O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  Catherine, Lady Harborough, was in a gown of stunning turquoise, ruched above the hemline and beneath the puffed sleeves. Amabel, a classic English beauty, wore antique rose over white silk, the hemline caught up in graceful scallops fastened with satin rosettes. Beth looked down at her pristine white muslin and scowled. Just wait. When she was married . . .

  The common sense of a Brockman swiftly prevailed. Not even brilliantly colored gowns, daring décolletage, sapphires and diamonds were worth marriage to someone she could not care for. Beth adjusted her modest row of pearls. Understated, always understated, Miss Spencer had said. And that is what she would be. Charming, modest, a little bit stupid. That had been Jack’s advice. Terence had said nothing at all, though Beth swore she had heard him grinding his teeth a time or two while he listened to the long list of admonitions.

  Lady Harborough’s small family dinner seated fourteen. Among the guests were her cousins, Edmund and Lydia Audley, and her old friend Gordon Somersby.

  “A mere mister,” Alex had apologized with a twinkle, when he had surreptitiously allowed Terence O’Rourke to scan the guest list a week before the event. “Not pinks of the ton, I’m afraid, but good sorts, both. Cat will see that Audley and Somersby make it to Almack’s and help keep an eye on the fortune hunters.” Terence’s response sounded suspiciously like a grunt. “You’re fortunate to have Cheyney,” Alex added. “Good man. I ran into him a time or two on the peninsula. Any hope for anything more in that direction?”

  Terence glanced up from the list. It wasn’t often Alex saw him rattled. “Cheyney?” he scoffed. “The boy’s barely home from the war. Give him a chance to find his feet.”

  “I’m barely home from the war,” Alex pointed out, “and I have a wife and a son as well. When did I get time to settle down?”

  “If you’re going to be so precocious as to get yourself married at twenty-one, you have to learn to settle down as you go on,” Terence countered, unsympathetic with the nobleman who seemed to have everything a man could wish. “For all he’s a hero, Cheyney’s still a boy.”

  “He’ll be an earl one day.”

  “Leave it, Alex!” Terence looked back at the list. “Hyde?” he exclaimed. “You’ve invited a rake?”

  “Friend of Cat’s. Truthfully, a friend to Tony and myself, though it came as rather a surprise. And Cat needed someone to partner Lady Colchester, Victoria Wingfield’s mother,” Alex added. “A widow. Mighty high in the instep—you’d think she’d been married to one of the royal dukes. Needs someone like Hyde to keep her in line”

  “Well, keep him away from Beth,” Terence growled. Alex grinned, shook his head. He’d learned a thing or two about love since he’d married Catherine Audley when she was a mere fourteen. Though it had taken him long enough, God knew. But he’d have to be blind not to doubt the day would ever come when Terence O’Rourke approved any man for Beth Brockman but himself.

  “Who’s Monterne?” Terence demanded, still scowling at the guest list.

  “A friend of Lady Victoria and a country neighbor of Amabel’s family. According to Amabel, Lady Colchester and her daughter have been in daily expectation of his making an offer, but Victoria’s going into her second Season with nothing to show for her efforts so far.”

  “So he’s still eligible?”

  “Ravenshaw’s heir. And highly eligible,” Alex confirmed. “Though I’d not place a bet against the Lady Conniving Colchester snabbling him for Victoria.”

  “His character?”

  Alex considered. “The usual, I suppose. Experimenting, as we all did. But no vices I’ve heard of.”

  Terence nodded, returning the list to the son of a duke who had so incongruously become his friend. “I must thank you,” he said stiffly. “And extend my thanks to your wife as well. You have made Beth’s come-out far easier, and far more protected, than we ever dared hope.”

  Alex, once known as Blas the Bastard, was still trying to curb his reckless nature and learn the rules of moderation he would have to practice if he were to succeed in the field of diplomacy. After rejecting several questions he desperately wanted to ask, he confined himself to, “It is our pleasure. However . . . if you have doubts . . . if you should change your mind, you have only—”

  “We will not change our minds.”

  “As you will.” Alex folded the guest list, inserted it into an inside pocket. As he walked out of the offices of Tobias Brockman and Company, he felt Terence’s pain as if it were his own.

