The Match of the Century

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Robbie’s doings are not your fault,” she said.

  “I’m not talking about him. I admit the betrayal is stunning. I treated him like a son.”

  “You did,” she agreed.

  “And like a son, I indulged him. He hoodwinked your father, Whitridge. Plain and simple. Your father never let me know what had happened. He was a proud man.”

  Ben nodded agreement. Pride was a Whitridge trait.

  “I didn’t know of your father’s losses until your brother came to me after his death. Of course, Robbie paid a price as well for his foolishness. I lectured him. I never asked if he’d misled others. I suppose I didn’t want to know. I helped Robbie repair his losses, but he never learned. He just kept spending.”

  Fyclan drew a deep breath and released it, studying the floor as if wrestling with a demon only he could see, then he addressed Elin, “Your mother and I only sought what was best for you. We wanted you to marry Baynton because you would be safe.”

  “And there was my grandmother’s prophecy,” she reminded him.

  He waved that away. “Vanity. My vanity. Sounds silly now.”

  “Mother believed it.”

  A smile came to his face. “She did. The things a man will say to win the heart of the woman he loves. I needed to pump up my own consequence to open her eyes to me.”

  “Are you saying there was no prophecy?” Elin asked surprised.

  “There was. Is.” Fyclan mugged a face and shrugged his shoulders. “It is true that on the day I was born, my gypsy grandmother predicted that I would be a great man and my child’s children would be dukes and princes. As a child, I believed. Later, after her death, people claimed she spouted all sorts of things. Mostly nonsense. However, I did trust her gift. Of course, when Baynton came to me with the idea of promising our children to each other, well, what man wouldn’t want to believe he had guidance from beyond to create an empire?”

  Elin started laughing. “That is such a relief. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t want to be part of an empire.”

  “But look how far it has taken you. I’ve done well for my family with that belief.” Fyclan shifted his gaze to Ben. “I wanted a duke for her.”

  “I could someday be a duke,” Ben answered. “However that could only happen if Baynton dies, and I prefer my brother alive and well, thank you.”

  Fyclan acknowledged that sentiment with a nod, but then the question every father wondered. “Can you keep her?”

  Before Ben could answer that he now had a position of trust and respect, a new voice joined the conversation. “He has no choice, Fyclan. He must keep her,” the Duke of Baynton said from the doorway.

  Gavin walked into the room, accompanied by his mother. Marcella rushed to Elin and threw her arms around her. “You poor child. What a horrible ordeal. Fyclan, we are so lucky my sons could save her.”

  “We are,” he agreed. “And thank you, Your Grace, for the part you played in rescuing my daughter.”

  “Actually, if it had been up to me,” Gavin said, “Elin would have been kidnapped, and you would be reading a ransom note at his moment for twenty-five thousand pounds and the sure knowledge that Morris had no intention of setting her free. Ben is the reason she is hale and hearty.”

  “You were there,” Ben said, wanting to give his brother credit.

  “I would have driven past the hack without a second glance,” Gavin answered. “And it is for that reason I finally understood.”

  “Understood what?” their mother asked.

  Instead of answering her, Gavin crossed to Elin. “Miss Morris, I apologize in advance for choosing a less private moment to discuss this matter, but I find I must cry off.”

  Elin gave a sound that was part relief and part gasp for joy.

  “You see,” Gavin continued, “I will never love you as fully as my brother does. He knew you were in that hack and in trouble. It is as if he could feel your spirit. Furthermore, there isn’t a man, woman, or child on Pall Mall today who couldn’t see the deep affection the two of you feel for each other. And I found myself thinking, I want that. I want a woman who would kiss me with such unrestrained passion. I want a woman who would defy her parent and society for me. So, for those reasons, I cannot marry you, Miss Morris. We are not suitable. Fyclan, I pray you accept my brother’s suit for your daughter’s hand. He can be a pain in my backside, but he is also one of the most remarkable men I know.”

