by Ava Stone
Of course, she’d hate for Papa to discover her painting. Being drawn to colors and paintbrushes was just one of the many ways she was like her mother, at least according to her older brother’s recollections. And while Papa never said as much, she suspected her love of paints reminded her father of earlier, unhappier times.
She knew, of course, that at any given moment, Papa would knock on her door and inform her of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding her dreaded cousin. She steeled herself for the visit. She tried to prepare to hear the words he’d have to say. And she told herself over and over not to cry when Papa arrived. Crying wouldn’t change her circumstances, and they’d only prove to make Papa feel worse. But all the waiting and preparing had been for naught.
Papa hadn’t come.
He hadn’t sought her out, not all afternoon, not all evening. Which made no sense at all. At least nothing that leapt mind. Why wouldn’t he tell her? Had he devised some sort of plan, a scheme that would prevent such an unfortunate outcome for her? That didn’t sound like Papa, as he wasn’t really the scheming sort, but perhaps he had come up with something. There wouldn’t be any reason to frighten her with the details if he’d already set a plan in motion, would there?
She glanced down the dinner table toward her father, but he appeared engrossed in the roasted duck on his plate and didn’t seem to notice the intensity of her gaze in the least. Across the table from Bella, her brother Elliott, Baron Gillingham, whom she hadn’t spotted in nearly a month, caught her attention, frowning most deeply at her.
She blinked at her brother in surprise. Elliott very rarely noticed anything about anyone around him…unless one was an actress. But since Bella was no such thing, she couldn’t imagine why he was looking at her, much less frowning. “Is something wrong?” she asked quietly.
Elliott shrugged, just barely enough for her to notice, then he turned his silvery eyes back to his plate, letting his dark hair fall across his brow.
Good heavens, what was a shrug supposed to mean? Before she had time to contemplate the situation, her grandfather entered the dining room and cast his dark eyes across the room. “Gillingham,” he said, his voice laced with disdain, “what are you doing here?”
A feigned smile settled on her brother’s face as he met the duke’s gaze. “Just thought it might be nice to spend dinner with my family tonight.”
Grandfather snorted as he assumed his spot at the head of the table. “Don’t mistake me for one of those fools you cavort about Town with. I know when your allowance dries up. Your creditors start sending your bills here, in case you haven’t figured that out by now.”
Elliott ignored the comment, lifted his wine goblet to his lips, and downed a healthy portion. The second footman approached from his left and refilled his drink.
So he was here because he was out of funds again? That would certainly explain her brother’s presence, his shrug and his frown. No matter that Elliott would be the Duke of Chatham at some point, Grandfather did like to keep him on a tight leash. And that leash did not bode well for her brother’s temperament.
“I’m not getting any younger,” Grandfather snapped at the footman. “I may be late to dinner, but I do want to eat.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the servant mumbled before rushing from the room to retrieve the duke’s plate.
Everyone sat in silence. And for the second time that day, Chatham House was as quiet as a vicarage at midnight. The clinking of silverware against the porcelain plates was the only sound reverberating about the room. Bella, and Prissa beside her, exchanged a look that said better than words could how much they both wished they were nearly anywhere else just then.
After a moment, Papa looked up from his roasted duck, cleared his throat, and smiled in Bella’s direction. An obvious attempt to break the sudden tension in the room, but Bella didn’t mind. She’d welcome just about anything that would make dinner more bearable. “Your cousin Johann is coming for a visit in a few weeks.”
Bella’s throat constricted. Now he wanted to discuss her predicament? And in front of Grandfather?
“Isn’t that nice?” Papa continued, conversationally.
“Nice?” she echoed numbly. Nice certainly wasn’t the word that sprung to Bella’s mind. Did Papa really find it nice? Was that the grand scheme she’d hoped he would come up with? That he hoped she would simply go along with Grandfather’s plans? Did Papa think Bella, with all of her strangeness and lack of suitors, would believe herself fortunate to have her cousin’s attention?