  Beth, well aware of the honor of being placed next to her host at dinner, managed polite conversation, even an occasional flash of humor, with the Marquess of Harborough without difficulty. She had, after all, sharpened her wits on the likes of Tobias Brockman, Terence O’Rourke, Jack Harding, and Matilda Spencer. But when it was time to turn to the guest on her right, Beth froze. Cat had assured her that none of the single gentlemen present were looking for wives, so she could practice her social skills without fear a gaffe might seriously affect her reputation. But one look into the speculative gleam in the shrewd gray-blue eyes of Viscount Monterne, and Beth lost a bit of her faith in Cat’s infallibility. She had seen that look before. And it did not belong in the eyes of a young nobleman who, she had been told, was on the verge of making an offer to another woman. Shaken, Beth fell into the role of tongue-tied Cit which she had been so determined to avoid.

  Rodney Rexford d’Arcy Trevelyan Renfrew, Viscount Monterne, heir to the Earl of Ravenshaw, flashed even white teeth in a remarkably charming smile, even as he maintained the London gentleman’s slightly mocking attitude of ennui, the faintest hint of condescension over being called upon to converse with a child just making her come-out. And a Cit at that.

  Beth, who was far from a naive country mouse, saw the scene as if she were the cherub smiling down from the frescoed ceiling. In response to the viscount’s array of socially acceptable questions—Was she enjoying her Season? Had she been to the theater yet, the opera? Did she enjoy driving in the park? Would she be attending Almack’s when it opened the following Wednesday?—she managed only awkward, monosyllabic replies. Possibly all those admonitions had left her tongue-tied. Or was it the telling glow of interest in the eyes of a man who was practically engaged? Who was, in fact, interspersing his conversation with glances that seemed to strip away the extra inches Tildy had insisted the seamstress add to the décolletage of her gown? Leaning close, as if about to confide some shocking secret. Allowing flashes of open admiration to spark from those cool gray-blue eyes.

  Lord Monterne was merely flirting with her, Beth told herself, and she was not handling it well. She was, in fact, blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl, mortified because Lady Victoria was seated across the table only two places down. Several times, when Beth shied away from the viscount’s attentions, she caught the older girl’s eyes fixed on the two of them. Being plunged into the middle of a long-term understanding was not at all the way for her to make her debut in the ton.

  What a fool she was. In a society where fidelity was almost unknown and few gentlemen could be sure of their children’s parentage after their wives had dutifully presented them with an heir, flirtation—and far more—was a way of life. There was no need to be disconcerted because Lord Monterne wished to amuse himself by toying with a Cit.

  Inwardly, Beth sighed. It was truly too bad she had been brought up by Terence O’Rourke. Reality would never be allowed to escape her.

  She was both relieved and disappointed when Cat signaled it was time for the ladies to adjourn to the drawing room. For all Beth’s lack of coherent conversation, sitting next to the Viscount Monterne had been an exhilarating experience. For as much of a mull as she’d made of their conversation, he was young, handsome, and interested enough to flirt with her. And surely another opportunity would arise where she could make a better impression. Salvaging her pride was, of course, her only interest in Monterne, Beth assured herself. Casting her eyes in the direction of a man who was on the verge of being cau
ght in parson’s mousetrap was not why Papa and Terence had thrust her into the ton.

  And yet, very much a Brockman, Beth loved a challenge. When next in the viscount’s presence, she would force her brain to work, her tongue to move. She would handle his flirtation as if he were Jack. Handle it, and toss it back at him. She would not think of Lady Victoria, who had had the whole Season of 1815 to attach Viscount Monterne and had not done so.

  Beth’s eyes narrowed. The ladies chatter faded. Why not Monterne? His warm brown hair topped features which fell somewhere between Terence’s dark angel and Jack’s rugged blond looks. The viscount’s face had character, devoid of dissipation as far as Beth could tell. And surely his slight air of boredom was a cloak he put on for the ton. She saw no sign of the vapid dullness which was the curse of so many young nobleman with too much money and far too little challenge in their lives. In short, Rodney Renfrew, Viscount Monterne, was a challenge Elizabeth Brockman found irresistible.

  If she could get past having made a fool of herself at dinner.

