One Tempting Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

  “I will manage, Ollie.”

  And how would a woman solve anything? In Seb’s experience, women either wreaked havoc on a man’s life, or filled it with noise and color and clever quips, like his mother and sister. Either option would allay loneliness, but he did not suffer from that affliction. Sentimental men were lonely. Not him. Even if he did live in a house with ceilings so tall his voice echoed when he chattered to himself.

  He narrowed his eyes at Ollie, and his friend sat up in his chair, squared his shoulders, and tipped his chin to stare at Seb directly.

  “She’s the eldest daughter of a marquess, Bash, and much more aware of the rules of etiquette among the wealthy and titled than you are.”

  “Then we won’t have much in common.”

  Ollie groaned. “She would be a fine partner, a formidable ally in this new life you’ve taken on.”

  “No.”

  Denial came easily, and he denounced Ollie’s mad implication that the two of them should marry sisters from the same family. But reason, that damnable voice in his head that sounded like his father, contradicted him.

  At two and thirty, he’d reached an age for matrimony, and with inherited property and a title came the duty to produce an heir. No one wanted Roxbury and the Wrexford dukedom to pass to another distant cousin. If he had any doubts about his need for a wife, he was surrounded by women who’d happily remind him. His aunt, Lady Stamford, had sent a letter he’d found waiting for him the day he’d arrived at Roxbury suggesting that marriage was as much his duty as managing the estate. Pippa also dropped hints now and then that having a sister-­in-­law would be very nice indeed.

  Ollie had yet to multiply the bride-­taking encouragement, but he was making a fine effort at rectifying the oversight.

  “Acquiring a dukedom is a vast undertaking.” Ollie stretched out his arms wide to emphasize the vastness of it all. “Why not have a lovely woman by your side in such an endeavor?”

  “I didn’t acquire it, Oliver. It passed to me.” He loathed his habit of stating the obvious.

  A lovely woman by his side. The notion brought a pang, equal parts stifled desire and memory-­soaked dread. He’d imagined it once, making plans and envisioning the life he’d create with the woman he loved. But that was all sentiment and it had been smashed, its pieces left in the past. Now practicality dictated his choices. He spared emotion only for his family, for Pippa and Ollie.

  Ollie watched him like a convicted man awaiting his sentence.

  His friend’s practical argument held some appeal. A marquess’s daughter would know how to navigate the social whirl, and Seb liked the notion of not devoting all of his own energy to tackling that challenge. He might even find a moment to spare for mathematics, rather than having to forfeit his life’s work entirely to take on the duties of a dukedom.

  And it would give Ollie a chance at happiness. Perhaps this younger daughter of Lord Clayborne’s would be the woman to inspire constancy in Ollie, and Seb might assist his friend to achieve the family and stability he’d lost in childhood.

  Seb spoke on an exhaled sigh. “I suppose I do need a wife.” And there he went stating the obvious again.

  Oliver turned into a ten-­year-­old boy before his eyes, as giddy as a pup. If the man had a tail, he’d be wagging it furiously. He jumped up and reached out to clasp Seb on the shoulder.

  “Just meet Lady Katherine, Seb. See if you suit. That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t quite all he asked, but Seb had learned the futility of quibbling with a giddy Oliver.

  A marquess’s daughter? Lady Katherine sounded like just the sort of woman a duke should seek to marry. Seb could contemplate marriage as a practical matter, but nothing more.

  Would he ever feel more?

  He hadn’t allowed himself an ounce of interest in a woman in ten years, not in a lush feminine figure, nor in a pair of fine eyes, not even in the heady mix of a woman’s unique scent under the notes of some floral essence.

  “I think you’ll enjoy London during the season.” Ollie couldn’t manage sincerity when uttering the declaration. His mouth quivered and he blinked one eye as if he’d just caught an irritating bit of dust.

  Seb doubted he’d enjoy London during the crush of the social season. As a Cambridge man raised in a modest home in the university’s shadow, he’d enjoyed occasional jaunts to London but had always been content to return to his studies. As he opened his mouth to say as much to Ollie, Pippa strode into the room and drew their attention to the doorway.

