by Eva Leigh
He gave her his best, most winning smile. “I—”
But that was as far as he got before a swain stepped between them. “I believe this dance is mine, Miss Pearce.”
“Of course, Mr. Carroll,” the girl answered. She sent Kit an apologetic look as she was led to the dance floor. He fought the urge to take her hand in his and run off into the night like some underworld king claiming his companion.
It’s finally happened. I’ve lost my goddamned mind.
He could wait for her. Bide his time, and then swoop down on her the moment she was free from this Carroll’s clutches.
Yet his response to her was too powerful. Frightening.
He had to regain control over himself. He needed balance. The only time he’d been this close to losing control of himself was on the eve of his first battle.
Kit turned away from the sight of Miss Pearce swaying on the dance floor like a living flame and made his way toward the room set aside for gambling. At least there, he knew the rules of the game.
Though Tamsyn did her best to keep her attention on her dancing partner, her gaze strayed to the blond man with the wary gaze and wide shoulders as he swiftly exited the ballroom. She ought to stay focused on Mr. Carroll—dancing often led to conversation, which could in turn become a morning call, and a few social calls might give way to an amicable connection, and then, hopefully, an offer of matrimony—but she was unable to help herself. Not only had the blond man been exceptionally handsome, but he carried himself with a singular determination, and sharp intelligence gleamed in his eyes.
Three weeks in London searching for a man she might consider marrying had revealed that, while there were a good deal of attractive men, very few of them possessed lean, athletic bodies, and almost none had a sense of purpose or keen intellects.
However, she didn’t need or want a husband to be observant. Or attentive. The more distracted and heedless the better.
It didn’t matter what she wanted for herself, that she had once dreamed of a marriage as devoted as her parents’. Such hopes were merely fancies, never to come to pass.
Yet as she moved through the figures of the dance, she found herself asking Mr. Carroll, “Who was that gentleman?”
Mr. Carroll seemed to know exactly to whom she referred. “Lord Blakemere.” He gave a puzzled frown when she only looked at him blankly. “You really are a country gel if you don’t know him either by face or name.”
She couldn’t feel embarrassed about her Cornish origins. Some London girls had a pale, pinched look and probably couldn’t walk over the moors without calling for a carriage.
But she couldn’t snap a tart reply to Mr. Carroll—not without seriously damaging her marital prospects—so she merely smiled. “We hear so little about the sophisticated city in Cornwall.”
“Can’t be faulted for being born in a backwater, I suppose.” Mr. Carroll sniffed.
She had considered Mr. Carroll moderately handsome, in a rather watery, overbred way, but her opinion of him took a sharp plummet. It would be bad form to simply walk away and leave him alone on the dance floor, so she kept moving through the figures of La Gaillarde.
“Tell me more about Lord Blakemere,” she said with as much sweetness as she could muster.
“Third son of the Marquess of Brownlowe,” Mr. Carroll said dismissively.
“But he’s Lord Blakemere,” she pointed out. She fell silent as she walked through the steps, pulling her away from her dance partner.
“He bought a commission, the way third sons do,” Mr. Carroll explained when they came back together. “Went off to war. Must’ve shown off over there like a trained lion because he came back and they gave him an earldom. But it didn’t come with any money,” he added quickly, clearly seeing her interest. “He’s strapped. Barely has a groat.”
Tamsyn’s heart sank. So much for Lord Blakemere. The second part of her objective in coming to London was finding herself a rich husband. If she was going to buy Chei Owr from her uncle and keep the smuggling operation alive, she needed a spouse with considerable wealth.
“You didn’t tell her the best part,” the man dancing next to Mr. Carroll added. Before Mr. Carroll could object to the interruption, the other man continued, “Blakemere’s got one week to find himself a bride.”
“What happens in a week?” she asked, trying to listen and concentrate on the steps at the same time.
“He loses his chance to inherit a fortune,” Mr. Carroll snapped. “No wife, no money. That’s the end of it.”