  The gentlemen burst into the drawing room, still laughing and smelling faintly of port and cigar smoke. Beth’s gaze flew to Monterne. Incredibly, he was looking right at her. A quirk of an eyebrow, a nod of his head before he joined Lady Victoria and her mother, who were seated on a sofa near the fire. But Beth had no opportunity to discover if Lord Monterne would have sought her out next, for Cat was directing everyone’s attention to the pianoforte where her cousin Lydia had just seated herself. Beth fixed an attentive smile on her face and struggled to keep it there while each of the younger ladies performed. All except Cat who declared emphatically that she had no musical skills at all. Lady Victoria, Beth had to admit, was by far the most skilled, playing a piece by Mozart which did not cause Beth to inwardly wince. The young woman then turned to Lord Monterne, the two of them rendering a duet in pleasantly blended tones which caused Beth to clench her teeth. And not because they were out of tune.

  “It is your turn, Beth,” Cat declared with an anticipatory smile. “Miss Brockman,” she said to her guests, “will be accompanied by Amabel.” If there was a naughty gleam in the back of young marchioness’s eyes as she watched Beth cross the room, no one seemed to notice. The three young women had planned this moment quite carefully. Beth would sing a simple Italian song in the bel canto style, followed by a livelier country song. Beth would restrain herself, for Elizabeth Brockman, even at half voice, would still outshine everyone else in the room.

  Except Beth was still chagrined over her failure to uphold her end of the conversation with Lord Monterne. She knew quite well being unexceptional was the rule of the ton. She was never, ever, supposed to display the extent of her education or her vocal talent, but this was, after all, her debut. Her moment. And she’d been such a ninny, disgracing herself in front of this perfectly gorgeous nobleman who looked at her as if she were more delectable than the sherry trifle the Harborough’s chef served up to end their meal.

  Beth had been performing after dinner since she was six years old, while her papa, Terence, and Miss Spencer beamed and the servants hovered in the doorway, the women occasionally wiping tears from their eyes. At performance, she was no novice. She stood at ease before the dozen pairs of eyes, inclined her head in Amabel’s direction. The notes of an Italian lover’s lament fell pure and true. “Lasciatemi morire!” In Italian, not English, as was the custom. Her voice, her emotions soaring in classic bel canto in a performance as far from the rendition of an English schoolgirl as Madame Rolande was from the chant of a flower girl on the steps of the opera house.

  A seemingly stunned audience marked the end of her song by agonizingly long moments silence, followed by ragged applause. Beth quickly signaled Amabel to begin the country song. Stung by her audience’s peculiar reaction, Beth flung herself into the song, flirting outrageously with the gentlemen as she sang the many verses of “O, no, John.” Several of the younger ladies plunged into giggles, while a few so-called gentlemen hid their smirks behind their hands. Lady Colchester’s frown escalated to shocked indignation, while Lady Victoria never lifted her gaze from the carpet.

  Yet this time the drawing room rang with applause. Head high, Beth dropped into a deep curtsey, then retreated to a spot near the back of the room. But not before she had been hugged by the Marchioness of Harborough and caught the full force of Viscount Monterne’s unabashed grin. Cat took the opportunity to whisper in Beth’s ear, “Naughty puss!” And now, as she tried to disappear into the depths of her chair, she wondered how to explain to Papa, Terence, and Tildy that she had thrown her talent in the face of the ton at the very first opportunity? That she had shown herself to be exceptional when she should have been modest and self-effacing, stumbling faintly through her pieces as if she were the veriest beginner?

  Perhaps she could get by without telling them?

  Laughable. Terence knew everything. His spies were legion.

  He would scold.

  Or perhaps not. Terence was not exactly an admirer of the ton, even as he bowed, scraped, and ruthlessly maneuvered to insert her into it.

  “Miss Brockman?” The man bending over Beth’s chair was the oldest man in the room, very likely twice her age, but she had not been so overwhelmed by Lord Monterne that she had failed to notice him at dinner. She had met Lord Hyde, on two occasions while driving in the park with Cat and Amabel. Though he had a reputation as an accomplished rake, Beth liked him very well. Undoubtedly, Tildy had told her tartly, her long association with Terence and Jack had warped her taste in men.

