"It's difficult to seduce a woman and not call her by her given name."
"We have already established that I am not interested in your attentions, Captain."
"I think you're interested, all right," he shot back. "It's just that your precious breeding won't let you admit it."
How had she lost control of the conversation? "My answer will stay the same, my lord, no matter how ardent your pursuit."
A cocky smile curved his lips. "You only call me ‘my lord' when you are trying to push me away. I've caught on to your game."
"You're the one who is playing games, Captain—games that do not interest me."
"Shall we put your resolve to the test?" He reached for her, and she jumped back, bumping into the sideboard. The decanter wobbled, then smashed to the floor, sounding like a pistol shot in the silence.
Lucinda stared at the broken decanter with horror. A servant would come to investigate at any moment. If she was caught alone in the drawing room with Garrett, everything would be ruined!
She fled, Garrett's mocking laughter chasing after her.
Chapter 7
"My servants tell me," the duke said to Garrett the next morning, "that you have taken to drinking in the wee hours." At the sideboard, Garrett placed another fat sausage on his plate. It was bad enough that his head was throbbing from the whiskey he had consumed last night. After stupidly drowning his grief over his mother afterward, did he also have to be scolded as if he were still a lad?
When Garrett didn't answer, Erasmus continued. "While I understand a man's need for spirits, I do trust you will be more discreet once we arrive in London. One generally goes to a gentle-men's club to indulge in such behavior."
Garrett placed a third sausage on his plate. "I'll remember that."
"The decanter can be easily replaced," Erasmus said, "but a reputation cannot. See that you heed my words."
Garrett turned toward the table and caught a flash of color outside the doorway of the breakfast room. If he wasn't mistaken, the lovely Lucinda was lurking outside the room in a crisp yellow gown, trying not to be seen. A smile quirked his lips.
"It seems that reputation is everything to the English," Garrett remarked, raising his voice slightly. "What about a man's character? Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Society is unforgiving of breaches in etiquette," the duke said. "Once an error in judgment is made, the stigma lasts forever." He paused, then said quietly, "I was trying to save your father from that stigma all those years ago."
Garrett jerked his attention away from Lucinda. "Is that what you call tossing a man from his home for marrying the wrong woman?"
"She was an Irishwoman," the duke replied evenly. "English society tends to regard the Irish as little more than peasant upstarts. I was trying to save William pain."
"Instead you lost him," Garrett retorted. "I bet you didn't expect that."
Erasmus sighed and sipped his tea. "No, I didn't. But I should have. William had more than his fair share of the Stanton pride." He met Garrett's gaze over the edge of the teacup. "As do you."
Garrett ignored the statement. "What will your precious society say about the fact that your grandchildren are half Irish? Won't that get Meg ejected from the palace or something?"
"I don't see any need to belabor the fact," the duke replied. "And I have settled enough of a fortune on her that she will be well sought-after."
"I can provide my sister's dowry—she doesn't need your money. Not that she's going to marry some damned Englishman, in any case."
The duke's lips curled in a small, humorless smile. "What you do not seem to understand, Garrett, is that it doesn't matter if she needs it or not. I choose to give it to her because I care for her."
"You care about your title and your family name," Garrett said. "What's your plan, to get Meg married and have her child be your heir?"
"Hardly," Erasmus drawled, "as that would not be possible given the law of primogeniture. The title can only pass through the male line."
Garrett leaned back in his chair. "Which leaves you with me or nothing."
"So it would seem."
"Too bad, huh?" Garrett stabbed his sausage and bit into it with relish.
The duke's hands clenched into fists, then slowly uncurled. "You may not want anything to do with your family, Garrett, but at least your sister understands what I can give her."
Garrett shrugged. "She's young, and you're turning her head with all the fancy clothes and snobby titles. She doesn't know any better."
"You obviously do not know your sister very well."
"The hell you say," Garrett snarled, slamming down his silverware. "I practically raised her!"
"From aboard ship?" When Garrett only glared in response, the duke smiled and steepled his fingers. "I am here for her, Garrett. You are not."
"The hell I'm not. I'm right here in blasted England eating at your blasted table. If that's not love, I don't know what is."
"Good morning!" Meg sang as she entered the room, Lucinda following after her. Meg wore a white morning dress with blue stripes, and her hair was artfully arranged in tumbling curls. She bent to kiss Garrett on the cheek, then did the same to Erasmus.
"Good morning, my dear." The duke patted Meg's hand, his expression softening. "And good morning to you, Mrs. Devering."
"Good morning, Your Grace," Lucinda replied. She glanced at Garrett. "Captain."
"Good morning, Mrs. Devering." Garrett grinned. "My, don't you ladies look lovely this morning."
Ignoring him, Lucinda turned to the steaming platters of food.
"We're going into the village," Meg chattered as she perused the delicacies spread along the sideboard. "I'm going to get some new dresses for Town."
"Don't you already have lots of new dresses?" Garrett asked with a frown.
"Oh, these are fine for the country, but I need much grander clothing for London. We are only going to get one or two things from the village seamstress, as I will be visiting Madame Toulon in London."
"Who's Madame Toulon?" Garrett asked.
