Duel of Hearts

by Anita Mills

  “I want Lyndon out of my path, Elaine.”

  “ ’Tis no concern of mine!” she snapped.

  “And I thought you wanted him back—or did you not know ‘tis common gossip that he lives in her pocket now?”

  “Because he has to! For God’s sake, Marcus, leave me be! If he stands attention for her, ’tis for her father’s money!”

  “I wonder . . .” He let his voice trail off speculatively, knowing full well he’d touched on her vulnerability.

  “ ’Tis all over London that his pockets are to let. If you have not heard it, you are deaf.”

  “I own I had thought it so also, but now that I have seen Miss Cole, I am not so certain. Perhaps he is merely smitten.”

  “Tony? You jest, of course! My dear Marcus, nothing but money could bring him to wed below his station—and well I know it.”

  He picked up the marble statuette for a closer look and then replaced it. “We digress, my dear,” he reminded her. “I have no interest in why he is betrothed to her—I merely wish to end the arrangement between them.”

  “But she is betrothed to Lyndon—she is to be Lyndon’s lady. I fail to see—”

  “We will remove him, of course.”

  “But how . . . ?” She stared, her expression reflecting her dawning horror. “Oh, Marcus, you would not!”

  “That would be the last resort,” he admitted. “But actually I mean to rely on you to keep him out of my way, Elaine.”

  “But he has to marry her. I cannot. . . You saw . . .”

  “Tut, my dear. I had thought your avaricious spirit able to scheme better than this.” His black eyebrow rose skeptically as he watched her with those black eyes of his. “Or have I mistaken your greed?”

  “Tony is worthless to me if he is in dun territory, my lord. He has to marry the Cit.”

  “I may decide to buy him off, and he may take my offer—if he thinks she is lost to him anyway.” Moving closer, he reached to lift a strand of dark hair away from her temple as she shivered in recoil. “A good bargain, I believe—he does not have to wed for money, and he can yet afford you—or another like you.”

  “And what do I get?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Lyndon perhaps?”

  “No. ’Tisn’t as though he would ever marry me. No, Marcus, I do not come so cheaply. ’Twill cost you a thousand pounds for my assistance.”

  “Come now, Elaine, I saw that little scene you played out at Davenham House earlier tonight. It prickles your pride that he has left your bed.”

  “He amuses me.” She held out a slender arm and admired the winking light reflected off a diamond bracelet that Lord Carrington had given her. “Actually, I prefer things of a more permanent nature than the gentlemen themselves.”

  “Mercenary jade,” he said approvingly.

  “I do not mean to end my days in some cramped room somewhere when I grow aged, Marcus. One thousand pounds the day the betrothal is broken.”

  “ ’Tis cheaper to kill him,” he complained.

  “One thousand pounds,” she repeated evenly. “And I have changed my mind—I’d have it now, I think.”

  “Elaine . . . ‘tis Rotherfield you bargain with,” he murmured. “As you recall, I pay only for what I get. One thousand pounds if one of them cries off.” His black eyes raked over her, lingering where the sheer fabric clung to her breasts. “Ah, Elaine, ’tis such pleasure doing business with you, for you always have your price.”

  “And what if I cannot do it? What if I cannot stop Tony’s marriage—what then?”

  “In that case . . . Well, let us not contemplate that just yet.”

  “You’ll kill him. Marcus, you are positively evil.”

  His eyes as hard as obsidian, he stepped back. “I make no apologies for what I am, Elaine. But now that we understand one another, I shall leave you to Lyndon, my dear, and wish you good fortune.”

  “But how …?”

  “That is your affair—you are not anything if not resourceful, my dear. ’Tis always such a pleasure engaging in business with you,” he repeated softly.

  After he left, she sat up far into the night, waiting for Anthony Barsett. The candles were guttered and the wicks were sputtering before she could be brought to admit to herself that he was not coming. Alternating between rage and despair, she finally could stand it no longer. Pacing the floor, she pondered just how to bring him back to her now that he was going to be rich again. She even contemplated warning him about Rotherfield, but then thought better of that. She had better hope of the thousand pounds.

