“I should be more than happy to be your escort tonight, Lady Elizabeth,” said a smooth, silky voice behind them, and Minerva immediately felt a chill go down her spine. “Since I hear the viscount is having trouble with his toilette tonight.”
“Oh, good grapes,” Lady Elizabeth muttered under her breath. Her good cheer dropped away immediately, along with all the color in her cheeks. Lord Marlowe looked as if he’d smelled something rotten. Which he probably had. It really was appallingly fragrant inside the Assembly Rooms.
“Poxley,” Marlowe said with grating politeness.
The man in question glared at Marlowe but did not call him out on the slip of the tongue—if it was indeed a slip of the tongue, which Minerva rather doubted. “Marlowe,” he sniffed. A large gold signet ring embedded with an enormous ruby gleamed on one of his bony, shriveled fingers, announcing Someone of Import had just entered the room louder than any cornet flourish ever could. His toilette was impeccable, his reptilian expression just as cold, and every instinct Minerva had recoiled.
The duke looked just as she’d imagined the treacherous Montoni in The Mysteries of Udolpho might look, though he was perhaps a few decades past his villainous prime. But he made up for his lack of diabolical aura through his sheer repulsiveness. He wore an old-fashioned chestnut periwig and so much lead paint it was difficult to tell what his true skin might look like underneath it—but it couldn’t be good, judging by the lesions covering his wrinkled neck beneath his cravat.
Minerva felt compelled to take a few steps back from the man in case he was contagious.
She felt immensely sorry for Lady Elizabeth, who shuddered as the man bowed over her hand and kissed it lingeringly. He then proceeded to openly leer at Lady Elizabeth’s bosom before straightening to his full height.
The viscount looked as oblivious as ever, but there was a light in his eyes that made Minerva shiver where she stood. She knew then that the only reason he did not lay the duke out for his impertinence in that moment was their very public setting.
“My dear, you look absolutely radiant tonight,” the duke murmured.
Lady Elizabeth jerked her hand back at the first opportunity and looked pointedly away from the duke, rubbing his kiss away on her skirts. “You were admitted to Almack’s?” Lady Elizabeth said, disbelieving.
Something truly frightening glinted in Oxley’s eyes at that, and his reptilian smile deepened.
“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “I am a particular acquaintance of several of the patronesses’ husbands.”
Minerva’s opinion of the patronesses plummeted even further. Sometimes being a penniless orphan of middling birth was a blessing, for she truly felt sorry for all the young women who were herded through these doors, no better than cattle at market, to be snatched up by men like Oxley. The Duchess of Montford’s estimation of Almack’s social worth—that they’d escape Oxley’s clutches here—had been entirely too optimistic.
Marlowe snorted at this, and the duke’s smile grew hard. “You are welcome to accompany me into the ballroom, Lady Elizabeth. With your companion, of course,” he said, his eyes sliding over Minerva. She fervently willed him to look elsewhere.
“That, I am sure, would be highly irregular,” Lord Marlowe drawled.
“Something of which you are an expert, no doubt,” Oxley retorted. “But surely, as Lady Elizabeth is my fiancée and as she is in the company of her duenna, there can be no question of irregularity. I shall return her to your doorstep before one.”
“I am not . . .” Lady Elizabeth began hotly, but her brother interrupted her.
“Fiancée?” Marlowe asked, looking completely surprised by the news. Minerva wanted to cheer him for it. “Surely you are mistaken.”
Oxley’s eyes narrowed. “The banns have been read,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Indeed,” Marlowe said, politely disbelieving.
“At the parish church in West Barming,” Oxley gritted out.
“I see. Well, until my father has confirmed such an occurrence, I am afraid I must play my sister’s dragon. I do hope you understand, Poxley.”
Oxley’s expression made it clear that he didn’t, but he held his tongue.
Marlowe stepped closer to Oxley and lowered his voice. “And should I hear any rumor that ties my sister’s name to yours before we have properly settled this business, I shall personally remove your tongue from your mouth. With relish,” he said pleasantly.