Inherit a fortune. The words reverberated in Tamsyn’s head as she fell into distracted silence.
It was certainly something to contemplate.
At the end of the dance, she curtsied to Mr. Carroll. “Thank you, sir.”
“Might I get you some refreshment?” he offered.
“That’s kind of you, but I believe I see my sponsor, Lady Daleford, standing alone. I must keep her company. Do excuse me.”
He looked annoyed by her dismissal as Tamsyn backed away from him, but his expression of irritation lifted when the same talkative gentleman from the dance whispered in his ear. Mr. Carroll glanced at Tamsyn with the look of a man who had narrowly escaped a ravenous ghoul.
She suppressed a sigh and turned away. Doubtless her lack of dowry was the topic under discussion. In the weeks she had been searching for a potential groom, all the men who had shown promise eventually disappeared when they learned of her impecunious circumstances.
Lady Daleford looked at her with sympathy as she approached. “My dear, you mustn’t let the chatterers deter you,” the older woman declared. She fanned herself slowly. “Your dear papa, God rest him, did you no favors by leaving this world intestate.”
The heaviness in Tamsyn’s chest pressed down. “I suppose he believed he could attend to that matter later.” His brother, Jory, hadn’t seen fit to make any provisions for her, and it was only through Lady Daleford’s largesse that Tamsyn had any fashionable clothes to wear during her brief, disastrous Season.
“We, all of us, think we have more time than we do,” Lady Daleford agreed.
Seeking a change in topic, Tamsyn said, “It cannot be factual that Lord Blakemere has only one week to find himself a wife.”
The older woman’s brows rose. “Heard the gossip, have you?”
So it was true, incredible as it might seem. “Why isn’t he swarming with debutantes?”
Lady Daleford’s expression grew sober. “He is. But no matter what gel seeks his favor, he continues on his hunt. But you would do wise to avoid him. Lord Blakemere wants a bride and will indeed come into a fortune, but he will make the most appalling husband.”
“Strong words, Lady Daleford,” Tamsyn said with surprise. She looked toward the card room.
“Though he fought bravely against our enemies abroad,” the older woman acknowledged, “on English soil Blakemere is the veriest rogue. He’s in a class by himself—well, Lord Langdon belongs in that class, as well.” Her expression became pinched. “Before he learned of his possible inheritance, he never attended a single respectable gathering. He consorts with dancers and actresses, and is a habitué of gaming hells.”
“Most men of his rank do the same,” Tamsyn pointed out. “As for gambling, ladies do that, too. Even in Cornwall the gentry play cards for coin and wager on horses.”
Lady Daleford shook her head. “Here in London, a city full of spendthrifts, he is the ne plus ultra of profligates. The considerable number of his vowels is said to be unprecedented.” She held up one gloved finger. “Mark my word, if he does manage to inherit that money, he will surely tear through it within a year.” She patted Tamsyn’s cheek. “My dear, when I agreed to let you stay with me for the Season, I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would steer you clear of any unsuitable candidates. You are here to make a good match, and by heaven, I will make certain that happens.”
“It’s impossible for me to fully express my gratitude,” Tamsyn replied sincerely.
Tamsyn smiled wryly. At twenty-four, she was definitely older than most of the girls vying for husbands, and she’d wager had a good deal more worldly experience than her rivals.
Lady Daleford continued, “Despite your age, and the paucity of your dowry, you come from an ancient lineage and can make a relatively advantageous match. Mr. Simon Hoult has been staring at you all night, and he’s a baron’s second son. You could do far worse.”
Tamsyn risked a glance at Mr. Hoult. He was a tall gentleman with dark brown hair and a cheerful face. His smile widened when he caught Tamsyn looking at him.
“Would he make an attentive husband?” she asked Lady Daleford.
The older woman beamed. “Oh, he’ll assuredly be dutiful. His parents are devoted to each other, and I am certain he will follow their model.”