Meg brought her loaded plate to the table and sat down at the duke's right. "She's the best modiste in London. She will make all my ball gowns."
Garrett only shook his head and applied himself to his breakfast.
Silence settled over the table. Lucinda picked at her eggs and tried not to look at Garrett. His behavior this morning confused her even more. She had overheard the duke's words about the decanter and had fully expected Garrett to implicate her in the crime. But instead he had taken the blame upon himself.
The man constantly surprised her. First there was his devoted love for his sister. Then his unexpected vulnerability last night when they spoke of his mother's death. Now he'd preserved her reputation by acting the gentleman.
Many men had handsome faces and ugly characters, and their advances she could easily repel. But a man who looked like him and showed glimpses of a gentler side... That made him dangerously attractive.
She clenched her fingers tightly around her fork. It didn't matter that she was attracted to him. She knew firsthand how chaos ensued when one was ruled by one's emotions, and she had no intention of doing that again.
When she wed again, she would select a man who was kind and amiable and able to support a wife, but love would not enter into it. Everything was much easier that way.
"Are you going to attend the dance lesson again, Garrett?" Meg asked excitedly, breaking Lucinda's train of thought. "Monsieur Collineau comes again in a few days."
Lucinda jerked her gaze to Garrett's as heated memories of their waltz together flooded her mind. He met her gaze, blue eyes hot, and smiled slowly. Lucinda's heart began to pound.
"I would love to, puss," he finally drawled, "provided it does not interfere with something equally important, such as an appointment with the tailor. I've been told that I will embarrass you if I arrive in London wearing my own clothes, so I hope you appreciate the sacrifice."
Meg
made a face at her brother. "Garrett, you are such a ninny. He will look fine in English clothing, won't he, Lucinda?"
Lucinda licked her dry lips. "Of course he will, Meg."
Ignoring Garrett's knowing smile, she concentrated on her breakfast.
"I've also engaged a valet for you," the duke announced. "His name is Stobbins, and he will be coming with us to London. He arrives in a few days."
"Yet another sacrifice for you, dear sister." Garrett wiped his mouth with the napkin and rose from his chair. "If you will all excuse me, I have an appointment with a stallion."
"Tea is at four o'clock," the duke reminded him.
"Fine!" Garrett's voice was ripe with annoyance as he left the breakfast room.
Meg bit her lip as she watched her brother's retreat. "Oh, dear, he's in a temper now."
Lucinda snorted. "I have never seen your brother when he is not in a temper!"
"Oh, he's just not happy to be here," Meg replied, dimples flashing. "Garrett likes to have his own way in everything."
"So I surmised," Lucinda said dryly.
"I do want him to have a good time while he is here," Meg continued, a wrinkle of worry forming between her brows. "I certainly hope he behaves himself for the tailor."
"He will or answer to me," the duke declared.
"Oh, Grandpapa," Meg giggled. "No one can make Garrett do anything he does not want to do. He reminds me a great deal of you."
The duke grunted, but then smiled at Meg. "Let's hope you are right, my dear."
"Come, Meg," Lucinda said, rising. "The seamstress awaits."
* * *
Garrett rode off most of his headache on Mercury, the swiftest stallion in the duke's stable. He rode for hours, taken in by the beauty of the Raynewood lands despite himself.
Someday this might all be his...
No. He jerked his thoughts from that dangerous path. He would not be caught in such a trap. So his grandfather was older and frailer than he had expected. That was no reason to forget all that had happened and forgive the wily old bastard for the unforgivable.
He reined Mercury to a stop atop a hill and slid from the horse's back to look out over the endless green hills of Raynewood. No amount of money, no fertile lands, no blasted title would ever balance the scales of his parents' deaths.
He had lost his father while still a child, and when he had signed on as a cabin boy at the age of eleven, his shipmates had taken over the task of turning a boy into a man. And when he had come home from his voyages, his mother had smoothed out the rough manners he had learned aboard ship.
"Eating with your fingers is not permitted at my table, little man!" she would say in her Irish lilt, swatting his fingers with a wooden spoon for good measure.
"And since when is a son of mine too good to go to the Lord's house on a Sunday morning?" she would demand when he dawdled about going to church.
And the thing he heard the most often, the words he had taken to heart: "You're the man of the house now, Garrett, and you must always take care of your sister."
Good Lord, he could hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside him. Of course, that was impossible. He would never again hear her scold him, the thickness of her accent indicating exactly how angry she was with him. She hadn't been a tall woman, but what a huge heart she had packed into that tiny body. She had loved with the fierceness of a warrior, and he couldn't believe that she was gone.
He swiped at a tear that trickled down his cheek as grief welled up, the fresh wound threatening to choke him.
The horse shifted, seeming to sense his emotional turmoil, and Garrett patted the stallion's neck to soothe him, trying to distract himself. Trying to control the flood of pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He willed back the feelings, but still they surged forth, unrelenting. A hoarse sob escaped his lips.
The floodgates opened, and, shuddering, he gave in to the inevitable and sobbed like a babe, openly mourning the loss of his mother for the very first time.
She was gone, and his life would never be the same again.