The duke looked livid underneath all of his paint. “I shall remember your insolence on my wedding night, Viscount,” he hissed.
Minerva started forward to confront the duke herself as the threat carried to their ears. She felt outraged enough to cosh the dreadful man over the head with her reticule, and only Lady Elizabeth’s hand on her arm restrained her from doing so.
But she needn’t have bothered. Lord Marlowe’s insouciance dropped away completely at the duke’s words, revealing a burning fury that made even Oxley look uneasy.
“Perhaps I’ll have your tongue now,” the viscount growled, “and damn the audience.”
She decided to stand aside and let Marlowe do his worst. He did look rather magnificent when he was filled with righteous indignation. “We are alone for the moment,” Minerva said helpfully.
Oxley wisely stepped backward a few steps, though this put his back against the corridor wall. Marlowe followed after him, flexing the fingers of his right hand in a manner that presaged violence. Marlowe seemed past reining in, and Minerva would have felt sorry for Oxley, had the man not been such an utter reprobate.
But then a gaggle of pastel-colored young misses poured into the corridor, giggling and gossiping on their way to the retiring room, and the tension broke between the two men. The violence went out of Marlowe, and he stepped away from the duke.
Oxley removed himself from the wall with as much dignity as he could—which was not much, considering—and straightened the lapels of his coat and the tilt of his wig before giving a final sniff of disdain.
“I am sure the earl will be in contact with you regarding the matter,” Oxley said haughtily. “I shall no doubt see you soon.”
Marlowe’s smile was wolfish. “You should hope otherwise, Your Grace.”
The duke paused at the threat before making a judicious retreat toward the ballroom. Minerva watched him go with a mixture of triumph and dread.
“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Lady Elizabeth said briskly when they were alone once more, though she was still distressingly pale. “I take it back. You’ve not grown boring at all, Evie. Cast out from Almack’s and assaulted in the hallways. Is it always so exciting when you go out?”
“It usually ends in a duel, or at least a satisfying brawl,” he said, and Minerva wasn’t certain he was lying. “But I manfully restrained myself tonight.”
“No need to on my account,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I would have not minded in the least if you had broken his nose.”
Marlowe glanced at Minerva, as if awaiting her judgment. She sighed. “I don’t think I would have either.”
Marlowe looked inordinately pleased by her admission. “My governess, condoning such a public display. Be certain the twins don’t get wind of how bloodthirsty you can be.”
My governess. She chose to ignore his teasing. “If anyone deserves a broken nose, I expect it is His Grace.”
“Oh, Evie, what are we going to do?” Lady Elizabeth cried, moving closer to her brother. He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “If Poxley has already found me in London, Father will be right behind. I cannot marry him.”
“You won’t,” Marlowe said, his jaw firming with resolution. “Don’t worry; I’ve not yet begun to fight—but fight I will. Lord knows I’ve had the practice.”
Oh, yes, Minerva rather liked this fiery permutation of the viscount. She liked him too much, judging from the little frisson of pleasure that went through her at his fiercely protective expression.
And judging from the way he�
�d handled the duke just then, Minerva was starting to believe he could protect his sister after all. If anything, he was too stubborn to fail, and would as soon call Oxley out and shoot the blackguard in his attributes before he allowed the marriage. Such a way of solving the problem was a bit medieval, but it would be effective. Minerva hoped it wouldn’t come to that, however, for she’d grown too fond of the viscount’s head to see it blown off in a duel.
Though, fond? She couldn’t even fool herself anymore into thinking it was mere fondness, could she?
Looking back on it, even from that first confrontation in the ditch in Barming, there had been a spark. She’d presumed it due merely to the spectacular irritation she’d felt toward him. Yet she’d been irritated before, and it had never felt like that, like every nerve ending was on fire, every sense heightened, and the world around her drawn with sharp, exhilarating clarity. And it kept on happening every time she was in the viscount’s company, even when the irritation had faded. He had somehow bewitched her.