  She’d changed into one of the day dresses their aunt insisted she choose for the upcoming season, though Pippa signaled her disdain for the flouncy yellow creation by swiping down the ruffles that kept popping up on her chest and around her shoulders.

  “Luncheon is laid in the morning room. Are you joining us, Oliver?”

  Ollie stared wide-­eyed at Pippa a moment and then turned to Seb.

  “We’re almost finished here,” Seb assured her. “Ollie and I will join you momentarily.”

  She nodded but offered the still speechless Ollie a sharp glance before departing.

  After a moment, Ollie found his voice. “I’ve never seen her so . . .”

  “Irritated?”

  “Feminine.”

  Seb took a turn glaring at Ollie. The man had just been thrilled at the prospect of a match with Lady Harriet. He had no business noticing Pippa’s femininity, especially after failing to do so for over a dozen years.

  “She chose a few new dresses.” Seb cleared his throat to draw Ollie’s attention.

  “It’s odd,” Ollie said, his face still pinched in confusion. “I’ve known Pippa most of my life and never truly thought of her as a woman.”

  His friend’s words put Seb’s mind at ease, but he suspected Pippa wouldn’t find them nearly as heartening.

  “Ollie, let’s return to the matter at hand.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ollie rubbed his hands together and grinned, the matter of Pippa quickly forgotten. “Will you come to the Clayborne ball and meet Lady Katherine?”

  “I will.” Meeting the woman seemed a simple prospect. Practical. Reasonable. A perfectly logical decision in the circumstances.

  “If you’re still planning on presenting Pippa this season, by all means, bring her along too,” Ollie added. “Why leave her to ramble this house alone?”

  Pippa preferred to spend her days at Cambridge where she’d been studying mathematics for much of the previous year. Yet Seb felt the pull of his aunt’s assertion. His sister should have a London season, or at least spend some time among London society. He wished to open as many doors for Pippa as he could. Give her choices and options. If his title meant his sister might be more comfortably settled in life, all the better.

  “She’s not convinced of the appeal of a London season.” Seb worried neither of them was equipped for it either. Gowns and finely tailored clothing aside, they didn’t possess the aristocratic polish others would expect of a duke and his sister.

  Ever undaunted, Ollie grinned. “Then you must convince her.”

  Seb lifted his gaze to the ceiling, following the tracery, lines in perfect symmetry, equidistant and equal in length, forming a perfect whole. The geometric beauty of the design melted a bit of the tension in his shoulders. Still, he doubted the propriety of allowing his sister to attend a ball when she’d not yet formally come out. And, most importantly, he feared Pippa was unprepared for the sort of attention she would encounter in London.

  Pippa unprepared? She’d fence him into a corner for even entertaining the notion.

  “Very well. We’ll both attend, but I make no promises regarding Lady Katherine.”

  He’d accept the invitation in order to give Pippa her first glimpse of a proper London ball, meet this marquess’s daughter, and do what he could to assist Ollie’s cause. But marrying Lady Katherine was ano
ther matter entirely. He’d only ever intended to marry one woman and that had gone so spectacularly pear-­shaped, he wasn’t certain he could bring himself to propose ever again.

  Chapter Three

  “YOU’LL DEFEND OLIVER, won’t you, Kitty? Papa can be a bit ferocious.”

  A bit? Kitty Adderly’s middle sister, Hattie, the diplomat of the family, had a tendency to smooth over others’ flaws, especially their father’s. Heaven knew the Adderlys needed a peacemaker. Conversations often turned to rows and petty scrambles for a bit of high ground, even if it meant putting everyone else out of sorts. Left to their own devices, Kitty thought she and her sisters could carry on very amicably, but their parents often forced them to take sides.

  No one could doubt that of the three sisters, Hattie most deserved a happy ending. Hattie knew how to embrace joy with open arms, whereas Violet was their resident worrier, far too concerned with being precise and fussing over what might or might not come to be, and every tragic possibility in between. Too much like Mama.