* * *
Lucinda settled herself on the stone bench amid the rosebushes with a sigh of relief, stealing a few quiet moments to watch the sunset. Going to the dressmaker was always hectic, and never more so than when a young girl was involved. The dressmaker already had Meg's measurements, so most of the afternoon had been spent looking over styles and selecting materials.
In accordance with their agreement, the duke had also arranged for Lucinda to have some new gowns. Much fewer than Meg, but it was enough. She would wear the dresses proudly to London, and perhaps she would attract a suitor or two.
Unfortunately, she would probably attract Malcolm as well.
The thought of her brother-in-law threatened to steal her enjoyment of the beautiful sunset, and she fought not to let that happen. But the memories came anyway.
Malcolm was a handsome man, and as a young girl, Lucinda had been taken in by his blond good looks and impressive pedigree. Innocent of how predatory men could be, she had been lured by him into the conservatory one evening, where he had attempted to seduce her. He would no doubt have taken her innocence as well, had her father not come upon them. To avoid scandal, marriage had been proposed. However, it had not been Malcolm that Lucinda married.
And she thanked God for that every day.
Ah, how young she had been, and how naïve. In the early days of her marriage to Harry, Mal-colm's brother, she had fancied that she and Malcolm were tormented, star-crossed lovers. Malcolm seemed to feed her fantasies with the smoldering looks he would send her way whenever no one was looking. At first she had thought his love was as unrequited as hers, and that his father's high standards were to blame for their unfortunate circumstances. But she soon learned the truth.
Dutifully, she had tried to make her marriage work, but after the first few months it became painfully clear that she and her new husband were not well suited. By mutual agreement, they decided to live their own lives. While Harry went off with his mistresses, Lucinda quietly tended the gardens at their country home in Surrey and filled her time with local social events, haunted by the knowledge that she did not possess whatever quality it was that made men desire women. Then Malcolm started to come to visit her whenever Harry was away, and for a brief time she had believed that he still loved her.
Silly, naïve girl. Malcolm soon made it clear that he only wanted to bed her, and not even because he particularly desired her. It was only because he had been thwarted in his seduction that fateful night that he wanted to complete what he had started.
He had never loved her. He had never intended to wed her.
Disillusioned, Lucinda had refused him, and continued to refuse him all through her lonely marriage to Harry. And then Harry had died... Dear Lord, she could see the scene as if it were yesterday.
She'd been sitting in her parlor, dressed in her widow's weeds, reeling from the knowledge that Harry had run up extensive gaming debts. One lord had even dared approach her at her hus-band's funeral to slyly suggest an alternate method of payment, should she not have the funds Harry owed him.
Numb with shock, humiliated by the gossip associated with her husband's death, she hadn't even begun to contemplate how she would pay off the notes. And there were so many of them! Dozens of gaming debts for staggering amounts. Bills from the tailor and the jeweler. And the rent was overdue on his mistress's townhouse.
Then Malcolm had arrived, looking exceedingly handsome in mourning black.
"Dear sister-in-law," he had crooned, seating himself without invitation on the settee, "I have recently received the sad news that my brother was quite under the hatches when he died. Allow me to help you in this time of need."
She had stared at him warily, even though, traditionally, an honorable man would step in and pay his brother's debts. "He gambled away my widow's pension," she said dully. "I have nothing but this house and my mother's pearls."
"Scandalous," Malcolm agreed, shaking
his head solemnly. "I sympathize with your predicament. And I will pay all of it—every last coin," he said, leaning close to place a hand on her knee. "All you need to do is become my mistress."
"What! Are you mad?" She leaped to her feet, dislodging his hand. "Your brother is barely in the ground, and here you are trying to seduce his widow!"
"Not true," Malcolm said, standing as well. "I have been trying to seduce you for years." He caressed her shoulder, smirking when she jerked away. "It's a simple business arrangement. You become my mistress, and I will see all Harry's debts paid. If not, well then..." He shrugged. "You will have to find some other means to pay the notes."
"I will pay them," she vowed.
"How?" His obvious amusement only fired her anger. "Will you take a position somewhere and eke out a few pounds a month? At that rate, you will end up in the Fleet before the year is out."
"A man of honor would pay his brother's debts," she said pointedly.
"You are much too preoccupied with honor, my dear. This is the real world, and this is how things are done in the real world."
"My honor is all I have left! And I will keep it no matter what happens."
"Dear Lucinda," Malcolm said, mirth heavy in his voice, "by accepting my proposition, Harry's debts will be taken care of and you will live in the lap of luxury until our association ends."
"I will live in complete dishonor," she corrected. "No, thank you, Malcolm. I'll find some other way to meet my obligations."
"Oh, really?" He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her as if she were an entertaining child. "I will ask again: what do you intend to do?"
"I could marry again," she said proudly.
"Really? And who would have you?"
She fisted her hand at her sides. "I still have my reputation, my family name."
"I can see this is going to be quite amusing," he said with a chuckle. "Very well, Lucinda. Try it your way. But when you fail, remember that my offer still stands."
"Get out of my house!" She pointed at the door.
A Necessary Husband Page 8