  Ben reached out and took his brother’s hand. But that was not enough. An arm reached out, then another, and, for the first time in their lives, they shared a brotherly hug.

  Their mother beamed her approval, then she said to Elin, “My dear girl, you’ve been jilted.”

  Elin laughed her response.

  “There will be talk,” Fyclan predicted.

  “Elin and I don’t mind what anyone says,” Ben assured him as he placed his arm around her.

  Fyclan noticed the familiar arm. With a fatherly wag of his finger, he silently ordered a bit of distance, and Ben happily complied—although he did take Elin’s hand.

  “There is always talk,” Gavin said. “If anything, I don’t believe I’ll mind being called a scoundrel a time or two. Might be a novel idea. In the past, Ben has been the one having all the fun.”

  “However, if you feel right about it,” their mother said to Gavin, “and Elin and Ben have no complaints, and Fyclan and I seem happy—which we are, aren’t we, Fyclan?”

  “I will live with it,” he answered, but his smile said he was not displeased.

  “Well then, why should we give a care what the world thinks?” Marcella finished.

  She held out her hand to Fyclan. He rose and joined their circle—and in that moment, Ben discovered true happiness.

  He had his family. He had the respect of his brother, and, in return, he trusted Gavin.

  Best of all, he had Elin. Vibrant Elin. His love.

  Had she once wondered at the purpose of life? Well, he could tell her the answer now. The sole purpose to a meaningful life was to love and to be loved.

  That was what made living good.

  Very good indeed.

  Invitation

  Marcella,

  Dowager Duchess of Baynton

  Announces that the

  wedding breakfast

  celebrating the marriage of

  Miss Elin Tarleton Morris

  to

  Gavin Thornhill Alexander Whitridge, Duke of Baynton

  has been canceled.

  Kindly disregard your invitation.

  Invitation

  Lord Benedict Dunston

  James Whitridge

  will marry

  Miss Elin Tarleton Morris

  Tuesday, 12 November, 1811.

  The Dowager Duchess of Baynton and Mr. Fyclan Morris

  request the honor of your presence

  at the wedding breakfast at 2 p.m.

  R.S.V.P. Menheim House

  Epilogue

  Of course, the sending of both announcements simultaneously was unconventional.

  Gavin found he rather enjoyed the moment they were delivered as busy noses raced around London wanting to know all the details. The men in their club rooms were worse than the women.

  All parties involved, Ben and Elin, Fyclan, Marcella, and Gavin made a point of being seen together on the day of delivery. They dined at a popular hotel and attended several soirees afterward.

  Ben and Elin married by special license a week after the date Gavin was to have married her.

  As a sacrament, the ceremony was strictly for family. The wedding breakfast would be a celebration for guests. His mother used the same list she’d planned for Gavin’s along with several of Ben’s military friends. No one sent their regrets.

  What had once been hailed as the Match of the Century—the joining of a wealthy dukedom to an even wealthier estate—had now become the Wedding of the Century because there was so much speculation over it. Many who had already sojourned
to their country estates for the winter holidays returned to town just for the occasion.

  To further confuse Society, Gavin served as a witness to the marriage. Gavin knew there were whispers but not the sort damning him¸ which he had anticipated. The tittle-tattlers were shocked but not because they had heard Gavin had jilted Elin.

  No, they were astounded that Elin preferred Ben over a duke.

  Gavin found the gossips puzzling.

  Any other gentleman would have been branded a scoundrel for reneging on his promise to a lady. When Gavin did it, Society appeared to rejoice. He was actually congratulated.

  He said as much to his mother who answered, “Oh, Gavin, you have given a brigade of mothers new hope. They are all telling their daughters to set their caps for you. And while they may shake their heads and say ‘Poor, Elin,’ they are happy to have her out of the way. Mark my words for it.”

  She was right. Over the weeks after the announcement came out, Gavin was deluged with invitations to routs and balls. His peers cornered him in his clubs or while he was walking Westminster’s halls to sing the virtues of a daughter, sister, niece, or cousin.

