The Rejected Suitor (The Clearbrooks)

by Teresa McCarthy

  But his handsome profile boasted of an inner strength and power not to be ignored by the most confident of men. Moreover, a willful stubbornness lay in the square cut of his chin and the firm set of his lips. His nose was what most Englishmen would call perfect—a Roman nose, many called it. His eyes were dark with touches of humor lines fanning about the surrounding skin, making him appear fetching, his sister would say.

  He knew most women found his charm appealing, but some men perceived that beneath his easygoing exterior lay a cunning intelligence that was not to be dismissed. Even Wellington himself had found the youngest of the Clearbrook brothers prodigiously useful during Napoleon's fall at Waterloo.

  Though nothing seemed amiss with Stephen's appearance, upon closer scrutiny, one could detect a cold logic in his brown gaze, a sign to the more discriminating that said Lord Stephen Clearbrook stood acutely aware of his surroundings.

  In fact, Stephen had always been good at hiding his innermost turmoil, and it seemed that precise trait was working for him now. He would have to buy the place back as soon as his business venture with Lord Brule came through.

  "Exactly what kind of man do you think I am, Shelby?"

  The older man drummed his fingers against the table, the dying cigar all but forgotten. "Ain't one to meddle with the fourth son of a duke. You know, I ain't looking for trouble."

  Stephen quirked a brow and waved his hand for a servant to pour him a glass of brandy. "My birth has nothing to do with this. The cards were what talked tonight, not my peerage."

  After letting the fiery liquid slide down his throat, Stephen peered over the rim of his drink, giving Shelby his most brilliant smile. "Men lose at cards all the time, my good man."

  Surprise, along with a hint of confusion, seemed to flicker in the older man's eyes at Stephen's response. Shelby bared his yellow teeth and pushed away from the table to stand. "You ain't one to shrivel from a loss, are you, my lord?"

  Stephen said nothing, his discerning gaze intently studying the man. After serving with Wellington during the war, Stephen recognized the gleam in Shelby's eyes for what it was, pure, unadulterated greed. Yet, there seemed to be something more....

  " 'Course, if you're hoping to retrieve this"—Shelby patted the papers tucked beside his tight-fitting waistcoat—"I will be attending Lord Harmstead's ball next week. Always a game to be had there." A flash of hunger appeared in the man's gray eyes that sent a twist of warning to Stephen's gut. "Perhaps you might want to wager, hmmm, something else, my lord?"

  Stephen knew he should cut his losses and buy the place back later, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his mother would never forgive him for losing Creighton Hall in such a manner, and he would never forgive himself. After his father's death, his mother had remarried and was much happier now. He wouldn't puncture that bubble of happiness for the world. Although he might not be able to wait for his money to come in before his mother found out about the matter.

  "Another high-stakes game?" he asked Shelby, considering it as a possibility.

  The fat man's gaze glittered expectantly. "Indeed. But cash on the barrel, mind you. No notes accepted."

  Stephen's brow rose in surprise. "No debts taken at the table? How very unconventional. An easy mark for a thief, I would venture."

  "The footmen will be armed. Of course, I don't take you for a coward, my lord. I do have contacts at Whitehall. Heard you saved Wellington's life at Waterloo."

  Stephen stiffened. "You have eyes everywhere, Shelby."

  No one in Stephen's family had a notion of the extent to which he knew Wellington. His eldest brother might have had an inkling, but as to the other two, they probably had no idea. Once at a ball, his own mother had introduced him to Wellington as if the two had never met. Stephen had never batted an eye.

  "Indeed, but that don't change the fact that you are a brave man, your lordship. Not many men would put themselves between Wellington and a Frenchman's rifle, no matter what the cost."

  "A ball nicking one's thigh was small payment for the freedom of our country, Shelby, and I would consider it a favor if you kept the incident to yourself."

  Shelby heaved an appreciative sigh. "A war hero you are, and humble, too. Heard the ball went clean through you. But never fear, my lips are shut, always have been. There are those at Whitehall who would have my head. But you'll do."

