Caroline raised an eyebrow. “My word. Are you ever going to tell me what happened that night in the Bruces’ ballroom? All I know is one minute you got on rather well, next it’s Tory versus Whig.”
“Never mind,” she muttered, beyond unwilling to remember the complete fool she’d made of herself that evening so long ago. What started as a favor to Caroline—rescuing George from seven half-demented Bruce sisters—ended in an increasingly tart exchange of words on the dance floor, a devastatingly scorching kiss in a darkened alcove, and her hitting him so fiercely her hand throbbed unmercifully for an hour afterwards.
The kiss had been a method to silence her. A punishment for her taunting replies to his ridicule of her situation: England’s richest heiress, barely one step ahead of a never-ending mob of nauseating specimens with titles aplenty but pockets to let. However, retribution hadn’t been on her mind when she’d succumbed to lust, parting her lips and letting George plunge his tongue inside to swirl and dance with her own. When she’d clung to his huge, hard chest and moaned as her nipples tautened, because the friction against her deliberately unfashionable gown felt so very, very good.
Then he’d leant down and whispered, “See? There are far better uses for your mouth”, reminding her she was no one special, that he’d done the same thing with hundreds of women. Maybe thousands.
Confused, humiliated and furious at her own stupidity, she’d only meant to shove him away. Instead her open hand connected harshly with his face, turning his cheek a mottled pink. But that hadn’t been the worst part. George’s reaction wasn’t mocking laughter, a rueful apology or even blistering anger, just a rather frightening blankness. As if he was there and yet...not. Thoroughly unnerved, she’d begun to stammer an apology, yet seconds later a frigid mask settled over his features, and after sketching her the curtest of bows, he’d left her standing alone in the corner.
And actively loathed her ever since.
“Louisa Eleanor Donovan!”
She jumped at the crashing return to reality, barely avoiding a face-first collision with the opposing seat as the carriage rounded a sharp corner. “Yes, Mother?”
“Oh dear. Did I really sound like her?”
“Uncannily. Such a tone will be most helpful after you’ve birthed your fourth set of triplets and need to quell nursery Bedlam.”
Caroline snickered and patted her enormous belly. “I can’t think why your parents stopped at one child, when you are such a delight.”
“I’m fairly certain the horror of the wedding night put them both off for life. Thankfully I arrived exactly nine months later, because they’ve slept in separate wings of the house ever since.”
“Indeed. But enough chit-chat, we have arrived. And you are coming in and being civil no matter what. ’Tis your solemn duty to your future godchild.”
“Bah,” Louisa muttered again, as the Westleigh carriage came to a smooth halt outside the small Edwards townhouse. “Shockingly bad form, blackmailing me with the sensibilities of an unborn baby.”
“A tool for you to look forward to. After your mother has overseen the largest, most expensive ton wedding in English history, of course.”
Louisa pulled her fur-lined silk pelisse tighter, wishing for about the millionth time her father hadn’t built such an outrageously successful trade and mining empire. Once she’d been shoved into the marriage market with a staggering dowry but the non-negotiable condition that suitors must be high nobility, every unmarried senior peer still able to walk had come calling. Some secretly—others not so secretly—in debt to their reddened eyeballs, but all making promises of love and fidelity as crooked as their noses and rancid as their breath. It was enough to make anyone sprint for the hills.
“Mother would adore that,” said Louisa, fiddling with her reticule to avoid entering the townhouse and actually seeing George. “But only if the groom was one of the titled lumps we’ve hosted at her blasted house parties. Sometimes I want to invite every male in the Rookeries just to test the loudness of the screech.”
“Heard as far as the continent, I’d wager. A duke, duke-in-waiting or marquess is required, is it not? And do come along, dearest. I have an excuse for moving like an elderly elephant, you do not.”
Sighing, she took Caro’s arm and assisted her up the townhouse steps. Conversation was decidedly easier in a carriage when one’s best friend was a perfectly proportioned but rather startling six foot one inch tall. Even at five foot seven, sometimes she felt like a puppy bounding alongside her mistress. “Naturally. Possibly an earl, but only if the title is as old and prestigious as your husband’s...argh! I don’t want them! I’m perfectly content with my books and study of chemistry, although several young, strapping lovers might be amusing.”