  Kitty preferred not to dwell on her own foibles, though she knew them with intimate certainty. It was agony to admit the truth—­that she’d inherited her father’s nature, his tendency to overestimate his own worth and see others as somehow less clever and therefore less worthy. Worst of all, it was a terrible bore. It made everyone she met far too easy to maneuver and mold. It was the single thing Kitty might change about herself, if she was pressed to change anything at all.

  Only her sisters gentled her. With Hattie and Violet, there was never a need for pettiness and foolish games. Their influence even melted a bit of her anger toward their father.

  “If you love Mr. Treadwell, I’m certain I will too. You know Papa barely speaks to me these days, but I shall do all I can.”

  Since the first moment the nurse had placed Hattie in her five-­year-­old arms, a plump squalling bundle with a tuft of blond hair and soft pink skin, Kitty hadn’t been able to deny her sister anything. If Hattie truly wished to marry the man, how could she douse her joy?

  Hattie had never been one for childish infatuations, so Kitty believed her enthusiasm for the young man sprang from genuine emotion, however short their acquaintance.

  But there was still Papa to manage. He wouldn’t approve of Hattie’s barrister-­to-­be easily, and he’d taken to the ridiculous notion that his first daughter must marry before his second or third. He’d only mentioned the idea in the past weeks, and Hattie covered the hurt of his declaration by teasingly claiming it was a harebrained scheme the gentlemen at his club helped him devise to give them a new cause for a wager.

  But Kitty knew the truth of it. She and Father had been engaged in a grand chess match for as long as she could remember. He would move to best her, she would attempt some bit of strategy to impress him, and he would invariably choose exactly that moment to call checkmate.

  Father had been the one to teach her to play chess when she was a child. During one memorable lesson, he’d lectured her on ways to limit an opponent’s options, to hem them in, forcing the direction of their next move.

  This new insistence that she marry first was meant to do just that. To cobble her, take away her options, and perhaps punish her for her continued refusal of Lord Ponsonby. Mama might allow her to be discerning and terribly choosy when it came to accepting a proposal, but her father couldn’t seem to forgive her rejection of a man he considered a friend and political ally.

  “I’ve had a note from dearest Oliver this morning. He will be at the ball tonight, of course, but he tells me he’s bringing friends, the Duke of Wrexford and his sister.”

  “He’s friends with a duke? You should have mentioned that to Papa first. Nothing impresses Desmond Adderly like money and good blood.”

  Hattie nodded eagerly, the pinned curls around her ears coming loose in her fervency. “A quite handsome duke from all I’ve heard. And rich. He’s only just inherited a beautiful estate in Cambridgeshire. Roxbury Hall, I believe it’s called.”

  Kitty had been flipping pages in a lady’s magazine as their maid, Elsie, arranged her hair and Hattie’s. When Elsie reached up to sort out Hattie’s loosened curls, the meaning of her sister’s ramblings finally dawned on Kitty.

  “Hattie . . . I do hope you don’t mean to match me with Oliver’s duke.”

  “I’m not Papa. I wouldn’t presume to match you, but I thought Wrexford might intrigue you. Beyond his friendship with Oliver, the man’s a new duke.”

  Wouldn’t their father love such a match? She might finally, for once in her three and twenty years, actually please him. It was a prospect she’d given up long ago. What he most wanted from her, she could never give him. She couldn’t change her sex. She could never be the Clayborne son and heir he’d hoped for.

  Mama would be over the moon too. What a coup to marry off her first daughter to a duke. It might even cover the embarrassment of admitting Oliver, the not-­quite-­a barrister, into the family. And it could sweep away all of Kitty’s sins—­the incident she’d instigated with Lord Grimsby, and her refusal to marry a man three times her age.

  But what might it cost her? A duke, higher ranking than her father, might outrank him in imperiousness too. If her every action was watched and appraised now, how might she be scrutinized as Duchess of Wrexford?

