“Tell him . . .” Nicholas put on his most genial smile. “Tell the autocratic old bastard he can go to hell and take my trust fund with him.”
Mr. Freebody did not seem surprised by his answer, but then, he was accustomed to such communications between father and son. This latest skirmish was nothing new. “Very well, my lord,” he said, then he bowed and departed.
Nicholas sat back down with a sigh. As satisfying as it always was to tell the old man to go to hell, it did little to resolve his problems, which had now been made even more acute due to a sordid scandal sheet. With that thought, he snatched up the copy of Talk of the Town that Landsdowne’s solicitor had left on the table. Just what had this damnable rag said about him?
Nicholas read the whole sordid essay, and with every word, his anger grew. Elizabeth Mayfield was mentioned, of course. And Mignonette, though the fact that he had broken with her before leaving Paris had somehow escaped their notice. Apparently the scandalmongers at Talk of the Town hadn’t appreciated the fact that a man with no money could no longer afford an expensive Parisian courtesan. There were also snippets about several other women he’d been involved with over the years, though thankfully, there was no mention of Kathleen.
By the time he’d finished the story, he was angry as hell, but he was also convinced beyond doubt that Landsdowne was in no way responsible. His father would never air the family’s dirty laundry this way, not in a thousand years. So just how had the news of his situation fallen into the hands of the gutter press?
I’ll stop you any way I can.
Lady Featherstone’s voice rang in his ears as if she were sitting at his table and he had the answer to his question.
Yesterday, he’d been reasonably sure that any attempt on her part to warn young ladies away from him would fail because young ladies seldom heeded that sort of warning. But this was a different tactic, one he had not had the wits to foresee.
A man couldn’t spend a season in town looking for a bride if he had no money and no credit. And how in blazes was he to obtain said bride, with his intentions laid bare and his reputation besmirched all over again in London’s most prominent scandal sheet, where every wealthy American family in London could read it?
It was an open secret that many transatlantic marriages were a trade of social position for money, but no girl wanted her social-climbing ambitions or her future husband’s mercenary motives so flagrantly displayed. A public pretense of romantic love was expected on both sides, something which for him and his future bride was now off the table thanks to Belinda Featherstone. And even if some heiress were willing to ignore this bit of dirt as well as his rather notorious past, and if by chance he succeeded in obtaining her consent to wed him, what about her family? No father worth his salt would agree to the match. Eloping to Gretna Green might become his only option.
Since the incident with Lady Elizabeth, he was rather persona non grata with London society, which was why he’d gone to Belinda Featherstone in the first place. Little had he known his visit to her would have the opposite effect of the one he’d intended. In making his situation and chosen course public in so blatant a fashion, she had well and truly spiked his guns.
Devil take her. She’d not only betrayed his confidence by airing their private conversation in the gutter press, she’d ruined his credit and damaged his chances of marrying well. He was not about to let this move on her part go unchallenged. Taking up the paper, he rose to his feet. Lady Featherstone wanted a fight, did she? By God, he’d give her one.
Fifteen minutes later, he was on her doorstep and her butler was again expressing doubt as to whether she was home to visitors, but Nicholas had no doubt whatsoever on that score. She’d see him. How else would she have the opportunity to crow?
Nicholas was proved right when the butler returned. “If you will follow me, my lord,” the servant said, and once again showed him into Lady Featherstone’s drawing room.
She rose from her chair at the tea table as he entered the room, making a great show of setting aside the newspaper she’d been reading. Her expression was as cool and self-possessed as ever, but an unmistakable little smile curved her full lips. “Lord Trubridge.”
“Lady Featherstone.” He removed his hat and forced himself to bow.
She gestured to the silver tea service on the table. “Would you care for tea?”
“No.” He strode forward, wasting no more time on banal civilities. “You went to the scandal sheets about me.”
She didn’t deny it nor even try to dissemble. “One scandal sheet,” she corrected, and in those three words was enough relish to send Nicholas’s temper up another notch.
Nonetheless, when he spoke, he kept his voice even and controlled. “The things I told you about myself and my situation were in confidence, madam.”
“I deemed the hearts, virtue, and reputations of young ladies to be more important than your confidences.”
“That was not your choice to make.” He could feel a tiny muscle working at the corner of his jaw, and his hands were so tightly clenched around the brim of his hat, they began to ache. “You had no right.”
“I had every right! The future happiness of many a young lady depends upon choosing a husband of fine and upstanding character. You, sir, are not one of those. And I fail to see why you are bothered about the story.”
“Bothered? Lady Featherstone, I am more than bothered. I am outraged.”
“But why should you be? According to what you told me yesterday, you are prepared to be an honest fortune hunter. If that is true, then why should it matter if the news of your financial situation comes out now rather than later?”
“Because having the news come out later would have given me the time to secure a loan from my bankers, which would have been enough to tide me over until the end of the season, by which point I had hoped to be married, or at least engaged. Now, thanks to you, I do not have even that small window of opportunity. I will be unable to secure the blunt to lease a house in town, cover the bills of tradesmen, or pay wages to a staff. How can I be expected to establish the connections I need to find a young lady to marry if I cannot even establish a household in which to entertain?”