  The Duke of Baynton was on the Marriage Market. All of London rejoice! The coming season had never been more promising. Someone must bag the Duke of Baynton, and a bevy of women had decided they would be his next duchess.

  Gavin began to feel besieged.

  However, at the wedding breakfast, where Ben and Elin glowed with their happiness and glittering company happily drank his wine and ate his food, Gavin discovered he was lonely.

  This wasn’t the first time. The title kept him set apart. Having Ben’s friendship helped, but Gavin felt a discontent . . . and it had started when he’d witnessed Elin kiss Ben in the middle of Pall Mall.

  No one had ever kissed him, period. Nor had he felt great passion for any woman before.

  Gavin had only let himself think of Elin, and his thoughts hadn’t been particularly passionate, he realized. She’d always been in the background of his life, one of many expectations. He’d admired her, hungered for female companionship as much as he could let his guard down on that account, but he had never had strong feelings for her. Furthermore, his admiration was a thin shadow of emotion compared to the one on display every time Ben looked at her.

  There again, unlike so many of his contemporaries who patronized brothels or kept mistresses, Gavin had not yet been initiated into the rites of Venus. His father had kept him busy and always under his control. The old duke had been strict, puritanical almost. Gavin had never been given the opportunity for a licentious adventure and, in truth, it had seemed meaningless because he was to have married Elin years ago.

  So Gavin had staved off charged, discomforting feelings with work or any of a number of physical pursuits, such as boxing or fencing.

  But observing the kiss she and Ben had shared had brought those feelings roaring to the forefront, and he knew he’d best marry soon, or he might tempted to do the sort of thing his father had always warned him against—appear vulnerable.

  “Gavin?” His mother’s voice intruded upon his doubts.

  He put a smile on his face. “Yes, Mother?”

  She stood with Dame Imogen, his great-aunt. The dame was a diminutive woman dressed in purple from her shoes to her turban, which sported a jewel the size of pigeon egg holding a curling feather in place.

  “Is the wine not to your liking?” his mother asked.

  “What?” he said, confused.

  “You’ve been standing here holding the glass without touching it. I didn’t know if it displeased you.”

  “No, it is fine.” Gavin took a sip to demonstrate.

  She smiled, then raised the subject that was her true reason for speaking to him. “Your aunt and I have been talking. We are going to find you a wife. A wonderful wife.”

  “Yes, one with lineage,” Dame Imogen said with a sniff. She was the sort who would always see Fyclan Morris as an interloper. She rarely praised anyone whose ancestry didn’t stretch back to the Conqueror.

  “We are going to open the coming season with a ball,” Marcella announced. “One that every marriageable young woman will want to attend.”

  “I’ll vet the young debutantes for you,” Aunt Imogen assured him. “We’ll catch you the best of the lot.”

  Gavin’s first reaction was to demur. He wasn’t certain he wanted this much attention paid to his search for a wife.

  But as he shifted his weight, he felt the weight of the pearls he’d once put around Elin’s neck in his pocket. They had been his gift to her the night of their betrothal ball.

  Right before saying her vows to Ben, she’d given them back to Gavin before meeting Ben.

  Those pearls now deserved a home. A beautiful home.

  “And exactly what will you be looking for in my wife?” Gavin asked the women.

  “Breeding.” Imogen spit out the word.

  “And manners,” his mother agreed. “But also, a woman who is lovely and strong and will give you sons and daughters, a healthy family.”

  Children. Gavin wanted them. He had a responsibility to his title to procreate. Many of his friends his age already had several.

  His eye fell on Ben and Elin.

  They stood off to the side and were kissing again. In truth, Ben struggled to keep his hands off of his new bride.

  She acted eager as well. If they kept going the way they were, they would have a gaggle of children before Gavin had even started.

  The old competitive feelings with his brother returned.