Much as she desired that for her own selfish reasons, Tamsyn’s mood pitched lower. So much for Mr. Hoult. However, likely encouraged by her brief look in his direction, the gentleman began making his way toward her from across the ballroom. He’d unquestionably ask her to dance, or request the honor of getting her a glass of punch, and Tamsyn didn’t have the heart to encourage him when his chances were futile.
“I need to find the retiring room,” she murmured. “Excuse me.”
As Lady Daleford protested, Tamsyn slipped away before Mr. Hoult could get any closer. She hurried down the corridor leading to the retiring room, but she didn’t go inside. Instead, she sat down on a settee. Running her fingers over the tufted upholstery, she mentally reviewed all of the Earl of Blakemere’s attributes.
He was a careless libertine.
He was terrible with money.
He only wanted a wife in order to claim a fortune, which likely meant he’d be a negligent husband.
In short, he was perfect.
Her pulse leapt at the thought of him, and a flame of attraction burned to life. Usually, she didn’t find herself drawn to blond men, but he had caught her eye from the moment she’d set foot inside the ballroom. He had wide shoulders and carried himself with supreme confidence, as if capable of conquering any obstacle that presented itself. No surprise that he was a former soldier.
He had a somewhat-long face, with a distinguished, largish nose and curved lips. Up close, she’d seen that his eyes were lake blue, and sharply discerning. He’d looked at her with sensual awareness—and judging by the ease with which he moved, his promise of carnality would be readily, enthusiastically fulfilled.
She shook off her thoughts. Lord Blakemere as a lover was not her purpose. She was here to land a husband, the more desperate and inattentive the better.
A flare of unusual nerves tightened through her body. Lord Blakemere fit the bill exactly, but the question was, could she make him want her?
Chapter 3
Warily, Tamsyn approached the card room. Masculine conversation rolled out, borne aloft on fumes of a considerable amount of imbibed brandy. A handful of ladies’ voices joined in, sopranos to the basses, but overall, the room sounded occupied mostly by men.
Her heart made a hard, unsteady beat as she contemplated what she was about to do. She’d never deliberately set her cap for a man, laying out all the pretty little traps women were supposed to cunningly employ to ensnare suitors.
She wasn’t afraid of men by any means. At home in Newcombe, she often worked long hours side by side with the roughest of farmers and fishermen. She believed they tempered their words in consideration of her gender and status. Yet sometimes a barrel would crash down, spilling its contents everywhere, and colorful, profane curses were employed. She came from the countryside, too, where talk was likely more honest, more coarse than the way people spoke in London.
Tamsyn hadn’t had the luxury of being sheltered. But that also meant that she never truly learned the art of simpering or coquetry.
Yet somehow, she was supposed to attract Lord Blakemere’s notice, enough to let him know that she was interested.
She exhaled ruefully. She’d spent many a moonless night standing in freezing seawater, hauling crates of fabric and half ankers of brandy, knowing that the custom officers might discover her at any moment—and yet the task of flirting with a handsome, eligible man made her palms damp.
“Are you going to enter?” a young woman asked, fanning herself as she stood beside Tamsyn. “I’m not certain I want to go in. It’s so dull everywhere I turn.”
“I don’t know what you plan on doing,” Tamsyn said to the woman beside her, straightening her shoulders, “but I feel the need to gamble.”
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the card room.
The setting was far more elegant than any of the taverns where she’d seen card and dice games played. Instead of seamen and farmers crouching around games played upon a coarse stone floor, fashionable men and women sat encircling polished mahogany tables. Rather than rough hands clutching battered cards, the guests wore gloves and played using cards so clean they had to be new, or rolled dice made of shining ivory. Everything here spoke of privileged leisure, so different from what she’d known.
Tamsyn’s gaze skipped quickly from table to table. Her heart jumped when she finally spotted Lord Blakemere in a corner, playing cassino.
