To Wed a Wild Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  If Sharpe hadn’t lured Roger into a life of wild and reckless living, the lad would surely be alive today. Roger had worshipped the young lord, willing to do damned near anything to impress his friend.

  While they’d been at school, Isaac hadn’t worried about their friendship. Exposing Roger to a higher class could help the lad in the long run. He himself hadn’t reached the rank of general without making advantageous friendships, so he knew the value of it.

  Even the racing hadn’t bothered him. Young men would be young men, after all. But then Roger had begun spending all his time in the stews in London, drinking and gambling beyond his means, and Isaac had started to worry.

  Seeing Halstead Hall brought it all back. No wonder Roger had fallen in with Sharpe and that duke’s son—how could the boy not have been seduced by such advantages when his own were so modest?

  Isaac should have put his foot down while he had the chance. He shouldn’t have waited until Roger’s funeral to toss Sharpe off his property.

  Well, he wasn’t allowing another tragedy to happen.

  All too soon, they pulled up to the massive front doors. Halstead Hall was one of those sprawling Tudor manors suitable to house a king—which was apparently who’d owned it before it was given to the Sharpe family over two hundred years ago.

  “Now see here,” he said to Virginia as footmen and grooms came running toward their carriage. “You’ll let me do the talking until we meet with Sharpe. Then you’ll inform him that you’ve changed your mind about racing him, and that will be the end of it. Understood?”

  “But Poppy—”

  “I mean it, Virginia.” When she crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture of defiance, he sighed. “If you do as I say, I promise to buy you some new gowns. We could even go to London for a ball or two. I’m sure Pierce could wrangle us an invitation somewhere.”

  Though how he would afford lodgings for such a thing just now, he didn’t know. They couldn’t exactly stay in Pierce’s bachelor quarters.

  A hurt look crossed her face. “Even if there was money for gowns and balls, I’m not some ninny-headed society girl to be swayed by them. There’s a principle involved.”

  With a deep sigh, she stared out the carriage window.

  Damn, damn, damn. His lambkin certainly knew how to strike for the heart. Offering her gowns had wounded her dignity, and if the lass had one thing, it was oceans of dignity.

  The door opened, and they got out. When he gave the servant their names and announced that they’d come to call on Lord Gabriel, they were led through a long archway and across a courtyard into a great hall that would cow the average fellow.

  But this was the world Isaac had grown up in. One where “good breeding” was defined as the ability to put an upstart in his place, where men were judged by the cut of their coats, not the cut of their character.

  He hated this world of vanity and empty promises. He’d been happy to leave it as a young man to become a commissioned officer and do something important with his life. He’d lived through the battles at Vimeiro and Roliça, and stared into the face of evil too many times to count. Some titled family with a passel of hellraising children wasn’t going to cow him, by God.

  Virginia, he wasn’t too sure about. She stared at the ancient carved oak screen that took up one end of the hall and the massive marble fireplaces that punctuated the flanking wall, her mouth hanging open.

  “Is this really where Lord Gabriel lives?” she whispered as the servant went off, presumably to fetch the man.

  “So I hear.” Isaac frowned at her. “Surely you knew his background.”

  “Well, yes, but I never realized . . . I mostly paid attention to his exploits.”

  “Halstead Hall is famous in these parts for its size—three hundred sixty-five rooms. Its gardens are huge, and it has one of the largest mazes in England. Last I heard, the estate had seventy tenants.”

  “Sweet Lord,” she said. “His family must be enormously wealthy.”

  “Wealthy enough to buy whatever and whomever they choose. Keep that in mind when you’re thinking to do a fool thing like race one of them.” He didn’t bother to modulate his voice; he wasn’t going to let these Sharpes intimidate him with all their wealth. “Though I hear that their money comes from the mother’s side of the family, not from the marquess’s.”

  “You hear correctly, sir. My grandchildren get their money from me.”