  Her foray to Davenham House had been a calculated risk and a serious mistake. Her first look at Lyndon’s thunderous, almost murderous countenance had told her that—long before he put his rebuff into words. He’d dragged her into the duchess’s kitchen—the kitchen yet . . . she seethed as she remembered—and he’d told her that he could not allow her to embarrass Miss Cole. As if Miss Cole were actually somebody! Miss Cole—a damned Cit.

  Her brief glimpse of Leah Cole had done little to soothe her jangled nerves either, for the chit was beautiful in an unusual way. Had she not heard Sally Jersey whisper to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell that the girl was going to take? And had not young Harry Campbell pronounced Miss Cole an Incomparable? On reflection, she had no illusions that the girl would even be openly cut. Oh, the men would flock to her, and the women would be cool to her, but if Tony married her and the duchess promoted her entrée into society, Leah Cole would establish herself.

  Elaine toyed with her bracelet, admiring it again. The gift of an aging roué who was becoming decidedly partial in his attentions, it was a reminder that she need not exert herself to throw a spoke in Tony’s wheel. There was something to be said for the security of another marriage, even to the wheezing Lord Carrington. But then everybody would assume she’d lost the handsome viscount to Leah Cole, and that would be unbearable.

  Resolutely she sat at her writing desk and composed a conciliatory message to Tony. There would be no recriminations and no begging—just a brief missive stating her regret over the incident and promising to remain his “friend.” As an afterthought, she sprinkled a few drops of his favorite scent on the envelope for a reminder of better times between them. Retiring, she regained her confidence. She was, after all, skilled as a lover, and the Cole chit was naught but a sheltered virgin.

  Across town, Marcus Halvert stayed awake until well past dawn considering just how far he wished to go to get Leah Cole. And his ultimate conclusion surprised even him.

  14

  Leah rose early, not so much because Lord C Lyndon was to take her up, but rather because she could not sleep. After a night of turmoil that left her drained, defeated, and ill-tempered, she had to admit that Anthony Barsett had utterly outfaced her. She wavered back and forth, telling herself that she could fight the marriage still, and then admitting that she was a mere female, after all, and what did females have to say to such matters? Not nearly enough, as far as she was concerned. Oh, she knew the daughters of the nobility had been bargained into marriage for centuries, but, dash it, she was a Cit.

  No, whether she liked it or not, she was going to fulfill her father’s fondest wish and be a titled lady. As Jeanne dragged a comb through her tangled hair, she considered his advice. “You don’t like him . . . well, that ain’t as important as you was to think . . . manage him . . . you’ve got to make him love you!” The words echoed in her head over and over again. And just when she almost had herself argued into accepting the truth of her father’s advice, Jeanne hit a particularly bad snarl, bringing tears to her eyes. No! What about Lyndon himself? Why was it not up to him to make her love him? Why should she give everything in the bargain? He had her money, after all. Besides, she’d seen the Chandler woman, and who could possibly wish to compete against a beautiful mistress?

  “ ’Tis enough, Jeanne,” she snapped impatiently. “Just pin it up and have done.”

  “But, mademoise
lle—”

  “No.”

  The steady drizzle of a spring rain did nothing to raise her spirits either, and the sound of a carriage halting in the street added to her sense of ill-usage. Damn the fellow—was he never late? Leaning forward to study her face in the mirror, she knew she looked positively hagged.

  “ ’Tis enough, Jeanne,” she muttered, rising.

  “But ’twill come down. Just a few more pins—”

  “I have to get down before he persuades Papa ‘tis Gretna Green today. Every time they are alone, Lyndon manages to turn my father up sweet, Jeanne. Fetch me the paisley shawl—no, best hand the spencer with the military trim instead . . . and the cossack hat, I think.”

  “The cossack? But—”

  “The cossack.” Leah slipped the spencer jacket over her dark blue crepe walking dress and worked the frogs with her fingers. “And have Annie tell Crome to have Lord Lyndon wait in the green saloon. I do not wish Papa disturbed.” Taking the military hat and setting it over her curls until only a few peeped out, she reached for the black kid gloves that would complement her toilette. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think he will think you mean to do battle.”