And now, watching him with that fierce determination to protect his sister still lingering on his face as he escorted them both to their carriage, she felt herself falling even deeper under his spell. For all of his idiosyncrasies, his love and loyalty for those he cared about—his twins, his sisters and friends, even Mrs. Chips and the meddling Duchess of Montford—burned so bright and hot it was nearly blinding. And Minerva didn’t merely admire it. She wanted it. She wanted him.
As if that could ever happen, for all of the reasons she’d already listed in her head a hundred times over since the start of the night. Governess, viscount. Daughter of a sailor, son of an earl. Poetry lover, composer of bawdy limericks.
She was sure there were more, but all she could think as he lifted her back into his carriage as if she were a true lady and not an imposter in a borrowed dress was, God, God, oh God.
For he was going to break her heart someday, wasn’t he?
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN WHICH THE EARL OF BARMING DOES NOT—AND ABSOLUTELY WILL NEVER—WIN FATHER OF THE YEAR
AND THEN—AS if Almack’s hadn’t been horrible enough—the Earl of Barming stormed into Marlowe’s library one morning a week later. Marlowe had known it was only a matter of time after the contretemps with Poxley at the Assembly Rooms, but he’d been hoping for a miracle. Or at least a wreck on the King’s Highway to delay the inevitable for a little while longer.
It wasn’t all bad news, however, for Marlowe was pleasantly surprised to find that the earl had grown old in the near decade since he’d last set eyes on the man. Gray streaked his hair, wrinkles lined his face, and there was a definite hunch in his spine that had not been there before. Marlowe almost—almost—felt sorry for the man.
Until he opened his mouth.
“Where is my daughter?” Barming demanded tersely, jerking off his gloves and glaring around the room as if Betsy might be hiding behind one of the chairs.
“Father, I can’t tell you how lovely it is to see you,” Marlowe murmured. Because it wasn’t. At all. He slouched at his desk with as much insolence as he could muster. Which was a great deal.
Barming’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for your games. What have you done with Elizabeth?”
“Today? Very little, as she is most likely still abed,” he replied laconically. Then he stiffened as he caught sight of the parade of Barming servants passing by the open library door with suspiciously large pieces of luggage. His stepmother followed in their wake and seemed to be attempting to issue orders to Mrs. Chips, whose eyebrow was twitching at a worrying rate.
He shuddered inwardly and sat up from his slouch in alarm. He didn’t like where this was going.
“Father, what are all of those servants doing with all of that luggage?” he asked, though he was fairly certain of the answer and how much he was not going to like it.
“We have come to stay until we sort out this business with your sister,” the earl informed him haughtily.
“And your London residence?” he inquired, though he knew very well the earl had rented it out for the Season.
The earl glared at him for bringing up the subject of his finances, however obliquely, but Marlowe had no time to gloat over hitting a nerve. Barming moving into his household? It would never do. For one, it was likely to end in murder. For another . . . well, it was likely to end in murder.
Marlowe used to think of his father as some kind of giant, immortal and omnipotent, and he’d spent his early years terrified of incurring the earl’s wrath, while simultaneously defying him at every turn. He’d not known the meaning of self-preservation. It wasn’t until he’d returned from his first year of Cambridge that he discovered he’d grown past the earl in height and breadth by several inches. So great was his father’s power over him, however, he hadn’t even noticed this sea change until the earl had raised a fist to him for one infraction or another, and Marlowe had bloodied his nose effortlessly in return.
Marlowe had been as shocked as the earl.
His father had never raised another hand to him. And when, the following summer, he’d discovered that the earl had transferred his aggression to Betsy—not Evander, never Evander—he’d put a permanent stop to that with some well-placed and well-meant threats. His father had schooled him well in the art of intimidation, and though Montford and Sebastian had long since disabused Marlowe of his practice of bullying his peers as an effective way of making friends, he was more than happy to intimidate the hell out of Barming. He was grateful that Betsy was too young to remember.