“That is not my problem. Perhaps you should have put by some of your income when you had it? Saved it for a rainy day?”
“Perhaps,” he was forced to acknowledge. “But it’s a bit late for that now.”
“So it is. But for my part, I cannot feel anything but relief, knowing that no young lady shall be unknowingly beguiled and seduced by a scoundrel like you in the candlelight of your latest dinner party!”
“Dinner party?” he echoed through clenched teeth. “I doubt I could even procure the required joint of beef from the butcher, thanks to you. And as for honesty, I was prepared to be honest about my circumstances with my future wife and her family, yes, but that it is a far cry from having it bandied about in the scandal sheets! You say you care about reputations, madam, but that isn’t quite true, is it? Only certain reputations matter to you. It is apparent others do not.”
For a moment, a shimmer of what might have been guilt crossed her face, but it vanished before he could be sure. “You don’t seem to care about your own reputation,” she said after a moment. “Why should I?”
“Because not doing so makes you a humbug. You display yourself to all the world as a woman of honor and integrity, yet you do not hesitate to blacken the reputation of a man of whom you do not approve, based on no justification other than your preconceived ideas about his character.”
“Your reputation was already blackened, and by your own actions. And you seem perfectly willing to blacken a young woman’s reputation along with your own. And,” she added as he started to protest that unfair accusation, “your manner of living since then hardly does you credit. All of that, along with your words of yesterday, make your character quite clear.”
“You know nothing about me or my character, madam. You—” Nicholas broke off, too frustrated by her reference to that episode with Elizabeth to continue. How ironic that with all the things he had done in his life, she’d chosen one of the things of which he wasn’t guilty to condemn him.
“And now,” she went on, “you intend to seduce another innocent girl, blacken her reputation, and force her into matrimony, so please do not pretend to take any sort of moral high ground here, sir!”
“What?” He stared at her in astonishment, but as the implications of her words sank in, his astonishment gave way to an even deeper rage. “Good God, is that what you think?”
“After you confessed your sordid intentions right to my face, what else was I to think? You said you would not be conducting a proper courtship. That you intended to conduct one that is as improper as possible.”
“And you took that to mean I would ruin a girl publicly, thereby forcing her to marry me? I—” He stopped, for the notion he would do such a thing was so damned insulting that fury put him at a loss for words.
He looked down and realized he was crushing his hat. Worse, he could feel his temper giving way, and losing his temper was something no one had been able to make him do for a long, long time. Carefully, he set his mangled hat on the tea table between them, and when he spoke, he worked to keep his tone civil though it took a great deal of effort. “That you believe I would deliberately ruin a girl for money says far more about your mind than it does about my character.”
“Does it? I wonder if Elizabeth Mayfield would agree.”
“I doubt it,” he shot back. “She’s probably still cursing me for not being a more compliant potential bridegroom. After being trapped in a compromising situation that was prearranged by her, with the assistance of her mother, and conducted—I might add—under the explicit direction of my father, I was supposed to feel obligated to marry Elizabeth. I did not feel so inclined, much to my father’s annoyance and Elizabeth’s dismay. I realize gossip painted me the villain over it and that my reputation is still in ruins because of it, but as I told you once before, I don’t give a damn what people think of me.”
“You were the victim of manipulation by your own father?”
He laughed at the skepticism in her voice. “It’s obvious you don’t know Landsdowne, or you wouldn’t be so surprised by the notion.”
He leaned forward, bringing his body as close to hers as the table between them would allow, flattening his palms on the polished mahogany surface. “And it’s equally obvious you don’t know Elizabeth. If you did, you might not have been quite so ready to believe the worst about me. You might have paused to consider her character, and her mother’s, too. God knows, I wish I had. I’d never intended to be alone with her at my father’s house party. But when she encountered me in the library, even though it was late at night, I didn’t see the harm in both of us looking for books to read at the same time. I was only twenty-one. And I was head over ears in love with someone else at the time, so amorous intrigues with Elizabeth never even entered my head. Call me a fool, but I had no idea she’d hurl herself into my arms just as her mother came through the door.”
Her skeptical expression shifted to one of doubt, whether as to his actions or her own, he wasn’t certain. At this point, he didn’t care.
“That,” he said as he straightened away from the table, “is the true version of the story, regardless of what gossip you might have heard to the contrary. I didn’t know I’d be made for a mug until it was too late, but as I said, I was only twenty-one. You, however, don’t have the excuse of foolish youth for your actions, madam. You could have made further inquiries into the matter, and as a result, perhaps judged me more fairly. But no, you jumped at once to the conclusion that would brand me the worst possible cad because for some reason, it’s what you want to believe about me.”
She bit her lip, her doubtful expression deepening, but after a moment, she rallied, shifting her ground. “Then what was your meaning yesterday when you referred to improper courtship?”