  Hattie, clever girl, said nothing more, but watched Kitty from the corner of her clear blue eyes. She waited, allowing Kitty to sift her worries and the benefits of such a match, which were impossible to deny.

  Kitty laughed, a lower naughtier tone that she reserved for moments alone with her sisters.

  “I look forward to meeting him.” She lifted a finger when she saw Hattie beaming. “Only that. I promise you nothing. He’s a new duke. Anyone would be curious.”

  SEBASTIAN TRIED TO ignore the whispers and stares as a footman announced him and Pippa at the Clayborne ball. They were a fresh spectacle, something new for London society to chew on. He expected others to be curious, though his sister seemed to bristle at the inquisitive glances.

  “Will we be able to overcome our shyness and talk to these ­people?” she asked as her gaze darted from the shimmering chandeliers to livered footmen to a cluster of ladies whose jewels glittered in the gaslight.

  “I wasn’t aware we suffered from shyness.”

  His sister attended classes in which she was often the sole female in the room. She gave speeches at the half-­dozen ladies’ groups she’d joined. Pippa had as much mettle as most men he knew.

  Seb preferred to listen and observe before speaking, and he strove to choose his words carefully. Still, their parents had taught him and Pippa the power of words, encouraging them to form educated opinions and speak their minds. Neither of them could truly be called bashful.

  Pippa seemed to disagree. Looking up at him, she tipped her head, assessing him. “You rarely speak to those with whom you’re not acquainted, and I’m dreadful at making new friends.”

  “I call that discerning. Not shy.”

  He was relieved to see the hint of a smile and feel Pippa loosening her grip on his arm. Despite her reticence about attending the ball, she’d prepared carefully, choosing one of her new gowns, and one afternoon the previous week he’d even caught her dancing in her sitting room.

  This ball was a much more formal affair than the winter country dance he’d attended previously, but for the most part the whisperers seemed benign. He spied nods of approval and even a few genuine smiles of welcome among the gathered guests.

  Lady Clayborne greeted them warmly and Lady Harriet, the object of Oliver’s affections, truly was a bejeweled goddess. Alabaster fairly described the lady’s skin, and her hair shimmered as bright and enticing as any golden relic.

  Her sister, Lady Katherine, the woman whose noble qualities Ollie had been extolling for the entire train ride down from Roxbury to London, was absent from the introductions. Perhaps s
he’d caught a whiff of the grand scheme to match them and found a way to avoid the ball, as Sebastian half wished he’d done.

  Not only did he doubt his suitably to marry any woman but, in general, he loathed scheming of any kind. He refused to be manipulated like a marionette on a string. He’d danced to one woman’s tune a decade ago. Never again.

  When he stopped moving and began woolgathering, Pippa unlatched herself from his arm to go off in search of lemonade with Lady Harriet. Seb watched his sister be swept away, and took a strategic position next to a potted palm, letting his eyes range over the assembled guests. Who was who? Why had Lord Clayborne selected these particular guests? He feared there’d be no space in his mind for mathematics at all once he’d filled it with lords and ladies and all of polite society’s rules of etiquette.

  Ollie had arrived before them and approached Sebastian.

  “Apparently there was some snafu with Lady Katherine’s gown. You know how ladies are about their gowns. Hattie says she’ll be down direct . . .” Oliver had been glancing around the room as he whispered and stopped short at the sight of a tall statuesque blond woman in a gown of buttercream satin. “Wait. There she is. Shall I make the introduction?”

  Lady Katherine was a stunning woman—­gilded hair, emerald eyes, all the precious adjectives one could devise—­with delicate features almost too perfectly arranged. Her hair was lighter than her sister’s and glittered as if spun through with threads of gold, and her skin glowed as if she’d painted herself with diamond dust. The lady drew attention and she knew it. She moved with purpose, a measured glide, meting out a smile here, a grin there, as she floated across the ballroom. A group of giggling young women seemed to be her target, and Seb watched as she sailed toward them as sure as an arrow shot from a master archer’s bow.