God help her, he seemed to have grown more handsome in the half an hour since she’d seen him last. No wonder women—both respectable and otherwise—were drawn to him. She felt pulled in his direction, lured by carnal potential.
Look at me.
But the earl was too absorbed in the game to notice any newcomers, and she tried not to feel disappointment that he didn’t look up when she entered the room.
Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Tamsyn slowly made her way around the room, pausing at different tables, pretending to watch the play. She applauded when one of the guests won their hand, but all the while, she was acutely aware of Lord Blakemere’s nearby presence.
What was she going to do once she reached his table? She couldn’t very well throw herself across his lap and cry, “Marry me, my lord!”
She needed to be crafty and calculating, perhaps even more so than she was when storing smuggled French spirits in the caverns beneath her family’s ancestral home.
Finally, she reached Lord Blakemere’s table and found herself struck by the clean angle of his jaw and the hedonistic curves of his mouth. She barely noticed that one gentleman acted as dealer while the other players—another man, the earl, and a dowager in ropes of pearls—studied their cards.
Tamsyn positioned herself behind an empty chair opposite Lord Blakemere, but her target didn’t look up from his hand. It wasn’t until the round was over that he glanced in her direction.
His gaze met hers, and she felt a hot jolt travel the length of her body. Her breath left her in a sudden rush.
Forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly, she smiled at him. Gradually, he smiled back. It wasn’t a gentleman’s polite smile, but one that seemed to promise wicked things leisurely done under cover of darkness.
Another bolt of electricity moved through her. She’d had men look at her with sexual interest before, but none of those looks held the seductive power of Lord Blakemere’s sultry smile.
He asked, “Would you care to play, Miss . . . I’m sorry, please remind me of your name.”
“Pearce,” she said breathlessly. “Tamsyn Pearce.”
“Odd name,” muttered the dowager. “Tamsyn.”
Tamsyn’s cheeks heated with a flare of temper. Back home, hers was a commonplace name. But she wasn’t one of the thousands of Annes or Catherines or Marys that seemed all the rage in London.
“A charming name,” the earl corrected the dowager. “Cornish, yes?”
“That’s right.” A point for the earl for
not dismissing her as a country mouse.
“Never been to Cornwall,” Lord Blakemere said, “though I hear it’s lovely.”
“And a smuggler’s paradise,” the other gentleman at the table added.
Tamsyn forced herself to laugh, and it came out a little shrilly. “The tales of Cornwall’s criminal side are exaggerated by ballads and print sellers.”
“I should hope so,” Lord Blakemere said darkly.
She didn’t like the grim tone of his voice, so she said in a cheerful voice, “Fishing and mining, that’s how we earn our bread.” She smiled brightly, hoping it might cover up the sheer drivel pouring from her mouth.
Lord Blakemere continued to smile, as well. Their gazes held—with that curious heat unfolding deep within her as she stared into his deep blue eyes—and who knows how long they would have simply stared at each other if the dowager didn’t snap, “Are we playing or napping?”
“Miss Pearce, will you join us?” Lord Blakemere asked. “We can be a partnership.”
Oh blast. She hadn’t thought about this possibility. “I would very much like to,” she said, then added ruefully, “only I haven’t any cash with me.”
“I’ll stake you,” he offered at once. “Say, three pounds? No, four.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a sizable wad of cash, and peeled off four one-pound notes, which he set on the table.
She felt her eyes widen. Goodness, he really was profligate with money if he offered her—a stranger—the loan of four pounds. That amount of money could feed a dozen families in Newcombe.
The other gentleman at the table and the dowager merely shook their heads, as if familiar with Lord Blakemere’s extravagance.
“That’s kind of you, my lord,” she murmured.
“Sit down, gel,” the dowager snarled, “or I may perish of acute boredom.”
With a Herculean effort not to snarl back, Tamsyn took her seat opposite Lord Blakemere. He winked at her and her stomach fluttered.
Concentrate, Tam. You’re here to snare his interest, not fall all over yourself like a newborn calf.