Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord

by Sandra Sookoo

  “Pish posh, Clarice. You cannot aspire to such heights. Remember who your mother was, for God’s sake. Affairs are in your blood.”

  Nobility is in my blood as well. Why can I not aspire to that? “I am not my mother.” At times, she wished she never told Olivia about her mother or hinted she was sired by a member of the Ton. It was knowledge the woman could use to hurt her. Anger bubbled up in her chest, hot and swift. She should follow Felix’s advice and tell Olivia of her French aristocracy connections. Imagine the look on her employer’s face to know she was equal in rank to her. “I will not make my way through life on my back.”

  Lady Drummond waved a hand as if it didn’t matter. “Be that as it may, you’re really not good enough to mingle with members of the Peerage, are you?”

  Clarice’s blood boiled under the slight. Not good enough. All her life she’d heard different variations of that from various people around her—you don’t sing well enough to study with a master, because you’re a woman you’re not good enough to work under the best chefs in Paris, I don’t trust mixed bloods enough to be a governess. All the ugliness she’d been subjected to clamored through her brain like child’s toys falling from a shelf. She clenched her hands into fists. “That is all a matter of perspective.” She clamped her lips together before she gave away more information or invited further ire.

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “I want to be Lord Swandon’s countess, so we need to find an appropriate man you can set your attentions on. It simply won’t do for you to tempt him.”

  “But I didn’t…” What was the point? “I’d really rather not—”

  “And I’d rather make certain you’re occupied.” Lady Drummond snapped her fingers. “You’re much too pretty to remain unattached. Perhaps you’d be happier if you were being tupped on the side. That frown of yours is quite off-putting at times. I should have known better than to hire a virgin. You are inexperienced in the bedroom, are you not?”

  Clarice glared at her employer as hot mortification swept through her. How did one respond to such an attack when no one of polite breeding would even dare bring up such a topic? “I beg your pardon. What do my looks or carnal experiences have to do with any of this?” Could the woman tell she’d never lain with a man simply by looking?

  “It’s outstanding considering what your mother was,” Olivia continued as if Clarice had never spoken. “I would have thought she’d made it a point you were schooled in all the ways of seduction.”

  “She tried, but I resisted. I told her over and over I refused to be like her. Eventually, she stopped pushing men at me and wished me luck in realizing my goals.” Clarice swallowed hard despite her tight throat. “I think she felt sorry for herself then, but her life decisions couldn’t be reserved.” She lifted her gaze to Olivia’s. “None of this has any bearing on me.”

  “Oh, dear dim girl.” Olivia closed the distance and slipped an arm about Clarice’s shoulders. “I’ve seen men stare at you. They watch you with lust and desire in their eyes, and when you’re supposed to deflect that sort of attention to me, it becomes a problem.”

  She gaped from Lady Drummond’s effrontery. “I cannot help what men think, but know I have no desire to steal your attention.” Obviously, she didn’t take away much since there were plenty of bucks around to satisfy Olivia’s voracious need.

  “Which is why I shall endeavor to make certain to find you a romantic interest who will keep you busy.”

  She thought of Felix. Mystery lingered in his brilliant blue eyes and a mischievous half-smile tilted his sensual lips. Her pulse increased. Though she found him intriguing and a good debate partner, she knew the folly that would arise if she encouraged his attention—especially if he thought he could take advantage. Even if she did, she wanted to be desired for herself, not what she could offer as a mistress. “I have no wish for a romantic interest, illicit or otherwise!” She had no idea if she wanted to convince her employer or herself.

  Lady Drummond drew her to the door of the room. “I hired you because you are the dark to my light. Plus, your looks bring the men into my circle. You’re the honey to my fly trap.”

  Clarice’s stomach clenched. “Ah, and once you find yourself betrothed?”

  “I’ll turn you out, for what use will I have for you then? I’d be a nodcock to keep you around to tempt my husband, wouldn’t I?”