  Startled, he looked over to see a woman about his age descending a painted staircase. Her steps were slow, which lent her a regal quality that momentarily put him in awe. It was only when he saw the cane in her hand that he realized her slow gait was due to some weakness in her legs.

  He idly rubbed the arm that hadn’t worked right since his tumble from that horse. He knew what it was to be betrayed by one’s own body, to be incapable of doing everything one desired. It gave him instant sympathy for the lady.

  He squelched that ruthlessly.

  “You must be General Waverly,” she said as she came toward them. “I’m Hester Plumtree, grandmother to—”

  “I know who you are,” he said sharply.

  Who didn’t know of Hetty Plumtree, famous for running a brewery empire with an iron fist and forcing all the male brewers to give ground?

  But he’d expected some dragonfaced matron with the voice of a harpy, and a mannish demeanor. Not this fragile-looking creature with a roses-and-cream complexion and a smile that made a man’s aged blood run hot again.

  Damn it all, he was letting the woman get to him.

  “We’ve come to see Lord Gabriel,” he barked. “This matter doesn’t concern you, madam.”

  She didn’t flinch or frown at his boorish words. “I’m afraid I’m not sure exactly where he is at the moment. But while the servants are looking for him, perhaps you’d like some tea? You must be parched after your long drive.”

  “I don’t want any tea,” he spat, knowing he was behaving like a grouchy old arse but unable to stop himself.

  “I would love some tea,” Virginia said with a bright smile. “Thank you.”

  Now the girl chose to behave like a well-bred young lady? She was going to drive him into an early grave.

  Mrs. Plumtree ordered the servant to bring them tea and told him they’d have it in the library. “This way,” she said as she gestured toward a hallway. “We might as well be comfortable while we chat. And this room is so cavernous, don’t you think? It makes me feel as if I’m conducting a lecture.”

  Isaac didn’t know how to answer. Was she trying to throw him off by being cordial, lulling them into letting down their guard? It wouldn’t work. No slip of a woman was going to get the best of him, no matter how fine a figure she cut.

  Once they were ensconced in the library, she said, “I gather that this is about the race that my grandson and your granddaughter agreed to run?”

  “I told you, it’s none of your concern.”

  “Of course it is. I don’t want to see either of them hurt any more than you do. And that course at Turnham Green—”

  “Turnham Green!” He scowled at Virginia. “You told me you planned to run the course at Ealing!”

  “We do, Poppy, I promise!”

  “Then what is the woman talking about?”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Mrs. Plumtree put in. “I must have misunderstood my grandson. Now that I think of it, he never actually said what course they were running. I just assumed . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “I can see he and I need to have another conversation.”

  “It doesn’t matter what course it is. They shouldn’t be racing.”

  Virginia leaned forward. “I keep explaining to my grandfather that it’s perfectly safe.”

  “Safe!” Isaac roared. “To race a rig down some rutted track against a man who’s known for recklessness, a man who will do anything to win?”

  “My grandson would not let her be hurt, if that is what you are implying, sir,” Mrs. Plumtree said stonily.

  Ah. Th
e dragon lady emerged at last. “Forgive me, madam, but I’ve seen what havoc your grandson wreaks when he races.”

  “Surely such an innocuous course could not cause any harm,” she countered.

  “That’s exactly what I keep telling him, Mrs. Plumtree,” Virginia piped up. “Honestly, Poppy, it would hardly—”

  “Enough, girl.” He scowled at her. “Go wait in the hall while I talk to Mrs. Plumtree alone.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Virginia!”

  With a sniff, she rose and stalked out.

  As soon as she was gone, he glared at Mrs. Plumtree. “How dare you encourage her in this mad idea!”

  She gazed at him, steely eyed. “So you have had success squelching her mad ideas in the past?”

  The words took him aback. “She hasn’t had any mad ideas in the past. Until your grandson came along, she was responsible and levelheaded and—”

  “My grandson did not change her character, sir. Perhaps he just exposed what was already there.”