  Gavin looked to his mother. “Kissable,” he said. “My bride should be kissable.”

  “Kissable?” Dame Imogen frowned as if he was stating the obvious. “Of course. We want babies from this marriage.”

  And so did Gavin.

  “Very well,” he said. “I approve the plan. Let us throw a ball the likes of which London has never seen.”

  “And may the best woman become your duchess,” his mother chimed in.

  Gavin raised his glass. “As long as she is kissable.”

  Don’t miss the next novel in

  New York Times bestselling author

  CATHY MAXWELL’s

  Marrying the Duke series

  The Fairest of Them All

  Coming May 2016!

  Read on for a sneak peek . . .

  Gavin Whitridge,

  5th Duke of Baynton

  requests the honor

  of your presence at a ball

  Wednesday 5 February, 1812.

  Dances begin at 10 p.m.

  A cold supper will be provided.

  R.S.V.P. Menheim House

  What the devil had Gavin put himself into . . .

  “Wellbourne,” his great-aunt Imogen whispered, her voice still crisp in spite of quiet speaking. She referred to the tall, long faced man coming in the door with his wife and daughter to take his place in the receiving line. “Lady Amanda is the earl’s only child—wrong politics, but loyal and well connected. A possibility.”

  Gavin had long respected Wellbourne’s loyalty to his ideals, although he thought him deluded. Could he tolerate being related to the Opposition by marriage?

  “Granted she is horse-faced like her sire,” Imogen continued as if he could not see the obvious, “but her breeding is impeccable and she comes with an income of five thousand.”

  Not for the first time this evening was Gavin uncomfortable with his aunt’s bluntness. Hopefully, the musicians in the ballroom covered his aunt’s more acerbic comments, like the horse-facedness. Intent on finding Gavin a wife who met her high expectations, she’d maintained her cataloguing all evening as one proud family after another presented their daughters, nieces, even sisters and second cousins for Gavin’s consideration.

  And the line was endless. Gavin understood that it would be a fine thing to be a duchess, but this gambit to find him a wife was turning ridiculous. He felt as if he’d been standing there for hours. His mother, who had org
anized this ball, stood on Gavin’s other side, her smile growing as strained as his own. As his hostess, he didn’t believe she had ever invited so many people to an event at Menheim. Peers of the realm, his friends, and many mere acquaintances, all dressed in their finest, poured through his front door. Each touted a flower of English womanhood for Gavin’s perusal before happily tottering off to drink his punch and devour his food. These weren’t guests. They were locusts.

  Of course, the idea for a ball was not an unsound one. Gavin was a busy man. There were affairs of state that needed his immediate attention. Britain was at war with France, a conflict that extended to almost every corner of the world. Meanwhile, domestic issues threatened to erupt into violence if not finessed soon. And as if Gavin didn’t have enough concerns, the Prime Minister insisted on his guidance with an American delegation that had been expected months ago and had yet to show.

  Gawd, the Americans. The damn upstarts thought to bully Britain out of her holdings. They wanted all of North America and would settle for nothing less. They said one thing out of the left side of their mouths and something completely different out of the right.

  Still, Gavin needed a wife. It was time. He was thirty-two years of age. He was ready.

  In fact, past ready. While other men had indulged themselves in wildly wicked ways, Gavin had been the dutiful heir to a dukedom. He’d not wenched. He had morals. He was known for his character. No bastards would muddy his line for the simple reason that he had yet to give in to base impulses and “know” a woman, as the theologians were wont to say.

  But he wanted to. He wanted to very much.

  However first, he must survive this travesty and Imogen’s strong opinions.

  If a young woman had the right connections and bloodlines, Imogen might dismiss her for what he believed were flimsy reasons.

  “Unsuitable,” Imogen asserted in Gavin’s ear when Miss Vivian Dorchester was presented to him.

  “Because she is petite?”

  “Because you are tall.”

  “But the last one was tall and you rejected her.”