“Mmm.” Her father nodded. “I expect you and Prissa will do your best to make him feel welcome.”
Make him feel welcome? Welcome enough to offer for her? Bella’s stomach twisted at the thought. But of course, Johann wasn’t going to offer for her. There was no need for such formalities. Grandfather had already made up his mind about the situation. It might as well be etched in stone.
Across the table, Elliott caught her eye, and he frowned once more. He looked as happy about the prospect of Johann coming to visit as Bella felt. At least they had that in common. There was no need to glance down the table at the duke. She knew her grandfather’s eyes were on her, she could feel it in her bones. He was most likely looking for some sort of a reaction from her. But she wouldn’t give him that. Not now, not ever. Showing weakness to the Duke of Chatham was tantamount to surrender. And she wasn’t quite ready to do that. At least not yet.
The footman returned to the dining room and placed the duke’s plate before him. Then the man quietly returned to his post against the far wall.
At least with Grandfather eating his dinner, his dark eyes weren’t trained on Bella any longer.
But what was she to do? Papa seemed resigned to the idea of letting her return to Prussia with her cousin, more resigned than he had been that afternoon. Grandfather must have worn him down. She couldn’t expect any help from her father, that much was perfectly clear.
She glanced back at Elliott, across the table. He wasn’t the best of allies as far as power or influence went, but he hadn’t ever had any love for Johann either. Besides a mediocre ally was better than no ally, wasn’t it?
As soon as dinner came to an end, Bella and Prissa started for the drawing room. She was relieved when her brother entered the room less than a minute later. If he was to be an ally, there was no time to waste.
“You’re not having port with Grandpapa?” Prissa asked, her silver eyes wide.
Elliott’s gaze shifted from Bella to Prissa and back. “I was uninvited. Apparently, I’m too foxed as it is.”
Prissa nodded understandingly, just like she did at everything. “He has been in a temper today.”
Elliott snorted. “Not sure how you can tell the difference from one day to the next, love.”
“He’s not that bad. You just have to know how to deal with him,” Prissa said as she spun away from her siblings.
Bella and Elliott exchanged a glance. It wasn’t that Prissa knew how to deal with Grandfather and they didn’t. No. Prissa just had the ability to get along with anyone and always had. Her sweetness nearly exuded from her, almost like an angel. Even Grandfather liked her.
“Why is Hellsburg coming to Town?” Elliott asked, ignoring Prissa’s comment as there was nothing to say to it.
Bella shook her head. “I’m not sure why he’s coming to Town, but…” The next set of words lodged in her throat. Goodness, if she said them aloud they’d be real.
“But?” Elliott prompted.
Bella glanced over at Prissa, who had turned around once more and was staring at her quite pointedly. She didn’t want to admit this awfulness in front of their little sister. Doing so seemed the most degrading thing she could do.
“But…?” Prissa echoed, stepping closer to her siblings. Her innocent silvery eyes filled with concern as she reached a comforting hand to Bella. “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”
She didn’t feel well, not in the least. Bella would have turned away from he
r sister if Prissa hadn’t held onto her arm with a strength that didn’t seem remotely like the girl.
“Bella?” Elliott prompted.
She did need allies. She could tell them, couldn’t she? Well, perhaps not all of it. No one needed to know the awful things Grandfather had said about her in his study. But if she couldn’t find a way out of her predicament, she’d find herself married to Johann von Guttstadt and there wouldn’t be any point in trying to hide that fact from her siblings. “Grandfather means to secure a match between us,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice as the awfulness of the words circled about her heart.
Elliott’s mouth dropped open, and Prissa’s hand fluttered to her lips in surprise.
“He’s going to marry you off to that vulgar boor?” Elliott snapped.
“You don’t want to marry him, do you?” Prissa asked, the breathless quality of her voice shaking just a bit.