  Do for what? Stephen was stunned to know the man knew about secrets he would rather keep quiet. Playing the war hero was something Stephen had never felt comfortable with. And a hero he was not, even if he had saved Wellington's life and sent the attacker to prison.

  He spun his brandy glass between his fingers. "As for Harmstead's ball, I fear next week I go to Brighton. Regent's party and all that, you know."

  "Suit yourself, my lord."

  Stephen saw the flash of disappointment that crossed the elder man's face and wondered what else was hidden behind the dangerous glint in those intelligent eyes.

  He regarded Shelby as the man lit another cigar from one of the flickering candles resting on the table. It had been a bad night for cards, that was all. At the Harmstead ball, he would repossess Creighton Hall within an hour of playing with this rich cit. Just a little more baiting, and the pot would be his.

  "Of course, Lord Harmstead is a longtime friend of the family," Stephen added, as if an afterthought. "I have not replied to the invitation yet."

  Shelby placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, the smoke of his cigar swirling toward the high ceilings like the remnants of a dragon's breath. "I would give you a chance to regain Creighton Hall. That I can promise you. Heard your mother is quite fond of the place."

  Stephen's jaw hardened. What else did this man know? Waterloo was one thing, his family quite another. It seemed money bought many things in this world. "I should make a point of it, then, shouldn't I?" His lips fell into a twisted smile.

  Shelby's eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "Good. Good. See you then, my lord."

  Stephen saluted the man with his glass and watched him depart. Now what the deuce was the old man up to? Creighton Hall was no great estate, and the man had enough money to line Prinny's pockets. It wasn't as if Stephen had anything more to lose to the man. Or had he?

  Stephen unfolded his body from his chair and stared at the door, pausing. Shelby was known to be a shrewd businessman, having made his money by using his brain and his wit, marching over anyone and anything in his path. A bit like old Boney, Stephen thought with a bitter tightening in his chest.

  He grabbed the brandy decanter and poured himself another drink. Waterloo. He would never forget. The blood. The screams. The death. The killing. He had been on his way to warn Wellington of a spy in the trenches when it happened. The Frenchie had come out of nowhere.

  Stephen tried to shake the disturbing thoughts from his mind, but they would not let go. Taking a man's life was something he would never forget. Saving Wellington's life minutes after the killing had not even lifted his spirits. Snuffing out a man's life was not something he was proud of.

  He downed his drink in one long swallow and slapped the snifter back onto the table. No. It wasn't just one man's life snuffed out, it was two—the Frenchie at Waterloo and his very own father, the duke, at Elbourne Hall.

  "Papa, you cannot mean this."

  Elizabeth Shelby paced the floor of the family's London hotel apartment, not able to believe her father's words. Wisps of wheat-colored hair, highlighted with strands of honey blonde, fell about her face as she stopped and looked at her father's frowning gaze in the gilded mirror across the room.

  Tears of frustration pooled in her intelligent blue eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her father had hurt her deeply, and whether he thought he was doing this in her best interest or not, she could not agree to his plan.

  "Papa, please don't do this to me."

  "Now, Lizzie, be a good girl and don't argue with me. It ain't seemly."

  Elizabeth's gaze began to
blur, and she turned toward the window, glaring past the carriages clattering along the street. She could not let this happen. She would not marry some lord for the sake of his name and title. She could not.

  She gripped the crimson curtain beside her and drew in a shaky sigh. It would do her no good to argue with her father. She would have to take action instead.

  Oh, she knew her father had always wanted the best for her. Even their present lodgings were the finest the hotel had to offer.

  Crystal chandeliers hung in every room. Rich red velvets decorated most of the seating. Rosewood tables and sideboards with intricate inlays of contrasting wood sat beside stately marbled fireplaces. Sparkling silver covered the breakfast table from the teapots to the utensils. Even the bedchambers boasted luscious blue and cream colored coverlets with mounds of matching pillows and plump feathered beds.

  Elizabeth dragged a hand over the curtain's gold brocade trim and bit the inside of her cheek. Kings and queens were said to reside in these very chambers when visiting England. And why not the best for William Shelby, too?