  The taste of bitter bile rose in Clarice’s throat. Will you curtail your dalliances after you wed? Her heart went out to Felix and how he’d be cuckolded often if he continued to pursue Olivia. She had no words with which to answer Lady Drummond’s question—at least none that wouldn’t gain her a severe dressing down, another swat with the crop and immediate termination.

  The cold smile lit Olivia’s face again. “Please inform Pomeroy I’ll take tea in here. I find I’m famished today.”

  The irreverent part of Clarice’s brain flared. Entertaining men at all hours would, of course, create a ravenous hunger. Once in the hallway, she allowed a smile to curl her lips. I pity whoever has the misfortune to leg shackle himself to her.

  Then she forced a swallow into her suddenly tight throat. Just don’t let it be Felix. He is too honorable for such a woman as Lady Drummond. She refused to analyze why the notion had gripped her so hard.

  Clarice hid a yawn behind her hand as she trailed after Lady Drummond the following day. For once, Olivia had risen at a decent hour; however, shopping and visiting countless friends filled her social calendar for the day, resulting in a fit of tiredness on Clarice’s part by half past two that afternoon.

  “I need to pop into this confectionary,” Lady Drummond mentioned, slowing her stride in front of Boulangerie DeFromme, a cozy French-inspired café tucked away in a quiet part of Bond Street. Pierre DeFromme was a highly-regarded chocolatier and pastry chef rumored to have been in Napoleon’s own employ at one time. Though the English’s hatred for the little emperor remained strong, their willingness to embrace all things French—that didn’t stink of war—was stronger. “I simply must try the raspberry chocolate olives, and Pierre did tell me the last time I was here that if I stopped in again, he would give me his devoted, personal attention.”

  “As you wish, Lady Drummond.” Clarice followed her employer inside the shop to the tinkle of a discreet bell hanging over the door. The anticipation of sitting down to rest her feet gave her extra energy. The rich aromas of coffee and chocolate assailed her nose. Only after she became accustomed to the stronger perfumes did she catch the more subtle smells of sugar, pastry cream, and caramel. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t had an opportunity to eat today.

  Lady Drummond swept her gaze around the shop. “Do avail yourself of tea while we’re here, Clarice. I don’t want you dawdling later. We still have many errands to accomplish today.”

  “I’m sure we do.” Most of which consisted of Lady Drummond attempting to boss or charm people into doing her bidding. She glanced at the candies on display under glass domes as well as the pastry case near the front of the shop. Her mouth watered. There was a door to one side leading into what she assumed was a tasting room. A dark wood staircase curved upward at the back of the shop. Would it lead to a private suite or a work room?

  “Plus, Lord and Lady Hatringford are coming to dinner this evening,” Olivia continued, oblivious to Clarice’s inattention. I must impress them as I want an invite to their country home this summer. Perhaps Lord Swandon will have come up to scratch by then and we can turn the outing into a celebration of sorts.”

  Was there anyone left in London whom Lady Drummond hadn’t attempted to use for her own devices? Before Clarice had the chance to reply, a man bustled in from the side room. Upon spying her and Lady Drummond, he clapped his hands.

  “Bonjour, ladies!” Of average height and build, the man crossed the room, the report of his heels echoing on the highly-shined floor. “I, of course, am Pierre DeFromme. Welcome to my shop.” A thick, overly-exaggerated French accent clung to his voice.
He grabbed one of Lady Drummond’s hands and kissed its back, his beady eyes shining. “Hello again, Lady Drummond. It is an honor to have you at my humble establishment.”

  Mon dieu. Why did the man choose to overdo his native tongue? Did he assume it made him more valuable or interesting? Clarice tamped the urge to roll her eyes while Olivia gave the man a wide smile.

  “Good afternoon. I find I cannot stay away, and you did promise me your personal attention if I called again.” She tittered and briefly touched a hand to Pierre’s chest. “I do hope that offer is still valid.”

  “It is.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Ah, then I shall take you upstairs straightaway and show you intimate details of the shop—and the man if you would like.”

  “Absolutely, though,” Olivia gestured to Clarice, “we will need to make sure Miss Delacroix is well occupied. Perhaps tea?”