Bella shook her head. “Papa said if I haven’t found a husband in the next fortnight, he’d sign the marriage contract. So…”
“So you need a husband,” Prissa said, grabbing on to the one bit of hope there was to be had in the situation. Then she turned her full attention on Elliott. “You don’t have any friends who…”
Their brother scoffed. “You don’t seriously think the old cur would agree to let her marry one of my friends, do you?”
Prissa’s head dropped, right along with Bella’s spirits.
“I didn’t take last season. A fortnight…” wasn’t enough to time to find some fellow and bring him up to scratch. She couldn’t bring herself to mutter that last bit.
“A fortnight is nothing,” Elliott said, warmth exuding from his tone, which was unlike him. Bella must look more than distraught. “Miss Lucinda Potts ran off to Gretna Green with Brookfield not long ago. She’d only known the blackguard a few days.”
“I don’t think Papa would agree to let her marry some blackguard, do you?”
Before Elliott could answer, Bella shook her head. “I don’t want to marry some blackguard. I just want…”
“What do you want?” Prissa asked softly.
That was the question she’d spent the last few years pondering, wasn’t it? Bella had always hoped to see a bit of the world. There was so much to see, so much to experience, and now that the war was quite over, she’d hoped to tour a bit of the continent. Not like Mama had done, of course. She didn’t want to abandon her family all in the name of art; but she dreamed of experiencing the energy of Paris, walking in the same steps where the Renaissance masters had walked in Florence, and touring the ancient structures of the Ottoman Empire. Finding a husband had just never been something she’d cared overly much about. Though, she was certainly in a predicament now because she hadn’t, wasn’t she?
A husband, a husband. What would she possibly want in a husband? Honestly, she had no idea. Someone kind, like Papa; but with a bit more fortitude, she supposed. Someone who saw the world as she did. Someone who loved art and saw the beauty in all things. And that man was not Johann von Guttstadt. Beggars could not be choosers, however. And her time was very limited. “Just an honorable man,” she finally said. “One who’ll treat me well, and if he has any love for art, all the better.”
“Your friend,” Elliott began.
“Which friend?”
“The St. Claire chit.”
Lissy hadn’t been the St. Claire chit in quite some time. “You mean Lady Felicity Pierce?”
Her brother nodded. “She’s always surrounded by a throng of men. Maybe she’ll give you one of hers.”
Prissa gasped. “I can’t imagine it works that way, Elliott.”
Bella didn’t imagine it did either. But Lissy was a good idea, nonetheless. She was a trustworthy friend and beyond loyal. Perhaps she knew of a fellow who needed a wife as badly as Bella did a husband. “I’ll send her a note.”
“Bella!” Prissa’s hand flew to her heart. “You can’t be serious.”
A laugh escaped Bella, which was a good sign, actually. If she could manage to laugh, there had to be some hope. “Not so she can give me one of her suitors, but she may have some grand idea, something I haven’t come up with.”
“All right.” Elliott scratched his jaw. “You work that angle, and I’ll see if I can’t figure something out with some old schoolmates, someone Grandfather wouldn’t soundly object to.”
“You should head to the Astwick ball,” Prissa suggested.
But Bella shook her head. “I hardly feel in the mood for such a thing tonight.”
Her sister’s lips pursed. “Really, Bella! You have a fortnight to change your future. You can’t afford to let a little thing like your mood cost you precious time.”
“She’s right,” Elliott added. “I could always escort you. There’s no need to deal with Father or His Grace.”
Elliott truly was an ally. Bella would have never expected him to be so. “You’d do that for me?”
He shrugged a bit, and a charming smile – their mother’s smile – lit his lips. “By the time the old cur finally sticks his spoon in the wall, I’m likely to be an old man myself. It might be in my best interest to find a wealthy bride of my own. No man could live off my allowance.”
Prissa sucked in a breath. “Elliott Winslett! You will not be a fortune hunter!”
He chuckled slightly. “I make no promises, love.”