“Pity. Imagine your elderly, impoverished duke straining to do his marital duty every other night.”
“Or I could imagine you, straining for a week to birth your litter.”
Her friend made a choking sound as the front door swung open and the Edwards butler ushered them both in, his usually indulgent smile oddly strained.
“Pearce?” said Caroline, frowning. “What is the matter?”
“Lady Westleigh, Miss Donovan. I’m so very glad you are here. Mr. George is in a bad way, just terrible, and Lady Edwards is away visiting—”
“Define terrible,” Louisa snapped, as her heart plunged to her toes. Was George ill? Hurt? “Tell us exactly what happened.”
“I honestly thought this time might be it. The noise...the fall...”
“Fall? Did you fetch Dr. Murray?” said Caroline, her fists clenching as she pushed past the butler and half-waddled, half-ran across the foyer. “George? George, where are you?”
Icy fear enveloped Louisa, thickening her throat unbearably, but somehow she managed to gather a fistful of guineas from her reticule and press them into Pearce’s hand. “Send for that physician immediately. This will cover the bill and any medicines. No need to tell.”
The butler swayed a little then smiled, finally a genuine one. “Oh, Miss Donovan—”
But whatever else he said was lost as she turned and hurried after Caroline.
George had to be all right.
Anything else was unthinkable.
~ * ~
His mother was singing, happy songs she always sang while sewing the shirts and dresses that looked fancier than anything in the High Street. He, the fearsome pirate captain George the Terrible and first mate Caroline the Beautiful Princess Sparkles (he’d given up trying to tell her pirate names should be mean and scary), were playing with the neat little swords Father had carved from a thick branch to celebrate their fourth birthday. ’Round and ’round the tiny pond they fought, getting hot and sweaty in the summer sun. Pirate games were fun, although Sparkles cheated and never walked the plank when she lost.
“Georgie! Bend your knees more, son. That’s it. His Grace’s man always taught me, light on the feet to dance and fight and you’ll never be bested.”
George beamed at the giant watching them all with a fond smile. It was true. Nobody could beat his papa in a fight. Even though he must surely be the biggest, tallest man in the whole world, he moved faster and better than a wolf. Father promised one day George would be big and strong like him, but that seemed a Banbury tale, much like the stories about Spain and the Americas. Oh, he loved it when Father’s ship docked in port, though. They learned letters and sums, French and Latin, went exploring, caught fish, and ate warm fruitcake in the kitchen. Mama was so happy. And Caro, too.
“Look!” George yelled excitedly as the swords clicked and clapped. “Watch this!”
Abruptly his surroundings changed. Sunshine became suffocating darkness and he dropped to his knees as it crushed him in a cruel grip. Where was everyone? He couldn’t see...couldn’t hear...couldn’t breathe...
“Father!” he screamed. “Help me!”
“George! Wake up. Please wake up. Come on.”
Caroline’s voice was insistent, yet
even though the cool cloth easing his throbbing skull felt very good, he most certainly did not want to wake up. Agony licked at his senses like a raging inferno, and he knew from experience that waking up never resulted in anything good.
“GEORGE. You open your eyes THIS MINUTE.”
Sucking in a breath that felt like razor blades, he blinked heavy eyelids. The light was harsh and his vision black-spotted and blurry, but if he didn’t, Caro would nag for hours and nobody harangued like his twin. He wasn’t on the receiving end so often since she’d dragged Stephen to the altar, but inexplicably, his brother-in-law and best friend quite liked it. God. As if he needed further proof that marriage turned formerly sane people quite demented. At least the other London Lords were smart enough to evade the parson’s mousetrap.
“I will do so,” he rasped eventually, “when you cease bellowing like a fishmonger.”
“Sorry...sorry. I’ll whisper.”