  As if I’m not standing here. Clarice glared. She hated it when Lady Drummond took it into her head to talk above her. And now it seemed as if Olivia’s only purpose in visiting the shop was to be intimate with the owner. Where did she find the energy?

  “Yes, yes, anything for a refugee from my beloved France.” He waved her toward the side doorway. “Come into the tasting room. I will bring tea and a tray of exquisite candies and pastries to occupy you. It will be most private.”

  Clarice cocked an eyebrow. “Lady Drummond, do you not require my presence? You wouldn’t want to encourage gossip should you find yourself alone with Monsieur DeFromme.” She chuckled at her own private joke for it was quite evident that’s exactly what Olivia desired.

  “The space abovestairs is very cramped, Miss Delacroix,” Pierre rejoined. He held out an elegantly appointed chair that gleamed with gilt in the afternoon sun. The tiny round café table was also finished with gold. Two other such tables waited, neither occupied. “No doubt it will be quite warm as the heat rises. You would be far happier here with the samples, yes?”

  “I suppose, as long as Lady Drummond realizes this isn’t orthodox.” She wanted to make certain her employer knew that she was quite aware what would transpire upstairs. Why didn’t Olivia come out and announce herself as a member of the demi-monde and have done with it?

  A trace of color stained Lady Drummond’s cheeks. “Nonsense, Clarice. There won’t be gossip for there’s not another soul in this shop, save for you, and who would you tattle to?” She stared hard at Clarice. “Even if you did, who would believe you? Besides, I don’t imagine the business between Monsieur DeFromme and myself will last beyond a half hour.”

  The shop owner’s grin held a slimy edge. “I shouldn’t think so, my lady. I can be quite succinct when needed.” Pierre patted Lady Drummond’s hand. “If you would be so good as to head upstairs, I shall join you momentarily once I see to Miss Delacroix’s tea.” He pivoted and rushed from the room.

  Olivia regarded Clarice with narrowed eyes. “I expect you to hold your tongue regarding my outings. My errands are not for the discussion among the Ton or the servants. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. Rest assured my lips will be sealed.” Clarice shrugged. If Lady Drummond wanted to whore herself out to any man with a working prick, that was her business. Clarice wanted none of it.

  “Very good. I’d hate to employ my crop again. Or perhaps next time I’ll find something harder.” Seconds later the rap of her heels on the stairs rang in the silence.

  Once alone, Clarice closed her eyes and rubbed her temples as a headache brewed. It had everything to do with Lady Drummond, her sloppy pursuit of Lord Swandon and her threats. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t worry, but I cannot help it. Olivia was nothing but a light skirt in upper class clothes. She’d bring drama and shame to the Darrington family if he were to offer for her. He needs to know what sort of a person she is. The tinkling of the shop bell sounded, but she didn’t pay it any heed.

  “My poor Miss Delacroix, looking peaked the very day I bump into you and wish to make amends.”

  She jerked her head up and opened her eyes at the familiar baritone voice. There was only one man who caused goose flesh to break out over her skin from the way he said her name. “Felix, er, I mean, Lord Swandon, what are you doing here?” Pierre wasn’t with him. She stifled a groan as she studied him. His fawn-colored trousers showed his powerful legs to perfection, the ivory and cream striped waistcoat highlighted his flat belly and his navy superfine coat hugged his broad shoulders like a lover. Why, oh why, does he have to look so handsome? At the last second she remembered she should be annoyed with him from his antics of yesterday. He’d taken a liberty she hadn’t granted. For that he needed a dressing down.

  “I found myself craving something sweet, and as this shop is on my way to Parliament’s offices, I thought I’d pop in.” His grin was no less charming as he seated himself. “Imagine my surprise when I spied your lovely visage through the front window.” He lowered his voice. “Did Olivia accompany you?”

  “Yes. She’s gone upstairs.” Guilt hung heavy on her shoulders. She should tell Felix of her suspicions, but if they were unfounded, she could be in more trouble for creating rumors and telling falsehoods. The backlash could result in her not being able to find employment in the future, and beyond everything, she needed the funds to maintain a certain level of independence.