Chapter 2
The London Season was most certainly the eighth circle of hell. Seducers, flatterers, hypocrites. And those were just the fellows Greg was familiar with. Not for the first time that night, he wondered why he was standing in the front corner of Lady Astwick’s ballroom, holding a cup of tepid punch and watching young chits swirl about the dance floor on the arms of such men.
The question was a rhetorical one, however. He knew exactly why he was there. His sister-in-law Phoebe had made it her mission to drag him to the most exclusive events in Town ever since his arrival a fortnight earlier. No matter how much he adored his sister-in-law – and he truly did – he was in no mood to have her thrust any more of her un-wed friends in his direction.
After all, he hadn’t come to Town to socialize. And he certainly hadn’t come to Town to find a wife. He’d come to be of support to his sister. His sister, who was not even in attendance this evening, damn it all. So he shouldn’t have been dragged to this dratted ballroom, not really.
“I could have sworn Lissy was here when we arrived,” Phoebe complained under her breath. Then she raised herself up on her toes as though to get a better view of the ballroom. Searching for yet another one of her friends she wanted to foist upon Greg, most certainly.
He could go one evening without enduring such a thing. Damn it all, he could go a lifetime.
“Carraway dragged her away while you were in the retiring room, my love,” Tristan replied smoothly, placing his hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “And do watch your balance. I’ll be carrying you out of here with a twisted ankle if you’re not careful.”
Phoebe, who wasn’t known for her surefootedness, turned around, her auburn curls bouncing about her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief as she gazed up at her husband. “Lord Carraway?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” Tristan shook his head. “The fellow looked to be well beyond angry, Phoeb.”
“Whenever he encounters her, she puts him in a mood,” Phoebe agreed. Then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled at her husband. “Don’t you remember how you were always so prickly in my presence? Before you realized you loved me, I mean?”
“I hardly think I was prickly.” Tristan narrowed his eyes on his wife. “Besides, I doubt this is the same thing.”
“But it could be,” Phoebe replied dreamily. “I think they might make a splendid match, don’t you?”
If that meant Phoebe wasn’t inspired to toss whoever the chit was in Greg’s path, he was all for it. “Oh, I do,” he added as he handed his glass to a passing footman
. Though he had no idea who she was talking about…well other than Lord Carraway, a bloody politician, naturally. And with that thought, Greg was right back to imaging Lady Astwick’s ballroom as the eighth circle of hell.
“You might like her.” Phoebe turned her full attention on Greg. “Lady Felicity is always in the brightest of dispositions.”
So much for the chit making a splendid match for Carraway. Greg heaved a sigh. He didn’t know Lady Felicity, but he knew the name. He knew it quite well. “The lady who’s forever putting Russell in his place?”
Phoebe grinned. “She does rather excel at that.” Then his sister-in-law’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! And speaking of the devil.” She rose up on her tiptoes again and called toward the entranceway, “There you are!”
Greg, Tristan and several others turned their attention to a pretty blonde girl, who looked at once panicked. She lifted her skirts, turned on her heel and quickly bolted down the corridor, away from the ballroom.
“Lissy!” Phoebe called after the girl, but the chit didn’t so much as slow her gait.
“That skittish mouse is the same girl who makes Russell shake in his Hessians?” Whatever he’d expected of Lady Felicity, she didn’t appear to be the reputed dragon his middle brother had been known to hide from on occasion. Though she certainly had the right idea about escaping the ballroom, Greg had to give her that.
Tristan smirked. “You should see her in action.”
But Phoebe wasn’t smiling, a concerned look settled across her brow. “Do you think she’s all right?”
Once again, Tristan placed a hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “She looked fine to me, my love. But I’ll go after her, if you want.”
Phoebe slid from Tristan’s grasp. “I think I’ll do so myself. If something is wrong, she’ll be more inclined to confide in me than in you.” Then she started for the exit, stumbling slightly only once, leaving Tristan and Greg to themselves.