  After going from rags to riches in ten years, he was going to make sure he lived like a king, and if that included marrying his eldest daughter to a lord, so be it.

  "Don't you go moping on me, girl. You've had the best money has to offer. Why, I sent you to Miss Horatio's Seminary in Bath, did I not?"

  "Yes, Papa."

  "And you can speak French, Italian, and Spanish. How many girls your age can do that?"

  "Not many, Papa."

  "See there," he said, as if making his point clear. "All I ask of you is this one simple thing, and you have given me nothing but grief on the subject. And what about Millicent? Your sister should have a chance to live in the splendor that high society has to offer, should she not? See here, now, if you marry a lord, she can have that too, my girl."

  He puffed out his chest and grinned as if everything was settled, then sank into a chair near the hearth. "That and more. Don't you agree?"

  "No ... I mean, yes ... I—oh, you don't understand, Papa."

  Elizabeth felt her world slipping out of control. Her father's sudden announcement of her upcoming marriage to some lord she had never met made her ill. She didn't want a peer of the realm; she wanted a man who loved her.

  And who was to say her father would not buy a lord for Milli too? He had made no promises.

  At nineteen years old, Elizabeth had her own plans. She loved her father, yet she knew he had a head as hard as Henry VIII when it came to decisions. Once the man's mind was made up, there was no turning back. He wasn't one of the richest men in England because of an indecisive streak. No, indeed. But this blatant command was insufferable!

  She kept her gaze on the parade of carriages below, her chin taking on a stubborn line. "Whether I speak one language or fifty, Papa, it does not signify. I will not marry a man I do not love and that is final."

  She turned suddenly when her father rose from his chair, blurting out a sharp curse, stabbing the air between them.

  "Listen here, Lizzie. You will marry him. This ain't your decision. I have always done right by you, haven't I? He's a right one, he is. He hasn't asked for you yet, but he will soon, I tell you. Handsome as Apollo. Comes from good stock, too."

  "Good stock? People are not cattle. Papa!" Clenching her hands, she shifted her gaze back toward the street. "Besides, if you must know"—she spun around—"I love Mr. Fennington."

  Dead silence blanketed the room. Elizabeth regretted her outburst immediately. She should have used a bit more tact in explaining her position.

  Her father’s pudgy cheeks turned bright red. "Who in the blue blazes is Mr. Fennington?" Her father all but growled out the words through his clenched jaw.

  "Oh, he's the man Lizzie thinks she loves." The sweet voice came from Millicent Shelby, Elizabeth's younger sister, who had been lounging on the settee in the corner of the room, reading her newest romance novel from the Minerva Press.

  "Milli," Elizabeth scolded, walking toward her sister, instantly inhaling the strong scent of lavender that the girl seemed to always wear. "Thank you, but I am in no need of comments from a girl still in the schoolroom."

  The fourteen-year-old rolled her gray eyes, as though she were an expert on the subject of love. She had a slim, modest body for a girl her age, making her seem younger than she was. Dark chestnut hair framed a heart-shaped face, giving her the appearance of a bewitching elf, and Elizabeth adored her.

  "Fudge, Lizzie. I am not two, you know." Milli slapped the book closed, slipping her body sideways, feigning a swoon. "Oh, woe is me. My heart is but a palpitation of my innermost core."

  Elizabeth stifled a laugh at her sister's antics. "Milli... you are incorrigible."

  Large gray eyes twinkled above a pert little nose, giving the false impression of a very innocent and manageable female, an impression Elizabeth had told her sister would find the girl in more trouble than Milli could handle some fate-filled day if she did not curb her theatrics.

  William Shelby waved his hand in agitation at his youngest. "What in heaven's name are you talking about, Milli? There ain't nothing wrong with your heart!"

  Milli shut her eyes and heaved a groaning sigh. "My love, my love, why have you failed me? Come to me and save me from these woeful ingrates."

  "Ingrates?" William took a menacing step forward. "Listen here, my girl. Enough of this foolishness. You may want to be an actress in Drury Lane, but I will have none of that entertainment here."