“I’ve no patience with the idiotic rules that govern finding a spouse. The chaperoned walks, the endless rounds of small talk where neither of us can say what we really think on any subject, dinner parties where precedent seats us at opposite ends of the table, whispered snatches of private conversation over sheets of music in the drawing room, dancing no more than twice together at balls—it’s all rot. Nothing I can learn about a woman through society’s stifling interactions will help me decide whether or not I want to marry her. Chaperones are a hindrance to two people getting to know each other, not a help.”
“I see. So you would not compromise a girl on purpose, but you would still risk her reputation to satisfy your own ideas of courtship. And if doing so happened to result in a compromising situation that forced her to marry you, that would be quite convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
“For God’s sake, I told you, I would never—” He broke off, for he was well and truly at the end of his tether. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him this angry. He also realized he was starting to defend himself, and he appreciated—too late—that coming here at all had been a strategic mistake.
Hadn’t a lifetime as Landsdowne’s son taught him anything? Defending, explaining, justifying . . . such things did nothing but make one vulnerable. And besides, his intentions, his notions of courtship, and his honor did not need defending. Not to her, and not to anyone.
“Think of me what you will,” he said, and picked up his hat. “Say whatever you like. I am determined to find a wife, despite all your efforts. So do your damnedest to stop me.”
“So I shall.”
“Very well, then.” He donned his hat. “But, by God, I hope you understand what this means?”
“No,” she answered, her elegant dark brows lifting in haughty inquiry. “Enlighten me. What does this mean?”
“War, Lady Featherstone.” He smiled, but as his gaze met hers, the clash of their eyes was like the clang of dueling swords. “This means war.”
Chapter 4
As Belinda stared into Lord Trubridge’s tawny hazel eyes, she was reminded again of a lion, one that was cornered and angry. Though there was a smile on his lips, he meant what he said about war, and she knew he would be a formidable opponent.
If his account of the Elizabeth Mayfield incident was true, and if she had indeed misunderstood his comment of yesterday, then she could not deny he had some justification for his anger. Nonetheless, he was still a fortune hunter with notions of courtship that could ruin a girl’s reputation and force her to accept him. In light of that, Belinda made the only reply her conscience would allow. “War it is, then.”
Before he could respond, Jervis entered the drawing room. “Miss Rosalie Harlow,” he announced.
At once, Belinda’s determination gave way to dismay. She turned toward the doorway, but it was too late to stop Rosalie from entering the room. “Oh, last night was such a disaster, I just had to come and tell you—oh!”
She stopped, noticing that Belinda was not alone, and as Trubridge turned toward the door, her eyes widened, and her lips parted a little. When she lifted a fluttering hand to her throat and her parted lips formed a smile, Belinda’s dismay deepened into panic. Oh, no, she thought, no, no, no.
“I didn’t know that you had company,” Rosalie told her without even bothering to glance in her direction. “I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t committed some awful breach of British etiquette.”
Belinda could not think of a reply. She could only stare, helpless, as the girl tilted her chin down, still smiling, and lifted her gaze to Trubridge’s face in a way that was openly admiring.
Belinda wanted to take her by the arm and haul her out of the room. A lamb like Rosalie in the same room with a predator like Trubridge was a disaster waiting to happen, and she cursed herself for not making that fact clear to t
he butler yesterday. To make matters worse, when she glanced at the marquess, his profile told her just what he was thinking.
His thick brown lashes lowered as he studied the girl, giving her the same appreciative thoroughness he’d given Belinda the day before. He bowed, and when he straightened, his mouth was curved in that devastating, deceptively boyish smile that would make any girl’s heart sing.
A fierce wave of protectiveness rose up within Belinda. Her lip curled, and only just in time was she able to catch back a most unladylike snarl.
“Not at all,” Trubridge answered the girl, taking advantage of Belinda’s silence to step into the breach. “An interruption as charming as this is always forgivable.” He turned to Belinda. “My dear Lady Featherstone, where have you been hiding this lovely creature?”
She glared at him; but, of course, he was impervious to her hostility.
“Shall you introduce me to your friend?” he asked, everything in his amused face daring her to refuse.
Insufferable man. She could not reject his request for an introduction when he was standing in her own drawing room, and both of them knew it. Left with no choice, she turned to Rosalie. “Miss Harlow, may I present the Marquess of Trubridge to you? Lord Trubridge, Miss Rosalie Harlow.”
If she hoped the heavy disapproval that laced her voice would have any effect on Rosalie, she was disappointed. In fact, it was doubtful the girl even noticed.
“Lord Trubridge?” she cried with lively surprise. “Heavens, you are not at all like I pictured you.” She turned to Belinda. “I don’t understand. I thought you said he was—”
She stopped just in time, heeding Belinda’s frantic shake of the head, and returned her attention to the man before her. “My lord,” she said, remembering her manners and returning his bow with a curtsy. “How do you do?”
Trubridge, of course, couldn’t let the moment pass unremarked. “It sounds as if Lady Featherstone has been talking about me,” he drawled. “How indiscreet of her. What has she been saying, Miss Harlow? Do tell me.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 5