Startled, George prised his eyes open at the utterly uncharacteristic contrition. Anything to distract from a sickly pounding head, limbs surely crushed by a carriage, and an embroidered front parlor chaise as comfortable as a pile of rocks. “That sounded suspiciously like an apology. Begone, Caroline imposter.”
“Ha. Well. I think you are going to live, cretin. What were you dreaming about?”
He frowned, trying to work out how his sister could be holding his hands in hers and soothing his headache with such a wonderfully gentle touch. “Uh…I think...I think from a long time ago when we…”
His voice faltered as a flash of movement to his right revealed just who was sponging his forehead, and anger and embarrassment dulled his pain. Not an angel, but a red-haired she-wolf. Why did Caro have to drag Louisa along? Now he’d have to weave some horseshit story to explain how he’d ended up in a heap at the bottom of the staircase instead of the blessed relief of truth. Hell, it was only in the past year he and his twin had dared even acknowledge to each other the horrors of growing up under Sir Malcolm’s roof. Caroline had told Stephen a few things, but no way would anyone else know. Ever. Especially not Louisa bloody Donovan.
“What the hell is she doing here playing doctor? Does she need reminding I’m neither a moldering marquess nor a destitute duke?”
Before Caroline could say a word, Louisa stood and growled, “Good morning to you, too. Your sister collected me on the way. Voila. Two brains in the house instead of none.”
“Believing the pair of you equates half a brain let alone a full one is pure delusion. But you aren’t required, Miss Donovan. In fact I suggest leaving immediately or I’ll quite happily escort you from the premises—”
She snorted. “Oh, escort me, will you? On your hands and knees? In a wheelchair?”
“Whatever it takes. And whether you land feet, head, or arse-first on the footpath is entirely your decision.”
“Forever the gentleman.”
“When in the presence of a lady.”
“Argh,” spat Caroline. “You two are worse than half-starved barn cats. Lulu kindly accompanied me here. I was worried after the message arrived stating it was an emergency and I must come at once. What happened, George?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly as he sat up, immediately regretting the decision when his stomach lurched and several anvils collided with his temples. A painful but timely reminder—only a damned idiot turned their back on Sir Malcolm Edwards.
“But Pearce talked about loud noises and you falling...”
“Christ. Pearce needs to up his hartshorn intake. Or lower it. I got home from the Kenwood ball, tripped on a rug and obviously gave myself a goose egg. That’s all.”
“Really,” said Caroline suspiciously, and he wanted to heave her out a second-floor window. What did she think he would confess in front of Louisa? Oh yes, our bastard thug stepfather tried to stab me with his cane blade, but only succeeded in a sound beating and stair fall. Tea?
Bracing himself, George forced a careless shrug. “Indeed. Must learn to call a halt at four bottles during a night out. Five just isn’t the thing.”
“Five bottles?” said Louisa, her hands alternately resting on damnably lush hips and flailing in front of her. “You were lucky you didn’t break your wretched neck, you drunken fool. Don’t you ever consider those who...who care? Who worry?”
He raised an eyebrow, managing not to wince at a second anvil attack. “Why are you still here?”
She made a hissing sound and his lips twitched. Louisa Donovan losing her temper was always an intense fire-and-ice affair, flame-red tresses bouncing, rosy cheeks glowing and stormy silver eyes nearly shooting bullets. A gentleman wouldn’t rile her just for the show, but then he could hardly claim that particular title. Actually, it was hard to believe he’d once been more than a little infatuated with the startlingly clever beauty who preferred gunpowder experiments and scientific tomes to dancing and tea parties. Until that night in Kent.
“As a matter of fact,” snapped Louisa, “I was just leaving. Perhaps next time you’ll show more sense, drink six bottles and climb London Bridge on stilts.”
He sketched an exaggerated bow, somehow staying upright as a wave of dizziness hit. Shit, he felt unwell, the black spots dancing again, the places he’d scraped burning, the bruised areas throbbing fiercely and no doubt already turning the delightful shade of blue-purple he knew so intimately. Why couldn’t the damned woman leave so he could empty his stomach contents into a chamber pot in peace?
“Always a pleasure, Miss Donovan. Don’t let the door smack your ample derriere on the way out.”