  Milli peeked out from one eye. "Papa, how could you disrupt my performance? I am only—"

  "You are disrupting my conversation with your sister, and if you think for one second that I have forgotten your mischief with your last governess, you are sorely mistaken, girl."

  Sitting up, Milli gave her father a mulish expression, then looked at Elizabeth with a shrug. "Well, I tried, Lizzie."

  Elizabeth managed a smile, realizing Milli had only wanted to obtain her father's attention in order to divert the man from his goal. "Yes, you did, dearest. But I think this is something Papa and I need to discuss alone."

  "Oh, very well." Milli stood solemnly and with the air of a queen, threw a righteous hand to her breast. "But never fear. Your knight in shining armor will come to you on his white horse and swoop you into his arms"—her arm swung wide, pointing deliberately at her father—"saving you from this conniving and despicable villain!"

  William Shelby, his gray eyes widening in shock, shook a fat finger at his youngest daughter. "Now see here, Millicent, you have exactly five seconds—"

  Milli frowned. "Well, I can see that you have no taste for theater, Papa. Did you know that Elizabeth thinks I'm wonderful? She thinks—"

  "Millicent!"

  "Oh, very well."

  Putting a hand on her small hips, Milli lifted her chin toward her sister, gave a mischievous wink, and sashayed from room as if she were a flamboyant opera dancer luring the London bucks to her side like hapless, tongue-wagging puppies.

  William Shelby blinked hard.

  Elizabeth chuckled. "You must admit she is quite the little actress, Papa."

  Shelby shook his head and turned a confused face upon Elizabeth. "She is that, my dear. The thing is, I have no idea where she gets it from. I fear she will never be as biddable as you."

  Elizabeth raised a delicate brow in protest. "Biddable? I am most certainly not biddable. I will not marry a lord, Papa. I want to marry for love, like you and Mama."

  Something flickered in the back of the older man's eyes, and Elizabeth's breath hitched. "You did love Mama, did you not?"

  William Shelby fiddled with the fob on his waistcoat. "Certainly. Certainly. But that ain't the point, Lizzie. I want you to marry into a good family. Have a name for yourself. Blue blood, my dear, that's what counts."

  He swallowed visibly and looked up. "Now that's the ticket for the good life. Once you are married into the ton, little Millicent will have her choice of husbands. It ain't much t
o ask, poppet. That's all I want for my girls. A place in Society. A place where they belong."

  Elizabeth frowned. A place where they belong.

  And there lay the crux of the problem. Her father was accepted in Society because of his money, yet there was always the hushed snicker, the snide remark, the malicious smile of a haughty dowager or another snob of the ton. To them, blood was everything, and William Shelby's blood was as contaminated as the Thames.

  Elizabeth crossed the room and held her father's hand in a gentle grip. "But I don't want to belong to those people, Papa," she said, her voice softening. "Being part of that group means nothing to me. My life would be over if I married one of those stuffy lords. He would only be marrying me for my money, do you not see? I want love, Papa. Is that so much to ask?"

  Her father gave her hands a squeeze. "See here, Lizzie. You are a beautiful girl. There are many men who would want you for a bride. Why not have a handsome lord if you have the choice?"

  "But I don't seem to have a choice, Papa." Elizabeth jerked her hand away. "And besides, I am not beautiful. I am plain. My hair takes hours to curl, and at the end of the day it is as straight as a pole. As for the color, it is a drab mousy brown, nothing to fetch a man's eye."

  "That ain't so, Lizzie."

  "Oh, Papa. You are blind to my faults. And as long as we're speaking of eyes, see these?" She raised a finger to her brow. "My eyes, Papa—well, they are a dull blue, and I cannot read unless I have those stupid spectacles." She pinched her cheeks. "And look at these. I still have baby fat. I am not at all the thing. So the person who marries me will either love me for my heart or love me for my money. I choose my heart, Papa."

  "You are not ugly, Lizzie. You are ... well, rather tall and pleasantly plump. And as for your eyes, they are, er, a very nice blue. But as to your marriage, I am only acting in your best interest. Believe me, I know about Society, my dear."