He shrugged. “I highly doubt it.”
“You kept my correspondence from him, then. You lied to your own nephew.”
His sneer deepened, if that were possible. “I find this whole discussion tedious.”
Bliss realized that the worst part—the source of the sudden and unbearable sadness she now felt—was knowing how Morgan and Neville trusted their uncle. They loved him and welcomed his guidance, believing he had their best interests at heart.
The old man had betrayed them both.
Lord Oliver had convinced Morgan that Bliss was out for Neville’s fortune. It was Lord Oliver’s accusations that made Morgan step in to protect his brother. Morgan’s intentions had been noble. Morgan had acted out of love and concern for Neville.
Which explained why Morgan accused Bliss of being a common fortune hunter. He was repeating his uncle’s words.
Bliss had to wonder . . . if Lord Oliver lied to Morgan, did he lie to Neville as well? What horrible things did Neville now believe to be true about his own brother? What evil lies had Lord Oliver told Neville about Bliss?
Her heart ached for Neville. He must be suffering so, believing those he cared for most had betrayed him. If there was any man who did not deserve to be the victim of such manipulation, to experience such unjust anguish, it was Lord Neville Danton, Duke of Camberton.
Bliss decided she would return to the formal parlor, to Miss Beckham. Perhaps Katarina could pass a message to Neville. Bliss turned . . .
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Agony laced through her. She looked down at the old man’s clawlike hand wrapped around her upper arm. His bony fingers dug so deep into her flesh that she knew she would bruise.
She would not cry out, not in front of this despicable man. She met his vicious gaze without flinching. “I insist you release me, my lord.”
He smiled. “Oh, Regis?”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler instantly appeared, as if he had been waiting around a corner.
Lord Oliver loosened his grip on Bliss’s arm, then dismissed her with an exhausted wave of his hand. “Remove Mrs. Pryce from the premises. Immediately. And do not allow her entry again.”
“Of course, my lord.” Regis gestured toward the door with a slight bow. At least he was respectful enough not to put his hands on a lady.
“I can see myself out, Regis.”
As Bliss stepped over the threshold, she thought she saw a flash of apology—perhaps even concern—in the butler’s eyes. But he slammed the door behind her before she could be certain.
Chapter 20
TRUE to his word, Morgan returned to the house that afternoon in plenty of time to accompany his bride to her damned appointment with her damned dressmaker to be fitted for the damned ball. Although matters were proceeding steadily in the hands of his trusted first mate, Morgan chafed at being pulled away from the repairs. Instead of using his time to see to very necessary preparations for his ship’s next journey, he was forced to run womanish errands all day.
This was not what he wanted. The time for action was now. If he desired his freedom, if he desired to return to his old life, he must consummate this marriage in the next thirty-six hours. Once the deed was done, he could pack his things and head to the Selkie Maid, putting this whole unpleasant interlude behind him.
But if Morgan hesitated, if he continued to abide by Bliss’s ridiculous rules, he would be doomed. He would be prancing about at the aforementioned ball in coat and tails, stumbling over the slick marble floors like a goat on the ice!
Dressing up and going to balls was not something Morgan had ever enjoyed, nor had it been something to which the “Bastard of Camberton” had been regularly welcomed.
At least he wouldn’t need any fine new clothes. He could wear his “proxy groom” suit.
No! Morgan opened his front door. He would end this charade now. He would bed Bliss Worthington and he would enjoy it, and then he would be gone. Damn hi
s oath!
Morgan’s resolve evaporated the instant he entered his parlor. Though he had been determined to snarl his way through the afternoon, his heart made an odd sort of flip at the scene before him.
There sat a lovely woman, in a comfortable, welcoming room, with steaming tea and sandwiches ready on a tray on the table. And not dainty, wouldn’t-tempt-a-street-cur sandwiches, either. Succulent ham was piled deep between slices of bread so thick that they alone would fill a plowman to repletion.
What more could a man ask for?
Morgan was so stunned at the thought that he forgot to greet his bride. As he sat down next to her, she said something and began to pour tea, yet all he could hear was a roaring in his ears.
He’d fled any such domestication for so many years. He’d scorned the very thought of keeping a comfortable house or taking a wife. Why bother? He returned from sea so infrequently that maintaining a home filled with warmth and pleasure would be a waste.
Morgan knew he should feel stifled by the notion, as he always had before. Yet, when Bliss handed him a cup of tea, which he loathed, he nodded his thanks and took an absentminded sip.
She’d had the wisdom to lace it with plenty of milk and sugar, just as he took his coffee. So she had taken note this morning, had counted the lumps he’d added to his cup, had recalled the amount of milk he’d used—and then served it to him piping hot after a drizzly morning on the docks.
I could get used to this. But I shall not.
He set the cup and saucer down on the table and turned to his bride—a beauty by any terms, the perfect woman, the wife of any man’s dreams—except for the heartless ambition and manipulation that filled her soul.
She gazed back at him expectantly, her stunning eyes of sky fixed on him with her full attention.
Damn, she was pretty. Why did she have to be so damned pretty?
“We should go,” he heard himself say. “I cannot spare the entire day for this nonsense.”
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