  “You have a remarkable talent,” Hyde said. “I hope you will not think ill of me if I tell you your voice is worthy of the opera.”

  Beth beamed at him. “Such a compliment could never insult me, my lord. Though I sincerely apologize for putting myself forward in such a manner. I know I should have been more modest in my presentation.”

  Lord Hyde hesitated for only a moment. “Miss Brockman, if you will forgive the advice of a man old enough to be your father, I believe you must be yourself. Your fortune will win you only friends you do not wish to have. Your charm and your talent, combined with a good heart, will bring you friends you may cherish for all of your life.”

  Slowly Beth rose to her feet, discovering that Hyde still towered a foot above her. “My lord,” she said, sinking into a graceful curtsey, “I am honored by your concern. And believe it is the best advice anyone could possibly give me. I will most certainly hold it close. I thank you.”

  Hyde smiled down at her, lifted her hand to his lips. “My best wishes for a most successful Season, Miss Brockman.” He turned and walked away, leaving Beth to stare after him, her mouth agape.

  Chapter Six

  “Five minutes with Hyde, my girl, and your reputation is made,” said Avery Dunstan as he moved to Beth’s side.

  “Ah, but what kind of reputation?” Beth asked, eyes twinkling as they did when she sparred with Jack.

  “In this case, nothing but the best. But how could he do else? You sang magnificently. Quite stunned the lot of them.”

  Beth ducked her head, fingered her pearls. “I–I would be obliged if you would not mention this to Jack or Terence,” she ventured. “Nor anyone else. I fear I have put myself forward in a most unbecoming—”

  “Never!” declared Lord Monterne, looming up beside the more slightly built Peninsular veteran. “You rival the fair Rosamund herself.”

  The statement was so outrageous, Beth laughed. “I assure you, my lord, Signor Capelli would be horrified to hear you say so. He tells me it will be years before my voice matures enough to sing opera.”

  “But I’ve heard you—” Avery interjected.

  “Yes, yes, I do it anyway,” Beth agreed with a naughty grin. “Strictly within the family, however.” She turned to Viscount Monterne. “But rival Madame Rolande, I think not.” Beth bobbed a curtsey. “Though I indeed thank you for the compliment. She is quite wonderful.”

  The two young men exchanged significant g
lances. “I must be off to compliment Lady Victoria as well,” Avery declared blandly, but not without a mischievous lift of an eyebrow in Beth’s direction before he left her alone with her new admirer.

  “You’ve set the cat among the pigeons,” the viscount told her. “By tomorrow you will be the talk of drawing rooms the length and breadth of Mayfair.”

  “Do not say so!” Beth begged. “It cannot be that bad.” But Lord Monterne had just come from speaking with Lady Colchester. Perhaps it was, indeed, that bad.

  Solemnly, Monterne shook his head. “I fear so.” He brightened. “But nothing so bad that your credit cannot be restored by driving with me in the park tomorrow afternoon.”

  Experience with the male mind, acquired from Terence O’Rourke and Jack Harding, allowed Beth to recognize Lord Monterne’s dire predictions for the ploy they were. Yet she could not be easy. The invitation did not fit the information Cat had confided about the highly attractive viscount.

  “A drive in the park sounds very fine, my lord . . .” Beth hesitated, her usually nimble tongue once again frozen to her mouth. How to say what had to be said? “My, lord,” she stated slowly, “I believe I have already offended Lady Colchester by my singing. I do not think it would be wise to add another indiscretion to my reputation.”

  The gray-blue eyes flashed an unexpected fire, quickly damped. “You will soon learn, Miss Brockman, that rumors tend to become greatly exaggerated in the ton. If Lady Colchester or Lady Victoria believe they have cause to be offended by my taking you up in my curricle, they are mistaken.”

  The ready smile was gone. Beth saw a handsome young nobleman with waving brown hair, impeccably dressed in the black and white Beau Brummel had made de rigueur. A young man whose admiration seemed as sincere as the earnest expression in his eyes. She was dazzled. If Lord Monterne was in need of her fortune, Terence would be quick enough to tell her. At the moment she had just received her first invitation from a gentleman not intimate with her family. Her first evening in the ton, and she had an admirer! Papa would be ecstatic. And Terence?