  “Good—I may be beaten, but I mean to let him know I am not defenseless.”

  Belowstairs, Tony Barsett paced the floor in the green saloon, having been informed that “Miss wishes you to wait here, my lord.” He too had spent a sleepless night sorting out his own mixed feelings about the marriage. Part of his rational mind told him he was a fool to ally himself with a female who came not only from the merchant class but who also did not want him. For despite his many conquests amongst the female sex, it could be truthfully said that he’d never before pursued anyone who did not truly wish to be caught, and certainly none who did not play the coquettish games of enticement. Nor did he ever dally with respectable females, raising hopes he did not intend to fulfill. And he definitely was not given to rapine—indeed, the thought thoroughly repelled him. The world was full enough with willing women, anyway, women who knew what they were about, who gave themselves quite liberally both for pleasure and for money.

  But Leah Cole was quite a different matter. All thoughts of her father and his money aside, she was the most attractive female of his memory. And despite the fact that he’d wanted her for his mistress from die moment he’d seen her, he was becoming reconciled to marrying her. She possessed not only beauty but also wit and intelligence, a combination he’d despaired of finding in the same girl. She exasperated him, but she didn’t bore him.

  The cynical side of him insisted that what he felt for her was desire and the exhilaration of pursuit, but the rational side advanced the wholly novel idea that he could love her. And as for that nonsense about a business arrangement . . . well, he’d never met the female he couldn’t win. In fact, ’twas usually that they pursued him whenever he exerted himself to be charming.

  Absorbed in his thoughts of her, he did not look up until he heard her enter the room. Then, to hide the pleasure he felt at the sight of her, he flicked open his watch.

  “Well, Miss Cole, you are almost prompt.”

  “ ’Tis but ten now, my lord, and—” Her words were cut short as his eyes flicked over her with what she considered a shade too much familiarity. “And I wish you would not look at me like that!” she snapped.

  “ ’Tis too early for carping, my dear, so I beg your pardon for however you think I am looking at you.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth and crinkled the edges of his eyes. “But I own I am surprised. Er . . . am I to take it that you fear I mean to storm the citadel?”

  She looked down at the black braid frogs on her spencer and gave him a grudging smile. “My citadel, sir, is fortified for the siege and cannot be taken.”

  “Still guarding your gold, eh?”

  “No, sir,” she shot back. “My person.”

  “Actually, you look lovely today, my dear—you will positively inspire every man you meet to buy his commission.”

  “Thank you. Are you quite ready, sir? For if you are, I should like to be done with this. I have hopes of being home before nuncheon.”

  “Actually,” he announced cheerfully as he got the door, “I have made plans for the day, my dear. I had thought to go to Cecile’s for a fitting, to Burle’s for slippers, to Clark and Debenham’s or Botibol’s for bonnets, and-”

  “Surely not. ’Twill take all day, and I—”

  “And then nuncheon out, followed by ices at Gunther’s,” he continued, unperturbed by her dismay. “And of course there is the park at five o’clock. ‘See and be seen,’ my aunt Davenham says, so that last night’s contretemps will but be set down as a small lovers’ spat.”

  “And may I remind your lordship that we are promised to some sort of musicale tonight?” she asked with deceptive sweetness, while ducking under his arm. “How, pray tell me, am I to ready myself for that?”

  “I shall set you down here at six-fifteen promptly and return at eight-thirty to take you up. ’Tis but Mrs. Chats-worth’s small affair, after all. You will wear something simple and maidenish.”

  “Now, really, my lord. I think that I—”

  “Your appearance tonight is to still the tongues you set wagging last night, Miss Cole.” He grasped her elbow to guide her down the steps while his coachman sprang to open the carriage door. “I should have preferred an open vehicle, of course, but as ’tis raining, I thought you would wish to be dry.”