The earl had never forgiven Marlowe for fighting back, and so he’d taken out his anger on his heir in other ways: verbal thrashings, the withholding of funds (which never worked, since Marlowe had inherited his own fortune from his maternal grandmother—yet another sore point with the earl), and his unrelenting disapproval of him writ large for all society to see. It was a disapproval that seemed ever more justified, especially after Marlowe’s public feud with old Manwaring that had led to his holiday on the Peninsula with Sebastian. But that was just fine with Marlowe. He didn’t want the bastard’s forgiveness or approval, and he certainly didn’t want society’s.
The worst, though, was when Caroline and Evander’s betrayal was laid at his feet by the earl. It was the last conversation he’d ever had with the man until the present moment, in fact, just after they’d laid Evander to rest in the family mausoleum. The earl had run on and on about Marlowe’s culpability, how this never would have happened if he’d not run off to the war, if he’d been more of a man and less of a wastrel, etcetera, etcetera, until Marlowe thought his head might explode.
Marlowe had waited until his father had stopped for a breath—a long, long wait—and then calmly informed the earl that Evander had been bedding Caro behind his back since they were fifteen, a revelation that his wife had been sure to share with him before she’d run off and gotten herself killed. Then he’d taken the twins and Mrs. Chips and decamped for London and tried very, very hard to have nothing to do with his family ever again.
Clearly, that had not worked, for the earl was now invading his home as if it were his right. And the countess . . .
Ugh.
His father had not married the current Lady Barming for her weak chin, featherbrain, myopia, or vacuous disposition. But she had come with a generous dowry, one that the earl had apparently finally run to ground. Hence Barming’s desire to sell his daughter to Poxley’s tender mercies.
It boggled the mind how the union of the earl and countess had produced a daughter like Betsy, who, while a bit exasperating, was a likable human being, even after sixteen years under the earl’s thumb. It would have broken a lesser mortal—had nearly broken him. But if Betsy had inherited anything other than her looks from her Leighton ancestry (thank hell she had, for even her broad shoulders and roman nose were improvements over her mother’s chin—or lack thereof), it was the Leighton pigheadedness. She was simply too stubborn to be as miserable and insufferable as her p
arents.
Marlowe was surprised she hadn’t run away sooner.
But then, just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Uncle Ashley lumbered in behind the earl, winded and sweating prodigiously. Marlowe should have known the glutton would turn up like a bad penny, since he never strayed far from his brother’s purse strings. In this case, Marlowe suspected his uncle had come to enjoy the spectacle and his sideboard—and kitchens—more than anything else.
The man was undoubtedly a Leighton, with his brown eyes and berserker build, but he’d run to fat from decades of dissipation and utter purposelessness. Marlowe’s stomach further soured watching his uncle turn sideways to fit his belly through the doorway. He had the sudden, horrible realization that that could have been him, had he continued down his road of self-loathing and debauchery.
Marlowe liked to think he would have reformed, however, before it became necessary to wear a girdle.
Not that it was helping his uncle’s impressive girth—that was well past rectifying. And so was the man’s wardrobe. It seemed that age and a spreading waistline had not broken Ashley’s taste for extravagance. He’d been a legendary macaroni in his day, but that day was long past. Now he was just a beached whale in stays and a gold-threaded frock coat that could have housed a regiment of soldiers underneath it.
Uncle Ashley toddled to the nearest settee and collapsed upon it, causing the inner coils to screech and the legs to creak worryingly. He sighed in exhaustion, pulled a lace handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped the sweat from his jowls. He waved his ham hock of an arm in Marlowe’s general direction when he was done.
“Pour me a draught, won’t you, Evie? I’m devilish parched. Thought we’d never arrive,” Uncle Ashley drawled.
Well, some things never changed.
Barming looked upon Uncle Ashley’s dramatic entrance with open disgust. Uncle Ashley was supremely unconcerned with his brother’s opinion, however. It was one of the few things Marlowe had always admired about his uncle—the man’s complete imperturbability. He was the one person on earth who seemed totally immune to the earl, content to be both a shameless hanger-on and a permanent thorn in the man’s side.
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