  “You don’t know my granddaughter.”

  “I know young women. I have two granddaughters of my own, and a daughter before them. I am well aware of how stubborn young females can be, especially those of a passionate nature, like your granddaughter. If you hold firm, she is likely to go behind your back. When did you first learn that she had challenged my grandson to a race?”

  He eyed her balefully, then rose, annoyed to have his incompetence as a guardian thrown back in his teeth. “Today.”

  “She challenged him over a month ago. That should tell you something.”

  “Well, if you could keep your damned grandson from doing foolish things like racing that blasted course at Turnham Green—”

  “I do my best,” she said stiffly. “But consider that you have only one grandchild to corral. I have five.”

  He couldn’t dispute that. Hell and damnation, what would he have done if he’d found himself at an advanced age the guardian of five children? It didn’t bear thinking on.

  “Besides,” she went on, “at twenty-seven years old, he is quite grown. He is not going to listen to what his grandmother tells him.”

  He strode up to stand over her. “You could cut him off, reduce his allowance—”

  “I have already threatened something of that sort. So far, it has not curbed his behavior to any great degree.”

  “Clearly, or he wouldn’t be agreeing to race Virginia.” Ignoring the position he’d taken deliberately to intimidate her, she pushed herself to a stand and faced him down. “And what of your granddaughter? Your tactics do not seem to carry much weight with her.”

  They were so close that he could see into her fathomless blue eyes and smell the rosewater on her. The woman was maddening. The woman was exciting. It had been years since he’d found a woman exciting, not since his Lily died. But this woman . . .

  He stiffened. “So what are you proposing that we do? Let them kill each other?”

  “Oh, please,” she said tartly. “You men always exaggerate. They will not kill each other. If you allow the race, then you have control of when and where and how it happens. We can both be there to monitor the situation. Your granddaughter will be so pleased that she will stop fighting you, and racing my grandson will purge her desire for vengeance. Then you need not worry about more encounters between them.”

  “And if I don’t allow it?”

  “They will just find a way to arrange it in secret. You cannot keep her locked up all the time, you know.”

  Much as he hated to admit it, her words made sense. He could recognize a master strategist when he met one. “It sounds to me, madam, as if you’ve had quite a bit of experience at manipulating matters regarding your grandchildren. I’m surprised they aren’t more cooperative.”

  “So am I,” she said blithely.

  A laugh escaped him despite himself.

  At the sound of it, her eyes softened. “Actually, I have managed to get three of them married and well settled in the last few months. So in truth, they are vastly more cooperative than they used to be.”

  “You’ll have to give me lessons on how to achieve such a feat,” he said with a smile.

  “I would be honored.” A coy smile curved her own lips. She had pretty lips, he couldn’t help noticing.

  Then he caught himself. What was he doing? This was Sharpe’s grandmother, for God’s sake! The scoundrel had clearly come by his recklessness honestly; Isaac could well imagine Hester Plumtree driving a carriage neck for leather down some track. And woe be unto the fool who stood in her way.

  “I must see to my granddaughter,” he muttered, turning away. He needed to escape the woman and her machinations before he foundered on the rocks.

  It had been a mistake coming here. He would just lock the girl up on Friday; let Sharpe come after her if he wanted his race.

  He strode out to the hall. “Virginia, we’re going home.”

  There was no one there. “Virginia!” he shouted.

  No one came, and there was no sign of where she might have gone.

  “Damnation! Where the devil is my granddaughter?”

  Chapter Four

  Virginia followed the detailed directions that the kind footman had given her to the stables. This mansion was unbelievable. Who lived in such a place?

  No wonder Lord Gabriel was so sure of himself. He’d been handed everything on a silver platter from the time he was born, so he assumed he had a right to it all.

  Well, she would take him down a peg.

  It was a pity that Poppy was being so stubborn about the carriage race. Didn’t he want to see Lord Gabriel publicly humiliated?