  “I see.” Felix said nothing else while Pierre bustled into the room bearing a tea tray laden with pastries, chocolate rolls, candies and all sorts of other treats.

  “I hope you do not mind that Lord Swandon wished to join you. He insisted. I shall return soon to find out which of the offerings is your favorite.” Monsieur DeFromme bowed from the waist. The pomade keeping his dark hair parted left a foul odor in the tiny room. “I don’t anticipate you shall need me while sampling so I’ll leave you.”

  Clarice filled a cup with tea and handed it to Felix while Pierre exited the room then she did the same for herself. Her pleasure at seeing him again cooled with the remembrance of her words to him yesterday, words said out of fear. “Were you following me, Lord Swandon? Why else would you arrive here the same day and time as I did?”

  “Like I said, it’s on my way to Parliament.” He declined sugar and cream. “When I saw you through the window, I figured now was as good a time as any to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I…” His jaw worked, but he didn’t drop his gaze. Nothing except truth and honesty shone in the blue depths. “I didn’t mean to make you feel in any way uncomfortable or think less of yourself. I also wish to assure you that I have not—nor will I ever—consign you to anything less than a lady.”

  “The status of lady is rather too lofty for one such as me, my lord.”

  His brow creased as he frowned. “Perhaps, but neither are you the dregs of society you seem to think yourself. Think of your grandfather’s legacy.”

  “The only person who knows of that is you.”

  “For the moment, that is enough. We shall work at finding ways of letting others of influence know.” He flashed a smile full of white teeth. “I wish only to show my admiration for you and to make your every happiness a reality.”

  Flutters filled her belly from his words. Did he truly mean them? Tension stretched between them, and finally, she spoke again, “Thank you.” She worried her bottom lip. His kindness crashed into the walls around her heart and broke holes through her defenses. In that moment she forgave him his moment of insanity from the day before. If there was a man of her acquaintance she could trust, it was Felix. Nothing in his manner indicated he’d take advantage again. “Would you like to know who my mother said my father is?”

  “Very much so, if you trust me enough.” His expression sobered. “I promise you, I will not breathe a word.”

  “Somehow, I feel you’re in earnest.” She lowered her voice to a whisper even though there was no one else in the shop with them. “The Duke of Amherst is my father.” She moistened her lips, and when he dropped his gaze to her mouth, flutters moved into her belly. “I want nothing from him, not even
an acknowledgement. I simply wish to meet him or perhaps observe him from across a room to see if I resemble him in any way.”

  “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. However, gaining access to an event where he would be present is a bit of a stumbling block.”

  “I am not a grasping, desperate female, my lord. I merely want to know where I come from, to see what’s different in me that doesn’t come from my mother. This isn’t selfish, is it?” Why did she feel the need to explain to him? She merely wanted him to understand her curiosity.

  “No, it isn’t selfish. It’s perfectly natural.” He kept his voice to a whisper as if they shared a conspiracy. A half-smile tugged at his well-shaped lips. “I don’t know His Grace personally, but I know of him, and may I say, you do resemble him, though in small ways.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your coloring is much more French than English, the way you incline your chin when gearing for an argument is much like him, as is the way you hold a teacup. I shall be certain to pay more attention to him the next time I’m in his presence. Perhaps there are more.”

  “Why?” Tendrils of excitement and joy climbed her spine. “Why would you do this?” In her passion, she forgot herself and clutched his arm. Muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. A clean, crisp scent wafted from him that was most pleasant and only added to the tension of being with him in the first place. “You will not tell him of my existence, will you?”

  “Absolutely not.” He gently touched her hand, chuckling as she jumped. “That would be a breach of conduct as well as the trust you placed in me, but as to the why,” a soft laugh rumbled from his chest, “human nature interests me, and distracts me from my annoyance of being in London. If knowing a few truths about the one who you claim is your father will set your mind at ease, I will do this for you.”

  “Thank you.” What was he after? No one—especially not the titled and rich—did anything without a price, and especially not for people of her ilk. “You don’t know me well. Why would you do such a thing for me, a near stranger?”