“Go to hell, George,” she flung over her shoulder as she stormed from the room.
“Already there, pet,” he muttered, gratefully collapsing back onto the chaise. “Already there.”
Chapter Two
“Louisa Eleanor Donovan, I’ve already said no. That means not a minute or an hour from now. Not tomorrow, next week, in six months or ever.”
The long-suffering exasperation in her maid-companion’s voice was so familiar, Louisa barely refrained from rolling her eyes. For heaven’s sake, anyone would think she had just dared Belinda to cartwheel past Reverend Perkins in a kilt rather than ask her to mend a well-loved beaten leather apron. After this morning’s fright, then fight, with George, she needed the comfort and calming effect of an experiment. It seemed odd to others, but nothing soothed her senses like measuring and mixing, and the fizz and crackle of flame under chemical. Grandfather Donovan, bless his irritable, brilliant, unconventional self, had ignored the hysterics of his daughter-in-law and presented Louisa with her first beaker when she turned six. She’d been hooked on the anticipation of possible discovery ever since; even more so after his passing four years ago, and nothing would get in the way of honoring him by carrying on his work.
“Come on,” she wheedled. “Why not?”
Belinda put down her embroidery and sat further forward on the dressing room window seat they both frequented to enjoy the fading remnants of the pale winter sun.
“You know why not,” the older woman replied, tucking a stray silver-touched ebony curl behind her ear. “Your mother has forbidden you from wearing it, or doing experiments, now that you are seriously looking for a husband.”
“Excuse me, but I’m not looking for a husband, seriously or otherwise. I am perfectly content without. Mother is the one who wants to purchase some bad-breathed, tiny-membered male on the verge of the poorhouse just because he happens to be a duke—”
“Louisa!”
“What? You know it’s the truth.”
“Don’t be flippant. They simply want to see you well settled with a man of birth and stature. And that means no tests or trials, or anything bubbling or exploding for that matter. Otherwise she will be mad and your papa will be unhappy and everything will be bad for me. Again.”
At Belinda’s meaningful look, a blush warmed Louisa’s cheeks. “Oh tosh, they know that wasn’t your fault.”
“You set fire to the orangery!”
Louisa shrugged airily, steadfastly ignoring the fact that her cheeks were getting hotter by the second. “How was I to know an extra pinch of snuff would do that? Everything was trotting along rather splendidly until that point.”
“All your experiments trot along rather splendidly until the eruption of glass and sulphur and colored smoke. It is fortunate the footmen are so adept at dealing with flames, and Cook knows the favorite cake of every neighbor you have.”
“Bah. They love it. And I think more than a few ladies would join me if they were allowed off their leashes once in a while. So many wasted brains in London—it is positively sinful.”
“No,” said Belinda with a stern frown, “sinful is avoiding church teas and dancing lessons to go and buy piles of textbooks from Hatchards for your, er, brother. You know I firmly believe in educating females, but some of those scientific tomes...the foolish, dangerous ideas they put in your head!”
“They are by far the most interesting,” Louisa muttered, but she took the words with the loving care intended. Few people understood her need for facts and figures, the new and fascinating, the joy of exploration, like Belinda did. Heaven knew the woman had covered for her on countless occasions over the years when certain adventures went a little...awry. “But come on, Lindy, it’s just some simple repairs. You know I cannot sew a stitch.”
“Don’t you ‘Lindy’ me, miss. I know you have anarchy on your mind. If it weren’t for my eagle eye you’d have turned Guyetta Fawkes long ago.”
Louisa widened her eyes, but the grin tugging at her lips possibly didn’t portray innocent confusion as well as it might. “On the contrary, I adore historical buildings. Besides, gunpowder is so unpredictable...oh, a half-decent attempt to distract me, but as per usual, unsuccessful. Please, please mend my apron for me? It is the only one that fits properly, and I can’t be around flames and whatnot without it.”
Threading some fresh yellow silk thread onto her needle, Belinda picked up her embroidery again and stabbed it with unnecessary force. “You won’t be doing that anytime soon.”
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 2