  Well, she had a plan. If she could get a look at the horses Lord Gabriel used to pull his phaeton, she’d have some ammunition for her arguments with Poppy. She would detail their strengths and weaknesses, then point out exactly how she could beat them with her own horses. She had a whole stud farm to draw from, after all. She doubted that Lord Gabriel had that.

  It wouldn’t hurt to survey his rig, either. There might be some way she could improve her curricle. If she could just convince Poppy that she couldn’t lose this race, he might relent.

  She neared a large building that obviously housed several horses, a short distance from a smaller building that also seemed to be a stable. Oh, dear, which one held his horses and phaeton? And how was she to gain the grooms’ help in looking at them without showing her hand?

  Suddenly a groom emerged from the larger building carrying a bucket. She ducked into a doorway to watch as he called for a younger groom. As soon as the younger one came flying, the older handed him the bucket and said, “This is the special mash Lord Gabriel wanted for his new horse. Make sure that the beast eats all of it. It’ll ease her digestion.”

  The young groom hurried across to the smaller building and ducked inside with the bucket, then came out shortly afterward without it.

  Virginia let out a breath. Lord Gabriel’s new horse must be for his phaeton. Since the small stable wasn’t nearly as busy as the large one, perhaps she could get in to see it without being spotted.

  She edged toward the entrance, looking about for any grooms who might emerge from the larger one. When she heard voices coming her way, she darted into the small stable.

  Then she stopped short. Because standing in the narrow aisle was Lord Gabriel himself.

  He held the bucket of mash in his hands and was feeding it to the horse whose nose she could just see sticking out of a stall. His lordship wore no coat or cravat, just a waistcoat and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up exposing his fine, muscular forearms.

  She caught her breath. In shirt sleeves, riding breeches, and top boots, he was a rather astonishing figure of a man, lean and fit and handsome. Too handsome for any woman’s sanity.

  “There now, my little filly,” he crooned to the horse. “This should make you feel better.”

  His soothing voice did something fluttery to her insides. It was hard not to be charm
ed by a man who could treat an animal so tenderly. It made her wonder how he would be with a woman.

  She cursed inwardly. She didn’t wonder any such thing. She did not!

  “And stop fighting the grooms, will you?” Lord Gabriel told the filly. “You must save that fine energy for the St. Leger Stakes. You’re going to knock them back on their heels, my pretty girl. You’re going to run like the wind and leave all those silly colts far behind.”

  He planned to enter a Thoroughbred in the St. Leger Stakes? Sweet Lord, so did Poppy. And if Lord Gabriel caught her here . . .

  With her heart in her throat, she began to back away. Then a horse near her whinnied, and Lord Gabriel’s head swung round. He took her in with a narrowing gaze, set the bucket down, and came toward her.

  She turned tail to run, but he was beside her in two steps and grabbing her by the arms. “Whoa, there,” he growled as he turned her to face him. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  “I . . . um . . . well . . . my grandfather wanted to pay a visit to you, but he is talking to your grandmother, and . . .” She thought quickly. “And I heard that you had a spectacular maze, so I went looking for it. Then I got lost and ended up here.”

  “Because you were looking for our maze,” he said skeptically.

  “I love mazes.”

  “So it has nothing to do with trying to observe your competition.” His eyes bored into her.

  “No, indeed! I had no idea you have a Thoroughbred that you intend to—I mean . . .”

  “You heard me talking to Flying Jane,” he accused. “Why, you sneaky little vixen.”

  Oh, dear, now she was really in trouble. The racing world was rife with subterfuge. Since odds were laid based on knowledge of a horse, touts often sneaked into stables or spied on secret trials to gain their information. So any Thoroughbred owner grew suspicious if a competitor came near his horses—especially before a big race like the St. Leger Stakes.

  “It was purely accidental, I swear!”

  “And now you’ll run off to tell your grandfather about his competitor.”

  “No!” At his arched eyebrow, she added, “I won’t tell a soul. I would never do that.”