  Cecile’s was already alive with activity, but nonetheless the proprietress herself hurried to greet them, bobbing deferentially to Viscount Lyndon, ushering them into a private room with chairs and a table laden with fashion plates. “ ‘I am not without influence with Madame Cecile,’ ” Leah mimicked low. “Just how many mistresses has she dressed for you, my lord?”

  “Several.” Turning to Cecile, he announced, “We shall require traveling dresses, walking dresses, pelisses, spencers, day gowns, evening wear, and a court dress. Everything save the court gown needs to be readied by next Wednesday, and I am prepared to expend the necessary to hire additional seamstresses for the task.”

  After minor haggling over the haste required, they set about determining what Leah should have, poring over sketches and plates, making adjustments to designs, and choosing fabrics from book after book of swatches. At first irritated by the difference in deference between that afforded even a wealthy Miss Cole and a future viscountess, Leah nonetheless forgot her ire and became caught up in the selection process. Tony’s taste in ladies’ apparel was as flawless as in his own—he had an unerring eye for both line and color, and he knew exactly what he wanted. Deciding “Peach becomes you, my dear—bronze does not,” and “This brings out your unusual eyes,” he pulled out a stack of silk, taffeta, muslin, bombazine, and twill samples.

  In general, the three of them agreed as to what flattered her best, but one design pushed forward by Cecile brought a frown to his face. As they were all standing now, holding up first this fabric and then that, Tony stepped behind Leah, slid his arms under hers, and put his hands over her breasts to indicate the height of neckline he wished. “She does not wish to display her charms like Haymarket ware, madam—if we are to take this style, ‘twill have to be raised to here.” Dropping his hands as her face flamed crimson, he stepped around to the front and traced across her shoulders with his fingertip. “And cut it thus—’tis more flattering. She has good bones here—show more shoulder and less bosom.”

  As Cecile turned around to mark on the sketch, Leah pushed his hand away, hissing, “Had I a hatpin just now, Lord Lyndon, you would be skewered with it.”

  “Your pardon, my dear.”

  “And you cannot stay here when they begin pinning the patterns.”

  The selection process, the pinning and repinning of cloth patterns, the marking and trimming, and the standing required infinite patience. For nearly two hours Tony paced in the outer parlor while cutters and seamstr
esses worked to assure that everything would be fitted exactly to Leah. And when at last she emerged, she declared forcefully, “I hope I never see another pair of scissors, nor pins, nor ribbons, nor braid again.”

  “We are nearly done—there are but slippers to match these samples and some hats left to order. Then I am for food, a lemon ice at Gunther’s, and a leisurely drive in the park, by which time I am certain your feet will welcome that as much as mine.”

  The rain had stopped by the time they emerged from the modiste’s, and the equipage that rolled to the curb to take them up was his curricle rather than his carriage. “I sent it home,” he explained as he handed her up. “You are better seen in this, after all.”

  Their errands finished, it was slightly past three when they managed to put away the last of their ices in Gunther’s front parlor. Despite all they’d accomplished, it had been for the most part a pleasant day passed between them. Laying aside his spoon, Tony leaned across the table. “I have just thought—you have never seen Lyndon House, have you? If you are to live there, perhaps you would like to inspect the place, that any changes necessary to your comfort may be made whilst we are abroad. And you will wish to meet the servants, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “I should like to inspect my chamber most particularly.”

  To Leah, Lyndon House proved to be a pleasant surprise. Though not so large or commodious as her father’s residence, it was nonetheless quite elegant and showed positively no signs of the viscount’s recent financial distress. Indeed, it abounded with expensive pieces of furniture and artwork, all tastefully displayed against lovely carpets and damask-covered walls. Treading the front stairs to the second floor, she followed Tony as he threw open doors to all the rooms and stood aside for her to look at them.

  His bedchamber was particularly attractive, with a tall postered bed, exquisite dark green canopy and hangings, well-polished chests and tables, thick Aubusson rug, and soft green silk-covered walls. Walking past her, he opened the door to an adjoining chamber. “These were my mother’s rooms—there is the bedchamber and dressing room. You will, of course, wish to have it done to reflect your own taste, I am sure.”